"I've got a soda poultice on it now," Jocelyn said.
Danvers patted Valentine's scratched and dirt-covered hand. "You'd clawed your way to the surface. We saw your head and arm sticking out of the burrow. You must not have got much of a dose."
"Don't let him scare you," the deacon said from the campfire. "You'll be fine. They only nibbled on you a bit, and all your fingers and toes still twitch. You were buried at least a day. Have another swallow of whiskey. That old saw about it being good for snakebite is bullfeathers, but some alcohol in the bloodstream sure helps with whatever it is they sting you with."
Danvers uncorked the bottle, poured another mouthful into Valentine, and gave him a chaser for good measure when he swallowed the first.
"That good, eh?" Danvers said. He took a swig.
"Chuck, you stop that, don't forget we're far from home," the deacon admonished.
"Sorry. First drop since calving festival, Preacher. Lot's happened since."
"It's your last till we're among the wagons again. When dawn comes, I'll ride back and let them know to call off the trackers."
Dawn came, and Danvers roused the deacon from his watch. The old Bible-thumper went to his horse and eased himself in the saddle.
"Time was, life got easier when you got old," he grumbled, and walked his horse over to Valentine. "Young man, you're welcome at our wagons anytime you like."
The deacon pulled his hat down firmly on his head.
"Thank you," Valentine said. He still felt drained, but his mind was back in the alcohol-numbed world of the living.
His left leg throbbed at the ankle, but it was the healthy pain of a body healing. "Now I know what Sandbugs smell like, sir. I'll be fine."
"Jocelyn, he doesn't saddle his horse for two more days. Lots of water and rest will flush the stuff out," the deacon ordered. "Danvers, I'll send out some of your men to take your place so you can get back to work."
"Thanks, but no, Deacon. I'll keep an eye on Jocelyn."
"As you like. Good-bye again, Mr. Stuart. God be with you."
The poultice cooled the wound. Valentine bowed his head and shut his eyes. "He was when I met the Eagles."
Valentine napped in the shade whenever he wasn't drinking. His Eagle companions fed him on bread soaked in broth. Jocelyn put vinegar-soaked compresses on his wound, and the cool antiseptic bite of the vinegar brought some relief. Valentine watched the two work: Danvers's eyes never left the girl when he was in camp. But there was restlessness to the man; he continually went out to fetch water or survey the road, or set snares for small game, and hallooed from a quarter-mile off when he returned.
"He likes to be on the move, doesn't he," Valentine said, as Danvers rode off to exercise Valentine's bay on another sweep of the ground to the south.
"He was born and raised in the saddle, more or less. His mom climbed off her horse and had him two minutes later. His pa says she climbed back on five minutes after that, but no one takes him seriously. He's leaving us alone out of politeness."
"I like your company, but there's no need."
"He ... I made kind of a scene at camp when your horse came back. I told my mother I was going to find you and go with you."
Valentine read the anxiety in her eyes.
"I think your people need you," he said after a moment. "More than I."
"They'll be fine."
"I'm not going to tell you you couldn't keep up, or that I wouldn't want you next to me, Jocelyn. So I'll rephrase. You need your people."
She looked at him, eyes wet. Perhaps she had expected a different argument.
"They're your family. You're at exactly the age where that doesn't mean much to you, but as the years go by, you might regret your choice."
"I might not, too."
"I wish I had the chance to regret my family. I had parents, a brother and a sister, a home. It all was taken away when I was eleven. If you've got any respect for me, set aside whatever it is between us, and listen to this: Stand by your mom and Josh. We're two people who needed each other for a little while. Your family will always need you."