Текст книги "Streets Of Laredo"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Gus had scoffed at the notion. He said no white man could live as an Indian could, or travel as fast, or subsist on as little.

Probably Gus had been right about that. And if he hadn't been as able as the best of the Indians when he was young, there was little hope that he could compete with one now. Joey Garza was Mexican, not Indian, but many Mexicans were part Indian, and there was a rumor that the Garza boy had lived with the mountain Apaches for several years. The cold might not affect him; once, it would not have affected Call, either.

With things so uncertain, it wouldn't do to give way to fatigue, or to nap too long by the campfire. He might wake up to discover that his throat had just been cut.

In the morning, the frost was so heavy that Call had to scrape ice off the saddles. The children were so cold they couldn't eat. He decided that he had better tie them to the horse. Though there was a band of red on the eastern horizon, the sun was soon blanketed by heavy clouds, and the cold remained intense.

The wounded horse was stiff–it could barely move, and not rapidly. Fortunately, when they had been riding an hour, Call saw a few plumes of smoke to the northwest, clear in the freezing air. The smoke was coming from the chimneys of Fort Stockton.

A little later, he saw more smoke, on the eastern horizon. This smoke moved westward, and it came from a train. Call couldn't see the train, but he knew the railroad was there, for nothing else would be moving under a plume of smoke.

The wounded horse slowed to a walk, and then to a slower walk. A little before midday, the horse stopped. It could go no farther. By then, the town was no more than five miles away. Call left the horse; perhaps it would walk on in, under its own power, once it had rested for a day. He put the children on his horse, only to have his horse come up lame a mile or two farther on. A needlelike sliver of ice had cut its hoof.

But the town was not far. The little girl had recovered a little, and now and then asked for her mother.

Bobby Fant, his face a horror of frozen cuts, had not spoken all day. Call took his time, walking the lame horse slowly. He didn't want to have to carry the children, or abandon his guns and equipment.

When they were only two miles from the town, they came upon two sheepmen, butchering sheep to sell in Fort Stockton.

"Dern, where'd you folks spring from?" the older sheepman said, when he saw Call leading the lame horse with two children on it.

"From far enough away that we'd appreciate a ride to somewhere these young ones can warm themselves," Call said.

"We'd more than appreciate it," he added.

"We'd pay a good fare if you'd take us in your wagon the rest of the way to town." "Mister, you don't have to pay us nothing–we was about to haul these carcasses in anyway," the younger sheepman said. They were shaggy men, in great buffalo coats, and they had three huge dogs with them. It had been the barking of the dogs that led Call to the wagon. There were no grazing sheep visible, though, just six bloody carcasses piled up in the wagon.

Call chose to walk behind the wagon, leading his lame horse. The young sheepman said there was a rooming house on the main street in town.

"It ain't fancy, but it's got beds," he said. "Who done that to that boy's face?" Bobby Fant's face had gotten worse during the night. It was swollen, and some of the cuts still leaked blood, most of which froze on his cheeks.

"A man named Mox Mox done it," Call said. "I shot him, but I don't think I killed him." "Somebody ought to kill the sonofabitch, then," the older man said. "I've seen rough stuff out here on the baldies, but I've never seen nothing like that–not done to a child." Call carried Bobby Fant into the little frame rooming house. The young sheepman got off the wagon for a minute and carried the girl, who was whimpering for her mother.

A woman stood just inside the door, looking out at them through the pane of glass. Call could just see her; she was blond. The young sheepherder brought the little girl in first. By the time Call eased through the door with Bobby Fant, the woman had already taken the little girl in her arms and was whispering to her.

Call couldn't hear what the woman was whispering. The fact that the blond woman had appeared so suddenly behind the pane of glass startled him a little. The woman looked familiar. He thought for a moment she might be the children's mother, Jasper Fant's wife, though he hadn't even known Jasper Fant had a wife until yesterday, and how the woman could have anticipated them and got to Fort Stockton was a mystery.

When the woman saw Bobby Fant's face, she drew in her breath.

"Mox Mox done that, didn't he, Captain?" she asked, touching the boy's cuts gently with her fingers. "Did you kill him, Captain?" "Well, I hit him," Call said. "I doubt it was mortal, but it might slow him enough that I can catch him." "Bring the boy to my room," the woman said.

"I just got off the train and was about to have a bath.

I've got hot water waiting. I'll put them both in the bathtub. It'll warm them quicker. Then I can wash those cuts." The woman started up the stairs with the little girl.

