Following Roxton

“Do not walk in front of me, I may not follow. Do not walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend”  Camus

Author: Santa Crux

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not for profit.

Rating: PG

A/N: This story is set sometime after Salvation when the explorers often seemed to ‘get on each other’s nerves’ Many thanks to JLC and Ariadne who were kind enough to read my story, help make it better and encourage me. Heartfelt thanks to Rann who kindly answered the questions of a curious fan. I suspect this story would not have been written without her help and support.

The prisoners raised a golden dust as they worked in the field, cutting grain as the sun reached its peak in the sky. K’hadur stretched, leaned on the scythe, the perspiration rolling down his face, his ragged clothes soaked. As always he assessed the guards’ positions. The long distance stare that he had acquired as a hunter and developed in the months he had spent in this work camp told him that only one guard was in the area. Suddenly, the scream of a T Rex caught the attention of his fellow prisoners and the lone guard. Instantly, K’hadur took his opportunity and raced across the field towards the trees surrounding the camp. He thought he had escaped undetected until he almost ran into a perimeter guard. The escaping convict used his momentum to bowl over the guard, and then, with the man’s own club, crushed his skull. He moved quickly into the brush intending to put a good deal of distance between himself and his potential pursuers. As he loped along, visions of oft-planned revenge flashed in his mind. Not long, he thought. Not far until he found his way back to the jungle, to that hunter with the powerful weapons who had brought him to his knees, who had caused his arrest and long months of hell. It would be sweet to make him die.

***

“How in heaven’s name does Summerlee expect us to identify this plant; it’s identical to both of these sketches. Can you tell which one it is? Oh, this is just a wild goose chase!” With these words the dark-haired adventuress, threw down the bedraggled plant she had ripped from the ground, pulled off her hat and slapped it against her thigh. She raised her eyes defiantly to her companion.

Lord Roxton looked over his shoulder from the verdant group of shrubs he was examining, and responded with a wicked grin, “Patience, Marguerite, we’ve done very well so far. I have found the psidium guajava, the cat’s claw and I think, the basil and you, well, you’ve complained a great deal.”

“Thank you, Lord Roxton, for taking the opportunity to belittle my work. May I remind you I volunteered for this excursion?” She turned the discarded plant over with her foot as she fumed about the pointless series of tasks that seemed to occupy all their time these days. Face it, she was poorly suited to these domestic chores; they seemed to allow that dark energy within her to mushroom until she had to explode at someone. And that usually resulted in a heated response from her housemates. “It seems that singling me out for criticism is the favourite activity of the lot of you.”

“Well, Marguerite, if you joined in our daily tasks enthusiastically, without complaining, you’d hear many more encouraging comments. We all need to chip in to help each other here” Roxton found himself rising to anger even as he desperately tried not to get drawn in to another vitriolic argument that would leave Marguerite withdrawn and acid-tongued and himself frustrated and disappointed.

Marguerite’s body tensed as she mimicked Roxton’s words, “I don’t expect anyone to ‘chip in and help me’” She punctuated her words with a slight shake of her head. “I have always been quite capable of taking care of myself.” She felt that restless anger within her begin to coalesce into a cold rage.

Roxton turned to face her, rising to the bait. “How can you say that, Marguerite? All of us have been willing to risk our lives for each other.”

“Of course, Lord Roxton, you’re always the hero, always trying to make up for the mistakes you’ve made in the past,” Marguerite blazed, far past being fair.

Roxton stiffened but did not respond. He looked down and saw the sketchbook of plants that Marguerite had tossed aside. Slowly he bent to pick it up turning away to get back to the task of gathering the herbs that Summerlee deemed they had need of.

Marguerite scowled and kicked a stone at her feet. Now that the argument was over, she was restless with unspent emotion. Abruptly she made a decision, turned to face Roxton’s back and said, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back within an hour.”

“It’s not safe out there alone.” His words were tight with exasperation.

“I’ll take your rifle,” she cut him off, picked up the rifle and strode out of the grove before her mess of emotions betrayed her to Roxton.

Roxton wavered as she rushed away, torn between stopping her and following her, but then muttered in frustration, “She can take care of herself.”

Marguerite slowed her pace as she walked out of Roxton’s sight. Now that she didn’t have to keep a bold front, she railed at herself for her harsh words. How could she bring back those hurtful memories to Roxton again? It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt him; she was rather intrigued with him. He could be quite gallant on occasion and she found herself thinking about him far more than she ought to. She made her way down toward the river, lost in her remorse, the rifle in the crook of her arm, oblivious to the jungle around her and the dangers it contained.

