Free The Shaman's Secret by Natasha Narayan Page B

missing hairbrush had stirred up in me. Not the snake, which had moved infinitesimally up my arm. I couldn’t bother Rachel with all this though. Her dread would only make me feel even worse. Luckily Aunt Hilda bellowed from below that the stagecoach was waiting, so with a hurried exclamation I picked up my bags and went outside for my shoes.
    But they were gone. Rachel’s pair was there, outside our door. But my own sturdy brown brogues had vanished. At that moment Rachel came out of the room, and when she saw my face she looked terrified.
    I rushed downstairs.
    â€œHas anyone seen my shoes?” I asked Aunt Hilda, who was carrying her bag out of the door.
    â€œThey are outside your room.”
    â€œNo, they’re not. They’ve disappeared.”
    She sighed impatiently. “I’ll show you.”
    Rachel and I trooped up the stairs after her and there, lying outside our door, just where I had left them, were my shoes. My dusty brown shoes.
    Either they had vanished and then returned. Or both Rachel and I were going mad.

Chapter Ten
    Our passage through California to Arizona should have been wonderful. Giant sequoia trees, vertical cliffs, canyons and cascading waterfalls gradually gave way to parched deserts dotted with cacti. But we were too frightened, pushed ourselves too hard, to take pleasure in the landscape. Always we seemed to go on the hardest route, down trails rutted by the men and women who had come before us, those hardy pioneers. We kept away, though, from the main stagecoach stations. Cyril Baker had been badly scared by the reported sighting of his brother. When he heard the story of the ghostly shoes, he became as jumpy as a startled deer.
    I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was living on his nerves, hardly eating. His white skin had taken on a bluish tinge and he was so thin a breeze could blow him over. I wondered if I looked as awful as he did. Our affliction had made a strange sort of friendship between us. After a day or two of our journey, Cyril had managed to boot Waldo off the shotgun position next to the driver. Now he rodewith my aunt. He said he wanted to be on the lookout. I knew he was armed, like the driver and Waldo. We were bristling with pistols, which should have made us feel safer. It didn’t. The more guns there are around, the less secure you feel.
    The journey became harder every day. As we left California’s almond-scented climes, we saw fewer people. The occasional wary Indian, face painted with ochre. A couple of squaws, their babies tied in a bundle to their backs. Now and then a lonely rancher or wild-eyed cowboy. Sand blew in our faces, putting a burning screen before our eyes, making us gasp for air. Our throats rasped as we poured sips of warm water down them. But we had to be careful. Mr. Baker had brought plenty of supplies—the explanation for the boxes on top of the stagecoach—but as we came down off the Panamint Mountains and into Death Valley water was more precious than gold.
    This valley is the hottest place in America, with a sun that scorched our horses as they labored, panting, to pull our coach. Our cowboy hats protected us from the worst of it, but the sun still bored fiery spikes into our heads. The pioneers who had traveled out here in search of riches in the gold rush had named this area Death Valley. Like us they were in a frantic hurry. I hoped we would be luckier than they were and would not lose members of our expedition to sunstroke and dehydration.
    Waldo sat next to me on the ride through the valley, pressing into me and shading me from the sun coming in through the window. We were both sweating, damp with exhaustion. He paid no attention to me. Still, he seemed a little less hostile. Before we entered the desert, he had seemed to take pains to sit as far away from me as possible.
    When all the others were dozing I took my opportunity to say a few words to him.
    â€œWaldo,” I whispered,