Chase Read Free Page B

rope that the dog must be hurt badly.
    It lay on its side. He poured a little water from Jimmy’s bottle into his cupped hand and offered it. The dog lapped twice. Then, before Phin could touch it, find out what was hurt, it stretched its legs and stopped moving.
    They’d left it there, after some shouting. “What good’s a dead dog?” Jimmy said finally, ending the argument. They could only bury it, and it was buried deep already. Now so was Phin.
    A wave rose from the soles of his feet through every bone and muscle. It emerged a whisper: “Help.”
    He took a breath to really shout and a thought came, clear and distinct as someone else’s voice.
    Don’t.
    He eased the breath out. That’s right. Don’t panic. Panic got him into this mess; a bad situation, but he could make it worse. Someone was hunting him. If he shouted, it might be that person who heard.
    His swimming head slowly settled. Distantly, his body ached. He wondered how badly he was hurt, and patted himself over with his right hand.
    Lump on the left forearm, big through his shirt. He only touched it lightly. If it was broken, he didn’t want to know. Break or bruise, it left his hand numb. His arm ached from wrist to shoulder.
    His face was sticky down the right side. That was blood, from a gash above his hairline. How long had it taken for his own blood to dry and stick him to the floor?
    The fingers of his right hand stung. A nail was torn. He must have hit the side of the hole, maybe grabbed the edge. Slowed his fall. That must be why he wasn’t dead.
    Yet.
    He couldn’t keep that thought back, but the wild clamor of fear didn’t reawaken. He drew a long breath, onethat seemed to fill him with something more than air. Keeping his eyes on the scrap of sky, he pushed his feet against the ground, slid his back up and up the wall of the Dog Hole until he was standing.
    He didn’t vomit. Good. A little dizzy, but that passed after a moment. He turned to the unseen wall and felt along it with his good hand. It was rough and crumbly, with embedded stones, and holes where other stones had fallen out, leaving little crevices. One sloping socket was big enough for a handhold.
    Now find another.
    His left arm told him it couldn’t reach up. Not over his head.
    Marking the location of the first handhold in his mind, Phin reluctantly let go of it. A bit farther over he found a small crack where fingers could cling. He grasped his left wrist, and lifted the hand up, up—
    Oh it hurt .
    Tears released hot down his cold face. His breath came in sobs. With his right hand he jammed the fingers of his left into the little crack. The cold gravel felt distant—
    Above him a horse’s shod hoof struck stone.
    Phin pressed his face to the wall of the Dog Hole and stood unmoving. His breath stopped, and his tears did,too. It was dark down here. In dark clothes, under dark hair, he should be invisible.
    The wall he’d thought he couldn’t see blackened perceptibly. Someone had shadowed the hole, was looking in.
    â€œPhe-e-e-ew!” Half voice, half whistle; a man admitting he was scared or otherwise impressed. The horse stamped and snorted. Perhaps it had warned him of the hole. Perhaps he’d tried to force it on, and been unable. Horses sensed things humans didn’t—
    The wall brightened again. A few crumbles of dirt pattered on Phin’s head. After a bit the hoof sound came again, turning, going away.
    Phin waited a long time before moving. He hadn’t heard the horse coming. How did he know it was really gone?
    And who could be hunting him on horseback? Mahoney, the constable, was a miner, and miners didn’t ride in Bittsville. They walked.
    It had been quiet a long time now. Time to try again.
    His left hand still clung, numbly, to the crack. Phin groped his way back to the first handhold, clawed his fingers firmly into it.
    Now—walk his feet up. Hang there. Find