K’hadur crept behind her in the bushes. He had been lingering at the edge of the clearing where the quarrelling couple had been working for some time now. Good tracking and good fortune had led him to the hunter; good fortune was on his side now. The metal weapons were powerful. He could not defeat a man with such arms. But the woman was careless.

He came closer then gave Marguerite a hard push as he grabbed the barrel of the rifle. Marguerite stumbled forward, startled, but recovered enough to hold on to the rifle. He pulled it towards him as she swung around wildly off-balance. She still held the gun while desperately yelling “Roxton”. K’hadur was quite sure the sound of the water would muffle her shouts. He pulled again. She followed. What a stubborn woman!

Marguerite attempted to load the chamber as he yanked the barrel under his arm. As she lost her handhold on the rifle, she lunged forward grasping him around the waist. At that moment his twisting motion drove the stock back into her face. Stunned, blinded by the tears that sprung to her eyes, she grunted and fell back on her seat.

Now free of her grasp the vengeful native turned to aim the gun at her. With a voice as flat as metal he said in English, “Go!” Then in his own tongue he added “Woman, you do not belong here. I have come to this place for retribution. To kill a woman would taint my quest. But follow me and you will die. Go back to your dwelling while you can, before the raptors eat you.” With that, he grabbed her by the shoulder of her jacket and half-dragged, half-pushed her into the river and watched with rifle raised as the current swiftly pulled her downstream and beyond the bend in the river. Now he was free to hunt down his true quarry.

He turned his attention to the weapon in his hands He had thought often in the work camp of his encounter with the man he now pursued, of the way his antagonist had armed it and fired it at him, the searing pain in his leg, the noise, the speed, the power of the weapon. This burnished implement of wood and metal was now his; he would use it well.

Marguerite made no attempt to swim for shore until she was out of the man’s sight. She then made her way toward the bank until she sat gasping in a back-water. Slowly she regained her breath and her composure. She gingerly touched her brow where a trickle of blood and a painful bump testified as to where the rifle butt had made contact. “Damn,” was all that she said.

Then recognition hit her. She knew that man; he had attacked Roxton months ago while they had been hunting. She had translated his words after her companion had disarmed him, words of violence and hate. She scrambled to her feet. “He wants to kill Roxton; and he’s got my rifle to do it. I’ve got to get to John before...” Then the words of her attacker echoed through her head, “Follow me and you will die”

As Roxton wearily gazed at the tangle of vegetation comparing plants to the notes and drawings, his mind drifted back to this most recent disagreement with his vexing companion. Marguerite certainly could say some hurtful things. There must be some reason to account for these bouts of uncivil behaviour. But he suspected he could know that mysterious woman forever and still not truly understand her. Perhaps he should go after her. But they had only the remainder of the afternoon to gather samples and their collection was far from complete. To follow her would re-ignite the bitter argument. But if he left her alone it would only add to her sense of isolation. Beyond all this, on this plateau a solitary outing was downright dangerous!

A sudden certainty decided his course of action. He closed the book turning back towards their campsite. The faint click of a rifle hammer being cocked saw him drop to the ground, without conscious thought. A shot flew overhead making a characteristic zinging noise. Edging to his left, careful not to disturb the grass around him, he noiselessly drew his gun. Roxton crept further away as two shots slammed into the ground that he had just vacated.

There was an eerie silence as the jungle creatures waited for a sign the crisis had passed. With the well-honed skills of a hunter who had stalked game, Roxton set out to outflank his attacker. He crept silently through the tall grasses, ears straining for noises that would signal the sniper’s presence. It seemed to take forever until he had made his way to the original point of attack, only to find it abandoned, tracks leading toward his own former position.

He searched the area to find the shell casings. He frowned as he identified them “Three oh three. Same as Marguerite’s rifle” he muttered. For a fleeting instant, he wryly imagined an angry Marguerite taking her revenge upon him, but sobered to the thought that someone had taken her rifle away from her, willingly or not. Had she carelessly left it lying about or had it been taken by force? He took some relief in that he had not heard a rifle-shot; surely that was a good sign. He prayed it was.