Call thanked the young sheepman and began to climb the stairs, carrying Bobby Fant. The moment he stepped into the warm rooming house, he had begun to feel tired, so tired that it was a strain even to carry the child up one flight of stairs. He was wondering, in his fatigue, how the woman had known who he was–and how she knew about Mox Mox.

It was not until the blond woman paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at him, the little girl in her arms, that Call realized who she was: she was not the children's mother, she was Pea Eye's wife.

"My Lord, you'll have to excuse me," he said, embarrassed. "I didn't recognize you." Call could not quite remember when he had last seen Lorena; in Nebraska, it seemed to him.

She had been a young woman then. Of course, many years had passed, and she would have to be older. But the fact that she was so much older that he hadn't recognized her, left him feeling at a loss.

"You don't need to be embarrassed," Lorena said. "You kept Mox Mox from burning these children, and you brought them out. That's enough." He carried the boy into her room where, indeed, a bath was steaming.

"Put him on the bed," Lorena said. "Just put him on the bed. I'll take care of these youngsters. You better go get a little rest yourself." "Yes, I'm weary," Call said.

In fact, he felt so weary that he could hardly carry the child across the small room.

"I'm mighty surprised to see you," he added. He felt that he ought to say more, but he didn't know quite what.

"I came looking for my husband," Lorena said. "I was hoping you'd have him with you." "I don't, but I know where he is," Captain Call said. "He ain't far." The woman's face brightened, when he said it.

He went downstairs and got a room key, though later, he was unable to remember getting a key or even going to the room.

When he woke up, fully clothed on a bed, many hours later, it was worry about his horse that caused him to wake. He had forgotten the horse completely, once he entered the rooming house, and had just left it standing in the street. He looked out the window, but could see nothing. It was pitch-dark.

He wondered if anyone had done anything about his horse.

Lorena didn't leave the children all day, except to walk down the street and find a doctor who could treat Bobby's face.

Fortunately, there was no damage to either eye. The boy could see fine, but some of the cuts on his cheeks were so deep that the doctor told her he would probably always bear the scars.

Lorena was not sleeping much, and did not expect to sleep much until she knew that Mox Mox was dead. The sight of Bobby Fant's face was enough to keep her awake. It reminded her too vividly of the little boy who had not been lucky enough to be rescued, the boy Mox Mox had burned in her place. That boy's death cries still echoed in her mind, and she remembered the deep, grinding fear she had felt as she waited for it to happen to her. The fear had been so nearly unbearable that it made the other things the men did to her seem a small business. She had trained herself over the years not to remember that fear. If she dwelt on it, even for an hour, it paralyzed her and made it difficult for her to do her schoolwork, or be a wife, or even do her motherly chores.

When she looked out the door of the rooming house and saw Captain Call coming, she had been shocked at how decrepit he looked.

Pea Eye had mentioned, casually, that the Captain wasn't quite as spry as he had been, but the comment hadn't prepared her for how the man actually looked.

Lorena had not seen Call since the morning, long before, when he had left Clara Allen's house with Gus McCrae's body. The man had not been young when he rode off that morning, but neither had he been the old man who walked stiffly into the rooming house in Fort Stockton. Of course, her daughter Clarie was fifteen years old, and Call's departure from Clara's on his trip back to Texas with Gus's body had occurred two years before she married Pea. She had not seen Captain Call in nearly twenty years.

She should have been prepared for him to be old.

She just hadn't supposed he would look so stiff and worn out. Of course, he had traveled a long distance with two children, in the bitter cold.

He had probably been traveling since the day Pea Eye had refused to go with him. Younger men than Captain Call would have been tired.

The day after he arrived with the children, Call was too tired even to go downstairs. He knocked timidly on Lorena's door and asked if she could request the lady who owned the rooming house to bring him some food. He also asked if Lorena would inquire about his horse. Had it been stabled and fed?

Lorena got him food, and was able to assure him that the local sheriff had taken charge of his mount. The lameness wasn't serious, and the horse would be ready to travel in a few days. Call seemed reassured. He considered it a serious lapse, that he had forgotten to stable his own horse.

"It was so warm, I guess I fainted," he said. "I don't recall going to bed. I don't usually forget to stable my horse." "You saved two children," Lorena pointed out, again. "There's people here who aren't busy that can take care of your horse." "Well, it's my horse," Call said. "I have always looked after my own mounts." "My seven-year-old can unsaddle a horse and feed it as well as you can, Captain," Lorena said. "But my seven-year-old couldn't save two children from Mox Mox." Call took the point–he didn't mention the horse again, for fear of irritating Lorena.

