At first he thought it was a cave they dragged him into but when he looked around he saw it wasn’t quite that. A rock cliff, a slight overhang, an improvised lean-to of dead logs and saddles piled cleverly to form a kind of triangular shelter. The wind was not canceled, but at least it was reduced. Two men squatted inside; the woman went in and crowded between them for warmth and the man who was dragging Walker pushed him inside and he collapsed on the ground, drawing his knees up foetally.
The woman was crying. “Look at me. I can’t stop.”
“Take it easy, Mrs. Lansford.”
Walker felt dizzy; he couldn’t breathe. The man who had dragged him inside turned and Walker glimpsed his face. He looked like an Indian.
The others were huddled together watching him. The Indian said, “Vickers, your horse is just about done anyway. Bring him here.”
“What for?”
“Do it.”
And one of the men got up with a grunt and went out, stepping across Walker. The Indian was kneeling beside him again and began to slap his cheeks. Walker tried to jerk his head away but the Indian kept slapping him. “Got to get your circulation going, man. Don’t fight me.”
His cheeks began to sting dully. The woman said, “There’s no way to build a fire?”
“Not till the wind lets up.”
The other man came into sight leading a horse that was limping badly where balls of ice had formed in its hoofs.
The Indian went back into the shelter and reappeared with a rifle and Walker’s face crumpled. The Indian stood up and shot the animal in the head.
The horse fell right beside Walker and the Indian put the rifle away and came out again with a hunting knife. Faint streaks of light flashed fragmentarily from the blade when it moved toward the horse and plunged in, opened a great slit in the dead horse’s belly. The Indian methodically gutted the horse, throwing the insides away in the wind, and the smell of escaping gases made Walker turn his face away. He began to lose consciousness, not unpleasantly; sleep drifted vaguely into his mind and somehow his concentration focused on the numbness of his bad tooth.
They were shaking him violently. He tried to push them away but they kept shaking him and finally he cursed thickly and opened his eyes.
The Indian said, “Come on-get inside.”
“Inside what?”
The Indian began to tug him toward the dead horse. He saw a gaping maw: flap of hide folded back, several ribs torn away. “Inside,” the Indian said. “Pull it shut over you. It’s going to stink like hell but it’ll get you warm, keep you thawed out.”
The smell nauseated him. The woman was kneeling beside him. Her slender fingers reached out. “Thank you.” Eyes full of concern.
The Indian shoved him into the carcass. The hide flapped down, closing him in stinking warm darkness. The heat enveloped him and there was no wind. He sagged against the sticky wetness of his black cavern and gagged on the stench. He felt an insistent hammering behind his eyes; the beat of his heart was loud; needle pricks quivered the flesh of his hands and feet and face, and sleep rolled his head against the warm rib cage of the dead horse.