Like a hunted animal, Roxton instinctively made plans for his survival; he would be of no help to Marguerite if he was reckless. He was going to need all of his skills and some supplies from the camp if he intended to turn the tables on his stalker. Never had he been more painstaking as he followed the hunter’s trail back toward the camp. He could see from the tracks that as the rifleman approached the camp, he had hesitated then moved more quickly, less carefully to the west. It appeared that the unseen enemy had abandoned his hunt for the present, possibly choosing to regroup now that his ambush had failed, but Roxton still used all precautions as he filled his knapsack with food, water and ammunition. He found a hiding place away from the camp and waited for dusk. Then he was away into the night to create some distance and disguise his trail before it was too dark to travel safely.

K’hadur cursed as he missed his shot, tried a couple more in hopes of a lucky hit then circled down to where he hoped to find Roxton’s bleeding body. He cursed again when he realized the trap had failed completely and that he now was in danger. He veered toward the highlands where he could watch the camp as he made a new plan to kill this accursed man.

Marguerite , sodden and uncomfortable, returned toward camp, her boots squelching with every step. Roxton must be warned but that would accomplish nothing if she stumbled upon her attacker in the attempt. She doubted that she could creep past the native without being discovered. She may have a great sense of direction and an elementary understanding of tracking, but his jungle skills were far superior to her own.

Some part of her regretted her decision not to go back to the tree-house where there were weapons and willing rescuers; it was the wiser choice. But it was at least a four hour trek; their aid might be too late. She pictured her unsuspecting companion stalked by that cold-blooded assailant. So here she was, out of her element, risking her life despite knowing that, unarmed, there was little likelihood she would make any positive contribution. But even as she told herself these sobering truths, she continued on toward the danger and the maddening man who could get killed by her rifle.

Suddenly from the camp before her she heard the crack of a rifle shot, followed by two more. Dread caught at her throat; she pushed her complaining body to an unsteady run. The camp was still some distance away; she hoped it was not already too late.

K’hadur continued to scan in the direction he had come, aware of a potential attack. He was startled to see a glimpse of someone moving along the high ground above the camp. He sighted the gun, finger longingly on the trigger, waiting to see his enemy. It was the woman. He pondered for a moment the wisdom of just using the metal weapon to kill her, but, if his enemy were near, it would alert the man to his position. Perhaps if he took her captive, it would draw the man to him. But he really just wanted it to be the two of them. His mind was resolved; he would kill or disable her quietly and return to his pursuit.

Marguerite hesitated on a ridge above the camp compelling herself to look below. She had a n unobstructed view of the clearing and saw no sprawled body, in fact nothing untoward. Surprisingly she was almost giddy with relief .The sound of a breaking twig caused her to wheel around to see K’hadur running up the slope towards her, knife drawn. She turned to run, shouting in the hope that Roxton was nearby. Hearing no response she became quiet to save her breath. She fled wildly through the trees not on any path. Fear made her nimble, though she was running blind, slapped by vines and leaves. As fast as she ran, K’hadur relentlessly gained on her. She emerged on the edge of a promontory, swerved to parallel the edge of the precipice then finally, estimating her odds, ran right over the edge. She kept her footing running and sliding for a few steps but soon fell on the treacherous slope. She tumbled over a rocky drop-off then slid to a stop amid the rubble.

K’hadur stopped at the edge, breathing heavily as he waited for the dust to settle, finally sighting her limp, motionless body thirty feet down the slope. Well, he’d consider her dead or disabled! Anxious to return to his quest he retraced his steps toward his shelter as dusk turned to dark.

The crumpled body at the bottom of the hill had strategically positioned herself so that she could keep a view of her pursuer. Moments after he turned away, she slowly rose to her feet, brushing a considerable quantity of dirt from her still-damp clothing. “Well, that was – exhilarating” she muttered. And painful, she thought, looking ruefully at her scraped hands. Using handholds and some clever footwork, she scrambled up to the top, retrieving her hat on the way. As she pulled her bruised body over the edge, totally drained, she laid there for a few minutes until, startled by the cry of a jungle creature not too far away, she jumped to her feet. Though she longed to start a fire or return to the campsite, it was too dangerous and too dark to do either. She chose the safer route of climbing a tree, wedging herself between a branch and the trunk as best she could and using her belt as a safety strap in the unlikely event she fell asleep in that uncomfortable position and toppled off. It had the look of a long, hungry wait till the sun rose.

