His heart was going like a hammer, altitude and panic balled up together in his chest. Air came so short his vision went black at the edges. Couldn’t get a breath. Couldn’t do anything but hold on to Cloud, unsure where his feet were, how close they were to a fatal fall.
Harper was sending <anger. Gun firing.>
Then Harper said, with absolute coldness, from where he was standing, between them and his own horse—“You keep that horse in line, kid. You hear me. You keep your damn noise down, and you keep that horse quiet or I’ll shoot him. No warning next time. If he starts a fight I’ll shoot him.”
Cloud was mad enough to go at Harper’s throat—Danny felt the muscles bunch, and he leaned against Cloud’s chest, got a hand on his nose and pressed on the nostrils the way a senior rider had told him was a last-ditch way to get a horse’s attention. Air was short enough as was—he shorted Cloud what there was despite Cloud’s instinctive duck of the head, kept a hold so Cloud had to drag him or listen, and, panting and shaking, <Danny scared,> he sent with no effort at all. <Cloud stopping. Cloud standing with Danny— edge of road. Rocks below. Edge of road, Cloud standing still!>
Cloud quieted, slowly, and Danny let up the pressure on his nose. Cloud felt <pain> at his shoulder—the skin was torn there, black hide glistening with blood, and Danny hugged him and got him to stand still. He was shaking so he could hardly get his own breath. He believed <Harper shooting. Nighthorse falling in rocks. Narrow road. Men with guns.> Nighthorses didn’t do well with future ideas. <Men shooting> hit Cloud’s mind and meant a fight, Danny began to figure that, and held on to a fistful of mane with all the shaky strength and breath he had.
“No. No, Cloud. Quiet down. Quiet.” The rest of the party started on their way, <men walking with the horses. Cloud walking with Danny, quiet clouds, white, peaceful clouds… >
Jonas had tried to tell him he was being a fool. He hadn’t listened. He wasn’t doing things right; at some basic level he wasn’t doing what the other riders did. <Cloud in danger.>
Cloud believed him, and threw his head and snorted, looking for <men with guns. Wanting fight, wanting kill—>
Harper looked back at them, and Danny pressed his hand hard on Cloud’s nose, saying aloud, “Quiet, quiet,” because he couldn’t think straight through his panic.
Everybody else had their horses quiet. They were scum, but they got their horses quieted down. It was just him and Cloud that stayed on the edge of violence. He didn’t know why. He wanted to know, but Cloud couldn’t tell him. Cloud was barely willing to stay with him.
“Come on,” he pleaded with Cloud. <Cloud with ears up. Cloud cheerful.>
Not likely.
He carefully let go of Cloud’s nose, wanting <Cloud walking quietly, easily beside Danny.> He walked, kept imaging it, tried to remember <Jonas talking to him.>
<Jonas talking about elbows and knees.> That was when you were riding. That wasn’t any good, and he couldn’t remember the rest of it.
He tried to slow his breathing despite the thin air. He tried not to shake. That was harder. But Cloud didn’t do anything else rash, at least—Cloud had calmed enough the bitten spot was hurting, one of those spots Cloud couldn’t reach to lick, so Danny got into his pack while he walked and found the drying-powder, took his glove off long enough to pat a little onto Cloud’s hide.
It made a white and red spot on Cloud’s shoulder and, dammit, it was going to scar. It made him <mad.>
And Cloud got upset.
Shut up, he said to himself then, desperately wanting <quiet.> Jonas had said it was his fault Cloud got upset. And he’d just done it; he’d just set Cloud off.
So he concentrated on being quiet, on <Cloud walking quietly. Jonas saying, <Elbows not moving. Knees quiet. No extra motions.>
Hard to do when you were walking with a batch of scum, but he could, he had to…
Quig didn’t react. It was stupid of him: he had to stop thinking thoughts like that—but Quig didn’t hear him: the horses up ahead were noisy in the ambient, still <mad,> and Cloud’s contribution was all <Danny on road, Danny upset… >
He walked with his hand on Cloud’s shoulder, fervently thinking <spring grass, evergreens. Nice-smelling evergreens> and then not touching Cloud at all, trying to hold him just by thinking of trees.
Their own share of the ambient stayed quiet, Cloud just thinking about <road ahead, nighthorses, strangers,> and Danny: <evergreens.>
Then: <Danny being quiet. Danny’s body walking, no more motion than walking needed, just enough motion, no more, every step quiet. No elbows. No bad-boy stuff, not Shamesey street-stuff. Just walking on gravel road. Machine shop: Papa’s grease-stained fingers lining up the gears of a machine, no wobble, no play, everything right in line and smooth, the way papa knew it had to go. Efficient, papa saying of an engine. No work but what produces power. Kitchen: mama’s brushwork on a chair arm, laying down paint, the outermost few hairs on the brush making the line right down the edge of the design, absolutely calm and sure in mama’s thin fingers. One long stroke. Mama’s little finger, bracing the whole hand so the brush could only stroke so far at a time, mama’s hand knowing just exactly where to touch to make the next stroke. Papa’s hand turning a set-screw, feeling exactly how far.
He couldn’t do what mama’s fingers did. He couldn’t feel the set-point that papa felt.
<Papa saying, “You’re rushing it. Feel the wear-point. Listen to the motor. Listen to the motor.” Papa hitting his ear, enough to sting. “Listen, Danny. Hear it? Hear it change?”>
He hadn’t heard it then. He’d lied and said yes. But he listened instead of talking. That was the best he could do, then.
<Jonas saying, “You keep him agitated. Don’t twitch.”>
Burn got him there, bit by slow bit—Burn even managed not to drop him in the mud, passing by the isolated brush as the land began to look healthier, higher up, westward along the road: the wind blew too strong and too cold for open country, even with the slicker and a dry blanket to break the cold. Guil held out, much as he longed just to stop and rest and try an open-country camp; he told himself he could hang on, he could make it, he could last just another hour on Burn’s back—Burn hadn’t complained yet of carrying him, and Burn would let him know when he’d become a load.
Then the topping of a hill showed them not just scattered brush but real trees where the rougher ground began and where the road began to rise. Even Burn thought he could hold out longer, for <big fire> and <bacon> and <sweet grass.>
Burn got him to a place deep in the dripping shadow of evergreens, next a stand of quakesilvers and the edge of the wood where redleaf grew, gone to hollow, pithy stems in autumn, the seedpods all scattered.
Those stalks were what he wanted. He slid down, sat down, unplanned, in a hard landing on his backside on the needle-carpet, with the rifle and all the gear. It sent a jolt from his tailbone to the top of his skull and down to his eyes, and blinded him for a moment.
Unfair, he thought. The pain was entirely unfair, after all the rest. But he was here, he’d seen what he needed to see, even if it took a moment for his eyes to clear and bear the daylight again. He sat still, tucked up into a huddle of knees and slicker and pack, the rifle tucked up with him, and imaged, amid the pain, <redleaf stalks, Burn bringing redleaf stalks,> which he could have gotten up and done, as soon as his head cleared, which might happen in a while—but, hell, Burn could have <bacon> soon. There’d be <fire in the redleaf stalks.> Burn could do it. <Wonderful horse. Beautiful horse bringing redleaf stalks to Guil.>