And touch no more the thoughts, the moods,
That win the easy praise;
But venture in the untrodden woods
To carve the future ways.
Though far or strange or cold appear
The shadowy things I tell,
Within the heart the hidden seer
Knows and remembers well.
I think that in the coming time
The hearts and hopes of men
The mountain tops of life shall climb,
The gods return again.
"A New Theme"
- A.E.
John woke to the strangely loud silence of the dense morning fog. The fire crackled, and he could smell coffee brewing. An unfamiliar creak - whoosh - thunk carried clearly to him in his bedroll, and he realized this was the noise that had woken him.
John had sat up most of the night, wanting to make sure Heath got some sleep before morning. He'd been glad to see that Heath seemed a little calmer after they talked. Once John ordered him to bed, so to speak, Heath actually fell asleep almost immediately. He surfaced a few times when a wave of fear would come rolling through his dreams. They were small waves, though, not waking him fully, and not as intense as the nightmares John remembered him having in Nevada after he escaped from that lynching gang up in the foothills. Then, there were a few times during that first rough night when John needed Frank or one of Heath's brothers to help him get the boy safely settled down.
Tonight, as John kept the watch, he thought about this family that had become so important to him, and listened for any change in the even rhythm of Heath's breathing. Eventually, after several hours, John guessed dawn was approaching, though it was impossible to tell in the fog. He checked over the campsite and horses, checked on Heath one more time, and then laid down to get some sleep himself.
Now, opening his eyes, he looked for the source of the noise that had roused him. Half-hidden by fog, Heath was kneeling on the far side of the campsite, drawing a longbow and sighting on a target John couldn't see.
He was shirtless, his hair wet, as if he had just come from washing up in the creek. John stayed still and watched, as Heath drew and and sighted down his arrow, slowly, with what appeared to be complete concentration.
The skin of his forearms was still discolored from the prolonged abrasion of restraints. His back and arms were criss-crossed with scars, the signature of knives, guns, the lash. The sight didn't shock John, as he had been with Heath when much of that brutal writing was fresh on his skin. Nor did he feel rage - John had chosen to set that feeling aside as unhelpful. The authors of those scars were dead, or dying in prison. John felt instead the sadness of a bereaved parent, for all the things war and violence can take away from a person. And he felt gratitude for Heath's stubborn refusal to close himself off and quit.
Breathing steadily through his nose, Heath held his aim at its fullest reach. John could see muscles moving under his skin, beginning to shiver with the effort, but his breathing stayed even, his face and body otherwise relaxed. Only a slight flicker of strain showed around his eyes. There was one more slow breath in.
- Breathe in. Hold. Focus on the target. Release.
- Whoosh. Thunk.
Heath lowered the bow, blue eyes narrowed at the unseen target. He nodded, seeming to be satisfied.
"Pine cones. Only pine cones," he said to himself, firmly.
"Only pine cones?" John had to ask.
Heath turned, slightly surprised. "Did I say that out loud?"
"Yep."
"Been out shooting too much by myself, I guess. Talking to myself."
"So. Pine cones?" John asked again.
Heath smiled fondly. "Something Artemis said to me. You remember Mike's little girl? The one with an eye like a sharpshooter who was always riding around with a bow and arrow with her twin brother?"
"Yeah. The wild one who got you practicing with a bow when your shoulder was healing up. I see you've taken her coaching to heart."
"She'd use pine cones for targets. She'd tell me to focus on the target and not on the pain. But sometimes -" Heath looked away, remembering. "- sometimes the target turns into someone or someplace else in my head. She could tell. She'd remind me. Only pine cones. And she didn't take no for an answer." He smiled down at the bow in his hand, then braced it on the ground and released the bowstring. "How she got so wise so young, I don't know. But she was a good coach."
John stood, stretched, brushed himself off. "How's the arm now?"
"Ornery. Sometimes downright mean. Hell, everything hurts when I get up in the morning, though I loosen up some once I get moving. Mainly this right leg and shoulder that give me trouble, but I keep working at 'em."
"That doesn't surprise me."
John walked with Heath into the fog to retrieve his arrows. It became apparent that the target, wherever it was, was not visible from the campsite. When they arrived at the Digger Pine Heath had chosen, they found a tight cluster of six arrows in the trunk about 4 feet off the ground. "These trees have enormous pine cones," Heath said. "The nuts are great for eating. I'd like to practice shooting the cones off the branches, but in this fog, I don't think I'd be able to find 'em after."
John looked back the way they had come. No sign of the campsite. "OK, I give up. How do you aim at tree you can't see?"
Heath shrugged. "I saw it once through the fog." Wasn't much different than sighting his rifle on a man who just lit a match in the dark, so long as the target isn't moving.
They started back, John smiling and shaking his head. "And how about the ranch? You been able to stay ahead of Nick?"
Heath glanced briefly at him before he knelt down to start rolling up his gear, an anxious look, quickly masked. John thought maybe he would touch a nerve with that question. From what he'd seen of their relationship, he sensed Heath wanted to dismiss the challenge with the understated but humorous bravado he typically used to tease his competitive older brother. He couldn't muster it, though, and he looked bereft. Then it seemed to John that Heath deliberately shook that off, replacing it with frustration and a stubborn impatience with himself. "Barely keeping up, to be honest," he admitted gruffly as he tied off his bedroll. He couldn't entirely hide a grunt of pain as he stood with his saddle in his hands and limped toward Charger. He spoke back over his shoulder as he tacked up the horse.
"One thing I think you're right about, Marshal. I think I actually got some sleep last night, and I don't feel nearly so beat down this morning. You're looking a bit scruffy, though. Got some warm water and soap there, if you want a shave. Before we head down to the house, and breakfast, and my mother, and all that -" He gave John a quick smile as he reached for his shirt.
John ran a hand over his rough face. He pictured Victoria at the house, and suddenly the unflappable lawman felt warm and strangely aware of his heart beating in his chest. He laughed at himself. "Want to shave? You bet I do." He pulled out his pocket watch and noticed it had stopped. "You have any idea what time it is?"
"5:45."
"That a guess?"
"No, it's 5:45."
"Your brothers told me you have a clock in your head, you always know what time it is."
"Something like that, yeah."
"OK, if you say so. I'm setting my watch by you." Turning in place, he gazed at the dense gray fog in all directions as he wound his watch. "Good thing I ran into you out here, Heath. Don't know how I'd find my way to your house otherwise."
Heath chuckled. "It remains to be seen how well I can scout us home. Reckon we oughta make it there sometime today, if I can get us back to the road and we don't ride in circles."