Tim reached the third man at a bound and knocked him flat with a blow that sent his shotgun spinning into the snow. Red gained his feet as the man rolled over. He leveled the pistol at the man’s head. The man went pale and raised his hands. Tim said, “I’ll see to Missus Flint.” Tim followed her footprints across the snow. She lay face down, a still, dark shape against the glare. As he walked a numbness moved along his legs and the pumping of his heart beat like thunder in his ears. She was quiet as night and her pulse was still. He turned her over. Blood had soaked her doeskin jacket and stained the snow. With his thumb and middle finger he felt for her eyelids and gently closed her unseeing eyes. He rose to his feet, a fist of anger burning in his chest, and walked slowly toward Red and the other man. When the man saw Tim’s face he started to shake. Tim reached out his hand and took the revolver. He pointed it straight at the man’s heart. “Who killed the woman?” “Not me,” the man breathed. “You lie.” The man sank to the ground, his knees skidding foolishly in the snow. “Oh no. Great God,” he screamed, swaying and gesturing toward the stocky man. “It was Billy, there. Sure enough it was. And even so, the woman shot first.” Red said, “I believe he speaks the truth.” The man stopped swaying. “I tolt the truth. They teased me cruel about my shootin’.” He jerked his head in the direction of the shotgun. “Else why would they have given me that crooked piece?” The man pointed to one of his eyes. “Look here at my wanderin’ eye....” Red said, “Shut your face.” CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Red slept, but Tim was too cold to sleep. He looked up at the boughs of the sheltering tree. He gazed into the cold night sky. A full moon was shining somewhere behind the pines. The wind moaned softly in the boughs, filling the valley with mournful music. The brighter stars winked clear in the crystal air. Tim rolled out of his blanket and moved away from their camp, swinging his arms and working his knees to restore circulation. He sat in the open on a jagged rock and picked out fragments of constellations. There was Pegasus to the west, and if he turned his head he could see Orion’s Belt above a hill in the east. This was their second night under the stars since the death of the woman. Tim had kept his mind on things that lay ahead. He had dreamed of home, of sleigh rides and skating on the pond behind the schoolhouse and thawing out in the blacksmith shop. Now he remembered a winter so cold that the river had frozen clear across. He and Peter Gleason had skated all the way to the other side. Cold was fine, as long as you could thaw out, sitting by a fire with a cup of chocolate in your hand. For the first time he let himself think back to the thing that had happened on the ridge.