Hope Read Free Page B

pretty ugly bruises for days, vowing that from now on Boris was leading the charges. A heated disagreement erupted, with a lot of name-calling Dan didn’t appreciate.
    “I’ll wait here.” Reining up, Dan settled back into his saddle to wait. With any luck, they’d botch this one, too.
    “Nah, you ride with us. Don’t need no lookout for this one. Ain’t nobody around these parts for miles.” Big Joe’s left eye wandered wildly. “The drivers usually whip up the horses when they come through this pass, so be ready.”
    Dan shifted in his saddle. “What if the stage isn’t carrying a strongbox?”
    “Don’t matter. This one’s carryin’ somethin’ better.” Boris leaned over and spat. A grasshopper leapt clear of the sudden onslaught.
    Better? That was a strange statement. What did this stage carry that the men wanted more than army payroll?
    The four men waited in silence. A dry wind whipped their hats, and the horses grew restless.
    Dan shifted again. “Maybe it’s not coming.”
    “It’ll come,” Big Joe said. “Somethin’ must be keeping it.”
    “Yeah, somethin’s keeping it,” Boris echoed.
    “Shut up, Boris.”
    “Can talk if I want to.”
    “Shut up.”
    “Can’t make me.”
    Dan shifted again. “Both of you dry up.”
    Frog hunched over his saddle horn, staring at the horizon. Dan decided Frog didn’t speak much because it wasted too much effort. Frog was lazy. Lazy and he smelled like a skunk. The only time Dan had seen him take a bath was when his horse fell in a river and Frog was sucked under. Dan had begun to pray for river crossings.
    He studied the motley group. Big Joe was questionably the brain of the outfit. Joe had difficulty deciding which side of his bedroll to put next to the ground. Frog was like his namesake, easily distracted, his attention hopping from one thing to another so quickly that it was impossible to follow his reasoning—if he had any. If this was the dangerous gang that was so adept at robbing the army-payroll coaches, their success had to be more fluke than finesse. These three had a hard time planning breakfast.
    Big Joe suddenly sat up straighter. “There she comes!”
    The others snapped to attention. Boris craned his neck, trying to get a better look.
    “Where?”
    “There.”
    “Where?”
    “There!”
    “Wh—” Boris winced as Big Joe whacked him across the back with his hat. Dust flew.
    “Oh yeah. I see it.”
    Flanking the stallion, Joe started down the narrow trail. The others followed, Dan bringing up the rear. This had better be resolved soon.
    Dan had had just about enough of this job.

    Hope was dozing, her body automatically swaying with the motion of the coach. The sound of pounding hooves pulled her into wakefulness. One driver shouted and the reins slapped as the team whipped the coach down the road.
    Scooting to the window, she peered out, wide-eyed.
    A sharp crack rent the air. Clamping her eyes tightly shut, she swallowed the terror rising in the back of her throat. The crack sounded again and again. Gunshots! Someone was firing at the coach!
    Horses pounded alongside the window. Hope’s fingers dug into the crimson upholstery, gripping the fabric. She craned, unable to see who was chasing the stage. Then four men rode alongside the coach, hats pulled low. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Robbery. The stage was being robbed!
    “Stop the coach!”
    The harsh yell was accompanied by another gunshot. Hope’s lips moved in silent prayer. Don’t let this be a holdup. Let me get to Medford safely. Protect the drivers. Oh, dear—if only I could accurately remember the Lord’s Prayer . . . the part about walking the fields of death . . .
    The coach came to a shuddering halt, dust fogging the open windows. Hope sat still as a church mouse, terrified to move. She heard the sound of someone cocking a rifle, and her heart threatened to stop beating. Dear Lord, what if she were killed before she reached John Jacobs? Would