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uried—buried in people’s minds—you cut me off.”
“He doesn’t need to know, because it doesn’t always work.”
It had with Susan Delgado, in Mejis, but part of Susan had wanted badly to tell me what the witch, Rhea, had tried to hide from Susan’s frontmind,
where we hear our own thoughts very clearly. She’d wanted to tell me because we were in love.
“But will you try? You will, won’t you?”
I didn’t answer him until we had started our second circuit of the corral. I was still putting my thoughts in order. As I may have said, that has always
been slow work for me.
“The salties don’t live in the mines anymore; they have their own encampment a few wheels west of Little Debaria. Kellin Frye told me about it on
the ride out here. I want you to go up there with Peavy and the Fryes. Canfield, too, if he’ll go. I think he will. Those two pokies—Canfield’s trailmates
—can stay here and wait for the undertaker.”
“You mean to take the boy back to town?”
“Yes. Alone. But I’m not sending you up there just to get you and the others away. If you travel fast enough, and they have a remuda, you may still
be able to spot a horse that’s been rode hard.”
Under the bandanna, he might have smiled. “I doubt it.”
I did, too. It would have been more likely but for the wind—what Peavy had called the simoom. It would dry the sweat on a horse, even one that
had been ridden hard, in short order. Jamie might spot one that was dustier than the rest, one with burdocks and bits of jugweed in its tail, but if we
were right about the skin-man knowing what he was, he would have given his mount a complete rubdown and curry, from hooves to mane, as soon
as he got back.
“Someone may have seen him ride in.”
“Yes . . . unless he went to Little Debaria first, cleaned up, and came back to the saltie encampment from there. A clever man might do that.”
“Even so, you and the sheriff should be able to find out how many of them own horses.”
“And how many of them can ride, even if they don’t own,” Jamie said. “Aye, we can do that.”
“Round that bunch up,” I told him, “or as many of them as you can, and bring them back to town. Any who protests, remind them that they’ll be
helping to catch the monster that’s been terrorizing Debaria . . . Little Debaria . . . the whole Barony. You won’t have to tell them that any who still
refuse will be looked at with extra suspicion; even the dumbest of them will know.”
Jamie nodded, then grabbed the fencerail as an especially strong gust of wind blasted us. I turned to face him.
“And one other thing. You’re going to pull a cosy, and Kellin’s son, Vikka, will be your cat’s-paw. They’ll believe a kid might run off at the mouth,
even if he’s been told not to. Especially if he’s been told not to.”
Jamie waited, but I felt sure he knew what I was going to say, for his eyes were troubled. It was a thing he’d never have done himself, even if he
thought of it. Which was why my father had put me in charge. Not because I’d done well in Mejis—I hadn’t, not really—and not because I was his
son, either. Although in a way, I suppose that was it. My mind was like his: cold.
“You’ll tell the salties who know about horses that there was a witness to the murders at the ranch. You’ll say you can’t tell them who it was—
naturally—but that he saw the skin-man in his human form.”
“You don’t know that Young Bill actually saw him, Roland. And even if he did, he might not have seen the face. He was hiding in a pile of tack, for
your father’s sake.”
“That’s true, but the skin-man won’t know it’s true. All the skin-man will know is that it might be true, because he was human when he left the
ranch.”
I began to walk again, and Jamie walked beside me.
“Now here’s where Vikka comes in. He’ll get separated from you and the others a bit and whisper to someone—another kid, one his own age,
would be best—that the survivor was the cook’s boy. Bill Streeter by name.”
“The boy just lost his father and you want to use him as bait.”
“It may not come to that. If the story gets to the right ears, the one we’re looking for may bolt on the way to town. Then you’ll know. And none of it
matters if we’re wrong about the skin-man being a saltie. We could be, you know.”
“What if we’re right, and the fellow decides to face it out?”
“Bring them all to the jail. I’ll have the boy in a cell—a locked one, you ken—and you can walk the horsemen past, one by one. I’ll tell Young Bill to
say nothing, one way or the other, until they’re gone. You’re right, he may not be able to pick our man out, even if I can help him remember some of
what happened last night. But our man won’t know that, either.”
“It’s risky,” said Jamie. “Risky for the kid.”
“Small risk,” I said. “It’ll be daylight, with the skin-man in his human shape. And Jamie . . .” I grasped his arm. “I’ll be in the cell, too. The bastard
will have to go through me if he wants to get to the boy.”
* * *
Peavy liked my plan better than Jamie had. I wasn’t a bit surprised. It was his town, after all. And what was Young Bill to him? Only the son of a dead
cook. Not much in the great scheme of things.
Once the little expedition to Saltie Town was on its way, I woke the boy and told him we were going to Debaria. He agreed without asking
questions. He was distant and dazed. Every now and then he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. As we walked out to the corral, he asked me again
if I was sure his da’ was dead. I told him I was. He fetched a deep sigh, lowered his head, and put his hands on his knees. I gave him time, then
asked if he’d like me to saddle a horse for him.
“If it’s all right to ride Millie, I can saddle her myself. I feed her, and she’s my special friend. People say mules ain’t smart, but Millie is.”
“Let’s see if you can do it without getting kicked,” I said.
It turned out he could, and smartly. He mounted up and said, “I guess I’m ready.” He even tried to give me a smile. It was awful to look at. I was
sorry for the plan I’d set in motion, but all I had to do was think of the carnage we were leaving behind and Sister Fortuna’s ruined face to remind
myself of what the stakes were.
“Will she skit in the wind?” I asked, nodding at the trim little mule. Sitting on her back, Young Bill’s feet came almost down to the ground. In
another year, he’d be too big for her, but of course in another year, he’d probably be far from Debaria, just another wanderer on the face of a fading
world. Millie would be a memory.
“Not Millie,” he said. “She’s as solid as a dromedary.”
“Aye, and what’s a dromedary?”
“Dunno, do I? It’s just something my da’ says. One time I asked him, and he didn’t know, either.”
“Come on, then,” I said. “The sooner we get to town, the sooner we’ll get out of this grit.” But I intended to make one stop before we got to town. I