Back to this!
“All right,” she told the snake. “Tell Joe they’ve got six guards, three carts, twelve slaves. No sign of riders. I’m scared about that.” She fought back the urge to explain more; the snake would be able to give Desert Joe numbers and nouns, but nothing harder to think of. Even the ‘scared’ thing was because snakes didn’t understand the emotion ‘worried,’ or ‘apprehensive.’ She wasn’t really fearful, but… there should have been riders, dammit. Tabetha didn’t like it when things or people weren’t where they were supposed to be. The last few years hadn’t made her a trustful sort.
At least it was overcast, so she could use the spyglass a bit more freely without fretting over a flash from the lenses. The wagons were what her distant ancestors called ‘Voortrekkers,’ with a high bed and a wire mesh replacing the canvas covers. Tabetha called them ‘damned slaver wagons,’ and right now she was trying to get past that. You needed cool blood for an ambush, on either side.
Dallin crawled up alongside her, careful and quiet. “How many in each wagon?” he asked her, trying to peer himself. “You said twelve, but those sons of bi… so-and-sos love packing ‘em in tight. Four a wagon seems almost nice of ‘em.”
“Six,” Tabetha murmured. “They don’t got anybody in the third wagon. Six men a wagon ain’t too crowded for those bastards either, though. You liking this?”
“Not even a little. Where’s their riders? Without them to screen, we can get right on top of ‘em before they even know we’re here.” Dallin squinted at the carts until Tabetha gave up, and just handed him the spyglass. “They ain’t dumb, though,” he muttered like looking. “They know they’re out with their… rears in the breeze.”