Inside he found Burt and the Major trying on coats and galoshes. They had strewn the couch with clothing. The woman sat watching them without blinking and the cop had his head back against the wall; he sat awkwardly on the floor with his knees drawn up and his hands out to one side, wired to the radiator. His eyes were closed but he was breathing in and out very fast.

Baraclough came in. “You were right about the roads. They’ve got us sealed off but good.”

The Major nodded, not surprised. “Anything else?”

“I gathered there are a couple of state troopers trying to follow our tracks on foot and the FBI seems to have summoned a vast army of people to pounce on us once we’ve been fixed for them.”

“Any weather report?”

“The storm could hit any time. Hell you can see that for yourself by stepping outside.”

Hanratty was rooting through the pile of clothes, tossing discards on the floor.

The Major said, “We’d better start tying down the loads. Sergeant, scrape together whatever you can find in the kitchen by way of provisions and utensils. Sack them in something we can tie on a horse. Captain, did you find any rifle boots in the barn?”

“Any what?”

“Saddle scabbards for rifles. It’s a hunting resort, they must have them somewhere.”

The woman said tonelessly, “You’ll find them in the tack room.”

“Thank you kindly,” Baraclough said.

Walker went out and found the scabbards. Took five and strapped them to the saddles. Baraclough and Hanratty were tying down the duffel bags on the pack saddles and Walker said, “You’ll want diamond hitches over those to keep them on—I’ll show you.”

When they had finished loading the animals he looked at his watch. Just past midnight. He went inside and shoved his feet into a pair of Wellington boots, found a plaid hunter’s coat and a pair of mittens, and helped himself to one of the blankets piled on the couch. There was also a stack of oilskin rain slickers Burt had brought downstairs and he collected one of those. He put an earflapped hunting cap on his head and picked up a Remington .302 rifle, shoved a box of cartridges in his pocket and said, “I guess I look the part.” He was feeling hazy, disoriented, vaguely euphoric as if drugged.

The Major was sitting at an old rolltop writing desk with a pencil in his left hand, printing a note on a piece of ranch stationery. Hargit was right-handed, writing with his left hand to disguise it. When he was done he handed the note to Baraclough. “Pin it on him. Don’t make noise—we don’t know who’s in earshot by now.” Then he turned with a sweeping motion of his arm. “Everybody outside now. You too, Mrs. Lansford. Please equip yourself from your wardrobe here.”

Numb, dulled, Walker drifted outside with Burt and Hanratty. They stood near the horses. The light in back of the house went out; the living-room windows stayed bright. The faint cool miasmic breeze that came down the hill seemed to get inside Walker’s skin and scratch his bones. He knew what was about to happen inside the house and he knew he wasn’t going to do anything about it, and in his fatigued state of listlessness he no longer had the power to rationalize away the knowledge that he was, in this instant of time, sinking to a level of inhumanity from which there was no return. Everything else up to now had been defensible: you could bluff yourself into justifications—the money was insured, nobody got hurt; Hanratty killing the bank guard, that was nobody’s fault but Hanratty’s and Walker wasn’t going to wear emotional sackcloth and ashes the rest of his life for that mistake that hadn’t been his own; surprising the woman in her own home, stealing her husband’s horses and saddles and clothes and food, trussing the cop—all these were necessary to self preservation and since nobody was irrevocably injured by these acts they could be dismissed.

But now the Major came out onto the porch, holding Marianne Lansford by the arm, walking her down the steps into the yard. The woman’s lower lip was clenched between her teeth; she looked steadfastly at the ground ahead of her. It left Baraclough in the house with the cop, and finally Baraclough came outside tugging his gloves on. “All set.”

Walker’s vision lost focus and he swayed against the porch. Gripped the rail for support, closed his eyes and fought the nausea.

An iron fist gripped his upper arm. He opened his eyes, looked at it: Baraclough’s fist.

Walker’s eyes rode up to the face. Baraclough looked heavy-lidded, detached—as if sexually released.

Baraclough said, “We could argue about it if we had time.”

“Could we.”

“They’ll know we were here, of course, but that won’t tell them who we are—what we looked like. The cop was the only one who could have told them that.”

So the cop was dead, strangled by the wiry fingers that gripped Walker’s arm, and the note pinned on the dead cop’s shirt would tell the other cops what the Major wanted them to know. Walker had seen the note when the Major had handed it to Baraclough: Keep your distance. We have Mrs. Lansford. She stays alive as long as we are not harassed.

Walker said, “You were the one who said it was stupid to leave dead cops lying around.”

“That was before Hanratty killed the old man, wasn’t it.” The sensuality of Baraclough’s little smile made him turn away.

The Major had the woman over by the horses. She hadn’t heard Baraclough and there was no reason to think she knew the deputy had been killed. She wasn’t supposed to know: ignorance would keep her more tractable.

The Major was talking to her:

“Hanratty here isn’t much of a cowboy. Can you pick out a horse for him? Which one of these animals is nice and slow and gentle?”

Mrs. Lansford made a point of avoiding the Major’s eyes. “I suppose that one.” She nodded toward a sleepy-looking sorrel; then she threw her head back: “The penalty for kidnaping is damned severe, you know.”

“Possibly. When you’re already wanted for murder it doesn’t matter all that much any more.” The Major tugged his cap down tight. “We’ve got very little to lose, you see. We’re desperate men.” He said it deadpan. And before the woman could speak again he added, “And please don’t tell us we won’t get away with it. Now please pick out a horse for yourself and get mounted.”

The woman thought about arguing with him, thought better of it, turned and looked over the animals. Without much hesitation she walked toward the big blue gelding at the head of the string. The blue’s ears were upright, alert; it watched her approach and the hide along its flank quivered.

“Fine,” the Major breathed; and lifted his voice like a whip: “Stop right there, Mrs. Lansford.”

She turned around. “What now?” Lovely eyes full of anger.

The Major flicked his glance toward Walker. “Can you ride pretty well?”

“I used to. Long time ago.”

“It comes back to you, doesn’t it? Like riding a bike.”

“I guess so.”

“You ride the white horse, then.”

The woman opened her mouth; the Major cut her off: “And you ride the old sorrel, Mrs. Lansford. The one you picked out for Hanratty. Obliging of you to point out the slowest horse.”

The woman’s face changed. Now for the first time it was genuine hate. The Major had tricked her and she was too proud to accept that.

Walker went over to the blue—what the Major had called the white horse—and picked up the reins. The woman turned slowly and went stiffbacked toward the old sorrel and began to adjust the stirrup length for herself. The Major spoke to her back: “Understand this, Mrs. Landlord. We’re miles from the nearest help, there’s no one within screaming distance. You’ve got a slow horse and if you try to run for it Captain Walker will have no trouble running you down. Then we’d have to tie you and put a gag in your mouth. It wouldn’t be very comfortable. You understand?”