Long before dawn, Roxton had created a special trail for his pursuer. Deliberately, his trail had crossed the one made by Marguerite as she had left the camp. The trampled signs indicated that there had been a struggle that ended with Marguerite in the water. His tension was r elieved when he saw the boot-prints of the resilient woman covering those of the sniper. It appeared that she had been heading back to camp. He had every hope that the man with the rifle was caught up in pursuing him. Now all Marguerite needed was the good sense to return to the tree-house or at least stay in a safe place until he could return for her. He moved further along to set some jungle traps. He needed to end this quickly, for his sake and for hers.

As dawn made the trail more visible, K’hadur revisited the camp only to discover that his prey had returned to the campsite, taken something and left again. “Probably while I was chasing that evil woman.” he thought. Picking up the trail, he began the pursuit, following his quarry’s complex series of backtracks and false trails, cursing the woman for the delay. As the trail eventually became easier to follow he hurried to make up the time he had lost. Too late he realized he had triggered a trap, barely dodging the full weight of the falling tree. As it was, he was dazed and bleeding. And very angry! He took a deep breath. He needed to calm himself. Blood was in his eyes. He would find water then he would follow his enemy with the cunning of a wolf and kill him with his own weapon. He broke away and made for lower ground to find a stream.

Marguerite was also on the move before sunrise. Scraped, bruised, sore and stiff after a very unsatisfying night in the tree, she moved back toward the camp. She could see the area from above and was surprised but delighted to see her enemy leaving the camp obviously following some trail. When she saw he was gone, she hurried back to their possessions. She looked longingly at their supply of food but chose to take only a knife, her water-bottle and some dried fruit to eat on the way. She made her way to where she had seen the native leave the camp and was able to pick up his trail.

Pleased with her tracking skill, she made excellent time as the native, unaware of any danger behind him, had not bothered to hide his trail. Not that she was feeling particularly dangerous. To her relief, it was clear that Roxton had escaped whatever predicament the stalker had placed him in and was leading him a merry chase. But as much as she trusted her companion’s ability, she felt an overwhelming sense that Roxton somehow needed her help.

She had always acted on her instincts in times like these and they were telling her that she was close. But still she couldn’t go too quickly for fear she’d run right into the man who had her rifle. Absorbed by these thoughts she came suddenly upon a place where there appeared to have been a struggle. She bent to pick up a vine that was tied to a rough-hewn stick. No, a trap and it had worked from the look of the blood mingled with footprints on the ground. Soft-soled, not Roxton’s size eleven boots! All signs indicated that an injured K’hadur had broken off from his pursuit. This was her chance to catch up with Roxton! She increased her speed.

Roxton had set up a final trap, a crossbow device triggered by a vine across the path and doubled back to a position where he could just catch a glimpse of his pursuer as the trap was triggered. Eventually he was alerted by the movement of some bushes then, with sickening horror realized that it was Marguerite who would set off the trap. “Get down!” he bellowed as he saw her, seemingly in slow motion, pivot and duck in response to his command. He could hear the sound of the arrow as it released and, like a nightmare he had lived before, it struck her in the back, driving her to her knees. All thoughts of concealment, of his stalker, forgotten, he scrambled out of his hiding position, bounding towards her.

Marguerite twisted as she heard the shout but a line of fire seared across her back and the arrow lodged in her arm. God, it hurt. She fought back the first wave of pain as she slipped to her knees and braced herself as it passed. She was shaking when Roxton came up to her but the pain felt far away somehow. Is this where she would die? Her thoughts fragmented as she began to feel quite detached from her body

Roxton supported her body as he gazed at the harm the arrow, his arrow, had done. It had torn a long furrow through her clothing as it cut a jagged line through the flesh below. The arrow had deflected across her shoulder blade which was bleeding profusely. The missile itself, nearly spent, had still managed to pierce the muscle at the back of her left arm.

His face filled with anguish, consumed by visions of his brother’s death, he groaned “My God, I’ve done it again. Marguerite, I’m so sorry.”

From a vast distance, Marguerite could hear the devastation in his voice; it was quite upsetting, really. Could it be that she was dying, killed at Roxton’s hands like his brother had been? Well, there was a small gift a dying woman could give a stricken man. Chilled and light-headed, Marguerite raised her eyes to meet his and said with a faint smile. “Ssh. Don’t worry about me.”

