But Burn was as confused as he was by the silence, and thought instead, <dead things in village.>
And the ambient was cold. So cold and still.
Then— wasn’t, quite.
<Riders,> he said to himself, spirits lifting. Somebody else was out in the hills, on the trail—or maybe in Tarmin itself, where he’d promised Burn they’d come by nightfall.
But he still found himself shying off from the thought. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’tbe sure. The ambient, vague and strange and silent as it generally was, began to conjure thoughts of a warm fire already made, and a companyof riders. Too good to be true.
It didn’t make sense with what he’d seen, evidence of dead riders—at least of a dead horse.
But riders might well be out hunting the rogue. Riders out of Tarmin village might be looking for it—and a bunch of them, in this storm, might be sitting safe behind Tarmin walls, trying to beacon him in through the whiteout of the blizzard, sensing a sane rider and a sane horse, and not the threat the rogue posed.
Maybe Cassivey had even done what he promised and called up to Tarmin to warn the villages. Even Shamesey might have. One lowland agency surely could have had the basic common sense to phone a warning of what the villages up here faced; and if that was the case, even if there’d been trouble here, then he could hope he came welcome, at a fire he didn’t have to build, and a sane barrier between him and the dark.
He wantedthat. He was in one hell of a fix if Tarmin was shut to him — or lost.
He was spooked, was all. He’d spooked badly at Shamesey gates, and he hadn’t any patience at all with himself — he couldn’t afford it in the Wild, with the snow coming down in what was unquestionably now a full-scale, high-country blizzard — and a rogue somewhere in the question. Damned sure that there was trouble on the mountain, but he’dbetter sound sane to Tarmin riders, or they wouldn’t let him in. They’d leave him outside till they could get sober sense out of him, and that risked Burn. Calm down, he said to himself. Calm waydown.
A couple more rises and falls of the road, a bending against the flank of the mountain ridge — and he could smell wood smoke in good earnest. It wasn’t at all as noisy as he thought a village Tarmin’s size should be — but it was all right, he said to himself: the heavy fall of snow and maybe a bad night last night could have sent a lot of the village to bed early, and left the rider camp on watch.
Burn saw <horses.> Burn was picking up something that came through to him as a liveliness in the otherwise silent ambient.
Burn called out suddenly, that sharp, high challenge to another horse that shook Burn’s sides, and there was a <darkness, instantly turning toward them,> instantly in the ambient as Burn imaged <Burn and Guil.>
Something came back to him — a familiar echo, he wasn’t sure from where or when, but he’d known that feeling. Burn said <shifty-image horse> and answered it <fire, dark, and pain.>
A shot came off the rocks near him, ricocheted and whined. Burn jumped in utter startlement and a second shot splintered bark off an evergreen.
Instant, too, the image that came back, <shifting shadows, changing shapes, > <foam on water> and <ice-glisten.>
Damn, he knewthose horses.
Jonas. Luke.
Hawley.
He didn’t consciously think. It hit his gut and it hit Burn’s simultaneously, and Burn slid immediately into fighting mode, ready to settle accounts.
“<No!>” Guil sent, and Burn shied away from the challenge— imaged < gun!> and jumped into a run as a gunshot echoed off the mountain and shattered bark right next to them. They were at the village gates—snow-hazed, shadows of men and horses were there. It was <Jonas and Shadow.>
Burn took him past. He ducked down and hung on, trusting Burn to get them clear.
“ Guil!” someone yelled, far behind him. “Guil, damn your stupid hide!”
He didn’t look back. He rode low and Burn ran hellbent for as much distance as he could put between them and ambush—raced panting and reckless through the deep white of the road.
Signal shots, had been Danny’s first thought when he heard the gunfire—
He’d run out onto the porch, and then—then heard what sounded like an exchange of fire.
<Harper! > he thought.
Harper. Nobody else. Harper was up here on the mountain for one reason, and he hadn’t given up his hunt—it wasStuart; and it was Harper, too.
“What’s wrong?” Carlo and Randy were on his heels, coatless as he was as he ran down the street, rifle in hand, Cloud running along with him, and past him.
But he couldn’t answer, he was hearing <Jonas mad,> he was hearing <Jonas on Shadow,> taking off into the blizzard, he was hearing <Luke chasing him> and <Hawley holding Luke> while <horses > were headed for <fight.>
“Damn,” he said, and spun about and yelled at Carlo: “Get your coats. Get mycoat! Come on!” He could see <Cloud getting into it.> Cloud wasinto it, <wanting fight> because there was <fight> in the air, and Danny didn’t wait for coats or the boys or a second, reasoned thought. He put on a burst of speed with the cold air burning his lungs, the pistol trying to escape its holster, and the snow hitting his eyes so he couldn’t see. The street was a straight line—if he stumbled over things in the snow he didn’t want to know what they were. He ran until he was close enough for Cloud to have to recognize he was in the situation. He wanted < Cloud!> loud and clear.
Luke and Hawley were mounting up to ride out. Right in the gateway he grabbed Cloud first by the mane to stop him from going out with the other two, then got a hand against Cloud’s chest and shoved him back.
“Dammit!” he yelled at Luke and Hawley. He meant two senior fools going out into the whiteout and leaving the gates open on him and two village kids. He was mad. He wanted <hands on them.> He wanted <beating hell out them.> They had no right, dammit. Harper was out there in the whiteout. Harper was near the village for all he knew.
But he couldn’t catch them. He couldn’t leave the boys.
The two boys came running up out of breath, carrying their coats, and his, and rifles. He was too hot right now to need a coat, but he put it on anyway, put on his scarf and hat that the boys had brought, and took the rifle they handed him. Cloud was fidgeting back and forth, wanting <chase horses,> but his rider wasn’t about to go off into the whiteout to find a pack of double-crossing sons of bitches.
Stuart—God knew what Stuart thought.
Or what kind of line he’dfallen for from Jonas.
Stuart’s friends. He couldn’t swear it wasn’t Jonas who’d fired.
“Our riders,” Carlo panted, <scared,> “didn’t come back.”
“I know, I know.” He wanted <gate shut. Jonas and Luke and Hawley begging to be let in again.>
Then he had a cold, clear impression they weren’t alone. <Horses, to the left,> and before he could say a word, he knew it was <Hallanslakers.> Cloud went on guard facing that direction, projecting <fight> and <shooting guns.>
What came back was <Harper and Quig> and what came shadowlike out of the blowing white right in front of them was two riders coming to the gate.
<Shutting gates! > Danny sent, and the boys moved while he put a round in the chamber and lifted the rifle to his shoulder, shaking in the knees, but not in the steadiness of his aim, which was right for center of the shorter one he mentally labeled <Harper.>