A third of the herd was missing, and the wagon was almost beyond repair. The cowboys spread out, to look for them, and most of the horses. That evening, as the sun went down, it was as though the storm had never been, everything was so peaceful.

Tiny and Boots rode back into camp with about ten heads of cattle. They had found them just over the county line, grazing, without even a scratch on them. Buck and Little Joe had found another six or seven dead as doornails in a field a mile or two away. The rest were just plain missing, and would never be seen again.

The winds had carried off the wagon cover, the seat, one of the wheels, and one of the oxen. The Dutch oven was missing, too, a cause for much chagrin. There would be no dinner that night.

Looky had been found in a clearing of cottonwoods at the creek bottom in his union suit, but other than that, unscathed. The wind had picked him up right off his horse, he said, and taken all his clothes.

"We're lucky the wind left you your underwear," said Buck. "I, for one, am mighty beholden to that wind."

But they did not joke when they found Red. His poor body was crushed, and his head had been kicked in. It was Red who had been trampled when the herd had first stampeded. His horse was dead, too.

They buried him in the creek bottom that night. There was no wood to make a coffin, and so they wrapped him in linen, and packed the grave with salt from the lick near the river. They put stones over the grave, to keep it undisturbed.

Ella hid her face against Kin's shoulder as they lowered the body into the ground. She had always liked Red. He had been so brash and smiling, so quick to compliment her and make a joke. Everyone looked sad, even Ignacio, and Cake cried unabashedly. Red had been his best friend. They had been raised in Virginia together, had gone West together. They had always gone together on drives. They had been inseparable.

"I just don't know what I'm a-gonna do without him," he said, over and over, like a bewildered child. "I just plumb don't know."

Ella thought of Kin and Buck, and looked over to where they stood. One so strikingly fair and one so tall and dark—they were the best of friends. What would happen to Kin without Buck? She felt for poor Cake. How terrible to lose your best friend!

Captain Lexington sent Kin and Buck into Dodge the next day for supplies. He himself was going to ride out to the cattle lots outside of town and try to make up for the lost heads.

Ella watched Cake blubber by the ashes of last night's fire, and she was touched with inspiration. She wrote out a list and handed it to Kin.

"Can you get me these things?" she asked, and he looked at her, with a strange expression, but he shook his head 'yes.'

They came back late in the day, and Ella set to work. She measured flour and sugar, beat eggs, and peeled apples. She had never cooked before and did not know how it would all turn out, but anyway, she reminded herself, it was the thought that counted. She had soon made a fragrant concoction, and set the whole thing to cook in the new Dutch oven, and that night, she approached Cake with a plate in her hands.

"What you got there?" he sniffled, his curiosity getting the better of him, even in his grief.

"It's a pie," she said kindly, "It's an apple pie. Just like you wanted. Just like your Mammy used to make you, in Winchester, Virginia."

The look on his face made Ella want to cry herself. She handed over the plate, and Cake began to eat.

"It's real good," he said, and started to cry again. "Why, it's real good, Ella."

He cried harder with every bite, until Ella wondered how he could eat and cry at the same time without choking to death. But soon the plate was empty, and Cake seemed happier, if not restored entirely. He trotted off down to the creek bottom, to look at the little cross that Lank had whittled with Red's name.

"That was a nice thing to do," said Kin, putting his arm around Ella.

Ella just nodded. She thought that if it was Kin who had died, it would take a lot more than apple pie to make her feel better.

"It's nice to have a wife who can cook," Kin said, drawing her near.

She looked up at him.

"It's nice to be your wife," she said, and the truth of it was written on her face.

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They stayed two more days before breaking camp. Captain Lexington had been able to buy up about two hundred cattle, so the heard was not badly depleted. They would have to scrounge up more to make up for lost numbers, but that could be done up the trail a ways.

Another storm came up the second night, and Ella had shaken and shivered in her tent. But it was just a little storm, nothing like the other. And Kin was right outside, she reminded herself. He had taken to sleeping on the ground in front of her tent—no so near as to make her uncomfortable, but near enough that he was there if she needed him.

The rain started gently, but was coming in sheets in a moment or two. Ella swung the tent flap open and looked out, seeing Kin on his knees in the mud, trying to keep his bedroll from flying away in the wind. He had lost his hat on the day of the big storm, and his brown hair was plastered to his head.

"Oh, come on, come on," she cried to him, beckoning him in, "Hurry, before you drown!"

He got up, slipping and sliding in the mud, and ducked into her tent. They were laughing, as Kin shucked off his shirt and wiped the water from his hair and eyes. "Your boots!" Ella said, sternly. "They're dirty—you keep them away from me."

She gathered her flannel night-shirt up around her knees, away from the mud and the water. Then she became acutely aware that she was only wearing her night-shirt—and that here was Kin, in her tent, alone with her, and bare-chested. His gaze fell on her pretty ankles. He smiled, and looked from her little feet to her face.

She blushed, but she would not take his bait. He wanted her to shout at him, and swat at him—or else he expected her to—but she would not. She met his eyes defiantly, challengingly. So what? So what if he had seen her ankles—and her legs—and if he was without his shirt? They were husband and wife, and besides—besides—

Kin gathered her in his arms and kissed her, gently, at first, but roughly and with more passion when he saw that Ella did not resist. No—she even kissed him back! Eagerly—oh, how eagerly! Oh, she had never felt this way before. What would Aunt Pittypat say, if she could see Ella now? Or Mrs. Merriwether—Mrs. Meade—India Wilkes? Or mother—what would Scarlett say? Ella did not care. She had never thought it was possible to feel like this.

They kissed until their lips were red and chapped, and then they lay down, each studying the other's face, looking at it hungrily, fervently, as if it was a map of some uncharted land that they must memorize, or else be lost forever.

"You have a spot—here—where your whiskers don't grow," Ella said, thrilling at it. The most commonplace of things—whiskers! But they were his whiskers. She suddenly felt that she must know everything about him. Everything he had ever thought—or felt—or wanted, or liked or disliked, no matter how commonplace. She must know it all.

"One of your eyes is greener than the other," he said. "The left one." He leaned over and kissed her eyelid.

Her head was pillowed on his arm, and they lay cozily close together. The rain was a steady patter on the tent-roof. The sound of it lulled her, and Ella fell into a drowsy state, somewhere between sleep and waking.

"It's stopped raining," said Kin, his voice drowsy. Ella listened and heard nothing but a little drip-drip from the tent flap. So it had. She burrowed her head into his shoulder.

"Shall I go?"

"No," she murmured sleepily. "You can stay."

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They ate breakfast on the road that morning, as they started off. Kin had a piece of cornbread in one hand; his other was tucked into Ella's. Buck pulled up alongside him and reined in.

"Ogallala in five days," he said, hopefully.

"Yup," grinned Kin.

Buck sighed, looking at their entwined hands. "You ain't going to be no fun anymore," he sighed.

"Nope," agreed Kin.

Captain Lexington pulled up by Ella. He lifted his eyes to the heavens at the sight of them.

"Xavy Kinnicut, get your ass up the line," he growled. "Meaning no disrespect, ma'am. But I didn't hire him for no rear-hand."

"Hold your horses, Captain, I've got to give my best girl a kiss." Ella lifted her face. "There, now, see? I'm going. Lorie, save me some grub at dinnertime, y'hear?"

"All right," Ella called, waving him off.

Captain Lexington shook his head again.

"I'm a damned fool," he said, "In my next life I won't bring no lovebirds along on my drive."

Ella gave him a brilliant smile—it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Then she spurred Mr. Butler into a trot, and raced up the line—up the line, to be near Kin.

END PART THREE