Roxton looked at her closely, shaken out of his guilty reverie. “But Marguerite I did this. I should have known - known you might…”

She interrupted again, bold now as she felt herself fading away, “John, no-I…” Her head sagged until her cheek was on his shoulder.

Realizing that the heiress was losing her tenuous hold on consciousness, he raised her head with his hand so he could look her in the eye. In an attempt to capture her attention, he brought his face close to hers, “Marguerite, you’ll be fine.”

She mumbled as her gaze slid off him, “What? But you, you said... I’m so - cold”

Spurred by a different kind of guilt, the hunter reassured her “It’s shock, Marguerite, hold on.”

Roxton raised her in his arms carrying her to where his pack lay. His war experience had taught him that shock could lead to death even if the wounds themselves were treatable. He needed to stop the bleeding and return her to normal temperature immediately or Marguerite could die in his arms. Though his back itched with vulnerability knowing their antagonist could be closing in by now, he forced himself to be methodical.

He laid her on her side, and worked the arrow out of the wound as gently as he could. Marguerite paled even more. Though her teeth were chattering, her face was beaded with sweat. She moaned as he pulled off her jacket. He tore her blouse to remove it, created some crude bandages and used them to dress her wounds. Not another sound escaped her as he continued his rough ministrations. Concerned that she may have fainted, he bent so he could see her face more clearly. Though a sheen of perspiration covered her unnaturally pale visage, her eyes seemed more alert now, shining with tears of pain.

“There, that’s it” he said softly but brightly, realizing now how she reacted before to the tone of his voice. “Now we just need to get you warmed up.” He placed his one blanket around her as he started a fire, and brought his body close to her to keep her warm. Eventually, the shivering stopped and her breathing slowed. As she relaxed into sleep, Roxton rose aware of their imminent danger. He covered her upper body with her bloodstained jacket and left his pistol by her hand; the fire should keep the raptors away for some time. He needed to deal with their pursuer. He gathered some supplies and prepared to leave the clearing to go back up the trail.

K’hadur had refreshed himself and returned more calmly to his tracking. He was surprised to find that the next trap had been sprung by someone else. He drew closer to read the signs on the ground. The woman? It would serve her right, the meddler. He could smell the fire and crept closer, leaving the treacherous path his enemy had set for him. Advancing stealthily, he saw his prey turn to leave. His own approach had placed the woman and the fire between him and his quarry. This was good, he would be able to confront his foe, see his face when he died. He crept toward the woman carefully until he saw the blood-soaked coat covering her body. He loaded the chamber, raised the gun and aimed at the man’s back.

“You killed her yourself.” he called out, chuckling. “That is very funny”. Roxton wheeled at the sound of the unfamiliar words but slowed as he saw the raised rifle. “Killed her.” K’hadur smirked again as he stepped close to the bleeding woman to give her back a small nudge in an attempt to make the man see what was so amusing. The look of smouldering rage he saw reflected in the eyes of his enemy made the moment pure and complete for K’hadur. Now his revenge would be perfect.

Under the cover, Marguerite’s eyes snapped open but with a caution learned long ago, she made no movement. She saw the pistol before her but before she could move, a foot appeared close to her face as the man stepped over her and slowly strode toward Roxton. As he passed the fire, she grasped the pistol. Marguerite pushed herself awkwardly into a sitting position, using a small tree to brace herself, her left arm throbbing and limp by her side.

She aimed the pistol, trying to marshal her strength to keep it from shaking. She nearly groaned aloud when she realized that she would need to use her injured arm to pull the slide to release the safety. She clenched her teeth as she pulled the slide but still a whimper escaped. The muted cry and the sound of the gun alerted K’hadur. As he turned, his rifle pointing towards her, she fired twice! She knew she’d hit him squarely, but still the barrel of his rifle moved inexorably toward her and she could see his finger tighten on the trigger. With an effort that tore her wound open again, she threw herself to the side as she heard the report of the rifle.

Roxton desperately launched himself across the clearing as the native turned towards Marguerite, hitting him in the back just as the rifle fired. Both men went down in a tangle of arms and legs but only Roxton rose. The other man was dead; Marguerite’s aim had been true. Roxton turned toward Marguerite with dread. She was lying twisted to one side, her hair obscuring her face, blood seeping anew from the wound on her back. A nightmare flood of emotions held him in his grip; for a brief second he was unable to take a step. His knees nearly buckled with relief at the sight of her slowly raising her head.

