“No, sir.”
“It occurs in the extremities when there is interference with both arterial and venous circulation, but I suppose the interference must be prolonged.”
“Sure. Eight hours wouldn’t do it. I’m hungry.”
He shut his eyes. “I awoke to a dull misery, but it is no longer dull. It is overwhelming. I have been trying to move my toes, but I can’t get the slightest sensation of having toes. The idea of squirming out of here and trying to stand up is wholly unacceptable. In fact, no idea whatever is acceptable other than asking you to pull my feet out and take off my shoes and socks; and that would be disastrous because I would never get them back on.”
“Yeah. You said that before.” I moved nearer. “Look, you might as well face it. This time stalling won’t help. For years you’ve been talking yourself out of pinches, but it won’t work on sore feet. If you can’t walk there’s no use trying. Tomorrow or next maybe, to prevent gangrene. Meanwhile there’s a house in sight and I’ll go make a call. How do you say in Serbo-Croat, ‘Will you kindly sell me twenty pork chops, a peck of potatoes, four loaves of bread, a gallon of milk, a dozen oranges, five pounds—’ ”
Unquestionably it was hearing words like pork and bread that made him desperate enough to move. He did it with care. First he eased his head and shoulders out until he had his elbows on the ground, and then worked on back until his feet slid out. Stretched out on his back, he bent his right knee and then his left, slowly and cautiously. Nothing snapped, and he started to pump, at first about ten strokes a minute, then gradually faster. I had moved only enough to give him room, thinking it advisable to be at hand when he tried standing up, but I never had to touch him because he rolled over to the haystack and used it for a prop on his way up. Upright, he leaned against it and growled, “Heaven help me.”
“It’s you, O Lord. Amen. Is that the Black Mountain?”
He turned his head. “Yes. I never thought to see it again.” He turned his back on it and was facing in the direction of the house in the clump of trees. “Why the devil weren’t we disturbed long ago? I suppose old Vidin is no longer alive, but someone owns this haystack. We’ll go and see. The knapsacks?”
I got them from my niche, and we started for the road, which was only a cart track. Wolfe’s gait could not have been called a stride, but he didn’t actually totter. The track took us to the edge of the clump of trees, and there was the house, of gray rock, low and long, with a thatched roof and only two small windows and a door in the stretch of stone. Off to the right was a smaller stone building with no windows at all. It looked a little grim, but not grimy. There was no sign of life, human or otherwise. A path of flat stones led to the door, and Wolfe took it. His first knock got no response, but after the second one the door opened about two inches and a female voice came through. After Wolfe exchanged a few noises with the voice the door closed.
“She says her husband is in the barn,” he told me. “This is preposterous. I heard a rooster and goats.” He started across the yard toward the door of the other building, and when we were halfway there it opened and a man appeared. He shut the door, stood with his back against it, and asked what we wanted. Wolfe told him we wanted food and drink and would pay for it. He said he had no food and only water to drink. Wolfe said all right, we would start with water, told me to come, and led the way over to a well near a corner of the house. It had a rope on a pulley, with a bucket at each end of the rope. One bucket, half full, was on the curb. I poured it into the trough, hauled up a fresh bucket, filled a cup that was there on a flat stone, and handed it to Wolfe. We each drank three cupfuls, and he reported on his talk with our host.