In the moment of stillness between them, when their hearts seemed to have stopped beating that they might not lose the faintest whispering of the twilight, a sound came to Alan, and he knew it was the toe of a boot striking against stone. Not a foot in his tribe would have made that sound; none but Stampede Smith’s or his own.
“Were they many?” he asked.
“I could not see. The sun was darkening. But five or six were running—”
“Behind us?”
“Yes.”
“And they saw us?”
“I think so. It was but a moment, and they were a part of the dusk.”
He found her hand and held it closely. Her fingers clung to his, and he could hear her quick breathing as he unbuttoned the flap of his automatic holster.
“You think they have come?” she whispered, and a cold dread was in her voice.
“Possibly. My people would not appear from that direction. You are not afraid?”