“Aye. And left as one.”

I squatted on my hunkers and thought about this. Jamie rolled a smoke and let me. When I looked up, he was smiling a little.

“Do you see what it means, Roland?”

“Two hundred salties, give or take,” I said. I’ve ever been slow, but in the end I usually get there.

“Aye.”

“Salties, mind, not pokies or proddies. Diggers, not riders. As a rule.”

“As you say.”

“How many of em up there have horses, do you suppose? How many even know how to ride?”

His smile broadened. “There might be twenty or thirty, I suppose.”

“It’s better than two hundred,” I said. “Better by a long stride. We’ll go up as soon as—”

I never finished what I was going to say, because that’s when the moaning started. It was coming from the tack shed I’d dismissed as empty. How glad I was at that moment Cort wasn’t there. He would have cuffed my ear and sent me sprawling. At least in his prime, he would have.

Jamie and I looked into each other’s startled eyes, then ran back inside. The moaning continued, but the place looked as empty as before. Then that big heap of old tack—busted hames, bridles, cinch straps and reins—started to heave up and down, as if it were breathing. The tangled bunches of leather began to tumble away to either side and from them a boy was born. His white-blond hair was sticking up in all directions. He wore jeans and an old shirt that hung open and unbuttoned. He didn’t look hurt, but in the shadows it was hard to tell.

“Is it gone?” he asked in a trembling voice. “Please, sais, say it is. Say it’s gone.”

“It is,” I said.

He started to wade his way out of the pile, but a strip of leather had gotten wound around one of his legs and he fell forward. I caught him and saw a pair of eyes, bright blue and utterly terrified, looking up into my face.

Then he passed out.

* * *

I carried him to the trough. Jamie pulled off his bandanna, dipped it in the water, and began to wipe the boy’s dirt-streaked face with it. He might have been eleven; he might have been a year or two younger. He was so thin it was hard to tell. After a bit his eyes fluttered open. He looked from me to Jamie and then back to me again. “Who are you?” he asked. “You don’t b’long to the ranch.”

“We’re friends of the ranch,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Bill Streeter,” he said. “The proddies call me Young Bill.”

“Aye, do they? And is your father Old Bill?”

He sat up, took Jamie’s bandanna, dipped it in the trough, and squeezed it out so the water ran down his thin chest. “No, Old Bill’s my granther, went into the clearing two years ago. My da’, he’s just plain Bill.” Something about speaking his father’s name made his eyes widen. He grasped my arm. “He ain’t dead, is he? Say he ain’t, sai!”

Jamie and I exchanged another look, and that scared him worse than ever.

“Say he ain’t! Please say my daddy ain’t dead!” He started to cry.

“Hush and go easy now,” I said. “What is he, your da’? A proddie?”

“Nay, no, he’s the cook. Say he ain’t dead!”

But the boy knew he was. I saw it in his eyes as clearly I’d seen the bunkhouse cook with his bloodstained apron thrown over his face.

* * *

There was a willa-tree on one side of the big house, and that was where we questioned Young Bill Streeter—just me, Jamie, and Sheriff Peavy. The others we sent back to wait in the shade of the bunkhouse, thinking that to have too many folks around him would only upset the boy more. As it happened, he could tell us very little of what we needed to know.

“My da’ said to me that it was going to be a warm night and I should go up to the graze t’other side of the corral and sleep under the stars,” Young Bill told us. “He said it’d be cooler and I’d sleep better. But I knew why. Elrod’d got a bottle somewhere—again—and he was in drink.”

“That’d be Elrod Nutter?” Sheriff Peavy asked.

“Aye, him. Foreman of the boys, he is.”

“I know him well,” Peavy said to us. “Ain’t I had him locked up half a dozen times and more? Jefferson keeps him on because he’s a helluva rider and roper, but he’s one mean whoredog when he’s in drink. Ain’t he, Young Bill?”

Young Bill nodded earnestly and brushed his long hair, still all dusty from the tack he’d hidden in, out of his eyes. “Yessir, and he had a way of takin after me. Which my father knew.”

“Cook’s apprentice, were ye?” Peavy asked. I knew he was trying to be kind, but I wished he’d mind his mouth and stop talking in the way that says once, but no more.

But the boy didn’t seem to notice. “Bunkhouse boy. Not cook’s boy.” He turned to Jamie and me. “I make the bunks, coil the rope, cinch the bedrolls, polish the saddles, set the gates at the end of the day after the horses is turned in. Tiny Braddock taught me how to make a lasso, and I throw it pretty. Roscoe’s teaching me the bow. Freddy Two-Step says he’ll show me how to brand, come fall.”

“Do well,” I said, and tapped my throat.

That made him smile. “They’re good fellas, mostly.” The smile went away as fast as it had come, like the sun going behind a cloud. “Except for Elrod. He’s just grouchy when he’s sober, but when he’s in drink, he likes to tease. Mean teasing, if you do ken it.”

“Ken it well,” I said.

“Aye, and if you don’t laugh and act like it’s all a joke—even if it’s twisting on your hand or yanking you around on the bunkhouse floor by your hair—he gets uglier still. So when my da’ told me to sleep out, I took my blanket and my shaddie and I went. A word to the wise is sufficient, my da’ says.”

“What’s a shaddie?” Jamie asked the sheriff.

“Bit o’ canvas,” Peavy said. “Won’t keep off rain, but it’ll keep you from getting damp after dewfall.”

“Where did you roll in?” I asked the boy.

He pointed beyond the corral, where the horses were still skitty from the rising wind. Above us and around us, the willa sighed and danced. Pretty to hear, prettier still to look at. “I guess my blanket n shaddie must still be there.”

I looked from where he had pointed, to the tack-shed hostelry where we’d found him, then to the bunkhouse. The three places made the corners of a triangle probably a quarter-mile on each side, with the corral in the middle.

“How did you get from where you slept to hiding under that pile of tack, Bill?” Sheriff Peavy asked.

The boy looked at him for a long time without speaking. Then the tears began to fall again. He covered them with his fingers so we wouldn’t see them. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I don’t remember nuffink.” He didn’t exactly lower his hands; they seemed to drop into his lap, as if they’d grown too heavy for him to hold up. “I want my da’.”

Jamie got up and walked away, with his hands stuffed deep in his back pockets. I tried to say what needed saying, and couldn’t. You have to remember that although Jamie and I wore guns, they weren’t yet the big guns of our fathers. I’d never again be so young as before I met Susan Delgado, and loved her, and lost her, but I was still too young to tell this boy that his father had been torn to pieces by a monster. So I looked to Sheriff Peavy. I looked to the grownup.

Peavy took off his hat and laid it aside on the grass. Then he took the boy’s hands. “Son,” he said, “I’ve got some very hard news for you. I want you to pull in a deep breath and be a man about it.”

But Young Bill Streeter had only nine or ten summers behind him, eleven at most, and he couldn’t be a man about anything. He began to wail. When he did it, I saw my mother’s pale dead face as clear as if she had been lying next to me under that willa, and I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a coward, but that didn’t stop me from getting up and walking away.

* * *

The lad either cried himself to sleep or into unconsciousness. Jamie carried him into the big house and put him in one of the beds upstairs. He was just the son of a bunkhouse cook, but there was no one else to sleep in them, not now. Sheriff Peavy used the jing-jang to call his office where one of the not-so-good deputies had been ordered to wait for his ring. Soon enough, Debaria’s undertaker—if there was one—would organize a little convoy of wagons to come and pick up the dead.