This is a horrible place for a man to die.
—DAVID HENDERSON
“We’ll stop at Long Lake,” the deputy said, once he’d clucked to the horse. “Mind if we stay with you, Mitchell?”
“Plenty of room,” Mitchell said.
They hit the road to Long Lake in about a half mile. It wasn’t much different than the logging road, a little more rutted, a little less rocky. Nothing moved on the road. In fact they didn’t see another soul.
Nearly an hour later they stopped to let the horse water at a little stream. Nobody spoke. Mike sat in the wagon, his head down. Tom cast one glance at him, then at Mitchell. Neither met his gaze. Tom had become more and more uneasy since parting with Chowder. He’d said nothing to Mitchell or Mike. In fact they rode in almost total silence. When they stopped, Tom got down and paced, looking back down the road from the direction they’d come. Mitchell watched him from the back of the buggy, his shotgun across his knees.
“You know, Dad,” Mike said, breaking the silence, “Mom will be there when I get back. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”
Tom turned to him, cocking his head to one side. Mitchell watched them both.
“Besides, we can prove I didn’t kill Lettie. That’s gotta be clear to everybody, once they hear about what happened at Forked Lake.”
Tom slowly shook his head. “What you know and I know might not be so clear to a judge up here, Mike. We have to be sure. You’ll need a good lawyer, a proper investigation.”
“Sure, but Mom can take care of that, and we can get help from the Durants, right?”
“I suppose Mike, but—”
“Just go, Dad. Go back and catch him. I’ll be all right.” Tom and Mitchell and the deputy, too, looked at Mike. “I won’t really be cleared until Tupper is caught, anyway,” Mike added.
Tom didn’t say anything. He dropped his head in thought and kicked at the dirt.
“Damnit, Mike, I want to go with you!” he said finally. “It’s my place to be with you,” he added, almost as if trying to convince himself.
“I’m not a boy,” Mike said.
Tom stopped his pacing and looked straight at him. A grim smile crept across Tom’s face, a light kindled in his eyes. “No, you’re not. Haven’t been for some time, though I’ve been late to see it.”
Mike smiled back. “Go!” he said.
Without a word, the sheriff handed Tom his rifle. Tom looked at Mike as he hefted the Winchester in one hand. “I’ll be back,” he said at last.
“I know,” Mike answered.
Tom and Mitchell watched as the wagon rumbled away. Mike turned once and waved, raising both hands to do it. Tom waved back, almost shouting for them to stop. Sending Mike back alone hurt like nothing he could remember. It put him in mind of amputees during the war, and how they’d complain of the pain in their lost limbs. For the first time he thought he knew what they meant.
Tom and Mitchell turned and walked back. They were miles behind, with little hope of catching up. Neither of them mentioned that or even gave it a thought. They didn’t need hope. They had everything they needed.
For the next two hours they alternately jogged and walked, going quickly along the hard-packed road, nearly as fast as the wagon had gone, so that they were approaching where the sheriff and Chowder had split off. The sun was dipping below the treetops by then, the cool of the forest creeping out from under the trees.
Then, miles off, they heard shooting, heavy firing, booming, echoing. They stopped, frozen by the sound, counting the shots that slowed quickly, sputtering, then dying. Tom and Mitchell looked once at each other and broke again into a trot. Another report rolled across the trees, followed by a long silence and then a second shot. Neither Tom nor Mitchell slowed as the forest settled into uneasy silence.
Mike and the deputy arrived at Mitchell’s house late that night. It seemed to materialize out of the fabric of the night, a lighter patch of dark with edges and corners. No lights were on. No dog barked as they rode up. The buggy rattled into the yard.
There was a rustling and the noise of hooves in the yard in back.
“Damn deer after Mitchell’s corn,” the deputy said. “Can’t shoot enough of ’em.”
They walked into the darkened kitchen through the unlocked back door. The deputy struck a match and lit a lamp that he’d gotten from the back of the buggy, his face cast for a moment in yellow relief.
“Anybody home?” The deputy called. “Hello?”
Mike sat at a table in the center of the kitchen. He stared at the steel around his wrists. “Say, Vern,” Mike said. “Can’t we take the cuffs off for now? I give you my word I won’t leave the house.”
Vern seemed sympathetic, but said, “Waaall, ah don’ know. MacDougal tol’ me ta keep a tight rein, you bein’ a runner an’ all.”