But he didn't forget the lapse, either. It took him a day and a half to feel refreshed enough to walk down to the livery stable and inspect the horse himself. He felt he ought to get moving, for none of the work he had set out to do had been accomplished. Mox Mox wasn't dead, or if he was, no one had found him. And he was no closer to catching Joey Garza than he had been when he left Amarillo. Brookshire would be having fits about the delay, and his boss, Colonel Terry, was probably having worse fits.

On the third day, Jasper Fant arrived with his wife, to take his stolen children home.

To Call's surprise, Jasper had grown bald; he had also grown a belly. His wife was a small woman, of the wiry type. Her name was May.

Both parents gasped when they saw their son's face. The wiry little mother held her children and sobbed.

Jasper turned a violent red.

"Why, the damned killer, why did he do it, Captain?" Jasper asked.

Lorena stood with Call, watching. The little girl clung to her mother's neck so tightly that the woman couldn't speak. Jasper and May had been on a train for two days. They had left as soon as the telegram came, telling them that their children were alive.

A few hours later, the little family got on the train to go home. May tried to thank Call, but broke into such sobs of gratitude that she couldn't get the words out. Jasper grasped his hand and held it until Call was afraid they'd miss their train, although they were standing two steps from it.

"I hope you kill that squint, mister," Bobby Fant said, as his father was helping him onto the train.

"Many thanks, Captain," Jasper said.

"We won't none of us ever forget what you've done. Me and May, we won't forget it. If you're ever down in Comstock I hope you'll stop and make a meal with us." "I will," Call said, glad that the train was leaving. He couldn't get over how bald Jasper was. Earlier, in the trail-driving days, the man had been somewhat vain about his hair.

"They're lucky," Lorena said, as she and the Captain were walking back to the hotel. "When Blue Duck had me, Mox Mox wanted to burn me. Blue Duck wouldn't let him–he wanted me for bait. But Mox Mox caught a boy somewhere, and he burned him in my place." "Why, I never knew that," Call said.

"Gus never told me–I'm surprised he kept it from me." "I didn't tell Gus," Lorena said.

"I didn't tell my husband, either. I told Mr. Goodnight, just before I left to come on this trip. He was the first person to hear about it, and you're the second." "You told Charlie Goodnight?" Call said, amazed. "Did he come around and ask?" "That's right," Lorena said. "He came around and asked. When can we go to my husband?" "He's in Presidio, or he's near there," Call said. "There's no train, and not much of a road. We'll have to go horseback." Call fell silent. He knew that Lorena had every right to go to her husband. Traveling the distance she had traveled already, and riding a train when two notorious train robbers were on the loose and every train liable to being stopped, showed unusual courage. Call was happy to relent and let Lorena take Pea home. The man's heart wasn't in law work anymore, if it was law work they were doing. It was better that he quit lawing for good, and take care of his wife and children, and his farm.

"Captain, I hope you don't doubt that I can ride," Lorena said, seeing the man hesitate. "I rode all the way to Nebraska, with that cow herd you and Gus drove.

And I lived with Clara Allen for three years, on her horse ranch. I can ride and I'll keep up. The cold don't discourage me. I want to go to my husband. If you're going to Presidio, I want to go with you." "Oh, it ain't the riding or the cold," Call said. "I'm told you drive a buggy every day to teach school–Charlie Goodnight told me that. He admires you. Riding to Presidio won't be much colder than driving your buggy to school, in the Panhandle." "What is it, then?" Lorena asked. "I can leave now. I'm packed. What is it?" As she asked the question, the sheriff of Fort Stockton, the fellow who had stabled Call's horse, saw them and practically ran toward them.

"Captain, did you get the news?" he asked.

"Why, no, I guess not," Call said.

"What news?" "Joey Garza killed Judge Roy Bean," the skinny sheriff said. "He gut-shot him and then strung him up to his own chimney.

Hung him. That's the news." "When?" Call asked.

"Maybe a week ago, about," the sheriff said.

"Nobody knows exactly, because nobody was there when it happened." "I was there about then, but I left," Call said. "Pea Eye and Brookshire and Deputy Plunkert were there, too, but they left night after I did." "A sheepherder found him," the sheriff said.

