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  Remaining calm, Windsor ignored the pandemonium surrounding her and slowly inched her way toward the outside door. Smoke hung in a heavy pall throughout the interior now, giving rise to strangled coughing and frenzied shrieks. Jun-li began to scratch and chatter in alarm, and Windsor crept forward on her hands and knees as quickly as she could until she found the outside entrance. The door had been knocked outward on the impact of the crash, and she crawled through the rails of the observation deck to the ground between her coach and the preceding car.

  Not until then did she realize that the train was under attack. All around her, hair-raising war whoops filled the air. While she watched, a dozen screeching Indians thundered past her hiding place, the hoofbeats of their horses shaking the earth beneath her. She had heard many stories about the fierce red men who lived in the interior plains and mountains of the United States, but she had never before seen one. Crouching behind the side rail, she hid as several more ponies passed at a wild gallop, the riders half naked and streaked with black-and-yellow paint.

  Several yards down the track, a hoarse scream caught her attention, and she saw the white man named Slokum leap from atop the train where he had escaped through one of the broken windows. Caught up in complete hysteria, he rolled bodily when he hit the ground, then rose to his feet and dashed across the fifteen-or twenty-yard expanse between the train and the dense forest vegetation.

  Within minutes, a howling warrior rode hard in pursuit of him. As the Indian neared the fleeing man, he swung a long, feather-decorated club, striking Slokum on the back of the head. Slokum fell lifelessly, and the Indian leapt from his still-prancing horse, caught hold of the man's hair, and severed it from the scalp with one swift swipe of his sharp knife.

  Bile rose in Windsor's throat at such savagery, but she swallowed down her horror and backed farther underneath the train. She drew up at once as heat scorched the side of her face. The dry grasses beneath the overturned train had caught fire, and it was spreading quickly toward her. Alarmed, Windsor looked toward the safety of the trees. The savage who had bludgeoned Slokum was gone now, leaving the poor man's corpse sprawled facedown, but dozens of other Indians, their paint-smeared faces twisted into grotesque, snarling masks, rode in circles around the train, clubbing and shooting everyone they saw.

  Windsor waited a moment longer, but she knew that within seconds the fire would reach her. As a handful of warriors passed with thudding hoof-beats and horrific yells, she bolted for the forest. Ten yards from the train, an ear-piercing yell raised gooseflesh on her arms, and she turned to face her attacker, barely able to dodge the galloping horse.

  Trained for quickness, she managed to lunge to one side as the Indian swung his club. The tomahawk hit her a glancing blow between the shoulder blades, sending her down hard. Her temple slammed painfully against the ground, consciousness instantly dissolving into a burst of bright colors.

  When she was able to revive enough to become aware of her plight, the vicious savage was on his knees atop her, a long knife raised high above his head. Still half dazed from her fall, Windsor fought weakly as he ripped the black wimple from her head. When her long blond hair tumbled free, his snarl faded into a look of surprise. Still straddling her, he pinned down her arms with his knees and held her by the throat as a second Indian reined up and jumped from his pony. Terrified, Windsor began to scream as both men began to tear off her clothes.

  Concealed in a thick stand of cedars near the end of the train wreck, Stone laid low, now and then taking a potshot at the Pawnee as they galloped past him. Since he had been on the outer platform at the beginning of the attack, he had managed to jump free before the train had hit whatever barrier the Indians had used to derail the engine. He had taken cover before the warriors had caught sight of him, but he was still in deep trouble.

  Turning on one side, he reloaded both of his revolvers from the ammunition he carried on his gun belt, cursing the fact that his rifle was still inside the train. As several braves galloped past his hiding place, he rolled back onto his stomach, keeping his head down. He aimed, fired, and was gratified when the last rider reeled backward off his mount.

  Stone scrutinized the burning railway cars for any sign of survivors. The Pawnee had found the livestock car and were helping themselves to the horses and cattle, but few of the passengers were in sight. Most of those who had tried to escape already lay dead. He scanned the open ground to the side of the wreck. He froze.

