When there was no reply, Jack turned to look at him, thinking he'd fallen back to sleep.

"Nah," Charlie said, staring at the reflection of the gaslights on the wall. "I'll never get it back."

"Jack, wake up. We have to go."

Jack opened his eyes. A muddy, early morning light filled the room. Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on. He'd managed to drape his shirt over his good arm and shoulder. The other lay bare, bandaged, and spotted with blood.

"That cur of an innkeeper tell us to leave?" Jack asked. "He said we'd have until tonight."

"No," Charlie said, stamping his foot into his boot. "I just want to go home."

"Are you good to move?"

"I'm good."

Jack leaned forward. He stretched his arms, rubbed his neck, and managed to stand with a minimal amount of grumbling from his back. So a man could sleep in a chair, just not well. "I've just enough money for breakfast," he said. "What do you say to some fried eggs and ham?"

"Bread," Charlie said.

"You just want bread?" Jack said. "I'll wager they got coffee brewing down in the restaurant."

"Buy a loaf of bread," Charlie said. "We'll take it with us."

Jack purchased a loaf of bread from the hotel restaurant. The innkeeper's wife, a slight woman named Beatrice, gave him a fresh loaf, a slab of ham, and a wedge of hard cheese. She wrapped them in strips of cloth and tucked them into a wicker basket.

"See he keeps his strength," she said, handing Jack the basket. She looked out the restaurant window. Charlie stood on the sidewalk, his bowler pulled down to his eyes. Although he tried to look invisible, a few people still stopped to shake his hand.

"He's a hero," she said. "No telling who that lunatic would have shot next. Could've been anyone."

"Yeah, anyone," Jack said. He held out his money, hoping it would be enough.

"My husband took your money, but I'll not," she said, waving his hand away. "We all owe a debt to your Indian and no doubt."

After Charlie shook a few more hands, they hurried down the sidewalk toward the edge of town. Jack figured in all the proffered congratulations that someone would have offered them a ride, but it seemed hospitality ended at the town limits. Perhaps they figured on Charlie having a horse already. Jack didn't look forward to sleeping outdoors again, but he didn't press the issue. He owed Charlie a little silence-along with everything else.

After pa.s.sing the NO GUNS sign, they left Brush behind and followed the wagon trail east.

At first, Charlie moved quickly, as if his wound had spontaneously healed. Jack, feeling the effects of a poor night's rest, was the one to lag behind. However, by mid-morning, it became easy to keep up with Charlie. His strides started to shorten. A cough nagged him. Finally, he stumbled off the trail and sat in the gra.s.s. "Just for a moment," he said, removing his hat. He wiped his arm across his forehead and breathed.

"Sounds fine to me," Jack said, sitting beside him. He unwrapped the bread and tore off a hunk.

"No," Charlie said.

"You got to eat."

"I'll eat when we've stopped to eat. It's too early."

Jack spotted fresh drops of blood on his shirt. "Your st.i.tches are opening," he said. "We left town too soon."

"I'll be fine."

"Let's head back. I can find some day work and earn enough for another night at the hotel-"

"No!" Charlie said. Growling, he pushed himself onto his knees and stood. "Let's go."

"Already?"

"I feel better."

"You look like h.e.l.l."

"Didn't ask you." He started walking. Jack stuffed the bread back into the basket and caught up with him. "I don't understand you, Indian."

Charlie walked faster.

"Listen to me."

He started whistling.

"There'll be no retribution if we return," Jack said. "Those townsfolk would elect you mayor if you let them."

"I'll not go back there!" he shouted, then hissed and clutched his shoulder. He removed his hand, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y palm print behind.

"It's getting worse," Jack said. "We have to go back."

"No," Charlie said. "You know what I did in that town."

"Yeah, I do. You saved my life."

"Doesn't make me square."

"With who?"

Charlie turned and started walking.

"With who," Jack said, following him. "The Almighty? That Old Man of yours? Some blasted white eagle?" He grunted. "I don't know about you, preacher, but it seems to me I ain't the one hugging wind."

Charlie twisted around and punched Jack in the chest. Jack tumbled, lost his footing, and fell into the mud.

"I have faith," Charlie said, standing over him.

