"You promised to do this my way."
There must be nothing to warn Carl Thornton away—if he came—and fresh tracks leading up Coon Valley might do just that.
Loring Blade said, "I suppose I might as well be a complete jackass as a partial one. We'll walk."
They went out into the cold night, while the north wind fanned their cheeks and trees sighed around them. A deer snorted and bounded away, and there came an angry hiss from a weasel that, having all but cornered the rabbit it was hunting, expressed its hatred for humans before it fled from them.
Ted asked, "You tired?"
"Lead on."
The wan, gray light of an overcast morning fell sadly on the wilderness when the pair came again to the three sycamores and Glory Rock. Ted's watch read seven-thirty. Carl Thornton had his message and, if he was guilty, even now he was on his way.
Loring Blade asked, "What now?"
"You'd better hide."
"Oh, for pete's sake—"