He went out slinging his arms to show his disgust.

“You better take some morphine,” Dr. Booker said. “I’ll fix you up a bag.”

“What kind of life,” Rondal mumbled. “The blood sucked outen me…”

“We’ll do the best we can,” I said.

“You wouldnt have come offn that mountain,” he said. “You would have stayed with me.” He lost consciousness again and I laid down to sleep before we set out.

Talcott returned with a wagon and team of mules, sold reluctantly and at a high price by a nearby farmer. Rondal was still alive but senseless when we set out before dawn. I endured another argument with Talcott, then Dr. Booker burst into tears as we were about to leave. He looked old and shrivelled in the gray light.

“Will you stay in Charleston?” I asked him.

“I got no place else.”

“Write to me. The post office is Henryclay, Kentucky. I’ll let you know how he does.”

They rigged up a sheet across the wagon bed to shield Rondal’s face from the sun while I changed into a faded green cotton dress I’d brought along. I strapped a pistol to my calf with a pair of bandages. Dr. Booker and Talcott carried Rondal out on a board. After they lifted him into the wagon I untied the red bandana from his neck, found a pocket in his overalls and stuffed it inside. I inspected the mule team. They seemed to have pleasant enough dispositions for mules.

“Gert and Myrt,” Talcott told me. “Both of them old, or he wouldnt have sold them. Gert kicks from the left sometimes. Think you can handle them?”

“I’ve drove more mules than you seen,” I said.

I settled myself onto the buckboard and took up the reins. I felt the cracked leather straps with my fingertips, lifted them to my nose. They smelled like home.

“Geeeyaah!” I shouted and cracked the reins sharply. The mules lurched forward and I waved but never looked back.

We reached the mouth of Hewitt by the time dawn broke and turned up the main road. It was choked with rednecks headed in the opposite direction. They largely ignored us in their haste to flee before the Army arrived. A few yelled, “Where you going, honey?”

“To shoot Don Chafin,” I’d answer, and they’d laugh.

I stopped below Sharples at mid-morning and pulled back the sheet. I was afraid to look for fear Rondal would be dead, but he was awake. I gave him some water, spooned some applesauce down his throat, gave him some more water.

“You hurting?” I asked.

He nodded his head, tried to speak. I took a syringe from the bag beside him, filled it with morphine.

“I put your bandana in your pocket,” I said.

“All right,” he croaked. Already his eyes were fluttering shut. I emptied his catheter and turned him over on his stomach. When I kissed his hand, his fingers curled around my thumb. I yanked the sheet back over the wagon bed.