  The nun lay on her back a good distance away, struggling against two Pawnee bucks who were tearing off her dress. Cursing, Stone jumped to his feet and began to run. Halfway to her, he raised his pistol and fired. One of the Indians fell; the other jumped to his feet and pointed his rifle at Stone. Stone pulled the trigger again and watched a hole open up in the middle of the Pawnee's forehead.

  A shrill war cry sent Stone diving to one side. He rolled, came to his knees, and fired from the hip at the mounted Pawnee thundering straight at him. His shot missed, and the Indian leapt on him, knocking him backward to the ground. Rolling over and over, they grappled for the knife clutched in the Indian's fist as the frightened pony reared and flailed sharp hoofs near their heads.

  Summoning all his strength, Stone got a grip on the warrior's wrist, forcing the knife away from his throat as he strove to get his bent knee between their bodies. He shoved hard against the savage's chest, and when the Pawnee was thrown backward, he pulled his gun and fired point-blank into the Indian's stomach.

  The savage crumpled, but Stone barely looked at him, springing to his feet and making a grab for the horse. Jerking hard on the halter rope, he sought to control the animal's excited sidestepping, then pulled the mare toward the nun, who had managed to push herself shakily to her knees and was clutching her bamboo case tightly against her chest.

  Grasping her by the arm, Stone yanked her to her feet. Cursing, he realized another wave of Pawnee was about to swoop around the back of the train toward them. Turning, he got off a couple of shots, gripping the reins of the skitterish horse, then endeavored to swing his leg over the pony's back. As he pulled himself astride, something hit him in the back of his left shoulder. It felt as if he had been struck hard by a fist, and white-hot agony shot the length of his arm.

  Looking down, he saw the bloody tip of an arrow protruding from just beneath his collarbone. Grinding his teeth to fight the pain, he reached down to the nun with his good arm and swung her up behind him, struggling to control the dancing horse with his injured arm. Leaning low over the horse's neck, he kicked the mare toward the trees, praying the rolling black smoke from the burning train and the thick clouds of dust kicked up by the galloping horses would hide their flight.

  Miraculously, they made it safely to the dense undergrowth, and Stone spurred the horse on, thrashing headlong through the brush and trees, unmindful of anything but putting distance between himself and the Pawnee. He rode hard, the nun holding on to him around his waist. They were miles from the wreck before he finally slowed the lathered horse. He turned, searching behind them for pursuers. Pain seared him from shoulder to hand. Already his shirt was completely soaked with blood, and the left side of his body was rapidly losing all feeling.

  Every stride of the horse jolted the arrow jutting out of the meat of his shoulder, but he forced himself to go on. He couldn't stop now, not until they found a place to hide. In their haste, they were leaving an obvious trail, and if the Pawnee scouts found it, they would track them for days to make the kill. His blood ran in streams down his chest. He felt weak and woozy. He wasn't going to last much longer. Painfully, he pulled up on the reins.

  "The arrow's got to come out." A low groan escaped him as he shifted positions. "I'm going to break it off, here in front; then you'll have to pull it out the back. Can you do it?"

  "Yes." Her voice was completely calm.

  Stone took a deep breath, set his teeth, then snapped the arrow's shaft a couple of inches from his shoulder. His mind dipped dangerously with pain, but he
fought his way back to consciousness.

  "All right, pull the damn thing out."

  She did—in one swift jerk. Stone bit off a moan, then leaned forward, sweat drenching his face. He felt the nun press something against the entry hole in his back.

  "Here," she said from behind him, "put this inside your shirt to stop the bleeding."

  Her voice sounded wavery and far away, but Stone did as she bade, taking the wad of black material she thrust into his hand and stuffing it inside the front of his blood-soaked shirt.

  "I'm having trouble holding the reins," he muttered unsteadily. "If I pass out, you need to try to get us back to the last water depot we passed. Just keep moving back the way we came, parallel to the tracks."

