Chase (11 page)

“W
hat?”

“Grassed me.” Fraser's hand fell off his leg. His fingers splayed across the snow. “Grass.”

“Snow,” Phin said, and was surprised at the faint flash of amusement on Fraser's face. Oh. Grassed. The horse grassed me, people said; meaning, dumped me.

Phin stood up. He didn't know what to do or say, or think, or feel. He was aware of the broad silence around them, of being alone with Fraser; who lay where he had fallen, who hadn't moved all night; who was alive, but might not be much longer. Everything was suddenly much stranger. The air throbbed with it, and Phin was grateful
when he thought of the next things to do. Brush his coat off. Kick some snow over the steaming patch of vomit.

As he did that, he looked covertly at Fraser. Something was far wrong with the man. He lay so still. Could his neck be broken?

But then he wouldn't be alive, would he?

He asked, “How bad are you?”

Fraser closed his eyes, and seemed to be assessing.

“Hard to say.” He turned his eyes toward the stallion, vigorously gnawing tree bark. “Get your rope?”

Phin looked at it. It seemed impossibly high, though he'd climbed up and tied it only yesterday.

“Bad are you?” Fraser asked.

Phin shrugged.

“He can help.” Fraser pointed at the stallion with his eyes.

Phin shook his head. “No reins.” The way his throat felt, he grudged every word.

“Bring him,” Fraser said.

Phin got the stallion and led him to his master, wondering at his own docility. There was no need to obey the helpless Fraser, but a thin clear oil seemed to flow through his head, and he did what he was told, waiting to see when he would come to himself again.

“Get on.”

Phin moved toward the stirrup. The stallion started to swing away. “Ho,” Fraser said softly.

The stallion froze. Phin crawled up into the saddle.

“Use your knees,” Fraser said. He made a kissing sound to the horse, who moved forward. Phin pushed with his right knee, pointing the stallion toward one of the trees his rope was tied to. When he was under it, Fraser said, “Ho.”

Phin could reach the rope easily now. He untied it and, winding as he went, pulled himself and the horse under him back toward the other tree.

He finished coiling the rope, and swung the stallion around. It was easy when you knew the trick of it. He looked down at Fraser. The man's eyes met his, making Phin think of Engelbreit.

With reason. Down there on the snow, Fraser looked up at a young enemy who suddenly had everything; a horse between his knees and a rope to make reins with; money in his pocket; a gun, doubtless, in the saddlebags. A man complete. Many a man had started life with less.

And what kind of a face did Fraser see? The last time Phin had looked in a mirror, he'd seen a lank and dreamy boy. He didn't think that boy was there now. What was there called forth fearlessness in a man like Fraser. That meant Phin was very dangerous indeed.

A strange exhilaration raced in his veins. He stroked the sleek arched neck in front of him. But his eyes stayed locked with Fraser's.

Who'd die if Phin left. Maybe he would anyway, but certainly he'd die left alone.

And Phin could ride away. He had that freedom; freedom to do wrong. He might pay for it later—probably he would—but at the moment nothing bound him.

He took in the awkward way Fraser lay, the shine of sweat on his skin. A pearly ray of sun penetrated the trees. Snow slid off a branch with a heavy sound; the leaves underneath gleamed wet and golden.

Had the horse stirred at that moment, had he taken a step in any direction, Phin might have nudged him in the ribs and ridden on. The balance quivered within him. It could tip either way.

The horse lowered his head, and heaved a sigh of boredom that rocked the saddle. The ordinary, human sound drew Fraser's gaze away from Phin's for a second, brought a flickering smile to his face.

“Aye, lad,” he said. “Right enough.”

Phin felt the pain in his throat again, and the shiver of fever on his skin. The exhilaration was still in him, and an easy-heartedness. Decisionless—after all, there was no
decision to make—he stepped down from the saddle, thinking, A man complete. He hadn't been. He'd only thought so. But it became true the moment his foot touched ground.

He put the rope around the stallion's neck to hold him. “How do we do this?”

Fraser's eyes widened. He seemed to look through Phin at something far off. “Eat,” he said after a bit. “Saddlebags.”

