Emerson had jumped or been thrown off. Probably the former, since he had had time enough and sense enough to roll out of the way of the horse’s body. He lay motionless on his side, his arms and legs twisted and his eyes closed. Torn between the need to get him to shelter and the fear of moving him, Ramses carefully straightened his legs, feeling for broken bones. A change in the rhythm of his father’s breathing made him look up. Emerson’s eyes were open.

“Did you get him?” he inquired.

“I doubt it,” Ramses said, drawing a deep breath. “Taught him to keep his head down, I hope. Were you hit?”

“No.”

“Anything broken?”

“No. Better get ourselves and Risha behind that wall.”

He sat up, turned white, and fell backwards. Ramses caught him before his head, now uncovered, hit the ground. He’d been sick with fear when he feared his father might be dead or gravely injured. Now the lump in his throat broke and burst out of his mouth in a furious cascade of words.

“Goddamn you, Father, will you stop behaving as if you were omnipotent and omniscient? I know we must get under cover! I’ll take care of that little matter as soon as I determine how seriously you’re injured!”

Emerson gave his son a look of reproach. “You needn’t shout, my boy. I put my shoulder out again, that’s all.”

“That’s all, is it?” They both ducked their heads as another shot whistled past. “All right, here we go. Hang on to me.”

After an effort that left them both breathless they reached the shelter of the ruined wall, with Risha close on their heels. Ramses eased his father onto the ground and wiped his sweating hands on his trousers.

“Better let him have a few more reminders to keep his head down,” Emerson suggested.

“Father,” Ramses said, trying not to shout, “if you make one more unnecessary, insulting, unreasonable suggestion—”

“Hmmm, yes, sorry,” Emerson said meekly.

“I don’t want to waste ammunition. I haven’t any extra. It will be dark in a few hours and we’re all right here unless he shifts position. If he moves I’ll hear him. I’m going to put your shoulder back before I do anything else. Need I continue?”

“Your arm. It isn’t…” His eyes met those of Ramses. “Hmph. Whatever you say, my boy.”

Ramses had heard the story of how his father’s shoulder had first been dislocated. His mother’s version was very romantic and very inaccurate; according to her, Emerson had been struck by a stone while shielding her from a rockfall. Ramses could believe that all right. What he didn’t believe was her claim that she herself had pulled the bone back into its socket. Such an operation required a lot of strength, especially when the victim was as heavily muscled as Emerson. Nefret had once demonstrated the technique, using Ramses as a subject, with such enthusiasm that he could have sworn her foot had left a permanent imprint under his arm.

For a few agonizing moments Ramses didn’t think he was going to be able to do it. His right arm was unimpaired, though, and the left was of some little help. A final heave and twist, accompanied by a groan from Emerson—the first that had passed his lips—did the job. Weak-kneed and shaking, Ramses unhooked the canteen from Risha’s saddle.

The process had been more agonizing for his father than for him. Emerson had fainted. Ramses trickled water over his face and between his lips, then poured a little into his own hand and wiped his mouth. It was the same temperature as the air, but it helped. His father’s face was already dry and warm to the touch. Water evaporated almost instantly in the desert air.

“Father?” he whispered. Now that the immediate emergencies had been attended to, he had leisure to think about what he had said. Had he really sworn at his father and called him…

“Well done,” said Emerson faintly.

“Done, at any rate. Have a drink. I’m sorry it’s not brandy.”

Emerson chuckled. “So am I. Your mother will point out, as she has so often, that we ought to emulate her habit of carrying such odds and ends.”

He accepted a swallow of water and then pushed the canteen away. “Save it. Mine is on the body of that unfortunate animal, and it’s not worth the risk of… Er, hmph. May I smoke?”

“You’re asking me? Uh—I suppose so. Better now than after dark.”

“You don’t mean to stay here until dark, do you?”

“What else can we do?” Ramses demanded. He took the pipe from his father. After he had filled it he handed it back and struck a match. “Risha can’t carry both of us, and it would be insane to expose ourselves to a marksman of that caliber. He dropped your horse with the first shot and the others came unpleasantly close.”

The rifle spoke again. Sand spurted up from beside the carcass of the horse. The second bullet struck its body with a meaty thunk.

“He’s somewhere on that rocky spur to the southeast,” Ramses said. Emerson opened his mouth. Ramses anticipated him. “Forget the binoculars. A flash of reflected sunlight would give him his target. I fired three… no, four times. That leaves me with only six shots, and—”

“And a rifle has greater range than a pistol,” Emerson said. “You needn’t belabor the obvious, my boy. It appears we’ll be here awhile.”

Ramses looked round. A few yards to his right the ground dropped into a kind of hollow, bordered on two sides by the remains of the wall. He indicated the place to his father, who was graciously pleased to agree that it offered better protection for all concerned. He even accepted the loan of Ramses’s arm. Getting Risha into shelter was a more nerve-wracking procedure, but they made it into the hollow without incident.

They celebrated with another swallow of warm water and another smoke. The slanting rays of sunlight beyond their shelter had turned gold.

“Someone will come looking for us in the morning,” Ramses said.

“No doubt.”

He seemed to have accepted the idea of waiting for rescue. That wasn’t like him. Ramses had other ideas, but he did not intend to propose them. Short of knocking his father over the head, there was no way he could keep Emerson from trying to help him, and he didn’t want help, not from an injured man who also happened to be someone he…

Someone he loved.

Emerson had dropped off to sleep, his head resting on Ramses’s folded coat. Ramses watched the shadows darken across his father’s still face and wondered why they all found that word so difficult. He loved both his parents, but he’d never told them so; he doubted he ever would. They had never said it to him either.

Was the word so important? He had never seen his mother cry until the other night, and he knew the tears had been for him: tears of worry and relief, and perhaps even a little pride. It had been a greater acknowledgment of her feelings than hugs and kisses and empty words. All the same…

Emerson’s eyes opened, and Ramses started, as embarrassed as if his father could read his private thoughts. Emerson had not been asleep; he had been thinking. “Were our brilliant deductions about the route wrong after all?”

“I don’t think so,” Ramses said. “There’d be no point in killing us to prevent us from telling the authorities what we found; we haven’t found a damned thing! It’s more likely that someone took advantage of our being out here in the middle of nowhere to rid himself of… Father, it’s me he’s after. I’m damned sorry I got you into this.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” his father growled.

“No, sir.”

Emerson’s eyes fell. It took Ramses several long seconds to interpret his expression correctly; he couldn’t remember ever seeing his father look… guilty? Downcast eyes, tight mouth, bowed head—it was guilt, right enough, and all at once he understood why.

“No,” he said again. “I didn’t get you into this, did I? You went out of your way to find Hamilton this morning. You told him we were coming here. You—”