can’t see as well ourselves. We could work around the top of the ridge—there’s no one up here.”
I said, “You do as you like. I’m lying up.”
He shrugged. “We’ll stay here, if you say so.”
His easy acquiescence did not soothe me. I had the uneasy feeling that what he had said was not unreasonable. I made my way in silence into thewood, and Henry followed. We found a place, deep in the brush, where we were not likely to be noticed even by someone passing quite close, and stretched out. I must have fallen asleep almost at once.
When I awoke, it was nearly dark. I saw Henry asleep beside me. If I were to get up quietly, I might be able to sneak away without waking him. The idea was tempting. It seemed unfair, though, to leave him here, in a wood, with night coming on. I put my hand out to shake him, and noticed something as I did so: he had looped the strap of my pack around his arm, so that I could not have taken it without disturbing him. The possibility had occurred to him, too!
He woke at my touch. We had the rest of the loaf, and a chunk of ham, before moving off. The trees were dense, and we did not see much of the sky until we came out. I realized then that the gloom was not simply due to the near approach of night: it had clouded over while we slept, and I felt an occasional heavy drop of rain on my bare arms and face. The half-moon was not going to be much help behind that cover.
In fading light, we made our way down into the valley, and up the slope beyond. Lamps were lit in the windows of houses, enabling us to give them a wide berth. There was a flurry of rain, but the evening was warm and it dried on us as we walked. At the top we looked down at the clustering lights of the village, and then went on to the southeast. Darkness fell rapidly after that. We were on rolling upland, mainly of close-cropped grass. At one point we came across a ramshackle hut, plainly deserted, and Henry suggestedstaying there till the light improved, but I would not have it, and he plodded on behind me.
It was some time before either of us spoke. Then Henry said, “Listen.”
In some annoyance, I said, “What is it now?”
“I think someone’s coming after us.”
I heard it myself: the sound of feet on the grass behind us. And more than one pair of feet. We could have been seen by people in the village, warned to watch out for us by the four horsemen. And they could have come up the hill after us, and could now be quietly closing in. I whispered, “Run for it!”
Without waiting for him, I started pelting through the night’s blackness. I could hear Henry running nearby, and I thought I could also hear our pursuers. I put on a fresh spurt. As I did, a stone turned under my right foot. There was a jolt of pain and I fell, gasping as the air was forced from my lungs.
Henry had heard my fall. He checked, and said, “Where are you? Are you all right?”
The moment I tried to put weight on my right ankle, I felt sick with pain. Henry tried to lift me, and I groaned in protest.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“My ankle … I think it’s broken. You’d better get on. They’ll be here any moment.”
He said, in an odd voice, “I think they’re here now.”
“What?”
There was warm breath on my cheek. I put my hand out and touched something woolly, which immediately backed away.
“Sheep!”
Henry said, “I suppose they were curious. They do that sort of thing sometimes.”
“You stupid fool!” I said. “You’ve had us running from a flock of sheep, and now look what’s happened.”
He did not say anything, but knelt beside me and started feeling my ankle. I winced, and bit my lip to avoid crying out.
He said, “I don’t think it’s a break. Probably a sprain, or something. But you’ll have to rest up a day or two.”
I said savagely, “That sounds fine.”
“We’d better get you back to the hut. I’ll give you a fireman’s lift.”
I had felt odd spots of rain again. Now it
Learning to Kill: Stories