The sun sank behind the jagged western limestone cliffs in a blaze of fierce amber and purple. It cast long, violet shadows across the Saltglass quarry terrace. The scorching heat that had pinned the camp down throughout the afternoon broke quickly, replaced by the crisp, dry mountain breeze that poured down from the northern ridges.
Around the central heavy cart circle, the aroma of camp supper filled the air. Dried salt beef simmering with split yellow peas in heavy cast-iron kettles, very thirsty cornmeal cakes browning on iron griddles over red embers, and the pungent, comforting smell of cedar roots smoldering in the cook-fires. For the first time in four days, the tense, guarded gloom that had hung over the stranded caravan seemed to lift. The wagon drivers spoke in normal tones, their laughter echoing off the limestone cliffs as they gathered around the cook-wagons with tin mess tins.
Kezra Venn walked toward wagon one, the heavy leather canteen strap slung across her shoulder. In her right hand, she carried three silver coins. Country half-silver coins she had drawn from her travel pouch to pay for the six gallons of water she, Yseld. Paxa had used while retrieving Harn from the collapsed drift. In a badlands freight convoy, water was not hospitality. It was capital, weighed by the pint and recorded in the caravan master’s billing register with commercial rigor.
