Текст книги "A Hidden Place"

Автор книги: Robert Charles Wilson

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Nancy and Anna had brought him to this, he thought. Broke, hungry, cold… and without the simple willpower necessary to hop a freight and put some miles in back of him. He knew what was happening in the town, he had not needed Nancy to tell him that; he had been down The Spur twice, spending the last of his pocket money on food, and on both occasions he had been paced out by the police. The jungle was overdue for a rousting—possibly, given the mood in Haute Montagne, a violent one. He should leave. There was nothing for him here.

But he gazed at the shack where Nancy was. Nancy and the Anna-thing.

Suppose, he thought, we do help her (posing the question aloud, though there was no one to hear him here in the tall grass)—suppose we do help her, well, what then? Where does that leave us?

Alone, he thought bitterly, broke, nowhere to go. No better off. Haute Montagne would never welcome back Travis or Nancy. Too many rules had been broken, too many borders transgressed. He shivered in his inadequate clothing and wondered if Nancy knew the kind of future she had devised for herself.

Maybe that was what was keeping him here, this remnant of what he had felt for her, this fear… but was it strong enough to draw him back inside that shack?

He thought of Anna: her moth-wing skin. Her eyes coldly blue in the darkness. His love. His fear.

He might have turned away then, might have been driven back by the terrible intensity of the vision, when he saw, far off, a figure advancing from the stand of elder trees down by the switching yards. The gait was familiar but the memory eluded him: Who could be coming here? Then the name fell into place—Greg Morrow—and with the name a tremor of fear.

Travis emitted a sort of moan and stood up, running forward without thinking about it. He intercepted Greg halfway to the switchman’s shack.

Greg looked at him warily but with an obvious contempt. Confronting him, Travis felt suddenly helpless, foolish: what could he say? “You don’t have any business here,” he managed.

It was inadequate, but Greg Morrow must not be allowed near the switchman’s shack. Obviously he had suspicions: that was bad enough; but if he knew the truth—

But Greg was smiling. “That where she is?” – nodding toward the shack. “That whore Anna Blaise? Nancy, too, maybe?” The smile became a smirk. “You fuckin’ ’em both, farmboy, is that it? You know, you smell like shit. You look like shit, you smell like shit. But, hey, maybe they like that, huh? I bet it drives ’em nuts—that stink—”

Travis balled his fists. But before he could move Greg had put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife. It was a stupid knife, Travis thought, wood-handled, with a long serrated blade; it looked like a cheap steak knife. But he guessed it could cut. Greg waved it gleefully at him, and Travis felt a wave of fear wash over him. Fear and—something else.

“Not this time,” Greg said calmly. “I won’t be screwed over this time. Stand still! I’m just gonna go over and knock on the door. No problem. Just want to see who’s home.”

He stepped forward, and Travis—hardly aware of himself—stepped in front of him. Greg stood still. The knife was motionless in his hand. Travis looked at the knife and then at Greg. Greg’s eyes twinkled, there was a hint of glee there, and his smile was the rictus of a man strapped into a roller coaster, coming to the top of the first big hump and enjoying it somehow, somehow thriving on it. Travis realized then that Greg would use the knife, would use it gladly; that if Travis were hurt, if he died, it wouldn’t matter,– Travis was a hobo now; found dead, he would be quietly buried.

“Do it,” he said aloud, and a part of him wondered where the words came from. His voice was guttural, very nearly a growl. “Do it, Greg. I’ll take the knife away from you. I vow I will. And I’ll cut your balls off with it.”

Travis waited. The knife was only inches from his belly. But he looked at Greg and saw that some of the giddy hysteria had faded from his eyes. The knife wavered; an uncertainty had crept into the equation.

Then, swiftly, Greg smiled again.

He let the knife drop. “Well, I guess I know what’s in there already. I guess you just told me.” He took a step backward. “Have fun while you can, farmboy.”

Travis watched him walk almost lazily back toward the trees, listened for the sound of the car cranking up. His own heart was beating wildly; he felt dizzy.

He thought of Nancy in the shack, of what she had so narrowly avoided. Of what she could not much longer avoid, now that Greg Morrow had come back here. Christ God, he thought, shivering, she’s consorting with demons—they’ll crucify her—

He turned back and there was the sound of her scream.

