“I said that the hounds of spring were in winter’s traces,” he muttered. “But let it pass, yes, let it pass.”
There was a whisper of movement, and he turned toward the sound, seeing something white floating toward him, showing a hideous, ghostly face. Great golden eyes seemed to bore into him, and he noted a wing spread of six feet or more and a cruelly hooked yellow beak.
“A wise old owl, swirling,” he said, ducking as the apparition swooped low over his head, the beat of the bird’s passing disturbing his silvery hair.
Doc was beginning to feel close to exhaustion. The attack of influenza, or whatever it had been, had taken even more out of him than he’d guessed. It was an effort to lift each foot and place it in front of the other. But he knew that if he stopped, he might likely fall asleep and not carry on at all.
He tried to swing into a regular march, whispering the beat to himself. “Left, right, left, right. Left… Left, I had a good job and I left.”
On into the early morning.
JOSIAH STEELE TOOK charge of the serving of breakfast brought by two women, each carrying a groaning tray of food, with mugs of buttermilk to wash it down.
Ryan noticed immediately that they had been given only old plastic spoons to help themselves. No forks or knives. Brother Joshua wasn’t taking any chances on an armed rebellion from his remaining prisoners.
“Buckwheat toast with jellies and honey,” Steele said. “And oatmeal gruel. There’ll be some steaming acorn coffee for those who want it, in a while. At least it’ll be hot.” He hesitated in the doorway. “How’s the woman?”
“Sleeping,” Ryan replied.
“Hope she… Well.” He paused as though considering saying something else. “You did the right thing getting the old man away. He’d have been cold giblets by noon. Shame you couldn’t get away yourselves.”
“We could still mebbe manage it if we had our weapons back again,” J.B. said quietly.
Steele sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and looked outside the hut. “Sure, you could, outlander. But the cold fact is, I don’t aim to slit my own throat. Nor put a ball through my own temple. Not just yet.”
“Where are our blasters and knives?” Ryan asked, seeing the doubt in the man’s eyes. “Suppose I just said that I thought that they were likely in Wolfe’s own house. You can just choose to say nothing. You don’t have to tell us they aren’t there. Just say nothing.”
Steele half smiled. “Guess I’d best say nothing, Brother Cawdor. Not a word.”
Ryan grinned across at him. “Thanks,” he said. “Yeah, thanks a lot.”
“FRIED BACON, please, Emily.” Doc jerked awake. “Upon my soul! What am I saying? What am I doing? Where am I and where am I going? Have I been… I suspect that I might have taken a small rest and closed my eyes for a moment. Most unwise, my dear Theo. Oh, dear, so careless.”
He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, using the trunk of one of the smaller pines to help. He took several deep breaths of the cool morning air, looking around in the half light of the early dawn.
“What is the time, I ask myself?” He checked the half-hunter watch. “And I answer myself that it is closing in on six o’clock. No pursuit yet.”
His voice disturbed a pair of pigeons that fluttered noisily away from the lower branches of a nearby larch. They circled once before heading north, still protesting at the intruder in their domain.
He lowered his tone. “What would dear Ryan and the other companions think of me? To be so rash and foolish, falling asleep within a couple of paces of the track through the woods. Though the road through the woods has been undone by the wind and the rain. And there is no road…” He slapped himself hard across the forehead. “Enough, Dr. Tanner. Enough. Set your face toward the path to the redoubt.”
He picked up his cane and took a last quick look around the clearing.
“By the…!”
The pair of Mescalero warriors seemed to have literally appeared from nowhere, sprung from the heart of the forest. They stood silently a few yards away from him, leaning against the massive trunk of one of the largest of the sequoias. They were both in their midtwenties, both holding strung bows with a quiver of arrows across a shoulder.