Phin opened the nearest one. His old canvas jacket was stuffed in the top. That was what Fraser held under the stallion's nose, back by the abandoned house. It seemed small. He wondered if it had really fit him.

Under it was a leather pouch like an envelope, fastened with a thong, that contained about twenty pemmican cakes. They gave off a rich meat-and-berry smell.

Phin's stomach wrung as if it were eating itself. He snatched a cake and twisted off a bite. It was firm and resistant, rich with fat and fruit. He turned with one for Fraser.

“Him first.”

“But—” Meat? The horse ate meat?

He held out a pemmican cake on the flat of his palm. The stallion blew a long warm breath over it, and with a pinched, peevish expression engulfed it. Phin got another cake for Fraser.

“Can you sit up?”

“I'd better. Be able to.” Fraser braced his hands in the snow, and bent his knees in a slow vague way, as if unsure where they were. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He pushed, turning pale, and inched slightly up the tree trunk. Phin stuffed his pemmican cake into his mouth and reached under the man's arm to help.

An iron hand siezed his wrist. Fraser's eyes glared into his. “Don't. Touch. Me!”

This close, Phin smelled blood, saw the dark crust on the breast of Fraser's coat. He nodded.

Fraser forced himself up another inch, a third, until he was more or less sitting. He was greenish, the lines deep-carved around his eyes. Phin put a pemmican cake into his slack hand. Fraser didn't want the food; Phin could see that. This was an effort of will and intelligence. Strength was needed; therefore eat.

Phin could already feel the strength himself. He took another cake. The stallion refused a second and gnawed bark above Fraser's head. Moving to stay close to the animal, Phin saw in the snow near Fraser's right hand a long and wickedly curved bowie knife.

Had he turned and ridden away, would he have gotten that between the shoulder blades?

He looked up from it, and met Fraser's amused eyes. “Nay,” Fraser said, barely above a whisper. “I had other plans for it, lad.”

Alone and starving in the snow; you could end it. One of the things you could do with a knife. Phin had kept himself from knowing that in his own dark hours.

“Cut a stick.” Fraser made a circle with thumb and forefinger, showing Phin the diameter.

Phin handed him the horse's rope, picked up the bowie knife, and stepped away. There were branches all around and no need to go far, but he wanted to stand back from Fraser a moment. The smell of blood was heavy in his nostrils. He didn't understand how there could be blood, didn't understand Fraser's hurts.

He scooped a handful of snow and swallowed it. The cold eased his throat a little. He looked back at the man and horse beneath the tree. Fraser'd caught him in a way neither of them had expected. Or he had caught Fraser. However it worked out, they were in this together now. Phin squared his aching shoulders under the big coat, squeezed a hard lozenge of snow in his palm to suck, and cut a branch.

“Short,” Fraser said when he brought it back. He spread his hand, showing how long. “In my mouth.” Phin looked a question, and Fraser looked pain back at him. Phin
understood; you bit a bullet, or a knife blade, or a stick, to keep from screaming.

Screaming would scare the horse.

The stick shook in his hand as he brought it to Fraser's mouth. Fraser had something to say first.

“Bring him. I'll stand. Put my…foot in the stirrup.”

Now Fraser was ready. Phin put the stick between his teeth and he crunched it.

Phin took the stallion's rope and led him closer. Fraser reached up, his mouth straining around the stick, and began hand-over-handing up the stirrup leather. So slowly. Such a long gap between one hand reaching and the next reaching above it, feeling for the leather as if blindly. A sort of growl came out of Fraser. The stallion put his head high and pinned his ears, trampling the snow.

“Ho,” Phin said. “Ho!” The horse quivered to stillness.

Fraser seized the horn and collapsed against the saddle. Sweat streamed into his beard. His breath whistled. The stallion's skin shuddered, and Phin stroked him. “Shh. Shh.”

Finally Fraser lifted his head a quarter inch and nodded. Phin bent to his next task.

Fraser wore tall, slippery boots. His leg was heavy; Phin struggled to keep hold and lift it and stab his foot at the stirrup while the stallion minced up and down in place,
his breath fluttering in his nostrils at this strangeness.

“Ho!” Phin gasped. Fraser's other leg collapsed for a moment, but his hands were clamped around the saddle horn and held him upright. Foot in stirrup now; a dangerous in-between moment should the stallion spook.

