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    Instead she died in that back room where they’d lived, the eggs and ale and tea sent up by Murray during her brief illness piled uneaten on the table. Unlike in novels, there was no time for a speech. She whispered “Son,” or “Sun,” and then she stopped; stopped speaking, stopped breathing,though for a long time Phin wasn’t sure of that and sat staring at the mysterious movement he was sure he saw in her body—not as large as breathing, more like the shimmer of gases off the culm banks on hot summer afternoons.
    Nan Lundy came and said she was dead, closed her eyes, and began doing things. Phin went downstairs, chill and wide-eyed, and that hairy boar Duff Murray poured him a shot of whiskey. It made a thin streak of heat down the middle of him, raw and metallic. He didn’t finish it. He saw Murray approve of that.
    He should say something now. But “good-bye” felt wrong, and there was no time to think. Phin ducked his head and turned away, over the fence and into the blackberry tunnels.
    They led on a long way in leafy darkness, flashes of sunlight, unexpected openings that left him exposed, sudden dead ends. He lost track of how far he’d come, and straightened to look.
    Nearly there. He could see the stable roof, below, and a man riding toward town.
    He ducked, listening. That was the mule dealer, who’d waited three weeks already for “Little” Bitts, the owner’s son, to get back from his Adirondack vacation. What was the man’s name? Fraser? Graham? He drank good Scotch,nursing each glass a long time, and rode a horse that was more than good; a dark stallion of extraordinary quality.
    Phin risked another look. They’d gone on toward town. The man’s back moved easily to the horse’s gait. The long coat billowed, and the stallion’s flowing tail dusted the ground—off on their daily ride as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Phin shuddered and stumbled on through the brambles.
    At last the big door yawned before him—the upper level, the hay mow door. Phin watched awhile. When he was sure the barn was empty, he darted across the open space and into its dark shelter.

6
D ENNIS
    W arm, safe barn smells enveloped Phin—hay, horses, manure. Tears stung his eyes. He sagged against the side of the mow, shaking, seeing Engelbreit fall and fall—
    Voices snapped him upright. Out front. Dennis—and someone else. He crept forward and looked through a crack in the wall.
    Down in the stable yard, Dennis sat scrubbing a wooden bucket. More buckets were lined up beside him. Pat Mahoney, the Sleeper constable, loomed over him, hands in pockets. His head turned slowly like a suspicious bull’s, darting looks into all the corners, while Dennis’s acid voice scratched on.
    â€œâ€”kill a man in cold blood and then come in to work! That’s just what a murderer’d do. I’ve a good mind to telegraph Allan Pinkerton about you, Pat; he’s always lookin’ for detectives! Now get out of here!”
    Mahoney took his hands out of his pockets.
    â€œI’ve got all that boy’s work to do, too,” Dennis said, “and you’ve wasted enough of my time. If he shows up, he’s finishin’ these buckets, I’ll tell you that right now! Maybe then I’ll think about turning him over.”
    â€œOh, you’ll turn him over,” Mahoney said.
    Dennis splashed more vigorously. Water sloshed on Mahoney’s boots. He took a step back, and Dennis stood, tipping his head to meet Mahoney’s gaze. Mahoney was a bad man with his fists, a brutal man, but Dennis showed no fear.
    â€œTryin’ to scare me? You’ll have to try harder’n that! I got a chunk of cannonball in my leg hurts me every step I take. Had my fill of that, and I’ve had my fill of fools!”
    Mahoney’s head lowered; his shoulders bunched. Dennis said, “Your crowd’s