Marc attempted a reply, but the screaming wind forced the words back into his throat. He tried not to notice that the light was growing dim; that a heavy blackness was drawing close around him, everywhere.
Marc opened his eyes, and cautiously felt his jaw. It hurt. Taking this in stride, he directed his attention to his surroundings. He was propped up against the passage wall in a more-or-less, back-of-the-neck, sitting position. From the opening at the end, he could see that the half-light of early morning was reaching in to waste a delicate, silvery outline on an immense pile of rocky wreckage. There was a scraping sound behind him, and he turned.
"You finally wake up?" the sheriff drawled, moving toward him. "Might's well tell you right now, you ain't hurt none, so's you won't worry."
Marc started to his feet.
"You don't have to run from me no more," the sheriff said. "You're in the clear. Herrigg told us all about the murder; how he shot the woman and put 'er in your house. We ain't after you no more."
Marc relaxed.
"Where is everyone?" he asked. "What happened?"
"They've all went," the sheriff said uneasily. "Everyone 'cept you and me ... and one other."
"One other?"