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and it grabs the men . . . it grabs the men and pulls them to pieces with its great long claws.” Tears began to escape his closed lids and roll down
his cheeks. “The last one was Elrod. He ran for the back door . . . where the woodpile is just outside, ye ken . . . and when he understood it would
have him before he could open the door and dash out, he turned around to fight. He had his knife. He went to stab it. . . .”
Slowly, as if underwater, the boy’s right hand rose from his lap. It was curled into a fist. He made a stabbing motion with it.
“The bear grabbed his arm and tore it off his shoulder. Elrod screamed. He sounded like a horse I saw one time, after it stepped in a gompa hole
and broke its leg. The thing . . . it hit Elrod in the face with ’is own arm. The blood flew. There was gristle that flapped and wound around the skin like
strings. Elrod fell against the door and started to slide down. The bear grabbed him and lifted him up and bit into his neck and there was a
sound . . . mister, it bit Elrod’s head right off his neck. I want to wake up now. Please.”
“Soon. What did you do then?”
“I ran. I meant to go to the big house, but sai Jefferson . . . he . . . he . . .”
“He what?”
“He shot at me! I don’t think he meant to. I think he just saw me out of the corner of his eye and thought . . . I heard the bullet go by me. Wishhh!
That’s how close it was. So I ran for the corral instead. I went between the poles. While I was crossing, I heard two more shots. Then there was more
screaming. I didn’t look to see, but I knew it was sai Jefferson screaming that time.”
This part we knew from the tracks and leavings: how the thing had come charging out of the bunkhouse, how it had grabbed away the four-shot
pistol and bent the barrel, how it had unzipped the rancher’s guts and thrown him into the bunkhouse with his proddies. The shot Jefferson had
thrown at Young Bill had saved the boy’s life. If not for that, he would have run straight to the big house and been slaughtered with the Jefferson
womenfolk.
“You go into the old hostelry where we found you.”
“Aye, so I do. And hide under the tack. But then I hear it . . . coming.”
He had gone back to the now way of remembering, and his words came more slowly. They were broken by bursts of weeping. I knew it was
hurting him, remembering terrible things always hurts, but I pressed on. I had to, for what happened in that abandoned hostelry was the important
part, and Young Bill was the only one who had been there. Twice he tried to come back to the then way of remembering, the ago. This was a sign
that he was trying to struggle free of his trance, so I took him deeper. In the end I got it all.
The terror he’d felt as the grunting, snuffling thing approached. The way the sounds had changed, blurring into the snarls of a cat. Once it had
roared, Young Bill said, and when he heard that sound, he’d let loose water in his trousers. He hadn’t been able to hold it. He waited for the cat to
come in, knowing it would scent him where he lay—from the urine—only the cat didn’t. There was silence . . . silence . . . and then more screaming.
“At first it’s the cat screaming, then it changes into a human screaming. High to begin with, it’s like a woman, but then it starts to go down until it’s
a man. It screams and screams. It makes me want to scream. I thought—”
“Think,” I said. “You think, Bill, because it’s happening now. Only I’m here to protect you. My guns are drawn.”
“I think my head will split open. Then it stops . . . and it comes in.”
“It walks up the middle to the other door, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “Not walks. Shuffles. Staggers. Like it’s hurt. It goes right past me. He. Now it’s he. He almost falls down, but grabs one of the
stall doors and stays up. Then he goes on. He goes on a little better now.”
“Stronger?”
“Aye.”
“Do you see his face?” I thought I already knew the answer to that.
“No, only his feet, through the tack. The moon’s up, and I see them very well.”
Perhaps so, but we wouldn’t be identifying the skin-man from his feet, I felt quite sure. I opened my mouth, ready to start bringing him up from his
trance, when he spoke again.
“There’s a ring around one of his ankles.”
I leaned forward, as if he could see me . . . and if he was deep enough, mayhap he could, even with his eyes closed. “What kind of ring? Was it
metal, like a manacle?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Like a bridle-ring? You know, a hoss-clinkum?”
“No, no. Like on Elrod’s arm, but that’s a picture of a nekkid woman, and you can hardly make it out nummore.”
“Bill, are you talking about a tattoo?”
In his trance, the boy smiled. “Aye, that’s the word. But this one wasn’t a picture, just a blue ring around his ankle. A blue ring in his skin.”
I thought, We have you. You don’t know it yet, sai skin-man, but we have you.
“Mister, can I wake up now? I want to wake up.”
“Is there anything else?”
“The white mark?” He seemed to be asking himself.
“What white mark?”
He shook his head slowly from side to side, and I decided to let it go. He’d had enough.
“Come to the sound of my voice. As you come, you’ll leave everything that happened last night behind, because it’s over. Come, Bill. Come now.”
“I’m coming.” His eyes rolled back and forth behind his closed lids.
“You’re safe. Everything that happened at the ranch is ago. Isn’t it?”
“Yes . . .”
“Where are we?”
“On Debaria high road. We’re going to town. I ain’t been there but once. My da’ bought me candy.”
“I’ll buy you some, too,” I said, “for you’ve done well, Young Bill of the Jefferson. Now open your eyes.”
He did, but at first he only looked through me. Then his eyes cleared and he gave an uncertain smile. “I fell asleep.”
“You did. And now we should push for town before the wind grows too strong. Can you do that, Bill?”
“Aye,” he said, and as he got up he added, “I was dreaming of candy.”
* * *
The two not-so-good deputies were in the sheriff’s office when we got there, one of them—a fat fellow wearing a tall black hat with a gaudy
rattlesnake band—taking his ease behind Peavy’s desk. He eyed the guns I was wearing and got up in a hurry.
“You’re the gunslinger, ain’tcha?” he said. “Well-met, well-met, we both say so. Where’s t’other one?”
I escorted Young Bill through the archway and into the jail without answering. The boy looked at the cells with interest but no fear. The drunk, Salty