“This is just crazy,” Gregg protested. “Why should anybody want to kill you?”
Her eyes locked fast on his. “Answer the question, Billy.”
“I …” The words were as difficult for Gregg as a declaration of love. “Do I need to answer it? Do you think I would run away?”
“No,” she said gently. “That’s all the answer I need.”
“I’m pleased about that.” Gregg’s voice was gruffer than he had meant it to be because Morna—who was half his age—kept straying in his mind from the role of fostered daughter to that of lover-wife, in spite of the facts that he scarcely knew her and that she was swollen with another man’s child. He was oppressed by the sinfulness of his thinking and by fears of making a fool of himself, yet he was deeply gratified by Morna’s trust. No man, he decided, no Prince, not even the Prince of Darkness himself, was going to harm or distress her if there was anything he could do to prevent it. While he busied himself with getting a fire going, Gregg made up his mind to check the condition of his Remington as soon as he could do so without being seen by Morna or Ruth. In the unlikely event that he might need it, he would also inspect the percussion caps and loads in the old Tranter he had taken from Wolf Caley.
As though divining the turn of his thoughts, Morna said, “Billy, have you a long gun? A rifle?”
He puffed out his cheeks. “Never owned one.”
“Why not? The longer barrel would allow the charge to impart more energy to the bullet and give you a more effective weapon.”
Gregg hunched his shoulders and refused to turn round, somehow offended at hearing Morna’s light clear voice using the terminology of the armourer. “Never wanted one,” he said.
“But why not?”
“I was never all that good with a rifle, even when my arms were all right, so it’s safer for me not to carry one. There’s no law to speak of in these parts, you see. If a man uses a revolver to kill another man he generally gets off with it, provided the man he shot was carrying a wheel gun too. Even if he didn’t get a chance to draw it, it’s classed as a fair fight. The same goes if they both have rifles, but I’m none too good with a rifle—so I’m not going to risk having somebody I crossed knock me over at two hundred yards and claim it was self-defence.” The speech was the longest Gregg had made in months, and he expressed his displeasure at having had to make it by reking the ashes in the fire basket with unnecessary vigour.
“I see,” Morna said thoughtfully behind him. “A simple duello variation. Are you accurate with a revolver?”
For a reply Gregg started slamming the renge’s cooking rings back into place.
Her voice assumed the imperious quality he had heard in it before. “Billy, are you accurate with a revolver?”
He wheeled on her, holding out his arms in such a way as to display the misshapen, knotted elbows. “I can point a six-shooter just like I always could, but it takes me so long to get it up there I wouldn’t be a match for a ten-year-old boy. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“There is no room for anger between us.” Morna stood up and took his outstretched hands in hers. She looked into his face with searching grey eyes. “You love me, don’t you, Billy?”
“Yes.” Gregg heard the word across a distance, knowing he could not have said it to a stranger.
“I’m proud that you do—now wait here.” Morna went into the bedroom, took something from an inner part of her cloak and returned with what at first seemed to be a small square of green glass. Gregg was surprised to see that it was as pliable as a piece of buckskin, and he watched with growing puzzlement as Morna pressed it to his left elbow. It was curiously warm against his skin and a tingling sensation seemed to pass right through the joint.
“Bent your arm,” Morna ordered, now as impersonal as an army surgeon.
Gregg did as he was told and was thrilled to find there was no pain, no grinding of arthritic glass needles. He was still flexing his left arm, speechless with disbelief, when Morna repeated the procedure with his right, achieving the same miraculous result. For the first time in two years, Gregg could bend his arms freely and without suffering in the process.
Morna smiled up at him. “How do they feel?”
“Like new—just like new.”
“They’ll never be as good or as strong as they were,” Morna said, “but I can promise you there’ll be no more pain.” She went back into the bedroom and emerged a moment later without the transparent green square. “Now, I think you said something about food.”
Gregg shook his head. “There’s something going on here. You’re not who you claim to be. Nobody can do the sort of …”
“I didn’t claim to be anybody,” Morna said quite sharply, with yet another of her swift changes of mood.
“Perhaps I should have said you’re not what you claim to be.”
“Don’t spoil things, Billy … I have nobody but you.” Morna sat down at the table and covered her face with her hands.
“I’m sorry.” Gregg was reaching out to touch her when, for the first time that morning, he noticed the curious gold ornament on her wrist. The imprisoned splinter of light was pointing east as usual, but it was brighter than it had been yesterday and was definitely flashing at a higher rate. Gregg, becoming attuned to strangeness, was unable to avoid the impression that it was pulsing out some kind of warning.
True to her word, Ruth arrived early in the day.
She had brought extra supplies, including a jug of broth which was wrapped in a travelling rug to retain its warmth. Gregg was glad to see her and grateful for the womanly efficiency with which she took control of his household, yet he was discomfited at finding himself made redundant. He spent more and more time in the shack, tending to his stills, and that bright moment in which there had been talk of love between Morna and him began to seem like a figment of his imagination. He was not deluding himself that she had referred to husband-and-wife love, perhaps not father-and-daughter love either, but the mere use of the word had, for a brief span, made his life less sterile, and he treasured it.
Ruth, in contrast, spoke of commodity prices and scarcities, dressmaking and local affairs—and, in the aura of normalcy which surrounded her, Gregg decided against mentioning the fantastic cure which Morna had wrought on his arms. He had a feeling she would refuse to believe, and—by robbing him of his faith—neutralize the magic or unwork the miracle. Ruth came to visit him in the shack in the afternoon, covering her nose with her handkerchief, but it was only to tell him privately that Wolf Caley was not expected to last out the day, and that Josh Portfield and his men were reported to be riding north from Sonora.
Gregg thanked her for the information and gave no sign of being affected by it, but at the first opportunity he smuggled his Remington and Caley’s Tranter out of the house and devoted some time to ensuring they were in a serviceable condition.
Portfield had always been an enigmatic figure in Gregg’s life. The big spread he owned had been passed on to him by his father, and it was profitable, therefore there was no need for Josh to engage in unlawful activities. He had, however, acquired a taste for violence during the war, and the troubled territories of Mexico lying only a short distance to the south seemed to draw him like a magnet. Every now and then he would take a bunch of men and go on a kind of motiveless unofficial ‘raid’ beyond the border. Portfield was far from being a mad dog, often leading a fairly normal existence for months on end, but he appeared to lack any conception of right and wrong.
For example, he genuinely believed he had been lenient with Gregg by merely ruining his arms, instead of killing him, for interrupting that fateful drinking spree. Afterwards, on meeting Gregg on the trail or in Copper Cross, he had always hailed him in the friendliest manner possible, apparently under the impression he had earned Gregg’s gratitude and respect. Each man, Gregg had discovered, lives in his own reality.