unsaddle and unbit and let the horse graze in the scant grass of the hills. His own comfort and well-being seemed not to concern him, but with the horse he was attentive and gentle.
They had come a long way together, the man and the animal; they had as far yet to travel, and the time was short. The man knew his own weariness by the ache of his bones, by the cotton in his mouth and by the sourness of his stomach. He could scratch at the crust of filth which covered him as a second skin and feel the crawling of ticks from the brush and lice from the desert.
He did not wash, for water was rare in the hills and must be saved for the animal. The saddle sores on the animal's back must be attended to, lice must be brushed from flanks and chest and legs, and hoofs must be cared for and kept clean.
The man had no time for himself. He must move always to the north and the horse must carry him. With mounting impatience, he paced the rocky ground while the animal grazed, he grabbed snatches of sleep at odd moments, and he kept his Colt's and Winchester clean. Soon he would be off again.
WIRT SEWELL AWOKE TO heavy, monotonous pounding. He lay in groggy drowsiness, listening. Beulah stirred restlessly beside him.
“It's the door,” Beulah said peevishly. “Wirt, what time is it?”
“I don't know. Too dark to see my watch.”
“Well, get up and light the lamp, and see who's pounding on our door this time of night.”
Wirt climbed out of bed. “All right!” he said thickly, and the monotonous pounding continued while he fumbled for a match and got the lamp wick burning evenly. In his long cotton nightshirt he made his way stiffly into the parlor and opened the door.
He didn't recognize the face at first. It was stiff and ugly with a filth-matted beard, the thin lips cracked and gray with dust. But the eyes were the same.
“Wirt,” Beulah called from the bedroom, “who it is?” Wirt's dread was like a nightmare come to life. He felt himself shrink inside until his heart was a small, cold knot. In the back of his mind he could still hear Elec Blasingame saying:
“You look surprised, Wirt,” Nathan said coldly, pushing his way into the room.
Clutching the lighted lamp in both hands, Wirt began backing away, his eyes wide.
“Wirt!” Beulah called impatiently. “Tell me who it is!” Nathan hooked the front door with a spur and slammed it. Without raising his voice he said, “It's your brother-in-law, Beulah—the one you saw kill Jed Harper.”
To Wirt, the voice was as cold and deadly as the .45 on Nathan's thigh. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat and were cracked and warped when they finally came out. “Nate, for God's sake, what are you going to do!”
“Why, nothing, Wirt. Not just yet, anyway.” Now Wirt realized that Nathan's voice was flat and emotionless, and that all the hate was in his eyes. Although he had made no show of violence, Wirt knew that violence was in the room, ready to explode.
When Beulah appeared in the doorway, clutching a white wrapper that covered her frail body from her chin to the floor, Nathan merely inclined his head in a hint of a nod. “Hello, Beulah. How have you been sleeping these past five years?”
Beulah Sewell's face was whiter than the wrapper. The old aggressive thrust of her small chin was missing now, and her eyes were strangely vacant.
Nathan laughed suddenly, harshly. “I guess you haven't been sleeping so well, at that. I never would have thought you'd be bothered by your conscience, Beulah.”
He came deeper into the room and dropped slowly into a parlor chair. He sighed softly, stretching his long legs in front of him. Wirt felt that he could almost see eddies of fatigue swirling around Nathan's lean, tough figure, like heat eddies rising over a desert. Until now Beulah had not made a sound, but now she moved slowly into the room, her eyes as blank as a sleepwalker's.
“Why did you come back?” she asked softly.
“Didn't you think I would?” His voice was toneless.
Wirt shot his wife a quick glance of warning, but she didn't see it. Nathan sat like a dead man, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Only his eyes were alive as he stared at Beulah.
“I came back to see my boy,” he said at last.
“Haven't you done enough to him?” Beulah asked flatly, ignoring her husband's look of panic. “Aren't you satisfied?”
Hard lines of anger appeared for the first time at the corners of Nathan's mouth. “Haven't I done enough to him! How about you, Beulah? What have you done to him?” With an unexpected burst of energy, he shoved himself out of the chair. “Haven't I done enough to him!” he demanded again, angrily.
As suddenly as the outburst was born, it died. He dropped back to the chair and said wearily, “Heat some wash water for me, Beulah. And I could do with some coffee, too, and some grub.”
Beulah acted as though she hadn't heard. Her husband said quickly, “Do as he says, Beulah!”
Reluctantly, she turned for the kitchen.
After a moment Nathan turned to Wirt. “Where's the boy?”
“He's still here, Nate. Here in Plainsville.”
“I know that; where's he staying?”
“In a room over Frank Ludlow's store, I think.”