He pulled her away from Anna, and instantly Nancy stopped trembling. She looked up at Travis with a mute, enormous gratitude. “You came. …”

“Nance, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The gun, she thought. The fear, the agony… She touched her ribs, her belly, wanting the reassurance that those wounds she had felt were not really her wounds. “I can’t explain,” she said faintly. “I don’t understand it myself—”

But Anna had stopped shaking, and she sat up now, hollow-eyed, luminous with faint blue fire. Nancy felt Travis recoil; but she gripped his hand and held it tightly, needing him.

Anna blinked. Her grief had filled the room,– it was palpable, physically present, a smell like roses … a cloud … an electricity in the skin…

She looked at Nancy. “You felt it?”

“Yes! God, yes!” She pressed against Travis. “That was him, wasn’t it? That was Bone. He’s close—”

Anna said faintly, “They’re killing him.”

Interlude: Bone Loses Faith

In a little railtown called Buckton their luck went bad.

The wad of money in the right-hand pocket of Bone’s navy pea coat had grown much larger. Twice in the course of this hot summer, in towns whose names they did not know, they had committed successful robberies. “Nothing big,” Deacon said. “Nothing ambitious. Just a little money out of the till. Just a kind of income tax. A little Relief Program for Archie and Deacon and Bone.” They would locate a gas station or a general store not too far from the railway or too close to town, would approach it at dusk; Deacon, brandishing a handgun he had taken from the Darcy farmhouse, would empty the till. The proprietor or the store clerk might weep, might curse, might silently watch; but it was never Deacon or Archie he looked at, it was Bone; Bone huge and blankly pale, his pallid wrists projecting from the cuffs of his pea coat, his eyes, white and unblinking in their cavernous orbits.

This should have been the same. They had hiked away from a hobo jungle to this place, a whitewashed building with a torn screen door and the word Sundries written above it. They stood outside in the gathering dusk, calculating the isolation of the place, the chance that somebody might come by. “It’s wide open here,” Archie said nervously. “Anybody could see us.” But Deacon only favored him with a contemptuous sneer. “Cowardly talk,” he said, and reached under his coat for the big handgun. “For Christ’s sake,” Archie began—but Deacon had already pushed through the rust-hinged door. Bone hurried after.

The room inside was narrow, plank-floored, tidy. Sacks of flour squatted on pineboard shelves. Bone was engulfed in the heady smell of wood polish and grain, in the merciless yellow light of an overhead bulb. The proprietor was a barrel-shaped man who had not yet noticed Deacon’s gun, his eyes were fixed on Bone. Bone sensed the man’s distrust, not yet coalesced into fear. The proprietor said, frog-throated, “Can I help you gents?”—then paled as Deacon stepped forward, grinning.

Archie watched the door. That was his job, and he performed it flawlessly. Bone stood beside Deacon at the counter, claustrophobic in this enclosed place; Deacon held the pistol. “All we want is what’s in the till,” Deacon said coolly. “Hand it over slow.”

“Car coming,” Archie said from the door.

Deacon did not turn. “Let me know if it stops.” He was relaxed, methodical. Deacon was not afraid of the man behind the counter, not afraid of jail or of committing violence. He had changed, Bone thought, since the Darcy house. Maybe he didn’t want to kill the storekeeper, but he would not hesitate to do so should the occasion arise; some part of him might even welcome the violence, the brief wild pleasure of pulling the trigger and proclaiming his potency. Bone perceived all this without words. The immanence of death boiled around Deacon like a thundercloud. He stank of it.

The storekeeper had frozen. He stared at Deacon, at Bone, at Deacon again. Beads of sweat started out on his broad forehead.

“The till,” Deacon said. “Empty the goddamn till!”

“Car gone by,” Archie said.

Bone watched the storekeeper’s fat hands delve into the cash drawer. He wadded the cash as he tugged it out, pushed the soiled green bills across the counter. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice cracking, “but it’s all—see—look—”

“All right, all right.” Deacon used his pistol to sweep the cash toward Bone. Bone took it without counting it and stuffed it into the pea coat.

“Archie?”

“All clear… no, wait, Christ, there’s another car!”

Deacon held the pistol steady. On the wall, a Pepsi-Cola clock ticked out seconds. The breathing of the storekeeper was stertorous and aggrieved.