Mike tried not to show how he felt about that. He had half a mind to throttle Vern a little till he changed his mind, or whatever passed for a mind in his case. But in a reasonable tone he said, “I got ya. I’m your responsibility.”
The stove clattered as the deputy got a fire going. A puff of smoke blew back into the room where it rolled to the ceiling, scenting the place in a way that had Mike thinking of his parents’ kitchen when he was a boy.
“But MacDougal’s not here,” he went on, “and…”
There were footsteps on the stairs somewhere off in the darkened house. Mrs. Sabattis emerged from the gloom into the light of the kitchen, wearing a long nightshirt and slippers. She looked once around the room, staring for an instant at the deputy and Mike, where her eyes flickered over the glint of the handcuffs. She shooed the deputy away from the stove.
“I’ll get some water,” he said, fetching a bucket from under the sink. More footsteps could be heard, a pair of them.
“Anyway Vern, MacDougal’s not here,” Mike continued. “I’d take it as a personal favor if…” Mike stopped and turned. Rebecca came running.
“Mikey!”
She jumped into his lap, knocking him back and almost upsetting the chair. Mike hugged her as best he could with his shackled hands. She gripped his neck in a fierce hug.
“You little ginger snap! I’ve missed you!” he said, amazed at himself for saying it, because he’d never thought he’d miss the little pest.
“Ew! Your face is scratchy,” she said, pulling away, “and you smell bad! You need a bubble bath!”
Mike laughed and let her slip to the floor.
“Mom!”
Mary came down the stairs behind Rebecca, her thoughts doing somersaults. She didn’t know what to expect. What she hoped was that Tupper’s body was in the back of a wagon, covered with a sheet. Thinking of Tupper, she prayed that Tom and Mike were unhurt. For a horrible moment she imagined all sorts of things, but she put them out of her head almost as quickly as they sprang up. Those things were unthinkable.
She yearned to see Tom and Mike again, to hold them and know they were back. Anything else wasn’t worth thinking. Little butterflies were let loose in her belly and made her head feel light. Mary set her jaw when she got to the bottom of the stairs, ready for whatever might come. But she wasn’t ready for what she saw.
Mike seemed to have aged years. His face looked drawn, burned by the sun, and blotched with insect bites. A spotty growth of beard gave him a grizzled look. There were dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were dirty and torn. She tried to hide her shock, but she wasn’t sure she did.
The pans clattered on the stove. The deputy went to fetch water. Mary stood for a moment, her hand going to her mouth in shock. She held her arms out to Mike, but as she did, Rebecca turned away from him with a trembling mouth and tears running down her cheeks. She ran and clung to Mary’s leg, stopping her as Mike stood. Mary didn’t see the cuffs at first. Rebecca’s tears distracted her. She though perhaps Rebecca was so happy to see Mike that she’d been overcome. That notion died when she saw the glint of steel, the short length of chain.
Chowder had let MacDougal do the tracking, not that he had much choice. He could not fathom how anything could be tracked through the dense undergrowth in these forests. In many places he couldn’t even see the ground, it was so thick with ferns or grasses or other sorts of low-growing things he didn’t have a name for. The going was rough and exhausting. Where they passed through areas that had been logged it was worse. The limbs and branches left by the loggers formed an impenetrable tangle on the ground. New growth of birch and poplar and beech formed thickets only slightly less dense than hedges. Thorny blackberry tore at their clothes.
Chowder was grateful the trail stuck mostly to the logging roads in those areas. It seemed not even Tupper wanted to fight through if he didn’t have to.
The sun became an orange glow behind the trees as the afternoon wore on. Chowder couldn’t tell for sure if it had set, but it was close. It had been hours since he’d parted with Tom and Mike. He wondered how long it would take them to make it back to Long Lake. He hadn’t told Tom that Mary was there, figuring he’d enjoy the surprise. He grinned. Mary had been quite a catch, and he’d always been more than a little jealous of Tommy for doing the catching.
Shaking Tom and Mary out of his thoughts, Chowder watched the thickets and dense patches of young spruce where the shadows were starting to gather. The light was changing by the minute, and even the open areas were becoming fuzzy. MacDougal hadn’t slowed. In fact, the sheriff had only stopped for a few minutes in the hours of tramping they’d done. Chowder was beginning to wonder if they’d stop at all. He couldn’t imagine how they’d track by lamplight.
