“Where did you get that gun?” I said fiercely, and grabbed him by the arm, squeezing as hard as I could.

“Who the hell are you?” He was shocked and offended, trying to pull away. I dug my fingers into his armpit, and he yelped and jerked, trying to get away.

“Where did you get it!” I screamed.

I was clinging like grim death and he screamed, too, writhing and cursing. He kicked me solidly in the shin, but he loosed his hold on the rifle and I let go his other arm and snatched it.

“Tell me where you fucking got this, or so help me God I will beat you to death with it!”

His eyes showed white, like a panicked horse, and he backed away from me, hands out in placation.

“He’s dead! He don’t need it no more!”

“Who’s dead?” I hardly heard the words; the blood had surged so hard into my ears that they were ringing. But a big hand clasped me by the shoulder and pulled me away from the boy. He promptly turned to flee, but Bill Amos—for it was he—let go of me and with two giant strides he had hold of the boy, picked him up with both hands, and shook him like a rag.

“What’s going on, Missus?” he asked, setting the boy down and turning to me. The words were calm, but he wasn’t; he was trembling all over with a mixture of bloodlust and reaction, and I thought he might just kill the boy inadvertently; his big fist was squeezing the boy’s shoulder rhythmically, as though he couldn’t stop, and the boy was squealing and begging to be let go.

“This—” I couldn’t hold the rifle; it slipped from my grasp and I barely caught it, its butt jolting into the ground. “It’s Jamie’s. I need to know where he is!”

Amos blew out a long breath and huffed air for a moment, nodding.

“Where’s Colonel Fraser?” he asked the boy, shaking him again, but more gently. “Where’s the man you took this’n from?”

The boy was crying, head wobbling and tears making tracks through the dirt and powder stains on his face.

“But he’s dead,” he said, and pointed a shaking finger toward a small rocky outcrop near the edge of the saddle, maybe fifty yards away.

“He’s bloody not!” I said, and slapped him. I shoved past him, hobbling—his kick had bruised my shin, though I didn’t feel pain—leaving Bill Amos to deal with whatever he felt like dealing with.

I found Jamie lying in a patch of dry grass, just behind the outcrop. There was a lot of blood.

I FELL TO my knees and groped frantically through his heavy clothes, wet with sweat—and blood.

“How much of this blood is yours?” I demanded.

“All of it.” His eyes were closed, his lips barely moving.

“Bloody fucking hell. Where are you hit?”

“Everywhere.”