"I told you, he was going to kill me."
"Why?"
"Because—" She paused and stared out across the twilight water, gathering a slow frown. "Because he was crazy."
Morgan's eyes flickered over her trim figure, and he thought—maybe. She had a trace of Seminole blood, he decided—with the quiet sultriness that it leant to her face.
"I'm heading west," he announced.
"To the cypress?" She cooly inspected his sturdy arms, clipped features, and the hatchet in his belt-rope. She nodded faintly to herself. "Want company?"
He shrugged and turned half away. "It's okay with me." He set off down the road and she followed a few feet to the rear.
"Florida coast's getting to be lousy with them," she called.
"Orenians?"
"Yeah. Whole truckload of them passed through yesterday. On their way to Miami, I guess. One man said he saw an airplane yesterday."