It was a brief passing irrationality and he had no time to dwell on it. Mrs. Lansford was just getting herself thawed out and beginning to answer questions coherently when they had heard the faint sounds of a man shouting. She had got up quickly and left the shelter before any of them had time to move. Watchman had gone after her; she had for some reason picked up the reins of her horse and was leading it along with her, and Watchman only just caught up to her when she found Walker and began to slap his face to stop his hysterical shouting.
Now they had Walker bundled into the stinking carcass and Vickers was talking to the woman in his methodically polite FBI voice: “Now Mrs. Lansford if you don’t mind I’d like you to tell us everything you can about those four men up there.”
The woman began to talk and Watchman listened with close attention. A corner of his mind marveled at her resilience; mostly he just absorbed her words, forming a picture of the four men. The images of two of them were only vague outlines-the older man, Hanratty, and the one called Burt; but she had reacted sharply to the one they called only “Steve” and the other one, “Major.” From the information Washington had sent, Vickers supplied their names: Baraclough, Hargit. When Mrs. Lansford talked about those two men there was a change in her voice; the mannerisms of country drawl fell away, the syllables tightened up. These men had frightened her: frightened her in a different way from the kidnaping itself. When you were abducted your fear was likely to be self-focused- What’s to become of me? — and Mrs. Lansford had reacted that way but in time she had worked up another kind of fear, induced by Hargit’s awful predatory indifference and Baraclough’s sadistic malice, and she was not surprised when she learned that the police deputy had been left dead in her house: she recalled that Baraclough had been the last one to leave the house and remembered the look of satisfaction on Baraclough’s strange face.
After a while Vickers’ voice ran down with fatigue. They fed themselves and Watchman checked the pilot’s condition-the man was dead asleep, almost comatose in his rancid cocoon-and they wrapped up in a huddled knot and slept.
3
Watchman came awake fully and instantly. It was still night-dark and the wind still howled; for a moment he had trouble deciding what had disturbed him but then he listened to the wind again and discovered that its tone had changed.
Its direction had shifted around and the pitch of it had dropped; the air in the lean-to had a keen cold edge but it didn’t whip at him as it had before. As near as he could judge, it was coming up from the southwest now and that meant they were on the trailing edge of the storm’s circular flow: the blizzard was moving on east.
He had to adjust his blankets and peel back several layers of sleeve cuffs to see the luminous face of his watch. Just past five o’clock in the morning.
He turned, disturbing Vickers; heard Vickers grunt in his sleep and saw a shadowy figure sitting up in the mouth of the lean-to, wreathed in blankets and looking like one of those old photographs of Plains Indians sitting outside their tepees. That was Buck Stevens, keeping watch on the pilot.
Watchman touched him on the shoulder and went past to have a look at Walker. Then he began to dig around in the snow for firewood.
It took a long time to gather enough wood. It was quite wet but he built the fire on top of a burning Sterno can and that dried it out sufficiently for it to catch. He built it close against the rock face of the cliff, under the corner of the lean-to, and the wind whipped up the flames and carried the smoke away up the cliff.
Vickers and Mrs. Lansford moved close to the fire and Watchman lifted back the flap of horsehide over Keith Walker. The hide had frozen and it cracked when he bent it back. The embryonic figure moved: blinked and muttered. Stevens brought an aluminum cup of coffee and they got it inside the pilot. Walker’s face, when they brought him to the fire, was bloodless and slack, and his jerky rictus smile flashed on and off-the nervous reaction of spasmed relief, the smile of a survivor who had met death.
Mrs. Lansford gave him a grave look. “How do you feel?”
“All,” Walker said, and had to clear his throat. “All right. Like a cheap watch somebody forgot to wind up.” He shrank back against the heated rock as if to remove his offensiveness from the rest of them: the smell of dead flesh clung to his hair and clothes. “I guess I was pretty far gone.”
Vickers said, “You’re in bad trouble, Walker.”
Mrs. Lansford’s face came around fast. “For God’s sake.” She went back to Walker and her voice changed: “Do you think you can eat?”
“I’d like to try. I don’t know if I can hold it down.” His eyes were full of fear, darting from face to face, ready to flinch.
Vickers said, “Are you ready to talk?” in a no-nonsense voice.
Mrs. Lansford was building a plate for him and Watchman said, “Let the man eat something.”
“We haven’t got a whole lot of time, Trooper.” Vickers swallowed coffee and addressed himself to the pilot. “It may make a difference to the prosecution if I can tell them you came forward voluntarily and told the whole story to the FBI. But you’re not required to make any statement in the absence of your attorney and you-”
“Never mind the recitation. I know my rights.”
“Then you’ve been through this before?”
Walker had turned sullen. “Nuts. I look at television.” Mrs. Lansford got up to take him his food and stayed there beside him, making a point of it, showing Vickers her defiance.
Walker ate slowly with the concentration of a monk attending his breviary. Watchman thought it was because Walker was in no frame of mind to take anything for granted just now: the feel and sight and taste of each morsel was reassurance that he was alive.
Vickers said, “You have information we need, Walker. There are four men up there-how are they armed? What are their plans?”
“I don’t know-I’m not sure. Things are screwed up, you know?”
“I won’t accept that for an answer.”
“You know what it’s like when you wake up and you know you’ve had a bad dream but you can’t remember the details?”
It had a counterfeit sound but Watchman thought it was probably true; you didn’t always remember clearly things that happened in panic. Walker said, “I’m just not thinking straight. It’s not that I’m trying to hide anthing.” He was no longer sullen; he wasn’t angry at all. His expression had the false serenity of withdrawal.
Vickers said, “Lansford said they’d taken some rifles. Are they all armed with rifles?”
“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.”
Mrs. Lansford’s eyes flashed. “Can’t you leave him alone?”
“Don’t waste your pity on this man, Mrs. Lansford.”
“He saved my life.”
“If it hadn’t been for him and his friends your life wouldn’t have needed saving.” Vickers had a nice neat way of drawing lines and putting people on one side or the other. Watchman saw the effect it had on Walker: it closed him up and he quit talking.
Vickers had a veneer of competent sophistication but underneath he was clumsy, insensitive. He let arrogance take the place of understanding. It wasn’t hard to guess the kind of mistake he must have made that had got him exiled to the boondocks; it was a wonder the Bureau had kept him on at all.