Something stirred in the brush nearby and Howie sat up straight. It moved again, and he searched the foliage without turning his head one way or the other. It was close. Not more than five yards away. He reached for his bow, then turned around slowly—and almost laughed to himself. There it was, green on green and nearly invisible, but plain as day if you knew what to look for. A big bullfrog, fresh from the river and just sitting there, fat as could be, waiting for a fine blue fly.
Hunger came back and set juices moving in his belly. He thought how the frog would keep just fine in the water—and by morning, he’d be far enough downriver for a fire. Bringing up the bow on his far side, he carefully nocked an arrow. There was one thing about frogs—you had to hit ’em square, right in the head, or they’d hop out of sight and die in deep water. Only he was sure his stomach wouldn’t let him do a fool thing like that.
The bow sang. It was an easy shot; the frog twitched once, pinned to soft earth. Howie dropped his bow and sprang up after it. He could already smell the white flesh sizzling over coals. He reached down to jerk the arrow and saw the bright flash from the corner of his eye. Sound followed a quick second later, exploding over the water. Lead whined angrily past his ear and chunked into wood. Howie jumped for cover, felt his foot hit the wet frog, and went sprawling into shallow water. The second shot buzzed overhead. Someone shouted. He looked up and saw the two horsemen churning toward him across the river.
He knew he had to move. Keep low, belly fast out of the water, and disappear into the brush. It started just fine. He was close to the bank with a good stand of willow for cover and knew he could make it. Then the riders started firing blindly from the middle of the river. Bullets ploughed up mud around his fingers and clipped the low branches and cratered the rock wall. Fear gripped him hard—jerked him to his feet and set him running. The shot turned him around, slammed him hard into the river.
Howie rolled and cried out. He couldn’t believe the pain. He stared down at his shoulder, saw blood turn the water pink.
His hand found something hard. A root. He pulled himself toward the bank. Someone yelled nearby and a horse blew water. Howie tried to care, but couldn’t.
It was hard to see anymore. There was something—Big. Dark. Blotting out daylight. It came close to him. Howie smelled whiskey and sweat. He knew what was coming, and closed his eyes against it.
When he woke again it was near dark. He was still in the water but he wasn’t cold anymore. He didn’t feel anything at all now. He was just bone tired clear through. All he wanted to do was sleep for a while. Then he’d get up rested and get on his log and start downriver. On the shore nearby, he could see something dark and terrible squatting in the brush. While he watched, the dark thing lifted a naked man in its big arms, gentle and easy, and took up a silver knife. Then it carefully skinned all the hide off the man’s head.
Howie was sure he was dying then. Most likely, he was dead already.
Chapter Twelve
Once during the night he woke briefly, saw ground swimming by, and figured he was belly down on a horse. Rain swept over him hard. It stung his neck and coursed down his cheeks and made small rivers to his nose and mouth. Choking, he retched miserably down the animal’s flanks.
In the quick flashes of lightning he saw hooves churning up mud. When he turned to see where he was going and who had him, pain knifed him hard and pulled him under again. And in a small moment of relief, he knew that was the best place to be at the time.
There was fire smell.
Wet clothes and leather.
And food. Honest to God
Howie kept his eyes closed. There were men around the fire; he could hear their voices, low and gruff sounding. He’d been awake long enough to feel dull pain and remember the river. Some of it, anyway. There were pieces missing—things that weren’t clear at all.
One thing was certain, though, and that crowded all other thoughts aside. He was still alive. The soldiers had put a bullet in him, but he wasn’t dead. Rightly, they should have finished him off and left him in the river. Instead, they’d patched him up and put him on a horse and hauled him off somewhere alive.
The big foot caught him full in the ribs. He screamed, sucked in air. The boot found him again and he doubled in pain.
The man laughed. “Hey, our little friend here’s waked up, Klu.”
Howie opened his eyes and blinked back tears. The man loomed over him like a broad oak. Black-eyed, thick-chested. Dark hair and tangled beard. Light from the fire made his coarse features swim; the flames licked over rocky walls behind. They were holed up in a cave, then. Probably back on the high ridge somewhere.
“You get rested good, did you?”
Howie didn’t answer. The man grinned and fingered his beard. “You’re right enough, Klu,” he said gently, “the lad’s some pretty!”
Howie glared up at him. The other man came up behind, a smaller copy of the first. He grinned curiously at Howie, then squatted down close.
“What they call you, boy?”
Howie eyed the man dubiously. They knew his name well enough. The whole bunch had been hard on his heels for more than a week. It wasn’t likely they’d forgotten how he left his mark on Jacob.
“Come on, boy. We ain’t going to hurt you any.”
With a bullet in his shoulder and his ribs near caved, he didn’t give much credit to that. If they wanted a new name, though, he’d give them one. “It’s -Burt,” he said.
“Burt what?”
“Just Burt.”
“Burt…” The man tasted the word. “That’s a real nice name.” He turned aside and winked at the man above. The big man gave him back a quick laugh.
“Now then, Burt,” the man smiled, “I’m Klu and that big’un up there’s Jigger. How’s that shoulder of yours coming? Bet it smarts some, don’t it?”
“Some,” Howie told him.
Klu shook his head and frowned. “Bet it does, too. That was a mighty big slug for a little fella like you. Just a teeninsy bit down an’ you wouldn’t be layin’ up in no warm cave with Jigger and me. No, sir. Where you’d be is pushing up river mud like them other
The one called Jigger laughed at that.
Howie studied the man, puzzled.
“Thing is,” Klu went on, “you got to watch them kind of wounds.” He touched Howie’s arm. “They got a way of goin’ bad. You know? Real quick like.”
Without warning his finger stiffened and jabbed hard into Howie’s shoulder. Howie moaned.
Klu showed concern. “That smart any, Burt?”
“Lordy,” Howie gasped, “what’d you do
“Look at that boy’s shoulder. Why, it’s all festered up.” “It is,” said Jigger, squatting down to see. “It rightly is,
Klu. What you figure we ought to do?”
“What we got to do first,” Klu told him, “is git this boy comfortable.” His big fingers worked at Howie’s trousers. “Get him out of these soakin’ wet clothes an’…”
“Hey,
