Shepherd Blaine of Fishhook.
And you are going?
Up to South Dakota.
In this truck?
And with this man, said Blaine. I want him left alone.
He took a shot at us. He hit Marie.
Not bad, said Marie. Just a scratch is all.
He’s a frightened man, said Blaine. He’s using silver shot.
He sensed the merriment of them at the thought of silver shot.
And caught the weirdness of the situation, the moonlit night and the deserted road, the car slewed across the highway, the lonely wind that moaned across the prairie, and the two of them, he and Riley, encircled, not by Sioux nor by Comanche nor by Blackfeet, but by a ring of paranormal teen-agers out on a midnight lark.
And who was there to blame or censure them? he asked himself. If in this small action of defiance they found some measure of self-assertion in their hunted lives, if in this manner they snatched at something resembling human dignity, it was then no more than a very human action and not to be condemned.
He studied the faces, the ones that he could see, indistinct in the moon-and-headlamp-light, and there was indecision in them — faces on hair trigger.
From the cab still came the moaning of a man in mental agony.
Then: Fishhook? (The towered buildings on the hill, the acre upon acre of them, massive, majestic, inspiring . . .)
That is right, said Blaine.
A girl moved out of the huddled group and walked close to Blaine. She held out her hand.
Friend, she said. We had not expected one. All of us are sorry that we troubled you.
Blaine put out his hand and felt the firm, strong pressure of young fingers.
We do not often find someone on the road at night, said another one.
Just having fun, another said. There’s little chance for fun.
I know how little chance, said Blaine. I’ve seen how little chance.
We halloween, still another said.
Halloween? Oh, yes, I see. (A fist banging on a closed shutter, a garden gate hanging in a tree, a hex sign upside down.)
It’s good for them. They’ve got it coming to them.
I agree, said Blaine. But it’s dangerous.
Not very. They are all too scared.
But it doesn’t help the situation.
Mister, there is nothing that can help.
But Fishhook? asked the girl who stood in front of Blaine.
He studied her and saw that she was beautiful — blue eyes and golden hair and the sort of shape that in the ancient days would have won her beauty contests, one of the old paganisms that had been happily forgotten in the rush to PK fads.
I cannot tell you, said Blaine. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.
Trouble? Danger?
Not at the moment, no.
We could help.
No need, making it as casual as he could, as unworried as he could.
We could take you anywhere you wished.
I’m not a levitator.
No need for you to be. We could (himself flying through the air, dragged along by two levitators, each hanging to an arm).
Blaine shuddered. No, thanks. I think I’d rather not.
Someone opened up the door of the cab, and another one reached in and hurled Riley to the ground.
The trucker crawled along the ground on hands and knees and sobbed.
Leave him alone! yelled Blaine.
The girl turned around. Her thoughts were level, sharp: Keep away from him! Don’t touch him! Don’t do a thing to him.
But, Anita . . .
Not a thing, she said.
He’s a dirty reefer. He’s using silver shot.
No!
They backed away.
We’ll have to go, Anita said to Blaine. Will you be all right?
With him, you mean?
She nodded.
I can handle him, he told her.
My name is Anita Andrews. I live in Hamilton. My phone number is 276. Tattoo it.
Tattooed, said Blaine, showing her the words and numbers.
If you need help . . .
I’ll call.
Promise?
Promise (cross upon a throbbing heart).
Riley lunged and had the gun, was staggering to his feet, a hand groping in his pocket for a shell.
Blaine flattened in a dive. He caught the man just above the knees, his shoulder slamming hard, one arm about the body, the other slashing at the gun and missing.
And as he leaped, he yelled: Get out of here! Every one of you!
He hit the ground and skidded, face down, on the broken pavement. He felt the shattered blacktop scraping on his flesh, tearing at his clothes. But he still kept his grip on Riley and dragged the man down with him.
The skidding stopped, and Blaine groped blindly for the gun, and the gun barrel came lashing down out of the darkness and struck him across the ribs. He swore and grasped for it, but Riley had it raised again for another blow. Blaine punched out desperately in the darkness, and his fist caught yielding flesh that grunted at the blow. The gun thudded down, missing his face by the fraction of an inch.
His hand snaked out and grasped it and jerked, twisting as he jerked, and the gun came free.
Blaine rolled, carrying the gun with him, and scrambled to his feet.
Out at the edge of light, he saw Riley coming in a bull rush, with his arms outspread, with his shoulders bunched, his mouth a snarling slit slashed across his face.
Blaine lifted the gun and flung it out into the darkness with Riley almost on him. He sidestepped, but not quite far enough. One of Riley’s hamlike hands caught him on the hip. Blaine spun with the hand and sidestepped again. Riley tried to check his rush but seemed unable to. He twisted his body frantically, but his momentum drove him forward and he slammed with a resounding whack into the front end of the truck.
He folded then and slid into a heap. Blaine stood watching him and there was no motion in the man.
The night was silent. There were just the two of them. All the rest had gone. He and Riley were alone with the battered truck.
Blaine swung around and looked into the sky and there was nothing there but the moon and stars and the lonesome prairie wind.
He turned back to Riley, and the man was alive, he saw. He had hauled himself into a sitting position, braced against the front end of the truck. There was a cut across his forehead where he had struck on metal and there was no fight left in him. He was out of breath and panting and there was a wild glare in his eyes.
Blaine took a pace toward him.
“You damn fool,” he said. “If you’d fired at them again, they’d have been on top of us. They’d have torn us to pieces.”
Riley stared at him, and his mouth was working but no words came out — just the one word: “You — you — you.”
Blaine stepped forward and held out a hand to help him to his feet, but Riley shrank away from him, pressing his body tight against the truck as if he would intrude into the very metal.
“You’re one of them!” he shouted. “I guessed it days ago. . . .”
“You’re crazy!”
“But you are! You are afraid of being seen. You stick close to the truck. I always am the one who goes for the eats and coffee. You won’t ever go. I always bargain for the gas. It is never you.”