"Came by to get a bottle of whiskey and there the man hung, right by the door of his own saloon." "That boy must have been watching," Call said.

"He must be clever at hiding. I looked, and I didn't see him." "The sheepherders are all scared now," the sheriff said. "They're bringing their sheep closer to the towns." "I don't know what good that will do them," Call said. "They could run their sheep right here in the main street, and he'd still kill them, if he's that good at hiding." "Are you sure my husband left?" Lorena asked. The fear that had been with her for weeks rose up in her throat again.

"Well, he was saddled and ready when I rode off," Call said. "Brookshire was drunk and Deputy Plunkert and Famous Shoes were napping. But I imagine they left–your sheepherder didn't find but one body, did he?" "Nope, just one," the sheriff said. "Just old Bean. He was a tough old rooster, but I guess he's cawed his last caw." "I want to go, Captain," Lorena said.

"I don't want my husband shot, somewhere out in the wastes. There might not even be a sheepherder to find him." "I sent them into Mexico, so they'd be safe," Call explained. "I think the Garza boy came this way. I think he followed me, but I could never catch him at it.

He's a damn clever boy, to ambush Bean like that." "That's the end of Judge Roy Bean, I guess," the sheriff said. He felt slightly at a loss. He was hoping the great Ranger would want to talk it over, or perhaps ask his opinion about the best way to catch Joey Garza. He and his deputy, Jerry Brown, had figured out just how to do it.

But the old Ranger and the blond woman scarcely blinked at his news.

"I'm much obliged to you for looking after my horse," Call said. Then the two of them turned and walked back down the street. To the skinny sheriff, old Call seemed stiff, and far too slow to catch a swift young bandit such as Joey Garza. That was a job, in the sheriff's view, for much younger men, men about the age of himself and his deputy, Jerry Brown.

Call didn't speak as they were walking back to the rooming house. The fear was in Lorena's throat, not merely for Pea Eye's life, but fear that the Captain wasn't going to take her with him.

"Captain, I can ride," Lorena repeated.

"I can ride day and night, if I have to. I did it when we trailed those cattle, and I can do it now." "Ma'am, that was not my objection," Call said. "I'd like you to come." Call meant it, too. Lorena had come a long way, at some risk. She deserved to get to see her husband, and as soon as possible. The bond of a husband and a wife was one he had never had, and didn't understand, but he could tell, both from Lorena's behavior and from Pea Eye's, that it was a strong bond. He had come to admire Lorena, for the quick way she took charge of Jasper's children. She had given them excellent care.

Also, he wouldn't mind the company, in this instance.

Traveling alone had always suited him. It was only this winter that it had come to suit him less.

He was rather sorry that he had left Mr.

Brookshire behind. He had come to like Mr.

Brookshire.

"What is your objection then, if you have one?" Lorena asked.

"I don't know that I can protect you–that's it," Call said. "I let the Garza boy slip right by me and kill Roy Bean. Then, I let Mox Mox get away. That's two poor performances in a row. I just don't know that I can protect you." To his surprise, Lorena took his arm as they walked down the street.

"Did you hear me?" Call asked, fearing that he had not stressed the risk quite enough.

"I heard you, Captain," Lorena said. "I need to go find my husband. He's the one you ought to be protecting. Help me pick out a good horse, and let's go." Lorena's look was determined, and her step determined too. What she said startled Call, but by the time she walked him past the saloon and the hardware store, he had come to see that she was right.

Lorena had been taken by Blue Duck and held two weeks; but she had survived and recovered.

More than that, she had educated herself, and was rearing a family.

But Pea Eye had depended on him and Gus until the time when he came to depend on Lorena herself. Pea was able enough when he was given clear orders, but only when he was given clear orders.

No doubt Lorena was well aware of that characteristic, too. Pea Eye was not accustomed to acting alone. It was doubtful that he could have found his way to Presidio so promptly if he had been without the help of Famous Shoes.

Call picked out a strong mare for Lorena, and bought her an adequate saddle. An hour later, the two of them rode out of Fort Stockton, the strong wind at their backs.

The skinny sheriff and his deputy, Jerry Brown, stood in the empty, windy street, and watched them leave. The skinny sheriff was a little disappointed. The old Ranger had not been friendly at all.

"Now where are they going?" Deputy Brown asked.