“Gone by?” Deacon asked tightly.

“It’s—” Archie’s voice lost a beat. “Deacon, it’s slowing down.”

“Be damned,” Deacon said. He turned fractionally.

Bone watched as the storekeeper dived behind the counter. When he came up an instant later he had a shotgun in his hands. Deacon turned back but his comprehension lagged. Bone felt the seismic shift—Deacon’s confusion and fear, the storekeeper’s blossoming triumph.

The shotgun was inches from Deacon’s chest. The storekeeper tightened his finger on the thick steel trigger.

Bone reached out and took the gun in one huge hand. He jerked the barrel upward. The storekeeper’s finger closed convulsively and both barrels discharged into the ceiling.

“Oh my Lord, “the storekeeper said. Bone snatched the weapon away from him and threw it into a corner with the stitched cotton sacks of animal feed. “Oh, my sweet Lord.” And Deacon thrust forward his pistol.

“Deacon,” Bone said gently. “Deacon, don’t.” But it was too late. Feverish with hatred, Deacon fired.

The storekeeper lurched back gap-chested and bloody into a wall of patent medicines. Brown bottles of iron tonic fell about him like hail.

He was dead. It was that simple.

Death again, Bone thought sadly.

“Fucker tried to kill me,” Deacon said, trembling. “You saw him! Can’t deny it! Tried to kill me!”

And Bone looked at Deacon, a small man now, frightened in the aftermath of his own violence, and thought: I don’t owe him anything.

It was a new idea, startling and absolute.

Deacon was alive now because of Bone. Bone had discharged his debt.

White smoke coiled from the barrel of Deacon’s pistol.

“Tried to kill me! You saw him!” “Car gone by,” Archie said weakly.

They rode mostly empty boxcars. If they entered a crowded one, it would be empty at the next whistlestop. Bone’s reputation had grown among the hoboes.

“Fuck ’em all,” Deacon said cheerfully. They sat in a boxcar—empty—with the prairie night rushing past outside. It was no longer summer. The wind was cutting and Bone clutched his jacket around him. The Calling was elusive tonight.

Deacon had acquired a bottle of muscatel. He drank unstintingly and offered none to Archie. After a time, pacified, he talked in fragments about his life in Chicago, about the Great War, about the child he had abandoned. Then, with a violent finality, he passed out.

Bone and Archie sat in the rattling darkness, very nearly invisible. The door was open a crack and Bone watched the landscape pour by. A harvest moon hung on the horizon.

“He’ll do it again,” Archie said.

Talking to himself, maybe, Bone thought.

“I should walk away,” Archie said. “Walk away and be shut of the whole thing. I should. …”

Bone gazed at him inquisitively.

“Ah, no,” Archie said, taking up the remainder of Deacon’s muscatel. “No. I guess I’ve been with him too long. Maybe you don’t understand that. It’s not queer. Don’t get that idea. It’s just that I owe him some things.”

Bone nodded.

“I was never good on my own. Too damn dumb. Deacon’s a thinker. Smart. Smart as a whip! But that’s where he gets into trouble. Figuring angles all the time can make a person crazy. I’m not trying to stir up trouble, but listen, Bone, listen to me: to Deacon you’re just one more angle… you know what I mean?”

There was no fear about Archie now, only a sadness, a melancholy, like the scent of the rain in the air. Bone said, “I know.”

“It’s been sweet for him so far. Christ, he could do anything! He was right. He was right. It’s not Deacon they see, it’s Bone, the geek—you. Deacon’s sitting pretty.” The chill air made him shiver, and Archie took up the bottle and swallowed convulsively. “You, though, Bone, you’re out in the cold, you know that? Out in the snow and ice. When they hang somebody, it won’t be Deacon. And pretty soon Deacon’s gonna want to lose you. Oh, yes. They know you now. Hoboes know you, cops know you. Everybody. You’re getting to be a liability Bad to be with. You’re not much good to him anymore.”

It was true enough, Bone thought. But he guessed it didn’t really matter any longer. He had paid out his debt to Deacon. It worked both ways: Deacon was bad for Bone to be with, as well.

But he worried about being alone, about being recognized… especially now that he was so close.

The Calling was faint but very near. In recent days his mind had seemed to race,– he was filled with a new lucidity. He understood so much.

