"I am perfectly steady," Elizabeth said. "Let him make all the noise he likes."

Nathaniel turned back to Todd and knelt to pin down his foot with knee. With his left hand he grasped Todd's thigh to immobilize it. With his right hand he took firm hold of the broken spike.

* * *

Sweat ran into Elizabeth's eyes. She blinked, and blinked again, looking down the softly gleaming barrel of the long rifle to fix her sights on Richard's shoulder, as she had been directed. But the muscles in her hands and lower arms and shoulders began to cramp almost immediately, and in spite of all her efforts the rifle sight wavered disconcertingly between Richard's shoulder and his belly. She thought longingly of the short—barreled musket in her pack, which she had shot a number of times.

But she mustn't distract Nathaniel.

His back was to her. He moved suddenly, and with that movement Richard's face contorted horribly, his mouth and eyes flying open and his head falling back and then bolting forward. As Nathaniel pulled, Richard's upper body came up off the cot, his left arm and fist following in an arc aimed squarely at Nathaniel's temple.

It happened very slowly, Elizabeth thought later, because she could remember individual moments. Nathaniel's profile fixed in utter concentration, his fist curled white—knuckled around the bloody shaft. The spurt of blood and its smell, hot in the damp air. The roaring wild anger in Richard's voice as he threw his weight forward, the blur of his fist as Nathaniel's head snapped away to the side.

The recoil slammed into her shoulder and sent her spinning, the rifle dropping out of her hands. In the small space of the shelter the sound of the shot was deafening, echoing on and on. But it was not loud enough to drown Nathaniel's grunt of surprise as he pitched forward across Richard's legs. Elizabeth landed on her rear, and inhaling sharply she drew in some of the cloud of blue gunpowder, the acrid taste filling her mouth immediately with saliva.

By the time she regained her feet, Nathaniel was already lifting himself off Richard, who scrambled back and away. He pushed with his hands to right himself shaking his head as if to clear it. Elizabeth stood immobile, unable to talk or even to reach out to him as he turned toward her. There was surprise on his face, and shock, and confusion. Nathaniel looked down at himself and she looked, too, and saw the bullet wound, a round ragged hole on the right side of his chest. That's where it came out, she thought quite clearly as the bile rose into her throat. I shot Nathaniel in the back, and that's where the bullet came out.

He was touching his shirt with one finger, as if he could not believe what he saw. His breath came in great gasps, and when he looked up at her, it was with a face suddenly bluish—white in color, and sagging with pain.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the cot.

"Jesus Christ Almighty, Elizabeth," he whispered. He coughed, and there was a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

She fell to her knees in front of him with her arms wrapped around herself and rocked toward him, not touching, not daring to touch him.

"Forgive me," she said, her eyes fixed on his face. "Forgive me, forgive me."

She had forgotten completely about Richard Todd, who had pulled himself into the farthest corner at the head of the cot, his hands pressed against the gaping wounds in his lower leg. The sound of his voice startled her as much as the rifle shot had.

"You married the wrong man," he said with a grimace. "But you sure as hell shot the right one."

It was enough to bring her up out of her trance. Elizabeth leaned toward Nathaniel, still afraid to touch him. "I forbid you to die," she said. "I won't let you."

There was no answer, just the desperate sound of his breathing. But his eyes held hers and he blinked, slowly.

"I need something to bind this leg."

"Nathaniel," Elizabeth said, ignoring Richard. "I will not let you die, do you hear me? But you have to tell me what to do for you."

But he could not. She stood and paced the small room, almost tripping over the rifle where it had fallen. She kicked it, and then turned back to Nathaniel. On her knees in front of him, she scrambled madly for a clear thought. His shirt, she thought. Get his shirt off.

Her hands were trembling so that she could barely manage the ties. When she found that he could not lift his arms, she took his knife and she slit the sleeves and sides, until he sat bare—chested before her with his head and upper shoulders against the wall, his hair dripping down over his chest.

It was a simple hole, an angry red hole that could be covered with two fingertips. She looked at it, a handbreadth below his right nipple, and Elizabeth was overcome with panic and terror. Then she pinched the web of flesh between her thumb and finger as hard as she could, willing her vision to clear.

"It's not so bad," Nathaniel whispered when she opened her eyes again. "Missed the ribs, I think." He coughed again, and a bubble of blood appeared on the wound, bright red.

"What shall I do?" she asked, trying to modulate her voice. "Can you tell me what to do?" In response, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the wall. Elizabeth put her head to his chest and felt his heartbeat, too fast. Too fast. His breathing, shallow. His skin clammy and cold to the touch.

She stood to yank the blanket out from under Richard and tucked it around Nathaniel, tight around his shoulders but tented over the bullet hole. She thought of leaning him forward to look at his back, and her stomach rose. Not yet; she couldn't, not yet.