"Why, I don't know, Jerry–they're headed south," the sheriff said. "I didn't ask them their route, and they didn't mention much." "We don't get women that pretty in this town, not often," Jerry Brown said. "I ain't seen one that pretty since I come out here, and I been out here six years. I wish she'd stayed a little longer." "Why?" the sheriff asked, surprised that his deputy was being so forward. "You don't even know the woman." "No, but I might have met her in a store or somewhere," Jerry Brown said. "I might have got to say hello to her, at least.

"I'm a bachelor," he added, though the sheriff knew that.

But soon, the Ranger and the pretty woman were swallowed up by the great blue distance to the south, and Deputy Jerry Brown, who was a bachelor, went back into the jail and spent the windy morning playing solitaire.

    Part III Maria's Children

"Don't go off and leave me here, you goddamn Cherokee rascal!" Mox Mox said.

He wanted to kill Jimmy Cumsa and wanted to kill him badly; but he had no weapon and was sorely wounded, to boot. In the scramble to get away from Call, his pistol had fallen out of its holster. He had been flopped over his horse, and somehow, the gun got jerked loose.

Mox Mox bled and bled, and coughed and coughed as they ran. He was shot in the lung, which he knew was bad. Every cough caused a pain like needles sticking in him. Then Jimmy Cumsa rode up beside him and took his rifle. The scabbard had Mox Mox's blood all over it, but Jimmy took the rifle and scabbard anyway. Mox Mox had no pistol and was too weak to stop Jimmy.

Mox Mox rode on, as far as he could. He only had the one horse, but when the herd spooked, Jimmy had managed to keep three horses ahead of him. He had four mounts; he could run a long way.

"Let me switch, Jim–I need a fresher horse," Mox Mox said, as his horse began to tire, but Jimmy Cumsa didn't answer, or offer him a fresh horse, either.

Finally, his mount faltered, trying to climb out of a gully. They had ridden some twenty miles.

The horse stumbled back to the bottom of the gully and stood there, shaking. It was dusk; Mox Mox could barely see Jimmy Cumsa, who was in the process of shifting his saddle to one of the extra horses, the big sorrel that had belonged to Oteros.

Mox Mox slid carefully to the ground. He coughed, and the needles stuck him. He was trying to get matches out of his saddlebags, when Jimmy Cumsa came over and started to help him. Mox Mox took a step or two back, then staggered and sat down.

"Build a fire, Jimmy–it's chill," he said, but again, Jimmy didn't answer, and he wasn't helping, either. He simply transferred Mox Mox's saddlebags with the matches in them and a little food and ammunition to another horse.

"Build a fire," Mox Mox said, again.

"We'll freeze if you don't build a fire." "Nope, no more fires for you, Mox," Jimmy Cumsa said.

"Why not? What's wrong with you?" Mox Mox asked.

"Not near as much as is wrong with you," Jimmy Cumsa said. "I ain't shot in the lung, and I ain't dying. You're both, Mox. Building you a fire would be a waste of matches, and I ain't got the time to waste on a man that's dying anyway." "I ain't dying, I'm just shot," Mox Mox said. "I'll live if I can get warm." "Hellfire will warm you, Mox," Jimmy Cumsa said, mounting Oteros's big horse.

"You'll cook plenty warm down in hell, like all those people that you put the brush on and burned." Mox Mox realized then that Jimmy Cumsa meant it. He was not going to help him. He was going to leave him there to die, with a bleeding lung and no matches, in weather that was bitter.

"I should have killed you long ago, you Cherokee dog," Mox Mox said. "I should have shot you in your goddamn sleep." "You wouldn't have got me, even in my sleep," Jimmy Cumsa said. "I could be sound asleep, or drunk, and still be quicker than you. That's why I'm called Quick Jimmy." "You damn snake, get off and make me a fire," Mox Mox said.

"I ain't the snake," Jimmy Cumsa said.

"You're the one they call The-Snake-You-Do-Not-See. Only old Call seen you. He didn't get much of a shot, but he still killed you." "I ain't dead, I'm just shot, goddamn you!" Mox Mox said, again. "Make me a damn fire or leave me the matches, if you're in such a goddamn hurry. I'll make my own fire." "I am in a hurry," Jimmy said. "I want to be a long way from here when the sun comes up, Mox. That old man might still be coming. He killed seven of the eight of us, unless Black Tooth got away, which I doubt." "He ain't coming, he's got those children," Mox Mox said.

"Well, I don't believe I'll take the chance," Jimmy Cumsa said. "If he does come, he'll find you frozen, or else bled out.

