And there was affection as well, the affection between human and animal; she wanted to know that Sam was
alive or dead, not half-broken and crushed and suffering.
She reined m Tildie, about a quarter-mile closer to the damtiow. On tire red clay embankment beneath her she could see a shape, stained with mud, moving in the tree line.
'Sam!' Sarah wasn't ready to risk the embankment with Tiidie. She dismounted, securing Tildie's reins to a sapling Georgia pine, then started down the muddy embankment toward the trees by the shore. She could see the form clearly now—an animal.
She broke through the tree line, stopping. 'Sam!'
The horse, its white hide covered in a wash of red— blood?—started toward her. Closer now, she could see it was only mud. She held out her hands.
The animal, frightened and weary, came toward her, nuzzling against her outstretched hands.
'Sam!' She hugged the animal to her, the wetness of her own clothing seeming to wash away some of the red clay mud on the animal's neck. She checked the saddle, that it was secure, then swung up, catching up the rein almost as an afterthought. Her feet dangled below the stirrups which had been set to Michael's leg length.
'Gotta get you out of here, Sam,' she cooed, stroking his once-black mane and his red-smeared white neck. 'Gotta get out of here.' She nudged the animal forward with her knees. . . .
It had taken time to find a way up the embankment, one that the exhausted animal under her could navigate; then she had gone back for Tildie. Sarah had switched to Tildie's back and led Sam, his cinch loosened and some of the mud covering him already flaking away.
By the time she returned to the children, Annie was
shivering uncontrollably and Michael was gone. Her heart seemed to stop, but then Michael reappeared, more wood for the fire cradled in his arms.
She suddenly noticed he had no jacket—he had given it to Annie.
She warmed Annie with her own body until the shivering subsided to where the little girl could control it. She talked, not to Annie or Michael, not really to herself, but just to think. 'I lost my rifle. The horses are exhausted. Those maniacs, the one with the human-teeth necklace and the others, are probably still out there.'
She heard something which at once frightened her and comforted her. It would be Brigands; but the sound was lhat of a truck engine. . . .
She left Michael with Annie and the horses, a half mile away, and hid herself, shivering in her wet clothes, in a bracken of pines not far from the water's edge. There was one truck, a pickup, and in the back of it, she noticed cans of extra fuel. With extra gasoline, she could run the truck's heater. It was a Ford, and she had driven Ford pickups often. She could drive this one.
There were ten Brigands in sight, and if two rode the pickup truck it matched with the number of motorcycles—eight bikes in all. Holding her husband's . automatic in her right fist she wiped the palm of her hand against the thigh of her wet jeans. She did not know whether gunpowder was destroyed by water; would the gun shoot at aff, would it blow up on her?
There wasonfy one way to find out.
She started down from the trees, edging closer toward the shore. The Brigands huddled by a fireside away from the vehicles, their weapons on the ground beside them or leaning beside tree trunks. She recognized some of the
guns as Colt-type rifles, perhaps AR-s like the gun she had lost in the lake.
All would be lost if the key had been removed from the truck. She knew cars and trucks could be started without keys, but she didn't know how.
Her track shoes squishing, the bandanna wet over her hair, her body shivering under the woolen coat, she edged toward the front of the truck.
She ducked, hiding by the grill, listening as one of the Brigands rasped, 'I gotta take a leak—be back in a second.'
She heard gravel crunching—louder, coming toward her.
She pressed her body against the front of the truck; the engine was still warm and she could feel its heat. The gravel crunching and the sound of the Brigand's feet against the dirt were coming closer, becoming louder.
The ., cocked with the safety off, was in her right hand. She held her breath.
The man passed her, walking off into the trees from which she had come.
She let out a long sigh, then upped the safety on her pistol and peered around behind the rear of the truck, toward the other Brigands.
They still huddled around the fire—nine of them. She pushed herself up to her full height and came around toward the driver's side. The button on the door was up. Before touching the door, she looked inside. 'Thank you, God,' she murmured. The keys were in the ignition.
She shifted the pistol to her left hand, then with her right hand tried the door handle. It opened easily, the door creaking slightly on its hinges. She waited. None of the Brigands turned around.
She started up into the truck, then heard, 'Hey—
hey, bitch!'
She glanced behind her, toward the front of the truck. It was the man who'd passed her, gone into the trees to urinate. In that instant, she cursed men for being able to do it so fast.