  For nearly an hour, Stone clung to consciousness, the pain so bad he couldn't think straight. He had to revive himself, he thought blearily. Sister Mary wouldn't have a chance in hell alone in the mountains. By force of will he kept going, until they came upon a clear, swift-flowing stream.

  The mare stopped, and Stone slumped heavily forward. The nun slid to the ground, then reached up to help him. As he swung one leg over the horse's neck, he stared dully at her bare head, vaguely aware that her hair was golden blond, just as he had thought. Then, as his boots hit the ground, he knew no more, sliding swiftly into a gaping black abyss where there was no light and no sound, only blessed peace.

  "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum…"

  The queer low murmur filtered slowly through the thick, impenetrable darkness that seemed wrapped like tight black bandages around Stone's brain. Slowly, resolutely, he fought his way upward from the murky depths of unawareness. He tried desperately to open his eyes, but his lids felt as if heavy bags of wet sand weighted them down. Disoriented, he strove to force his groggy mind to clear. What had happened? Why was he so confused?

  "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum…"

  For a few minutes, he listened to the odd sounds, not at all sure if the bizarre chanting came from inside or outside his head. After a moment or two, he began to put things together. He had been on a train headed for San Francisco. They had been attacked by the Pawnee, and he had gotten an arrow in his shoulder. But how could that be? He felt no pain.

  With renewed effort, he labored to open his eyes. He was staring at a black-and-white monkey sitting atop his chest. He blinked. Oh, God, I'm delirious, he thought, gaping at the tiny animal in stupefaction. He squeezed his eyelids together. Valiantly, he fought against the fog shrouding his brain. Then, half afraid of what he would see, he ventured another look.

  Good God, there was a monkey on his chest, a small, white-faced capuchin such as he had seen soliciting coins for organ-grinders on the sidewalks of Chicago. Squinting, he attempted to thrust the strange creature off him, then realized with some panic that he could not. He was tied down, both his hands and his feet. Alarmed, he twisted his body and tried to pull loose from the wooden stakes hammered into the ground. At his efforts, the bindings only tightened around his wrists and ankles.

  "Chee, chee, chee," came the capuchin's shrill chatter as it suddenly scampered away.

  Stone craned his neck to one side to follow its flight. The monkey stopped beside the nun, who sat cross-legged on the ground several yards away from him. Her head was bare, the sun glinting gold off her hair, which was now woven into a long braid that hung down her back. Her eyes were closed, her hands lying palms-up atop her knees, her thumbs lightly touching her middle fingers. The murmuring was coming from her.

  "Hey," he yelled hoarsely, pulling hard against the stakes.

  Sister Mary did not move a muscle. The monotonous droning continued, and Stone muttered an oath. Dammit, what the hell was going on?

  He tensed as the monkey suddenly loosed a high-pitched shriek. The nun's chanting stopped. She opened her eyes, stared at the monkey, said something in a strange tongue, then turned to look at Stone. Eyes as tranquil as deep blue water observed him dispassionately for the space of a heartbeat; then she rose in one graceful motion. She had discarded the tattered black gown the Indians had ripped apart, and now wore some sort of strange, close-fitting black tunic atop loose black trousers. She knelt between his outstretched legs.

  "Untie me, dammit!" he ground out, feeling like an utter idiot.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You are hurt. I was afraid you would thrash around and remove the needles."

  "Needles? What the devil are you talking about?"

  "There—on your arm. There are more in your ankle and knee."

  Stone lifted his head enough to see where she pointed. On his left arm, a long line of fine silver needles angled from his flesh. A few of the pins were affixed with a dark substance that smoldered, releasing minute plumes of black smoke.

  "The needles relieve the pain of the arrow wound. When I release you, you must lie very still and not disturb their placement."

  "Just cut me the hell loose," he muttered through clamped teeth.

  Sister Mary withdrew a short black dagger from the folds of her tunic, the green stones in the handle winking in the sun as she sliced through the black material binding his ankles and wrists.