I never thought a man that old could beat you, Mox, but I guess I was wrong." Mox Mox knew that his only chance was to rush Jimmy Cumsa, grab his gun or grab the reins of one of the other horses–grab anything that might help him survive. There must be brush in the gully that he could find and make enough of a fire to keep himself alive, even if he had to crawl.

He staggered up and tried to make a run at the horses. If he could just get one fresh horse, he might make it. But the needles in his lungs were sharper than ever, and he couldn't control his legs. He ran a few steps, but fell before he got near a horse. When he finally did get to a horse, it was the one Jimmy Cumsa had just run for twenty miles. It was as useless as his own.

Mox Mox had a small knife in his belt, the one he used to cut meat. It was his only weapon. He managed to get it out; with luck, he might stick Jimmy and cut him badly enough that he would fall off his mount. But when he lunged with his knife at where he thought the Cherokee was, Jimmy Cumsa wasn't there. He had taken the reins of the extra horses and ridden out of the gully. Mox Mox wanted to slash him to death for his treachery, but there was no one to slash. He could hear the clatter of the horses as Jimmy Cumsa loped away. But in a moment the sound grew faint, and in a few more minutes there was no sound at all, except his own breathing. In the sudden stillness, the sound of his own breathing shocked him.

His breath bubbled, as a cow or a sheep or a buffalo bubbled with its last breath.

Mox Mox felt a bitter rage.

An old man had come out of nowhere and shot him and all his men, except Jimmy Cumsa, and now Jimmy had deserted him, left him to bleed to death or freeze in a gully. How dare the old fool! If he'd only had a moment to turn and fight, he could have rallied the men and caught Woodrow Call and burned him. He could have shot him or stabbed him or quirted him to death.

Old Call had just been lucky to get in such a shot. It was Jimmy Cumsa's fault for messing with the horses when he should have been standing guard. None of the men, in fact, had been alert.

It served them right that they were all dead–all except Jimmy, the one who had ridden off and left him to die.

Mox Mox crawled to where his horse stood, caught the stirrup in his hand, and pulled himself to his feet. His only chance was to mount and make the horse keep going. Maybe there was a house somewhere that he could get to, someplace where there were matches, so he could build a fire. A fire would save him. He had built wonderful fires over the years, fires hot enough to warm him on the coldest nights, hot enough to burn anyone he had on hand to burn. If he could just get to a place where he could make a fire, a wonderful warm fire, the bubbling in his breath might stop and he would get better and live.

He pulled himself up slowly and managed with great difficulty to get himself into the saddle. But when he tried to spur his horse out of the gully, the horse refused to move. He jerked when he was spurred, but only took a step or two, and then stood there quivering again.

Mox Mox wouldn't stand for it; even his horse wouldn't obey him. He still had the small knife in his hand. In his rage, he began to stab the horse as hard as he could. He stabbed him in the neck and slashed at his shoulders. Then he stabbed him in the flank–he would make the animal go where he wanted it to go! He slashed at the horse's flank until the animal finally bolted and tried to flounder up the sides of the gully. But the sides of the gully were too steep.

In the dark the horse lost its footing and fell, rolling over Mox Mox as it slid back to the bottom of the gully. Mox Mox slid after it, and as he did, the horse kicked at him, catching him hard in the leg. When Mox Mox tried to stand, he heard his leg crack. He tried to stand up, but the leg wouldn't support him.

In his bitterness and rage at Call's good luck and his own defeat, Mox Mox hadn't fully felt the cold. But with his leg cracked and his breath bubbling, he could scarcely move.

Soon, the savage wind began to bite. Mox Mox began to think of cutting himself in order to feel the warmth of his own blood. But when he put the knife down for a moment and tried to ease himself into a more comfortable sitting position, the knife slid down the slope, out of his reach. He eased down a little ways himself, but he couldn't find the knife.

The blood seeping out of his chest began to freeze on his shirt. When he put his hand on his side, his blood was cold. He wanted a fire, but there was no fire and no way to make one. The coyotes began to yip in the cold distance. Mox Mox listened. He thought he heard horses coming from far away. He listened as hard as he could. Maybe Quick Jimmy had been teasing him; he was known to be a teaser. Maybe Jimmy would come back and build him a good crackling fire. Even if the horseman was old Call come to get him, the man might at least build him a fire and keep him alive through the night.

Mox Mox listened hard. Once or twice, he thought he heard the horses in the cold distance.