"Then they run like hell for Bayenne or anywhere they think is safe. I want the Santo Domingans to do the bleeding, not us."
"Agreed. Papa Legba said you were a man to be followed, despite your years. We go on."
After a brief halt that allowed Monte-Cristi to organize the detachment, they got under way again. The column trudged steadily and slowly uphill. The sun vanished in a crimson explosion, then turned the sky over to the stars. With the night complicating matters, Post called frequent halts to allow the column to keep in a compact bunch. At every stop, the men ate some of their rations meant to last for two days, but Valentine left that to Monte-Cristi. He had been warned that the men preferred to carry their food in their stomachs instead of in their bags.
Cercado appeared out of the dark, with two skinny youths he introduced as nephews. The boys did not take after their uncle in grooming: their scalps were shorn like merinos in springtime.
"We had some trouble near the border. A patrol."
"I am sorry, Captain. Always in war is bad news. Always."
You just summed up war almost as concisely as Sherman, roadwatcher. "We're pressing on. You've got more of your family spread out up the mountain, and then down to San Jose?"
"Yes."
"How many are there?"
Cercado frowned. "Were it not for the accursed ones, there would be sixty-seven or more. My father had five sons and three daughters, and I am the second oldest. My father and my elder brother both died. Every year more die than are born. There are twenty-nine of us now. In ten years' time, the family of Cercado will cease to be, unless some of the infants survive. They hunt us up and down the mountains, and sometimes they find us."
"Why do you keep on?"
"Why do you?"
Valentine nodded at the feral-looking man, for a moment feeling an affinity for him stronger than his battle-tested friendship with Post. "I understand. I'm the last of my family."
"You are still young. Find a wife, have children, go far from them. There are other ways to beat them than killing."
"My father tried that. I'm still the last."
"I see. So you stick to killing." It was a statement, not a question.
Valentine looked back at the men. "How long until we can rest?"
Cercado took the question literally. "At the rate you go? A few more hours. Say five at most. Then you will be safe among the heights."
* * *
They reached the heights, grassy meadows on the rounded tops of the mountains that reminded Valentine of some of the weather-rounded peaks of the Ouachitas. They had come up far. Far higher than the mountain that held the Once-ler's Citadel. It was cool, even for Haiti in June, at this elevation.
Valentine walked his horse backwards down the column. He nodded at Monte-Cristi. "We'll rest until dawn," Monte-Cristi announced. The men groaned in relief as they sat.
There was Post to see, and Ahn-Kha. The Grogs were already sleeping in a heap of limbs and broad backs, like pigs seeking the comfort of each other's warmth in a cold sty.
"Rest, my David. I will keep watch," Ahn-Kha said.
"I'll join you. I can sleep in the saddle tomorrow."
"You are limping. You always do when you are tired. Stop pretending you're a ghost and rest," Ahn-Kha argued, sotto voce. Ahn-Kha's rubbery lips came to a point like an accusing finger.
"Wake me in two hours. Then you can sleep. Two hours, old horse, and that's all."
"Agreed."
Valentine unsaddled his mount and wiped the sweat from its back and muzzle. By the time he hobbled it, gave it a nosebag full of vegetables ground with sugar, and checked its hooves, half an hour of his two was gone. He looked at Ahn-Kha, standing atop a rock with the patience of a tree, as if the rock itself would succumb to fatigue before the Golden One would. Comforted, he slept beneath the statuelike shape.
"Up. You've been asleep two hours," Ahn-Kha said, prodding him in the back with one of his crossbow bolts.
Valentine snatched the bolt and rapped Ahn-Kha on the shin with it before the Golden One could react. "Thanks."