Luke shut the door again. “Stuart. And Tara Chang, of all people.”

“ Tara’salive!” Randy said, <delighted.> Carlo was excited, too, all but moved to tears—because, Danny suddenly thought, they weren’t the only survivors any more. There was somebody else they knew in the world. They remembered <Tara in the camp,> remembered <looking for Brionne,> and there wasn’t a doubt in their minds that that was why their rider had come here. <Tara looking for Brionne. With Stuart.> On that, their hopes sprang up to a wild possibility—he felt it, even Jonas felt it, the whole ambient disturbed, but Hawley remarked, sourly,

“That son of a bitch was real comfortable last night, wasn’t he? Didn’t wait till Aby was a month gone.”

That made Carlo <fighting mad.> It took Randy, on the far side and away from Hawley, a moment to catch what Hawley meant, and then Randy was <mad.> But Jonas told everybody to get back on their horses and get the hell back on the road.

Danny swung up, nudged Cloud with knee and heel until he caught up with Shadow, on the edge of the road, urgent with the only answer he saw. “Harper’s out to kill Stuart,” he said to Jonas, fast, because horses were moving. “That’s all he wants. He knows who he’s tracking now—he’ll have seen that board, too. He’s going to break his neck getting caught up and they’re not hurrying— they’re not going to know he’s stalking them.” <Jonas hurrying. Three of them. Up the road. Stuart and the Tarmin rider. Him going slower, with Carlo and Randy.> “Don’t lag back for us. I’ll take care of the boys. Just for God’s sake get Harper before he gets Stuart.”

Jonas didn’t take to orders. Or suggestions. You never told him a thing and expected him to do it—for sheer stubbornness, if nothing else.

“Stuart’s your friend, isn’t he?” he flung at Jonas. “Isn’t hewhy you came?”

<Truck,> hit the ambient. <Wrecked truck.> Something about a <box.> Jonas was as upset as he’d ever felt the man, spilling things that didn’t make sense to him. And thinking <Stuart, > with an edge of anger. <Mad at Stuart.>

But Jonas gave a jerk of his head, said, <“Come on,”> to his partners, and hit a traveling pace, hard and fast, with <Stuart> the fading image in the thinning ambient.

<Cloud standing. Cloud stopped,> Danny wanted, and Cloud dropped out of a half-hearted run.

“Where are they going?” Carlo asked, panting, as he reached Cloud’s side. “Danny?”

“Just stay with me.” God, he wanted <running down that road.>

Cloud was exploding with the instinct to stay up with the rest, Cloud wanted <fight > and <follow.>

Cloud wanted—something that shivered in the air. There was everywhere the <smell of female about the trees, tracked in the snow—female and male horse. Sex. And winter.>

But catching Stuart and Chang wasn’t the job they had. It was doing what riders generally did, getting villagers safely from one point to the other. Getting Carlo and Randy somewhere they wouldn’t die.

Right now he wasn’t sure where that was—whether to drop back altogether and lock themselves into the shelter, or to go on where he wasn’t damned much use.

“They’re going to shoot Brionne,” Randy said, distressed, wanting to go faster. But a human body couldn’t. They’d been going since before dawn and they couldn’t go any faster, try as they would. “Tara wouldn’t. —But they might.”

“Stuart won’t shoot any kid,” he said. He believed that, the way he’d judged Stuart from the start. “He’ll get the rogue. It’s just—”

“Harper?” Carlo panted, struggling to stay with him, while he fought Cloud’s tendency to pick the pace up. Because he was moving, Carlo and Randy with him; he didn’tknow about Harper. He didn’t trust Jonas. He didn’t like that <truck> business. Jonas had been mad about <Hawley taking money> and about the brakes. But Jonas hadn’t come here purely for Stuart’s sake. Something else was going on, to bring Jonas away from Shamesey and onto this trail. He remembered the camp meeting, remembered Jonas arguing for Stuart—remembered Jonas dissuading any hunt going out after Stuart himself; Jonas was that much of a friend to Stuart.

But not—he was convinced—not to the exclusion of other motives. There was something besides what Jonas had said was his reason.

He couldn’t leave the boys. He couldn’t go faster. But they were three guns if they weren’t too late to matter; and they were witnesses if witnesses were any restraint to Jonas Westman, whatever the man was about.

They’d passed the small cut-off that Tara said led off toward the main road, on the downhill; and they were traveling an uphill now, a place where the wind had scoured the ground all but clear of snow despite the trees. Brush held drifts. But stone showed through on the roadway.

The horses had settled out of some of their foolishness—were breathing hard on the climb, at work again after the day cooped up close indoors, and beginning to think of thirst, snatching a lick at the snow as they moved.

And human minds had settled into businesslike purpose. Guil knew he’d bothered Tara—and he’d not pushed at her personal borders, not on a morning when reason wasn’t working and the horses were doing their own pushing at each other. He felt under him the give and take of a body as entirely distracted as he was, as dangerously astray from their business as he was. He found himself gazing off up the mountain, where nothing was but snow and rock.

Not helpful, in a landscape where they weren’t seeing the animal traces they were accustomed to see. Possibly something was laired up there. He didn’t think it was a horse—not up in that tumbled rock.

Burn gave a surly kick in his stride, thinking about <horse. Guil walking. Tara walking. Burn walking with Flicker. Beautiful mare. Beautiful rump. Beautiful—>

He thumped Burn in the ribs, and Burn flattened his ears, threw off <warning> and slogged along with his mind on business, Flicker likewise, watching the mountain slopes and the trees with each swing of her head. Trees were still thick on the left hand and patchy clumps of forest were on the right, trees clinging among steep rock.

“No tracks,” Tara said, watching the snow they alone were scarring.

“Noticed that.” No animals. No life stirring across or down this road.

“We’re not that far from the shelter,” Tara said. “It’s right around here.”

“Last one, isn’t it?”

“Only place left she could hole up, only chance that kid’s alive.”

“If that’s a wild horse—indoors isn’t real likely.”

“Yeah,” Tara said.

And was thinking thoughts of horse-shooting that sobered Flicker and Burn.

So was he thinking those thoughts, carrying the rifle balanced on his leg, hoping he’d see it or hear it at a distance and not—not close up in the trees; hoping he could get a clear shot at it in the woods; hoping he could get a bead on it and not hit the kid.

Tell that to the gate-guards at Shamesey, who’d missed a charging nighthorse much closer to them and hit him—Burn having that clever trick of imaging <horse > where Burn wasn’t.

If it was a wild one gone bad, it might not know about guns.

But what had happened at Tarmin said the gate-guards hadn’t had any luck aiming at it.

<Village,> was in Tara Chang’s thoughts. <Kids in the streets. Kid on the horse. Gun firing.>

Maybe, he thought—one of those cold second thoughts that came only when they were past the point to do anything about it— maybe he shouldhave waited for Jonas to show up.

Maybe he could have ridden side by side with Jonas and Hawley without wanting to beat hell out of them. Five were a lot stronger than two, if it came to an argument of sendings.