But there was due to be a shelter ahead, down what was, so far, a well-defined road—a clear-cut marked by the solitary phone line.

And all the while that thin thread of human talk and commerce, he supposed, could have let him call the villages ahead. He’d thought once of buying a handset and learning how to tap in; those who rode the lines said it was stupid-simple, and all you needed was tape and wire-cutters besides, but, hell, he’d never needed a phone—until now. There was a stop-start way you could send a message without a handset; but the authorities put out warrants if you ever cut a line purely on rider business, and besides, he didn’t know the code: he couldn’t spell any more than he could read. And a handset? It was weight and cost, and Burn had enough to carry, Burn would tell him so.

Burn had been damned forgiving this trip. Burn was a <fine horse,> and he was sorry he’d made Burn’s back ache, which it did. There’d be <bacon> when they got to shelter, there’d be <liniment and warm water—Guil rubbing tired nighthorse legs, rubbing sore nighthorse back—>

Burn was immensely pleased. Doubly so that Burn’s rider opted to slide down and walk; Burn was concerned about his rider’s limp and sore leg, and wanted to lick at it—attention he had as soon not—but Burn was very glad not to have <heavy, pack-laden rider on tired nighthorse back> and wanted to be generous.

You certainly didn’t push yourself at this altitude if you weren’t acclimated, and neither of them were acclimated. You didn’t press beyond sensible limits—his own chest ached with the thin air, and persistent headache rode just at the back of his eyes, not, he thought, entirely due to the concussion.

But the thought of a solid shelter and a wood fire was a powerful incentive: there was supposed to be one fairly close to the ascent and one more before Tarmin. It was encouraging that there was no sight nor warning of trouble so far—but he didn’t take the High Wild for granted—he walked with a loaded rifle and a sidearm ready, at the pace he felt like maintaining, which was a leisurely limp that didn’t hurt beyond what his nerves could bear; and he’d much rather have solid walls around them tonight.

The two of them trod knee deep in snow that showed no disturbance but the occasional footprint of some spook or other, delicate imprints written in white, in that strange glow a nighttime snowfall had.

And if the little spooks had moved about in the open not so long ago then they were the biggest threat abroad. Lately they’d heard a wally-boo call out to the woods at large, soft, silly cooing that belonged to a little spook, all whiskers and ears.

Burn wasn’t sending out his <nighthorse> threat. But as they came down a slight decline in the road Burn suddenly lifted his head, switched his ears about and sniffed the dark with that curious <on the edge> feeling that went with winter winds and the chance of meetings.

<Females,> ran under that train of thought. <Snow and females.>

<Wild ones,> Guil thought anxiously, not wanting to think about the rogue they’d come to hunt: it came to him now and again as <dark and danger> when Burn grew too fractious, or too scattered from what they’d come to find.

Burn worried and gazed off into the woods with misgivings, thinking of <willy-wisps > and <lorry-lies, > which was sometimes a goblin-cat’s camouflage: a horse above three or four years knew that spook trick, and Burn was well aware there was danger up here. A lot of things imaged what they weren’t. Some had the knack of making you see things that had nothing to do with the ground you were walking on. The dangerous ones had worse tricks. You’d see people in the woods. You’d hear them call to you. They’d wave. A spook-bear could give you anything, any image it had ever seen.

A horse was a lot worse than that. A horse could convince you of anything.

Burn wasn’t sure, himself, of whatever he heard—he shook himself, started moving again, treading carefully for a space, then gradually warming again to the thought of <safe den, nighthorses, bacon.>

<Bacon,> Guil agreed. Granted they got to shelter before the night grew too thick or his legs gave out, there would assuredly, he promised, be <bacon.>

<Guil riding,> Burn thought then. <Burn walking fast.>

“Silly ass,” Guil muttered, patted Burn on the shoulder and intended to keep walking. He wasn’t willing to wear Burn down, or have him sore tomorrow.

But Burn nudged him in the back and wanted insistently to go faster, and he couldn’t, counting a bullet-grazed leg and a bashed knee, sustain the pace Burn wanted. Burn was skittish and full of notions this evening, thinking of <nightmares> one moment and <lorry-lies> the next, switching his tail and wanting to move, wanting <fight,> wanting <us on road.>

So he arranged his gear and made the weary effort to get up— aching in the arms, and the hand he used to grip with hurt like hell: probably, he thought, he hadn’t gotten all the splinter out.

But he was glad not to walk, truth be told. Much as he’d tried to ignore the leg—his eyes watered once he’d gotten up and gotten relief from it. Burn struck a quicker pace than he could have held, and he let himself relax while Burn moved—in such intimate contact he heard the ambient as running through his own flesh and bone. He felt Burn’s muscle and movement, saw and smelled the snow thick on the evergreen boughs, white on dark, sweet on bright; heard fat flakes changing to sleet that rattled against the branches.

Soft, soft sounds, cold, strange smells. Winter in the High Wild. The night was home and safe when he saw with Burn’s eyes and heard with Burn’s ears—they were one creature, the human drifting on a river of nighthorse senses, the horse remembering where he was going with human tenacity. Burn had struck his staying-pace, uncommonly determined, uncommonly spooky and… the feeling crept up Guil’s backbone… suddenly, strangely focused on something in the dark.

Then, expected and unexpected in the night, they came on a structure of logs—deserted, by the feel of it: it was the shelter they were looking for.

Thank God, he thought, as Burn walked up to it, ears forward. <Bacon,> was definitely in the ambient now.

Nobody home. Burn would have known. Guil winced his way down to the ground and, rifle in hand, waded through a shallow drift to the door, stiff now that he’d been off the leg for a while. He set the rifle against the wall, seeing that the latch-cord was out as it ought to be. He drew his pistol, he pulled the cord, the bar inside came up, and he kicked snow aside and dragged the door open— outward, as the latch-doors always opened.

The dark inside was as cold as the snow-glow outside; but it feltempty. Burn put his head in past his shoulder and gave out his <nighthorse> warning, to scatter any sleeping vermin that might have burrowed a way in—but what they were hunting, although it could mask itself as <deep shadow > or even <human occupant, > couldn’t manage a shelter door without human hands.

No occupants. No pilfered supplies. He put the gun away and felt after an electric switch beside the door in the small hope one would be there—lately lowland shelters had installed batteried lights at the entry.

No such luck.

But the fireplace was always on the right of the entry, and he slung his gear aside, took out his waxed matches and sacrificed one in order to see the state of things in the fireplace.

There was indeed a fire laid, stuffed with kindling—he spotted a slow match hanging from the mantel before his wooden match could die, snatched up the tarred braid and touched his failing light to the end before the heat got to his fingers.

He unhooked the slow match from the nail then, bent down with a wince and a grimace and touched off the tinder, which was, thank God, dry. He pulled the chain to open the flue, and the gust from the door swept in along with a moving shadow and a slow thump of nighthorse hooves as Burn ambled into the shelter. The door banged back all the way, threatening the fire. Guil sprang up to reach outside, grab his rifle, grab the door and haul it shut against the wind.