Francis stretched, wincing at the pain in his legs. That would be from the little mare, and the pain in his arms would be from falling on them, and the pain in his knees from the rocks he had landed on, but the pain in his stomach was from hunger. “How did you know I was awake?” he asked after a moment.

“Your breathing changed. When you quit sucking wind like an old buffalo, I figured you were coming around.”

“You’ve sure got good ears.”

“I’m alive. You don’t stay that way long out here unless you can hear a little.”

Francis filed away that advice, and got up. Everything in him hurt with the movement. He didn’t believe anything could be that stiff and still be alive.

“I thought you said you could ride.” The mountain man chuckled.

“I did all right,” Francis answered defensively.

“If you mean you made it alive, I guess you did at that. But I wouldn’t call what happened to your hands and knees all right. Seems to me you lost a little hide. Still, you pulled a good trick with that mare—sending her off ahead while you came upstream.” His chuckle turned to an outright laugh. “I followed Braid and five or six others for a while when they came after you. Unless I miss my guess, they’re down on the Powder River somewhere, still after that mare.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Francis cut in. “I fell off.”

“Eh?”

“I said I fell off her when she hit the stream. I fell off and she kept right on going without me.”

“That’s sort of what I figured, but I thought it would be better if you said it. Kinda keep the air clean around here, if we talk straight.” He turned and faced Francis for the first time. “You know, that lie about knowing how to ride could have got us both killed last night, don’t you? They could have caught you, and worked you over a bit, and the first thing you know you would have been telling them all about my getting a horse for you. Don’t go shaking your head. I know you wouldn’t want to talk. But I’ve seen the Pawnees make a man tell stories he didn’t even know. So from now on you just tell me what you know is straight, and that’ll keep us both out of trouble. What’s your name?”

“Francis Alphonse Tucket.”

“I said it would be better if we kept everything straight, boy. Now what’s your handle?”

“I wasn’t lying. My name really is Francis Alphonse Tucket. Honest.”

“Let me put it another way. What do you go by? I mean, haven’t you got a sort of short name they call you?”