“I’ll stick with him,” Archie was saying. “I don’t care what he did. I know he killed those people. By God, didn’t we bury them? But he needs me.” Archie looked at Bone pleadingly. “He needs me… doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?”

“I guess he does,” Bone said.

They spent the next night outside a freightyard, camped by themselves, huddled over a weak fire while the wind came sluicing over the prairie. “Give me the money,” Deacon said, drunk again.

Bone, shivering, pulled the wad of bills out of his pocket.

Deacon counted it twice. It came to almost three hundred dollars.

Deacon gripped the fluttering bills tightly, as if the wind might carry them off. “We could go a long way on this,” he said. “A long way. Some warm place. Florida, maybe. What say, Archie? We spend the winter in Florida. Live like goddamn kings. Buy a piece of property maybe.”

“There’s no Florida property for three hundred bucks,” Archie said morosely.

“Then we’ll get more,” Deacon said.

Archie looked at Bone and then back at Deacon. “If you mean—hey, Deacon, I don’t think we should—”

“One more time,” Deacon said. “Maybe someplace a little ritzier. Someplace they keep more cash in the till. Someplace—”

“No!” Astonishingly, Archie had risen to his feet. “Deacon, it’s crazy! They’ll spot him a mile away! We’ll all be killed, all of us!”

Deacon didn’t answer, only sat back against his rucksack and gazed at Archie. In a moment Archie’s rage had faded; he looked foolish, outlined against the stars with the night wind picking at his tattered coat, and he sat back down again.

“Just one more,” Deacon said. His voice was placid, calming. “I know we can’t carry on with it. All I want is a little extra. You understand. A little something to keep us warm. Something to keep the cold away. You understand, Archie.”

But Archie was shivering, Archie was hugging himself, and it looked to Bone as if Archie might not be warm ever again.

He woke up that night after the fire had gone out.

The embers were cold, the ground beneath him was cold. Bone sat up and hugged his pea coat around himself.

Amber light from the freightyard washed out over the prairie. Behind a chain link fence, an acetylene torch dropped showers of sparks. The night air was full of metallic smells and the stars above him were icy and strange.

The Calling sang to him.

Here I am, find me.

Now before the time passes.

Bone, find me, here, now.

He could not mistake the urgency of it. He sensed that some irreversible process had been set in motion, that he needed to play out his part. His body felt huge and strange about him. In this last week the sickness had come back, the convulsions that bowed him heel-to-crown as if he were about to erupt from this clumsy cocoon and burst forth transfigured. It was time to move on. So close now. He did not need words to know it.

He moved away from the cold campfire, from the prone bodies of Archie and Deacon, into the darkness. In the shadow of a rust-eaten oil canister he stood to his full height and scanned the eastern horizon.

She was a light there.

He thought it for the first time: “She.”

She was a blue corona that rose and flared like a searchlight against the stars. Bone knew without thinking it that the light would be invisible to Archie or Deacon. It was a sign meant exclusively for Bone, a kind of marker. Here I am. He trembled with the closeness of it.

The light transfixed him, consumed all his attention for a timeless moment, and he was startled when Archie tapped his shoulder.

The smaller man was shaking. His knapsack was in his hand. He gazed up at Bone, and there were tears leaking from his eyes.

“We leave him here,” Archie whispered. “Listen to me. Without us he can’t hurt himself. He’ll be okay. We leave him here, right, Bone? Without us they can’t touch him. He’ll be okay—”

And Bone, gazing at Archie, was overcome with another realization.

He was not like Archie or Deacon. I am not human. The thought was dizzying, and for a moment he was afraid a convulsion might overtake him. In the glare of that blue light he had glimpsed himself, had bathed for a moment in the secret illumination of the Jeweled World. Bone’s comprehension failed him, but he understood, at least, that he was not like Archie. The gulf between them was vast, vast…

“Archie, no,” he said. His voice seemed loud in the darkness. “I have to go—“he pointed helplessly—“there—”

Archie gazed beyond him, not listening, blind to the Calling light. “He changed since we met you. But that’s not true, either. It was nothing you did. Just something he saw in you. I don’t know. You were like the ghost of all the beatings he took. But not beaten. All his old anger came out.”

There was a motion in the darkness beyond the oil tanks. Bone, distracted, looked away.

