Tamsin fell on one knee, then screamed as he shoved her back on the ground. "No!" Her head struck a rock, and for an instant the pain nearly overshadowed the realization that Buffalo Horn was tearing at her skirts.

Hysterically, she kicked at him and struck out with her bound hands. "No! No!"

Jeering, the others closed in around her as his weight pressed her down. Buffalo Horn's hand clamped over her mouth. She twisted and sunk her teeth into his flesh, biting down until she tasted the salt of his blood.

Suddenly, Fancy shrieked a high-pitched whinny of fear, and the animals went wild. Shiloh plunged past, nearly crushing Tamsin and her assailant under his hooves. A man shouted.

Buffalo Horn raised up on his knees as an enraged roar slashed through the pandemonium of kicking, rearing horses. Before Tamsin could draw another breath, the mountain lion leaped from an overhanging tree branch onto a brave's back.

It seemed to Tamsin that time stood still. For an instant, Buffalo Horn, the other Cheyenne warriors, and the terrified horses were imprinted on her mind. Tamsin was certain she could smell and taste the sour scent of the big cat, the animal's sweat, and the odor of wet leaves trampled underfoot. Even the colors seemed clear and distinct, the tawny yellow of the cougar, the white of the young brave's eyes, and the intense blue of the cloudless sky.

Then the scene began to unravel as the cat's claws and teeth rained blood on the scattering warriors. The dying man's screams mingled with those of the fleeing horses and the puma's snarls.

A rifle cracked, and Tamsin caught a final glimpse of ivory-yellow teeth and gushing red before the cat vanished into the underbrush. More guns went off, and the Cheyenne's cries had turned to war whoops as they raced after the cougar.

Heaving dry sobs of terror, Tamsin got to her feet and backed away from the dead warrior. Stumbling, shaking with fear, she edged closer to the nearest horse, an Indian mustang.

He snorted, laid back his ears, and trotted away, still trailing a single rein. Tamsin strained at her wrist bindings. If her hands hadn't been tied, she would have run after the horse, flung herself onto his back, and attempted an escape.

A brave's grip on her arm dashed her hope. He spun her around to face him and glared into her face. "Demon Claw," Buffalo Horn muttered. "Spirit cougar. You bring bad medicine. We go from this place quickly."

Maybe he's right, Tamsin thought as he put her on the trembling pinto. There was something eerie about the mountain lion. Maybe it hadn't come for the Cheyenne. Maybe the big cat had come for her, seeking revenge for Ash's killing the smaller cougar.

And for the space of a heartbeat she wondered if she wouldn't have been better off if the beast had killed her. Even that death would be better than the rape and torture Buffalo Horn had planned for her.

The Cheyenne rode until it was too dark for Tamsin to see her horse's head. Then, when she thought they would go on forever in blackness, Buffalo Horn called a halt and ordered her to slide down off the pinto.

She winced as his knife slashed the leather bonds at her wrists. He pushed her roughly to a sitting position on the damp leaves, and she waited, rubbing her hands to bring back the circulation.

She heard the crack of flint and steel, and a spark came to life in the darkness. The flash of light extinguished but was quickly followed by another and another. In a matter of minutes, a tiny fire illuminated the faces of men crouched close around it.

Apparently one of the braves had slain a mountain sheep during the day. Tamsin watched as two of the youngest men built a fire and butchered the ram. They sliced the bloody meat into small pieces and suspended them over the coals on green branches. Soon the air was filled with the tantalizing smell of broiling mutton.

Tonight there was none of the laughter and camaraderie she'd seen between the men in the morning. They all seemed tense, keeping their weapons close at hand and nervously glancing over their shoulders at every night sound. Buffalo Horn's face was taut as he chewed every last morsel of flesh from a leg bone and tossed it into the bushes.

No one offered Tamsin a bite as the war party devoured the meat. She tried to keep her gaze averted, but she couldn't keep from salivating. She was so hungry that her stomach growled and ached.

The Cheyenne had taken her higher into the mountains than she'd been before. A cold wind whistled down from the peaks, the temperature was dropping fast, and she was getting cold.

Tamsin edged closer to the fire. One chunk of fatty roast remained, clinging to a skewer. A brave on the far side of the hearth glanced at the meat and reached out to take it. Boldly, Tamsin snatched it first. Without worrying who had touched the mutton or whether it was done, she began to gobble it with as little propriety as the warriors had shown.

Juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn't care. The ram was old and tough, but it was food. She'd gone too long without nourishment to be particular. She was nearly finished when she heard a loud cough from the trees behind the camp.

Instantly, a Cheyenne jerked up his rifle and fired in the direction of the sound. Tamsin jumped. Her heart pounded, and her chest felt tight.

Two men rose and rushed toward the aspen grove, but they stopped at the edges. Horses whinnied and stamped their feet. Tamsin heard Dancer snort nervously.

She stared into the darkness. Wind whistled through the branches, rattling leaves, and raising gooseflesh on her arms.

Tamsin looked around her at the startled men. She didn't need to understand Cheyenne to know that they thought the cougar had come back, that it was crouched out there, watching, waiting.

Then, from another direction came the drawn-out hooting of an owl. A stout man with graying braids laughed nervously. The huge Cheyenne with the bones in his ears stood and paced, rifle ready.

Minutes passed without any unusual sounds. The moon rose, a pale crescent of ivory. Single stars winked on, one by one, and talk began to flow around the fire.

Tamsin shivered. Her face and front were warm, but fear of what might happen made her start at every stamp of a horse's hoof or snap of a twig.

Then the owl hooted again.

The giant with the shaved head shouted angrily and leaped to his feet. Buffalo Horn put a restraining hand on the dissenter's arm, attempting to argue, but the huge warrior jerked away and stalked into the woods followed by a second malcontent.

Minutes or an hour later-Tamsin couldn't be certain- the bald man returned alone. Buffalo Horn questioned him. He shrugged and looked worried.

Buffalo Horn glared malevolently at Tamsin. "You are a witch." He rose to his feet and came toward her.

Shuddering, she leaped up and backed away.

"Did you bring Demon Claw?" he demanded, snaking his knife from the sheath at his side.

"No," she protested. "I-"

Something huge, dark, and braying broke from the trees. Men and horses scattered as a mule burst into the center of the clearing, trailing a ball of fire. Shots exploded wildly. Coals and sparks sprayed in all directions.

Buffalo Horn whirled and dived for his rifle. Tamsin didn't wait to see what he would do. She ran for cover amid a volley of frenzied shots, shouting men, and stampeding horses.

An Indian mustang galloped toward Tamsin, trailing a rope. She seized a handful of mane and tried to pull herself up, but the animal shied sideways and lashed out at her with his teeth.

She caught a glimpse of Buffalo Horn taking aim at her with his rifle, and she dived for the earth. A squealing bay horse leapt over her and careened into the darkness.