“Uh,” Fraser said.

It was either a grunt of pain or a command.
Push
, probably. Phin put a shoulder to Fraser's backside and shoved with all his strength. Fraser slithered loosely into the saddle and fell forward on the stallion's neck.

His face had gone gray. He spit out the stick. It fell to the snow next to the stallion's front hooves, carrying a spray of blood dark as ripe berries.

“Tie me.”

“Don't we need reins?”

Fraser just looked at him.

Phin loosed the rope from the stallion's neck, and wound it around Fraser and the saddle horn. He wasn't sure of the best way to do this, but the only help Fraser offered was a whispered “Ho,” whenever the stallion moved.

When he had Fraser secured to the saddle, Phin went to the stallion's head and took the stubs of reins.

“No.” Fraser's voice was hoarse. “He'll take us.”

Where? Phin didn't ask. His throat hurt too much, and he'd find out soon enough.

“Grab his tail,” Fraser said.

It wasn't an order Phin wanted to obey. The stallion stood high-headed, tense, and Phin remembered the kicks like pistol shots, the boards of the stall ringing.

“Tail,” Fraser said.

Reluctantly Phin stepped behind the stallion and wrapped the luxuriant black hair around his hands and wrists. The powerful haunches were squarely in front of him. If the stallion kicked, he was dead.

“A'righ'?”

“Yes,” Phin croaked.

Fraser made the kissing sound and the stallion started walking.

The sky was crisp and deeply blue. The snow sparkled with tiny lights—blue, green, red—and slid moistly off branches to show the bright fall leaves. Phin sweated in the cold fresh air. It all felt like fever—fever heat, fever images.

But it was real, and among the realest things were the stallion's fresh tracks in front of him; the deep triangular bite of the frog and the snow melted as well as compressed, as if the horse came hot from the underworld.

They traveled a long time. Phin's shoulders ached. His
wrists grew numb. Fraser was completely silent. Phin had no idea if he was conscious, or even alive. He was just a dark lump up there in the saddle, no help at all.

The stallion stopped. Phin stumbled into his haunches and he clamped his tail down, but didn't kick. Phin trudged up to his head to see what the matter was.

The graveyard. They had reached the back wall of the graveyard.

Before the stallion had jumped it. He couldn't now, with Fraser tied on like a sack of meal. Uphill Phin saw the farm buildings. He was walled away from them, would have to search for a barway—

A sound above him, not noticeably human, made him turn. Fraser's eyes were open. “Go,” he whispered. “Gate. I'll jump.”

Phin didn't have the strength to argue. He climbed over the wall and stumbled between snow-capped stones to the roadside gateway. There was no actual gate, just an opening, so he stood in the middle to block it.

Beyond the far wall, the stallion's head rose. The knife-shaped ears flattened, and he circled once. Then the hoofbeats came in a muffled drumming. The stallion cantered toward the wall with Fraser hunched over his shoulder. He soared across and landed skidding on the snow, snaking his
head in triumph. Phin spread his arms wide as the stallion cantered toward him. “Ho,” he croaked.

The horse dodged, blasting an excited snort. Fraser hung limp in the saddle. “Easy,” Phin said. He reached for more nuts, but the coat pockets were empty.

The stallion stopped near Randal Collins's grave, turning to gaze at the wide pasture beyond the wall. He could so easily be away, carrying his helpless master with him.

Phin reached into his pants pockets. Tobacco. Horses and mules loved tobacco. He took out Dennis's knife and cut Jimmy's tobacco in half, releasing a richer scent. The stallion looked his way, nostrils flaring. His eyes brightened, and he came to Phin.

Phin gave him half the tobacco, then took the rein stubs and looked up at Fraser.

Unconcious, he seemed younger, his eyelashes dark and beaded with drops of melting snow. His slack hands still embraced the saddle horn. There was a fresh slick of blood on his coat. Wherever he'd meant for them to go, there was no instruction from him now.

Phin turned uphill, twisting his free hand into the stallion's mane for support. He walked toward the only sound in this whole bright morning, an irregular thump and crack, and came into the farmyard where Abby was splitting kindling.