Jack spat out a piece of gra.s.s. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Faith is a promise. And I broke that promise when I killed a man. I killed a man, Jack. You're in hitches over sc.r.a.ps of memory and doubt. But there's no doubt about what I did. And I'll-I'll never-get it back..."

He staggered sideways off the trail and collapsed.

"Charlie?" Jack said, sitting up.

The ground started rumbling. Behind him, he heard someone shout: "d.a.m.nu ort, out of the way!"

A buggy rattled toward Jack, driven by a large man with messy red hair. "I'll not miss my boat on account of you or any other eejit in this blasted country! Away, away!"

Jack leapt clear as the buggy rattled past. Sitting back up, he said, "Doc O'Malley?" He scrambled to his feet and chased after him. "Doc!" he shouted, waving his arms. He managed to catch up, but it wouldn't last. Soon, his knees would buckle or his feet would fall off.

"You're a fast one," the Doc said, staring at him over his gla.s.ses. "Can I hook you to my buggy?"

"St.i.tches-opening," Jack gasped.

"Whose?"

"Charlie's."

O'Malley frowned at him.

"The Indian!"

"Oh," he said. "Well, I'm sure he's got a spell for that."

"Please," Jack begged. "We need help."

O'Malley raised a hand. "Be gone young buck, or taste my fist!"

Jack fell, and the buggy rolled on. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he shouted, "He's bleeding out!"

The buggy slowed.

Jack pushed himself up and jogged forward, gulping air, trying to ignore the st.i.tch crawling up his side. He reached the buggy and clutched the seat handle. Inside, O'Malley sat stiff and rigid as if bracing a storm.

"Your Indian's bleeding?" he asked.

Jack nodded.

"Badly?"

Jack nodded.

"Because if he isn't, then I disavow my oath, and you will forever be known, in my heart, as an a.r.s.ehole."

Jack nodded.

O'Malley pulled on the reins. "All right," he said. "Fetch your friend and climb aboard. I'll see to his wounds when I stop to water the horse. But not before then," he said, holding up a finger. "I've a boat to catch. If I have to spend one more day in this G.o.d forsaken country, I'll eat me gla.s.ses."

Jack held onto Charlie as they jostled and swayed over the uneven trail. Seeing the blood, Doc O'Malley declared it nothing but water blood. "Wounds like to bleed a little," he said as they bounced along. "Helps to keep it clean. Your friend is fine."

"If he's fine, then why did he faint?"

Doc O'Malley snapped the reins. "Because only an idiot is out of bed after he's been shot."

The land began to change. Hills sprouted up, covered in lush, green gra.s.s. In the distance, a creek shimmered like liquid silver. It cut through the land like a snake, surrounded on either side by steep, gra.s.sy slopes.

Doc O'Malley stopped beside the creek. Charlie opened his eyes.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"A creek," Jack said.

Doc O'Malley climbed out of the buggy. After unhitching the horse, he wagged his finger at it and said, "Now don't go eating and drinking too much or I'll blow your fool head off."

The horse swished its tail and wandered down to the water.

"Don't worry lads," O'Malley said, patting his hips. "I don't own a gun, but he don't know that. All right, let's take a look at your friend."

Charlie and Jack climbed down from the buggy. Charlie unb.u.t.toned his shirt. O'Malley lifted the shirt, giving it a tug where the fabric stuck to the bandage. Then he unwrapped the bandage. "Huh," he said, poking the st.i.tches. "Aye, they've come loose a little, but I stand by my trade." Turning to Jack, he said, "I suppose that makes you an a.r.s.ehole. I suspected as much."

"Thanks," Jack said.

"Well, my red friend," O'Malley said to Charlie, "What you want to do is give it a good wash in the creek down there so it won't turn. Or don't, it bothers me not."

"I know this creek," Charlie said. "I'm almost home."

"How long?" Jack asked.

"A few hours. By buggy."

They looked at the Doc.

"Oh ho, no," O'Malley said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "I've no time to spare."

"You're going to Pan Hope?" Charlie asked.

O'Malley squinted at him. "Yes?"

"This trail pa.s.ses my ranch on the way to Pan Hope."

O'Malley scratched his chin. He scratched his nose. He removed his gla.s.ses and cleaned them. He put them back on. "Well, I suppose I should help my fellow man, being a doctor and all. It would only be proper."

"Great," Jack said.

"For ten dollars."

"Ten dollars!"

"I don't transport Indians."