They were working their way up a narrow draw. MacDougal was in front, the deputy behind, and Chowder in the rear. There were boulders to the right and a steep slope to the left hemming them in. The ground at the bottom was all in shadow.
For Chowder there was no difference between the deafening boom of the rifles and the impact that knocked him off his feet. It was as if he’d been hit by the sound. He was stunned to find himself on his hands and knees. For a split second his brain could not register what had happened. His left leg didn’t seem to work as it should, and a searing pain started to replace the numbness there. He felt his thigh. His hand came away bright red. This passed in no more than two seconds, but it seemed much longer. More shots came from left and right. MacDougal had disappeared, the deputy too. Chowder pulled out his pistol, but couldn’t see what to shoot at. He was alone, kneeling in the open.
Chowder tried to get to his feet and run, but the best he could do was hobble, dragging his burning leg. A bullet whistled past, hitting a tree in front of him, splattering little pieces of bark. Chowder tried for the tree, the closest cover.
Something hit him in the shoulder, exploding out the top of his chest. He fell into the leaves, his face digging into the crinkling, soft bed. He could not get enough air. His breathing was labored and something bubbled and burned in his lung. When he tried to lift himself his shoulder moved in a way it never was meant to, grinding and burning so bad he fell on his face. The firing stopped.
Chowder rolled onto his back, his head propped against a log. He fumbled with his good hand, rustling the leaves for his pistol. He looked down at the hole in his shirt. He was glad it wasn’t his best one.
Sitting up a little, he managed to shuck off his pack, though the pain of moving his shoulder reduced his vision to a small speck of light, with sparkling stars flitting around in the blackness. Somehow he managed to get a kerchief out of his pack and tie off the wound in his thigh. Another shot boomed, then a second, but they didn’t seem directed at him. Chowder collapsed against the log, trying to catch his breath.
He closed his eyes and floated in a swirling red mist. He was spinning through the forest, the trees rotating above his head. He’d have to get that under control if he ever expected to walk out. He’d make himself a crutch come morning, he figured, trying to plan, to focus on something beyond the pain, the spinning, and the bubbling.
When Chowder opened his eyes someone was there. He didn’t think it was McDougal or the deputy, so he shot him. He just brought up the pistol at his side and blasted him dead center. The man didn’t fall down or drop his rifle, though he doubled over like he’d been kicked by a horse.
Chowder shot him again. The man just said “Damn!” and stumbled away, holding his gut. Chowder started to feel better. Movement caught his eye off to the left somewhere. Someone was running. Chowder shot at him, too, shot until the pistol clicked and clicked. A rifle boomed. Something hit him. He couldn’t see. Something was in his eyes and he was so dizzy he had to close them. He didn’t see the man standing over him, didn’t feel anything more.
Tupper heard the shooting. He stopped and listened. At least three or four people firing, one a pistol, the rest rifles. He doubted it was more than a mile or so back.
“What the hell’s that about,” he said. His grandfather didn’t answer. The spirit seemed puzzled, just standing there.
Tupper took a step back, the first backward step he’d taken in weeks. He took another, not knowing why exactly. All the shooting—it was about him. There was no way he could know that.
He wasn’t even certain anyone was on his trail, though he’d traveled as though someone was. He looked at his broken rifle, good for only one shot, and that iffy. It might even blow up in his face. He wasn’t sure. There was a lot he wasn’t sure about.
But if men were shooting at each other, someone might have been hit, someone might have dropped a rifle or pistol. He thought about his food, which was running low. He’d have to start eating bunchberries soon.
He told himself these things, and they were true, but there was another truth; he’d been chased by men he’d never seen, men who were probably behind him now, shooting at something. He wanted to see them, know what sort of men they were. They’d come closer than he liked to admit. Knowing who they were was a thing worth a risk, a thing of great value when he went into town. Tupper took another step back, but stopped when he heard more shooting.
“Sure you want to do this?” he heard his grandfather say. “The trout does not jump into—”
“Told me that one already,” Tupper interrupted.
“—the bear.”
“Give it up old man. I’ll be careful,” Tupper said, shrugging the old ghost out of his head.
He started retracing his steps. Night was falling. He didn’t have much time.