  As soon as he was free, Stone lurched upright, furiously jerking the needles from his arm. Immediately, pure agony ripped through his shoulder. He groaned, then bit off the sound. He glared at the nun, and she stared back without speaking. He clutched his aching shoulder and staggered to his feet.

  "I do not understand you Americans. Why do you wish to feel the pain of your injury?" Sister Mary's face was serious.

  "I don't like being tied down, and I don't like needles stuck in me. Who are you anyway? You sure as hell don't act like any nun I've ever met." He frowned, wishing he had some whiskey to dull the pain.

  "You will reopen your wounds if you move around so much," she admonished calmly as she gathered up the pins he had discarded. "I stitched the edges together while you were unaware."

  Stone stared at her, becoming slightly lightheaded. He examined the exit wound just beneath his clavicle. The flesh was raw and angry-looking, but it had been sewn with tiny black stitches, as neat as a widow's sampler. His whole left side throbbed like hell.

  "I guess I ought to be grateful," he muttered.

  "I will insert the needles again, if you wish."

  Stone nodded, and the nun moved forward. He watched her withdraw a black lacquered box from her bamboo case. About the size of a deck of cards, the lid was etched with scarlet Chinese symbols. She selected more needles from the black velvet interior. Stone watched silently as she took his arm and carefully inserted the needles in the same spots as before. She twirled them gently, one at a time, between her forefinger and her thumb.

  "It still hurts," he said.

  "A little impatience subverts great undertakings," she quoted sagely, her eyes intent on her task.

  Stone scowled at her, but gradually his pain began to subside.

  "Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, impressed.

  "The needles have been used for healing in China for thousands of years."

  Stone looked at her sapphire eyes and didn't want to look away. Suddenly he remembered that they weren't out of danger.

  "Have you seen any sign of the Pawnee?" he asked, searching the trees alongside the stream.

  Sister Mary shook her head. "I swept away much of our trail with a branch of leaves. This place is well hidden by the trees, and Jun-li will alert us if the red warriors approach."

  "Jun-li?"

  "My little friend there." She pointed at the monkey, who was busily grooming himself atop a flat rock. "Come, Jun-li!"

  The capuchin quickly scurried forth to join them.

  "Jun-li is very clever," she told Stone, stroking the monkey's soft black fur.

  Stone began to feel as if he were inside some weird, unbelievable dream. Maybe he was. Maybe he was hallucinating.

  "Do all Catholic Sisters carry monkeys around in their luggage?" he asked with not a little sarc
asm.

  "I do not know," she replied, her face set in utmost solemnity. "Jun-li has been my companion since I was very small. I have trained him to be my helper."

  Stone also began to feel as if he were going to black out, and when he weaved slightly on his feet, Sister Mary took a firm hold of his good arm.

  "Come, I have made a shelter for us. It is well concealed near the stream. You must lie down until your strength returns."

  Stone allowed her to lead him to a small lean-to built of branches between two tree trunks. Amazed, he turned an incredulous gaze upon the nun. What kind of woman was she? And what the hell kind of order did she come from?

  A couple of hours after dark, Stone was no less confused about the nun. He watched her across the fire she had built expertly in the opening of the lean-to. Earlier, she had concocted a poultice from a downy moss she carried with her, applied it to his shoulder, then set it afire until it smoldered upon his skin. Still, he had felt nothing because of the needles. Next, she had expertly bandaged his wound, then produced rice and tea leaves from a black silk bag tied at her waist and prepared them a meal. He was beginning to believe her talents were innumerable.

  "You're not a nun, are you?"

  Sister Mary looked up from where she sat cross-legged in a very un-nunlike position.

  "You risked your life to save me from the red warriors," she said. "Why would you do such a thing?"

  Surprised that she would ask such a question, Stone laughed. "Believe it or not, I thought you were helpless."

  "Life is very different in China, so is it so strange that I behave in unusual ways? I have been taught many things you might find peculiar."

  "Who taught you these things?"

  Again she didn't answer, but rose in the lithe way she had demonstrated before. She cocked her head as a far-off chattering cry sounded from the treetops.