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Page 49
was straight and uneven and seemed the color of some rich, polished wood. His jaw was thick and broad, and his neck had the heavy contours of a weightlifter's. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket and brown pants that reached to the tops of his moccasins, and in his arms he cradled a long-barreled Pennsylvania rifle.
Behind her, she heard the loud footfalls of the men.
"You might as well halt, Miss Walker," taunted John. "We will catch you."
"We're traders." Samuel's voice held a frightening laugh. "There's an Indian we've dealt with. He likes women with light hair; you'll bring a lot of pelts."
Mariah winced. "Please," she said to the man she thought of as Thorn. "I need your help."
In the shadows, she couldn't make out the color of his eyes, but she could see them staring at her piercingly. His narrow lips were a tight, angry slash across his face. He didn't move.
Recalling in desperation the words in the screenplay that Matilda had used to galvanize the Thorn character into action, she cried in desperation, "I'm relying on you!"
"No one," said the man in a deep, gravelly voice, "should rely on me." He turned away and began to walk back into the forest.

 
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