Tupper made his way back, going with extra care and using the trees and undergrowth to cover him. He did not follow his old trail, but a parallel course, so he’d stand little chance of running into someone head-on. In about half an hour he came to the edge of a ravine. It was almost pitch-dark in the bottom and not much better above. Tupper sniffed the air.
There was the smell of death down there, and he recoiled as from a hot stove. Tupper made sure of his rifle, and wedged an extra three bullets between the fingers of his left hand, ready to reload. A groan came up from the darkness. The hair on the back of Tupper’s neck stood straight up and gooseflesh pebbled his arms.
“Two dead white men. Another soon. Shondowek’owa, the death herald, is waiting,” his grandfather said close beside him, which startled Tupper almost as much as the groaning. “I see their spirits. They are confused.”
Another groan drifted up out of the ravine. Though Tupper shuddered, he went forward. He was almost upon the first body before he stopped. Kneeling close, he examined it, a man he’d never seen before, a man with half his head gone and a brass star pinned to his vest. A Winchester .44-40 lay beside him.
Tupper dropped his rifle and rummaged in the man’s pack, coming up with a box of shells. He checked the rifle, which was loaded and looking as though it was working perfectly. Tupper grinned while he searched the pack for food. Once he had whatever he could use, including cash from the sheriff s pockets, he went to see about the one who was groaning.
Tupper started forward, but instead of going further into the ravine he skirted it, working his way down the edge from tree to tree. Outlines were indistinct. Regardless of what his grandfather had said, he couldn’t see any bodies. He didn’t have to see them to know they were there, though. He could smell the gun smoke and the stink of loosed bowels.
The groans continued. They seemed to follow, calling him; but he wasn’t about to rush in. That was the way of the fool. There would not be much he could do for the man, anyway, except perhaps to put him out of his misery. Tupper thought these things as he worked his way around the ravine.
Maybe his thoughts distracted his attention for an instant, but Owens was there, seeming to materialize from the gloom. He was bent over a body, checking the man’s pockets. Tupper put his rifle to his shoulder without really aiming it, thinking Owens was a friend, but taking no chances.
Owens straightened, bringing his rifle around, perhaps seeing Tupper’s movement from the corner of his eye. He had his rifle on Tupper for a split second then he hesitated. He recognized Tupper. Letting the muzzle drop a fraction, he smiled and nodded. Tupper nodded back, dropping his rifle from his shoulder. When he did, Owens fired.
Tom and Mitchell ducked down. The reports cracked through the dark forest, seeming so close the shots might have been directed at them. In a second it became clear they weren’t. Although close, they were not that close. Mitchell stood and signaled to Tom, who came and stood beside the guide.
“Not far. Maybe quarter mile or so. We go slow.”
Tom just nodded and followed Mitchell, who now seemed to measure every step and place each foot with exaggerated care. Tom tried to do the same, as sweat rolled down his back in little rivulets. He wondered if Mitchell was as scared as he was. Mitchell didn’t show it, but only a fool wouldn’t be scared.
It was further than Tom had imagined from the sound of the shots. It took at least a half hour before they came to the ravine. It was becoming so dark, they were in it before realizing they were hemmed in on either side. Mitchell held up one hand and Tom stopped behind him.
They listened, and Tom thought he could smell the residue of gun smoke. Mitchell sniffed too, peering into the dark as he did, crouching then for a better sight line, but seeing nothing. It was then they heard a long groan. It seemed to come up from just beneath their feet. The sweat on Tom’s back went suddenly cold and every hair on his body seemed to stand straight out. He couldn’t see Mitchell’s reaction, but after a second he signaled again and they went forward.
The groaning man was a little way down the ravine, propped against a rock. Mitchell approached him with great caution, circling behind, keeping the shotgun on him. When he got close enough to see, it was clear the man was near gone. From his belly on down he was red with blood. His head hung on his chest. His hands gripped his middle.
“Who the hell’s this?” Tom whispered. “This isn’t the deputy, nor the sheriff, either.”
Mitchell prodded him with his shotgun but got no response. Bending low, looking at the face, he thought the man looked familiar. Mitchell got out a match. He struck it, holding it close.
“Zion Smith!” Mitchell said.
The eyes fluttered open. “Fuckin’ right,” Smith said.
