Then quietly but not stealthily, he lugged them limping to the herd. There he chose a large gelding, threw the blanket on its back and saddled the animal. It snorted softly, but stood relaxed. The unfamiliar saddle puzzled Tsulgax only briefly. Then he tied his bedroll to it with the sack of corn on top. He almost abandoned the pack frame, then put it on his back again, just in case.

"Hey! What's going on there?"

The voice was some distance off. Tsulgax didn't answer, didn't speed up. He gave the saddle girth a final pull, then stepped to the front of the animal and slipped the bridle over its head.

The call was repeated, less distant now. "You! What're you doing?"

Tsulgax buckled the throat latch and snapped the bit in place. Then he unbuckled and removed the hobbles.

"Sergeant of the guard!" The voice boomed it. "Someone's messing with a horse out here!"

Shoving the hobbles into the game pocket of his farmer coat, the rakutu pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Then he stung the horse's rump with his quirt, and dug its barrel sharply with his heels.

It started forward at a brisk trot, passing among other horses, which moved out of its way. When it reached the open, Tsulgax slashed it hard with his quirt. It broke into a gallop, its rider bent low over its withers, lashing it. Shouts from behind him energized his quirt, but the twang of a bowstring was far too distant for him to hear.

He steered the animal on an angle to intersect Montag's tracks, certain the herdsmen would pursue him. But he heard no more shouts, and shortly after he hit Montag's trail, heard a trumpet call. He looked back. There'd been the start of pursuit, but the riders had stopped.

For a moment they watched from a distance, then turned and rode back to their bivouac.

Kormehri companies were well disciplined, and these had more than enough horses-much of their herd was spoils, awarded them by the congress. And god knew how long it would take to run the thief down. They could easily wait where they were till noon the next day for the pursuit to get back, and then maybe empty-handed. Not that their commander thought all this out, but the rationale was there, behind his order to his trumpeter to call back the pursuers. The lost horse could be charged to whatever sentry the provost held responsible.

He might have decided differently had he known a sentry's arrow had struck the horse. It had been hit high on the rump, and there was not much bleeding. The drops of red-looking black by night-were not seen in the hoof-churned snow.

Tsulgax soon suspected, however, for after he slowed the horse to a trot, it began to limp. He looked back, and seeing the arrow, stopped to investigate. It had struck from long range, and penetrated only a few inches. Tsulgax tried to jerk it out. Fortunately for him, the horse's resulting kick only grazed him, the hock striking him with enough force to knock him down, but doing no harm. Limping, he had to follow the animal on foot a grueling half mile before it let itself be caught.

He didn't try to do anything more about the arrow, simply hauled himself back into the saddle and continued on Montag's trail. Later that night he passed near a large woodlot, and detoured into it to make camp. There he found a sugarhouse. Stopping by it, he buckled a nosebag of corn on the horse, and hobbled the animal. Then, with his fighting knife, he cut the arrow shaft short, hoping to lessen the movement of the head in the animal's croup. If the limp got too bad, he thought, he'd hobble it front and back, and cut the arrowhead out.

Finally he built a fire beneath the big cast iron sugar kettle, and made his bed. Being empty, the kettle heated red hot, and helped warm the shack. Twice in the night he roused, and built up the fire again. If it weren't for the pain that accompanied every movement, it would have been the best night he'd had for weeks. Instead it was the worst.

Meanwhile he abandoned the thought of catching up to Montag quickly. If it happened, well and good. But persistence was his strategy now. A lame man on a lame horse had no choice.

In the morning the horse seemed almost as lame as Tsulgax, who didn't try to hurry it. From time to time he got off and walked, limping badly, hoping to regain some mobility in his own legs, as well as rest his mount. They'd been on the trail about two hours when they passed his quarry's campsite of the night before. That evening, Tsulgax camped in a streamside woods, and rubbed the animal down with the empty corn sack. He himself was still about as sore and stiff as he'd been that morning.

Several days later, at dusk, Tsulgax reached the Pomatik. By that time he was walking naturally, with only a shadow of soreness remaining. The horse still limped, though perhaps not as badly. Tsulgax got down, removed saddle and bridle, then shouldered his pack. He left the animal with what little was left of the corn lying on the rubdown sack, and crossed the river on foot, at an easy lope. Ahead he could see the river road and a farm, the farmhouse showing candlelight at a window. He'd stop, make sure his quarry wasn't there, and beg a meal from the farmer. He didn't know what kind of police they had in this country-probably not much-but it seemed best not to murder anyone needlessly.

42 Confrontation

It was near midnight when Tsulgax reached the town of Big Fork. Its inn was dark, except for lamplight from the windows of a single ground-floor room. The kitchen, he supposed. He found the front door locked and without a knocker, so he pounded with his fist.

No one answered, and to waken sleeping guests by shouting and hammering did not suit his purpose, so he went to the stable. It was dark inside, but by leaving the door open, enough snowlight entered that he could dimly discern the layout. In the front was storage, and access to the hayloft. Beneath the loft, down each side, were narrow box stalls, dimly perceived. Body heat from the horses had warmed the place appreciably.

One of the front stalls held not a horse and manger, but a pallet on hay, and a man sitting up beneath blankets. "Close the humping door!" he said. "It's cold enough in here!"

Tsulgax spoke with his feigned impediment. "I can't see with it closed."

To the stableman, the intruder loomed large. So he got to his feet; he was tall himself, and strong. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I look for man. Big, with beautiful red-hair woman. And giant swine."

"You mean the Lion of Farside. He's in the inn. But the boar's across town. I wouldn't stand for him in my stable."

The Lion. Tsulgax had never heard the name "Farside," but considering where Montag was from, the meaning was obvious. "What room?" he asked.

"How would I know?" The stableman gestured at the stalls. "These are the only rooms I got anything to do with. The roomers ain't much for conversation, but they don't argue or complain, either. And they don't leave the damn door open." He squinted hard at Tsulgax, trying to make out features. No way in hell in the darkness. "You a friend of his?"

"Yes. I from far place. In west. I was in war too."

The stableman took off his stocking cap and scratched shaggy hair. "In that case you can sleep in the hayloft. Got blankets?"

"Yes."

"If you need to shit or piss, use the manure pile out back. Now close the damn door!"

The trespasser went to it, but stepped outside before he closed it. The horse turd, thought the stableman. The barn ain't good enough for him. After a good scratch, he lay back down. He hated being wakened in the middle of the night. With all the hungry cooties, it took awhile to get back to sleep.