the prairie. The chill of the night was in his bones. Only with great effort did he pull himself to his feet and stamp some feeling into his legs.
From the direction of the creek he heard a stirring and rustling, the tentative gobbling sounds of wild turkeys about to take flight from their roosting places. With a sudden urgency, Gault dried and inspected his Winchester. Then, moving as quietly as possible, he made his way toward the stream.
The first flight of the great birds was already leaving the bottomland with a frantic beating of wings. Gault went down on one knee and took careful aim. The bark of the rifle sounded excessively loud in Gault's ears—but a handsome young gobbler fell like a rock from an oak branch.
Within a matter of minutes he had the bird spitted and cooking over a small fire. By the time the sun appeared over the green crown of timber, Gault was finishing his breakfast. With a full belly, the new day did not look quite so cold and dismal. The dead men that he had left on the creekbank were distant memories. Even the nightmare—that never-ending nightmare—was less vivid. Now, he thought, if I could only find the buckskin…
But that was asking too much. He made himself accept the fact that he would never see the animal again.
Gault had been walking most of the day when he first caught the smell of woodsmoke on the still air. He followed the scent into the heavy undergrowth near the creek. He was within sight of the still blue water, carefully parting a way through a tangle of wild grapevines, when a voice said, 'Stand right still, Mr. Gault. Or I'll kill you.'
The voice sounded tireder and flatter than he remembered it. Gault took its advice and stood very still, his Winchester held loosely in his right hand.
'Let the rifle go,' Esther Garnett said.
With great reluctance, Gault let the rifle fall into a stand of weeds. It was like parting with an old friend—the one friend that could be counted on when friendship was needed. 'Is the sheriff with you, Miss Garnett?'
'Don't you mind about the sheriff. Move back a piece from the Winchester.' He started to do as he had been ordered, but she spoke again, sharply. 'First, drop your pistol belt.'
Gault still had not seen her. She had come up behind him in the underbrush, very quietly. He unbuckled the cartridge belt and let drop the pistol that he had taken from Harry Wompler. There was a rustle of brush and Esther Garnett hurried in behind him and gathered up the weapons.
'Now you can turn around.'
Gault turned and looked into the muzzle of her cocked .45. 'You're a stubborn man, Gault,' she said wearily. 'Most likely it will get you killed before long.' Her cheeks looked hollow; there were dark half-circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Thornbrush had torn her clothing in several places, and she was far from clean. Still, there was something about her. Gault could understand how men might do unwise and even dangerous things at her bidding. 'Stubborn,' she said again, 'but not loco, I hope. I don't want to have to kill you.' She motioned with the cocked revolver. 'Turn around and start walkin'. I'll tell you when you can stop.'
Gault moved slowly toward the bank of the creek. After a few minutes she said, 'Here,' and handed him a saddle canteen that she picked up along the way. 'Take this and fill it.'
Gault climbed gingerly down the clay bank and pushed the canteen into the still water. She said, 'I don't guess you've got any whiskey with you.'
Gault looked up, surprised. 'No.'
'Or medicine? Any kind of medicine?'
He shook his head.
'Have you got any tobacco?'
Gault capped the canteen and slung it over his shoulder. When he reached the top of the bank he handed her his tobacco and papers. She took them quickly and stepped back, never letting the muzzle of the .45 stray from the center of his chest. 'They're plain papers,' he said dryly. 'Not wheatstraw, like the cigarettes we saw back on your sleepin' porch. But maybe they'll do.'
She looked blank for a moment. Then, with a sudden coldness in her voice, 'Yes sir, I wouldn't be surprised if that stubbornness don't get you killed.'
At Esther Garnett's direction, they made their way upstream for several minutes. Gault did not speak. There were questions in his mind—bitter and burning questions—but he did not voice them.
They passed the Garnett mule and two horses staked in the bottom. The smell of woodsmoke was getting stronger. Suddenly they came upon a clearing where there was a crumbling shack of poles and rawhide. And the ruins of a field that might, at one time, have been planted in squash or corn. The field was now grown up in weeds, and the shack was falling down. The Indian who had started this primitive farm had abandoned it long ago. But the shack was not unoccupied; a faint loop of hardwood smoke rose up from the clay chimney.
'Go on in the shack,' Esther Garnett said, 'and I'll think on what I ought to do with you.'
He ducked through the sagging doorway, blinking in the sudden darkness. The only light came from the small fire in the corner fireplace. There was no furniture in the room, but Gault made out two loglike objects on the floor. At first he thought they were rolled beds, one large and one small. Then the small roll cried.
Esther Garnett snapped angrily, 'You be quiet, boy! I don't aim to tell you again!'
Gault stared from Esther to the small roll, and back to Esther again. 'Who is that boy?'
'The army doc's kid,' she said impatiently. 'Grady Olsen fetched him here this mornin'. He said it was the only way to get the doc here.' She waved the revolver at Gault. 'Move over to the corner—there by the door. Set down and stay put—unless you're uncommonly anxious to get yourself shot.'
Reluctantly, Gault did as she ordered. None of what she had told him about the boy made any sense. Gault settled himself in the corner of the shack. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The young boy—he could be no more than six or seven—stared at him in panic. He lay helpless on the floor, to one side of the fireplace, bound hand and foot.
Esther caught Gault's look of disbelief and snapped, 'He tried to run off. I couldn't have that.'
'Why did Olsen bring him here in the first place?'
She glared at him but didn't bother to answer. Her mood changed suddenly, from irritation to gentleness, as she knelt beside the larger figure. 'You all right, Wolf? I had to go after water, and it took some longer'n I figgered on.'
Gault froze.
'You warm enough?' she asked gently. 'I can build up the fire, if you ain't.'
The man murmured something that Gault didn't catch. In the dancing firelight he could see the gaunt, bone- colored face and hot eyes. Was it the face of Wolf Garnett? It was a wasted face, burning with fever. Had he at last come to the end of his nightmare?
Gault heard himself speaking in a voice he hardly recognized. 'Who was it they buried as Wolf Garnett, back in the New Boston graveyard?'
Esther glared at him and again refused to answer. When Gault started to get to his feet, she grabbed up the revolver and hissed, 'If you want me to kill you!'
Gault hung for a moment, as if suspended on wires. Then, very slowly, he eased himself back into the corner. 'It
She ignored him. He—and the young boy, as well—might never have existed, for all they meant to her. Anxiety mingled with tenderness as she spoke quietly to the figure on the floor. 'It won't be long now, Wolf. Grady's comin' with the doc. He'll fix you up fine. You wait and see. Look,' she exclaimed, 'what I brought you! Cigarette makin's. You want me to make one for you now?'
The man with the bone-colored face moved his head and sighed.
With loving care, Esther Garnett shook tobacco into a paper, rolled it awkwardly and licked it into shape. She lit it from an ember in the fireplace, and put it between the man's lips.
'Wolf Garnett?' Gault asked in a constricted voice.
Esther turned on him in a cold fury. 'Of course, he's Wolf Garnett! My brother never lived thirty years just to get hisself buried in a New Boston graveyard!'