Mitchell jumped back out of his crouch. The match went out.
“Skeered ya, huh?” Smith wheezed. “Don’ worry. ’Bout dead, I guess.”
Mitchell bent close again, striking another match. Tom was at his side, holding a pistol on the man.
“Zion, what happened?”
“You know this man?” Tom asked. Mitchell nodded. He had known Smith in the logging camps. Though Mitchell had never warmed to the man, he knew him as a solid hand in the woods and a steady man on a hunt.
“Got shot,” Smith said. “Water.”
Mitchell got his canteen and gave it to Smith, who sucked at it, letting half pour down his chest. Smith collapsed against the rock. The canteen fell into his lap.
“Thanks,” Smith said, then added, “Sorry.”
“What?” Tom said.
“Zion, who shot you?” Mitchell asked. Smith said nothing at first. His head hung low, so they could hardly see his eyes, and it almost seemed as though he’d died right then. After a moment, though, he picked is head up and pulled his hands away from his belly. They looked as though he’d dipped them in red paint. He looked down at himself as if there was an answer in the red apron around his middle. Smith shrugged and held his hands out with his palms up.
“What the hell,” he said, wheezing out the words, “I’m dead already. May’s well tell it true. I was with Owens.”
“Huh? Owens left us two days ago, said he had a client,” Tom said.
Smith ignored this. “He got the sheriff. I shot the other one, but ended up he got me.”
“Owens? Ex Owens?”
Smith nodded.
“But what were you two—” Tom stopped, unable to understand what had gone on.
“How the hell you shooting at the sheriff?” Mitchell said.
“It was Tupper shot the sheriff,” Smith said. “That’s how Owens wanted it to look.”
“What?”
“Owens,” Smith said, raising his voice. “He killed the girl and Busher, too. Some fella in New York. Not sure who else.”
“What the hell girl are you talking about?” Tom growled. “Lettie Burman, the maid at the Prospect?”
“Owens,” Smith groaned, nodding. “He done ’em. Makin’ it look like Tupper.”
Tom sat back on his heels. His mouth hung open, his eyes went blank. He could not grasp what Smith had just told them. Mitchell, too, was confused, and he took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Things seemed loose in his head, swirling like bits of grass in a tornado. Smith coughed, holding his middle.
“Oh shit,” Smith said, “pissed my pants.”
Tom gave him another drink. Smith revived a bit.
“What about the girl and Busher?” Tom said.
Zion looked at Tom. “You’re the city police, ain’t ya? That boy’s yours? The one they think killed her?”
“Yeah,” Tom said.
Smith groaned again and there was a gurgling in the back of his throat. “Damn, but he shot me good. My own fault. Thought he was gone.”
“Zion, you helped Owens ambush the sheriff, make it look like Tupper done it?” Mitchell said. “Is that what you’re tellin’ us?”
Smith just nodded, not looking Mitchell or Tom in the eye. “Ex said he’d cut me in. He’s got a deal with some lawyer in the city. One got away, I think. Ex might be shot, too. Dunno.”
Coming out of his shock, Tom said, “Which one got away?” his brain screeching to a halt like a train braking hard, his thoughts turning to Chowder. “Where’s the other deputy?”
“Other deputy? Ain’t seen ’im.”
“Zion, why?” Mitchell said. Smith didn’t try to explain. He probably didn’t have the breath for it.
“You got somethin’ ta write with?” Zion said, his voice sounding weaker.
“Huh? What you gonna write?”
“Confession. This my dead-bed. That’d make it legal in court. God damn Owens fer getting’ me inter this. Not gettin’ a cut o’ anything ’cept perdition now. Do good while I’m able.”
Mitchell and Tom rummaged in their packbaskets but found no paper or anything to write with. Tom went to check the sheriff’s pack and came back a few minutes later with a map. “This’s all I could find,” Tom said. “No pencils, ink, or nothing.”
“Whittle me a stick,” Smith whispered. “Little one, like a quill.”
“There’s no ink, though,” Mitchell said, then stopped himself, understanding what Zion was thinking.
It took some time for Smith to write his story. Tom and Mitchell huddled close while the night engulfed them, lighting matches for Smith to see by. Zion’s hand was none too steady, and the pen none too good. It left lots of drops and blotches before he got the hang of just how much blood to use. When he needed fresh he’d take his hand away from his belly and dip the makeshift quill into one of the oozing holes.