“I guess I changed too,” Archie said. “I only ever wanted to help him. I guess you know what I mean. But I can’t do that by staying with him. That’s the hard part.” His eyes focused on Bone. There was anguish there but also a kind of strength. Bone felt a shadow of the smaller man’s pain, of this hard-won peace he had arrived at, somehow, in the deep of the night. “We have to leave him. It’s the only way to help him. Christ, it frightens me to be alone! It’s the only thing I was ever really scared of. But if we don’t leave him, Bone, he’ll kill himself. He’s drugged up on crazy vengeance and there’s no sense in him.”

That motion again—a flicker of denim, a sigh like drawn breath. Bone’s hackles rose. He turned to the smaller man beside him. “Archie—”

But there was an explosion that lit up the night. Bone was momentarily blinded, and when his vision cleared he saw Archie on his knees, gagging, and then Archie in a pool of his own dark blood, limply dead.

Deacon stepped out from behind the oil tanks with the pistol in his hand.

He turned on his heel, and the pistol was aimed now at Bone.

The immensity of the betrayal shocked him. Deacon had shot Archie. Archie, who had held his mirror when he shaved. Archie, who had loved him.

“He’s dead,” Bone stammered out.

Deacon nodded. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. “Sure he’s dead. I caught him. Son of a bitch! Run away on me, would he? Run away on Deacon?”

“He was afraid for you.” Bone shook his head, aghast. “He was afraid you might get caught.”

“Don’t move!” Deacon thrust the pistol forward. “I heard you two talking! Move out, he said, leave Deacon behind, he said, that’s what you were doing out here in the night—”

“The pistol shot,” Bone managed. “The men in the railyard. They’ll be here soon.”

On the horizon, the blue Calling light guttered and flared.

“He was just waiting for his chance,” Deacon said. “Sneak off and leave Deacon in the lurch. Son of a bitch! I guess I know better.”

“He loved you.”

“That’s a dirty lie.” Deacon pressed the gun forward. There were voices now from the railyard, and his expression hardened. “Give me the money.”

But Deacon had the smell of death about him, a carrion stench Bone could not ignore. He had seen the Jeweled World, the bright beauty of it, and he could only recoil in horror from the ugly thing Deacon had become.

Deacon, he understood, meant to kill him.

“Now,” Deacon said.

Bone darted his big hand toward the pistol. He could not grasp it but only slapped it away. The gun flew through the cold air while Deacon cursed and leaped after it. “I’ll kill you,” Deacon panted, “I’ll kill you, you geek bastard!”

Bone stumbled backward. The sheer scope of it defied understanding. Deacon had killed Archie– here was the steaming carcass to prove it—and now Deacon meant to kill Bone.

There was no one, Bone thought bitterly. No one and nothing he could trust here. Only the Calling. Only the light and the song of it. Nothing human. He was not human, and there was nothing in the human world for him.

Only danger here.

Deacon scrabbled for the gun, and Bone turned and ran.

The scissorbills ambushed him at the hobo jungle.

The came at him with flashlights and guns. He was trapped, encircled suddenly, blinded. His foot caught in a railway tie and he fell clumsily among the gravel and embers. There were four flashlights, bright bobbing flares that disguised the faces behind them, but more men than that, maybe more guns. He stood up slowly and listened to the awe that crept into their voices as they made a ring around him.

“Big bastard, ain’t he?” “It’s him, all right—” “No question.”

“—the one they wrote about in the papers—” “Christ, look at him!”

They pushed him up against the corrugated side of a reefer car.

“He’s not packing anything.” A man stepped forward, and Bone saw his face in the reflected light. Thick, grizzled face. Save for the uniform this might have been one of the hoboes. Bone felt that same gulf again, a revulsion, a blossoming hatred. Such men had beaten him too often before. But now now, not now: he was too close.

The scissorbill shone a light in Bone’s eyes, and the others pressed close behind him. The heat and smell of them were unbearable. “We heard a pistol fired,” the man said. “Same pistol killed all those farmfolks maybe? Huh? You want to tell us where it is?”

There were no words to answer. Bone shook his head.

The scissorbill grinned and brought his knee up between Bone’s legs.

Bone doubled over with the pain of it.