As Marguerite struggled to rise further, the anxious hunter made his way swiftly to her side as though drawn by a magnet. He sank to his knees to support her spent frame. The pistol dangled loosely in her hand. Roxton could hear her chuckling mirthlessly while tears flowed down her pale cheeks. He longed to comfort her as it seemed she was close to hysteria. She continued to mutter, “Stupid gun. Stupid.” even as he removed the offending item from her nerveless fingers.

Roxton pulled her gently into his neck and stroked her hair as she cried herself into silence. The bullet hole in the tree trunk behind her was a disturbing symbol of her near-fate that chilled him to his marrow. He sat with her a long time like this as the afternoon shadows lengthened to darkness.

Later that night as she lay sleeping by his side, Roxton looked at the fire, musing about this woman’s extraordinary actions that day. Who would have expected such a colossal risk, such loyalty from someone who had repeatedly told them that her own survival was the paramount issue in any dangerous situation? . Though she had always shown tremendous instincts in a crisis, she remained a ‘lone wolf’, denying any responsibility for her small community. When he had ‘rolled the dice on her’ he really hadn’t expected this kind of payoff. But, even then, somehow he had known that he would only meet someone like her once in a blue moon.

He shook his head recalling the crush of emotion he had felt today when he had thought her dead. And, oddly enough, the burden of his brother’s death weighed a little less heavily on him tonight at a time when he might have expected the opposite. These kinds of thoughts could drive a man to distraction. He shrugged himself out of his reverie and made himself more comfortable for the long night on watch.

The next morning Marguerite awoke to the sounds of the campfire snapping and the smell of meat cooking. The slight movement she made to peek out from under her blanket caused a low groan to emerge from deep within her, a most uncontrolled, unladylike noise. It got the attention of her companion and he loomed over her, grinning widely as he greeted her “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

She looked at him ruefully through her swollen eye and responded “Hardly, my lord, more like Cinderella covered in grime.”

“Come now” he teased her, “I’d say you’re actually like Sir Galahad after yesterday’s heroics.”

Wrong knight , she thought, secretly pleased at the compliment. “Well, can you help a poor knight up so I can ready myself for this delightful looking meal you’ve made?”

“Hmm. Sir knight, just let me check your wound to see if you are ready to return to the fray.” He gently helped her to sit up so he could examine his work.

“How bad is it?’ she said, a note of concern in her voice.

“It’s clean and it’s shallow “he replied, “But it may be a while till it stops bleeding entirely –and you will have a scar.” His voice had deepened, filled with regret.

She was about to shrug in reply but thought better of it. Her newly-appointed squire supported her while she walked off the stiffness resulting from the nightmare of the previous two days.

After washing up, she returned to the fire where they continued their light conversation, choosing to ignore the horrors of the past two days and the rift that had preceded it all. Eventually they decided to make their way back to their original camp to pick up their supplies. They were sufficiently overdue that they might just meet their comrades there and get some extra help to go back to the tree-house. Roxton created a sling by tying his patient’s own jacket in a clever fashion then, shouldering his pack, held out his arm to her as if it were an invitation to go out on the floor in London’s finest dance-hall.

The wounded heiress leaned heavily on Roxton’s arm as they slowly made their way back to the camp. They rested frequently in deference to her limited strength. At one stop, she settled on a log as Roxton stood beside her. She looked up at him from under her hat then her eyes drifted away to the ground as she gathered up her courage to speak. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did, about the past” Roxton’s eyes widened in surprise. An apology, he thought, Marguerite is trying to apologize. His instinct as before when she brought up his brother’s death was to change the subject or walk away. Though he still had no words to express himself, he smiled at her, acknowledging the apology with a nod. He couldn’t see her face now only the brim of her hat as she surveyed the ground. Suddenly grabbing the rifle which she had been using as a crutch, she turned slightly toward him and scolded “At this rate we’ll never get back. Let’s get moving, you slow-poke.”

Roxton looked at her with a smile on his face, expecting their usual repartee, but the smile slowly faded as he gathered up his burdens. Were those tears that made her eyes so bright? This really was the most unfathomable woman. He smiled as he considered this mystery while supporting his companion to her feet. Marguerite’s face became an unreadable mask as she belatedly realized that her plans for this expedition were spinning far out of control. She would have to take strong measures to return things to a safer plane. Together they slowly trudged down the trail towards their camp.

The End

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