He set his hand briefly to his chest, winced, and then said, “We’re racing against time now. Half a day might mean I live. I’m willing to gamble it.

Are you?”

I thought for a few moments. “It’s your life,” I said reluctantly. I didn’t want to take a relative stranger into unknown territory and have him die on me. But it did seem to me that he had the right to make the decision.

“That’s right. It is,” he said.

When we were mounted again, he turned Renegade’s head away from the road. I followed him. He cleared his throat. “Renegade knows the way home. If I die, you sling me across his saddle, and let him lead. Don’t you leave me in the woods to rot.”

“Of course not. One way or the other, I’ll take you to Gettys.”

“Good. Now talk to me, Never. Keep me awake.”

“My name’s Nevare, not Never. What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything. Women. Talk to me about women you’ve had.”

I thought back. “Only one worth mentioning,” I said, thinking of the warm-hearted farm maid.

“Only one? You poor bastard! Well, tell me about her.” So I did, and then he told me a rambling and feverish tale of a Speck maiden who chose him as her own and fought two other women over him, and how she had ridden him “like a lord riding to the hunt” for fifteen nights in a row. It seemed wildly improbable to me, and yet parts of his tale rang true with some hidden truth within me. Somehow I knew it was the custom of Speck women to be the instigators of such a relationship, and that they jealously possessed the men they chose. He talked until his mouth was dry, and then drank all the water that remained in his bottle, and most of what I had. All the while, he, or perhaps Renegade, led us further and further from the road, up into rolling hills. The lower slopes were thick with bracken and buckbrush, but as we went higher, we entered an open forest of deciduous trees. We crested the first row of hills, descended into a shallow valley, and then began a second, steeper ascent. The vistas were astonishing. Some of the bracken had gone scarlet with early frost. The buckbrush was thick with its seasonal white berries, while the leaves of the alders and birch of the open forest were scarlet and gold. The day had stayed clear but the air was moist, and the smell of the forest with rich and gentle. Something inside me relaxed and felt a sense of homecoming. I said as much to Hitch.

He was swaying in his saddle as he rode now, holding unabashedly to the horn with his one good hand. A smile crossed his pained face. “Some men feel it. Others don’t. Me, once I got away from houses and streets and bricks and noise, I suddenly knew that I’d never belonged there in the first place. There’s men that need that, you know. They need the shouting and the crowds. They get two nights away from an alehouse, and think they’ll die of boredom. They need other people to make them think they’re alive.