Yes, thank you. I've noticed. She was quiet for 20 steps then without looking at him two nights ago. The notebook. You asked why I looked at it like that.
I didn't ask. You were going to. I was. My mother was born in the cedar wash camp. When she was a girl, there was a drought and a white man rode in with a shovel and dug a well for them.
E. He asked for nothing. He came back every spring to clean it. She watched the ground. My whole childhood I heard about him.
The man with the shovel, Jonas. I think I wanted to hate him for being a white man. And he left me nothing to to hate. He was already dead. Wade stopped walking.
He never told me that. He would not have. Men like him do not know. Wade started walking again. His eyes stung.
No, he wouldn't. That was the last friendly thing either of them said for a while. Midm morning. A ridge to the north. A flash of light.
Quick, bright, a glint of glass. Guan saw it first. She always saw everything first. It was an annoying habit. Rider one.
Spy glass. Where? Do not look. Wade looked. A man on the ridge. black hat, black coat, a tall black horse, perfectly still, perfectly patient, he lowered the glass slowly and tipped his hat across half a mile of empty land politely.
Wade's stomach did something unfortunate. Callaway, said Da. You know him? I know what he does. He finds people.
Wonderful. He has never lost one. Even more wonderful. The writer turned his horse. Not chasing, just following along the ridge line.
Like a man walking a dog he intended to eat. Why is he not shooting? said Guan. Because the boy's alive, said Wade. And as long as we're heading for the next mark, he thinks we'll lead him to the other half. He's not hunting us.
He's hurting us. That is a terrible plan. It's a great plan for him. They left the trail, dropped through a dry gully, climbed a shelf of red rock where horses could not follow, and Callaway's shadow vanished behind the ridge. For 11 minutes, Wade felt like a man who might actually be clever.
Then the first shot cracked. Not from the ridge, from behind, from the mouth of the gully. A chunk of stone exploded beside his head. Down they dove flat against the rock. Guan rolled over with a rifle.
Fired twice. A hat sailed off a head somewhere below. Somebody howled. How many? Wade yelled.
Four. You counted. I have eyes. That's not the same. It is exactly the same.
Another shot. Closer. The rock chipped. And Wade saw it. A gap in the shelf on the left.
A gully mouth open on three sides. Four riders were pinned at the bottom, but they only had to climb 20 yards and they'd be on top of them. Someone needed to give them a reason not to "Stay down," said Dakaya. "What are you doing? " "Being useful.
" The old man stood up. It just stood on the lip of the shelf, the blanket around his shoulders, gray braids lifting in the wind. Wade grabbed for his ankle and caught air. "Dear, look at the old man. " Dakaya shouted down in a voice like a bell.
"Look, shoot the old man. " "They did. " Of course they did. Every rifle in the gully swung toward him. A bullet tore through the blanket.
Another struck the same shoulder, reopening the wound from the fire, and Dakias spun and dropped like a cut rope. And while four men looked at a dying old man, Guan came over the rock on the far side. Fired. Fired again. Two horses bolted.
A man fell. The other two scrambled back down the gully with their hats in their hands. Wade hauled the key up by his good arm. The old man's face was gray as ash and he was smiling. "You are insane," said Wade.
"They looked at me. They shot you. " "Yes, that is how I knew they were looking. They ran down the far side of the shelf through scrub and out onto a bank above a wide brown river sorrow bend. " Wade had been told once it was kneedeep in summer.
The river looked back at him. It was not kneedeep. It was a brown churning beast, swollen, foamy, full of whole trees. Because somewhere in the mountains it had rained last night and nobody had thought to tell Wade. That is not a crossing, said Guan.
It was yesterday. It is a river. It's a river having a bad day. Behind them hooves shouts closer. We cross said Da.
You are out of your mind, said Guan. Yes, and there is no alternative. We tied the rope. Cottonwood on the bank around his waist around Da Guan. Three lives, one line.
And a cowboy who had never been a good swimmer. Stay low. Stay together. Whatever happens, don't let go of the rope. I would prefer not to die.
Noted. They went in. The cold hit like a fist. The current grabbed, dragged. Wade's boots left the bottom.
The rope snapped taut. He swallowed half the river, kicked. Dia clung to his arm. Guan swam hard on the downstream side. And for one wonderful moment, it almost worked.
Then a log came down the channel. A whole tree heavy as a barn struck Guan across the shoulders and she vanished. The rope flew out of Wade's hands, burned his palms raw. Guan, nothing. Brown water, white foam than a hand, reaching up 20 ft downstream.
Wade lunged, kicked, kicked again. Swam with every muscle he owned and caught her by the wrist. She was heavier than a woman should be. Her eyes were wide, and she was still holding the rifle. Let go of the rifle.
No, it's a rifle. It's not a person. It is the only key we have. It's mine. Not today.