“Then take off your stockings.”

“Goddamn you, Tom. I don't know why Ma ever had you.”

“Because after she had you, she knew she could do better. That's why.”

“All right. All right, damn you.” John took off, scrambling down a short chute of sand and gravel. They were coming to another vertical face. His feet, stockinged, must have hurt him as he stepped on rock and dry sticks and other plant matter, but he didn't give any sign of it, just moved quickly ahead, reinvigorated with anger at his brother. He leaped up, grabbed the top strata of rock, and lifted himself up, coming over the top of the escarpment in a rush so that the speed of his body propelled him over the leading edge and down the slant of the other side, a smooth slope of granite pushed up out of the earth.

He continued to slide, trying to find traction with his feet and hands to slow himself down, but the rock face, scoured by wind, washed by rain, was smooth and unbroken, and he kept going down, picking up speed as he went. His own motions threw his body into a spin, and he ended up barrel rolling down the escarpment to the ground below.

He came out of the chaparral bruised and scraped. He rose slowly, testing his arms and legs, both of which seemed bruised but not broken. He looked back up at the top of the escarpment for a sign of his brother or Sisson. Neither was there. His right wrist hurt him quite a bit, but he could move it, and he knew it wasn't broken.

He hunkered down at the base of the escarpment and caught his breath. He reached up and touched his face and brought his hand back bright with new blood. He touched himself gently around his eye, cheek, and brow. There were a couple of scrapes, but the blood was coming from the eye again. He rose up, then leaned back onto the granite and lay back, letting the sun warm his face. Now he wished Sisson had just taken the damned eye out.

He heard thrashing in the brush to his left and jumped upright. He looked for his rifle and realized he had left everything, rifle, bedroll, provisions, back on the other side.

“Oh, brother,” Tom said, emerging from a small stand of oak and brush. “What did you do that for?”

“You took my goddamned boots.”

“I guess there's some sense in there that I'm missing.” Tom took the lashed boots from around his neck and threw them to John. “That was one hell of a scramble, though.”

Sisson emerged from the oaks.

“Brother busted his eye open again.” John's face was again half covered in blood.

“Don't worry about it.” John was struggling to untie the lashing from the boots, holding them up close to his good eye.

“Don't plan to. You ain't going to die on us, are you?”