Smith and Mitchell both held the map steady, and soon there was a border of bloody fingerprints all around the edges. In the feeble light it almost looked pretty, like pictures of flowers on fancy stationary.
Tom could see that Smith was fading fast. His words ran in hills and valleys across the map. His eyes fluttered as he tried to concentrate. Tom gave him water, but its effect to revive Smith became less and less. When Smith was close to done, he looked up for a moment in thought, maybe searching for the right word or bit of information. His face in the flickering light was gaunt, almost insubstantial, as if his body was fading, too.
“Who’s the old man?” he said, his body swaying as in a storm at sea. Tom glanced over his shoulder.
“Who? There’s nobody there,” Tom said. Smith shook his head. The match went out.
Tupper didn’t know exactly what happened at first. He found himself on his back, looking up into a dark canopy of leaves and sky, so dark he almost thought he couldn’t see. His head ached and pounded. He had no idea how long he’d been there, nor at first why he was there at all. When he moved to sit up, the trees started to spin and blood dripped down the front of his shirt. He put a hand to his scalp and felt a burning furrow maybe two inches long on the right side.
There was hardly any dried blood, so he reasoned he couldn’t have been down for long. He tried to remember what had happened, how he’d been hurt, when suddenly he remembered Owens’s face, the smile and the nod of recognition. The shot he didn’t remember, but checking his rifle, he found that he’d let loose a round, too. Owens was nowhere to be seen, so Tupper figured he hadn’t hit anything.
He got to his feet and stumbled off in the night. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, didn’t really care just then. It seemed important to go, though, and not be caught with the dead sheriff and the others his grandfather had said were there.
There was a point when he thought he heard a twig snap somewhere off to his left. He crouched low, nearly falling over his head spun so much. There were other sounds that he took for men in the woods. He waited for some time until there was total silence, then he got up and moved away as quietly as he could. He walked for some time, his head clearing little by little, but still throbbing and bleeding. He put a bandana around his temple and that seemed to help.
Over and over he asked why, repeating the word like a chant, an incantation. If his grandfather knew, he wasn’t saying. He stood in the blackness, a wisp of gray, no more substantial than a moonbeam, motionless, mute.
“Why, old man?” he asked his grandfather. “Speak to the dead. Tell me,” Tupper said, his hands held out like a beggar. “You can speak to them, Grandfather. You can learn the truth.”
The spirit seemed to shift, becoming ragged as if blown by an unseen wind.
“There was one who was Owens’s friend. Has gone where I cannot follow,” his grandfather said, the words like a bell in his head.
“You are spirit, Grandfather. Surely you can—”
The old man held up a white hand and Tupper’s voice left him.
“He has gone to ganos’ge, the house of the tormentor, the abode of Hanisee’ono, where there is no end to pain.” Tupper shuddered as he stood on wobbly legs. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. He said a prayer and felt better for it.
Though he could not understand why, it was clear enough that Owens was behind his troubles. Owens had wanted him to escape, wanted him to run. That’s why he’d kicked the damn horse to help him get away from the cop. Again, why was a thing he couldn’t fathom, but it appeared true.
The more Tupper thought about it, the more confusing it seemed. If Owens had wanted him to escape, why shoot at him now? Why kill the sheriff? Though Tupper hadn’t actually seen it himself, it appeared clear that Owens had done it. And how had Owens even found the sheriff? Tupper figured he’d have to have set an ambush, so he must have known where they were heading.
If he’d known where the sheriff was heading, he knew where he was heading, too. None of it made sense to him, but one thing was clear. Owens had shot him, left him for dead in the middle of the forest. For that alone he had a reckoning coming.
Tupper began to plan. His steps began to have purpose. Despite his pounding head, he set a determined course, gritted his teeth, and forced his legs to go as fast as they could.
Tupper felt the forest watching, saw how the trees tried to hem him in and block off his escape. Trees and rocks, unseen roots and undergrowth grabbed at his feet or blocked his way. When at last he burst into the moonlit logging road he was drenched with sweat and gasping for air. He gripped the sheriff’s pistol in one hand and the Winchester in the other. He started to run down the uneven road, settling into a mile-eating jog.
It was a long road back, but nothing compared to the unending torment he planned for Exeter Owens.