“Think,” the man said. “Oh, we’ll hand you over to the cops soon enough. They’ll lock you up somewhere—a long, long time—assuming they don’t choose to hang you. But we got you first. And nobody cares if we have a little fun of our own.”

The Calling was suddenly strong in him, stronger than it had ever been before, not a song now but a river of need, a torrent. Bone felt a convulsion coming on. He was full of that wild energy. But he did not convulse.

What happened next happened quickly. He straightened, and the pain and the betrayal and the hatred in him rose to a terrifying crest. He screamed, a high-pitched falsetto scream. And he swung out his fist.

It should have been a futile gesture. It was not. The actinic blue Calling light shone now from inside him. It was electric, an aura, and he knew from their eyes that these men could see it. Bone swung his arm, touching them, full of violent energy, and where he touched them the blue light leaped from the apex of his arm, and the men he touched were gone, then—dead, he supposed, but more than that, quite literally vanished, dispatched (he could not say how he knew this) to the nothingness that lay between the worlds.

His sense of time deserted him. He supposed it only took a moment. When he finished there was no one left around him. In the darkness, he heard Deacon calling his name.

“Bone!”

He ran for a moving freight. He was weary, confused, intoxicated with the Calling. Cattle cars slid by him, gathering speed, shuttering bars of light into the morning mist. Bone tripped and fell forward, stumbled up again. All these cars were closed and locked.

“Bone! Give it back, you bastard!”

The money, Bone thought. It was still in his jacket pocket. Was that all Deacon wanted—the money? If he had it, would he let Bone leave?

Bone hesitated and turned back. Deacon was a shadow running alongside this redball freight. The gun was still in his hand. “Deacon—” Bone said.

And Deacon fired the pistol.

The bullet took Bone in the upper thigh. He roared, twisted, fell. The pain was immense. It spread through him like wildfire, and he could not dismiss it. Rage rose up like sour bile inside him. A second bullet struck sparks from the pebbles near his head, and Bone reached up wildly.

His huge hand caught in the undercarriage of the accelerating freight. It was as if an undertow had taken him. He was dragged forward, Deacon shouting incoherently, and the railway ties gouged cruelly at him. He lifted himself desperately, hooked a foot up.

Deacon fired again, and the bullet scored a bloody pathway up Bone’s prominent rib cage. Two of the ribs were broken instantly. White fire clutched at his heart.

He pulled himself up, screaming. This was a reefer car. No good to him—unless the ice compartment was empty. He inched backward, clinging with his long arms like an insect. His good blue pea coat was wet with blood.

“Bone, goddamn you—” But Deacon’s voice was fading now. The train picked up speed.

Groaning, Bone let himself into the ice compartment. His breathing was labored, and he felt on the verge of a great darkness. In one last lunging effort he secured the lid so it would not lock and fell back on the hard wire-mesh. He lost consciousness at once.

Bone dreamed.

In his dreams the Calling light glimmered and flashed, illuminating a horizon he could not see. There was a face he did not recognize—a woman’s face. Her mouth moved, framing a word. Bone. So close now.

He saw Deacon’s face, too, transformed and vulpine, jaws agape, slavering; and Bone was suffused with a contempt and a hatred so immense that his thinking mind closed against it. Pain and hatred merged, a single great conflagration, lightless but full of heat.

The train bent into a curve. Bone’s huge body shifted; agony flared. The cold had numbed him, but his wounds were deep. He turned on his side, breathing shallowly. His dreams were full of death.

The train slowed—an endless time later—and the Calling woke him.

He fell from the reefer car into blindness and pain.

The train sighed and groaned, slowing. It was dark here. He could not say how much time had passed. He blinked, motionless, the agony in his leg and chest beating at him. Dark here, by all human perception—but the Calling light was lustrous in the sky (so close) and cast an eerie illumination over the tall dry grass, the distant railway trestle.

Bone crept into a shallow depression where the prairie grass hid him.

Close now, Bone thought. So close. So close. He held his left hand closed across his chest wound. The blood in his blue Navy pea coat (torn now, ruined) had begun to crystallize. Weakness flooded him.

I’ll go, he thought. Not far. He stood erect. The stars watched him. The wind bit and probed.

Bone took a halting step forward, another… but the pain welled up again, irresistible now_; and Bone toppled forward into the wild grass; the prairie swallowed him up,– Bone closed his eyes, and the stars went dark.