Thanks, she says. What I’d really like is to get rid of this collar.

Slim peers at it closely. You need a junkjimmy with a cuttin tool fer that, he says. I know one’ll git it off, no trouble. We’ll git you over there aysap.

Ash says, In case yer wonderin, ma’am, yes, that is a dress he’s wearin. It belonged to his late mother.

Don’t let that faze you, though, says Molly. He’s a blue-chip quack, is our Slim.

Mama Big Doe bequeried me three frocks, her wood leg an two left shoes, says Slim. A salt johnny from Pooce bought the leg an a shoe, but her frocks fit me—an as you can see, I’m a awkward size—so, waste ye not, says I. I’m a fashion free-wheeler an damn the torpedoes.

Mercy! Emmi yells. She comes runnin through the gap with Tracker right behind her. It’s you, it really is! We thought you was dead!

As she rushes at Mercy, Mercy sees Tracker an he sees her an, as her mouth falls open an she’s sayin, Tracker? Can it be? he’s flyin at her, barkin with excitement. Then she’s bein hugged by Emmi an Tracker’s turnin hisself inside out, lickin everywhere with his long sloppy tongue an the whole thing’s a giddy jamboree. Mercy says to me, How on earth did you find him? Why didn’t you say?

Sorry, I fergot. I’ll tell you later, I says.

She’s lookin dazed. Em’s already bolted into a breathless gallop about how Tracker found us, so I go over, sayin, All right, that’s enough, you can tell her later. I peel Emmi away from her.

Slim helps Mercy to a seat by the fire with Ash an Molly. He bustles about, fillin her a tin of food while he clackets on in his usual cheerful way.

What took you so long? Emmi clings to me. Her legs clamp my waist. Her skinny arms bindweed my neck. Where’s Lugh? Where’s the boys? I bin watchin ferever.

Hey hey, yer stranglin me, I says. Git down, yer too big.

She twines me even tighter. Grabs my face in her grubby hands. Worry clouds her blue-sky eyes. I was worried an worried somethin bad would happen to you. An it did, she says. The Tonton came. Ash said. What happened? Where’s Lugh an Tommo?

They’re on their way, I says. Now lemme go. On yer feet.

She slides down reluctantly. Her hands might be dirty but fer once she’s washed her face. In fact, she’s clean an neat. Positively respectable. Her wayward brown hair’s in a plait. Her shirt’s tucked in. Her britches buttoned. She’s even laced her boots. This is Molly’s doin. Left to herself, Em’s a scarecrow of a girl.

She stands with arms crossed, all sulky chin an scrimped up mouth. What did I do now? she says.

Don’t gimme that mardy face, I says. Listen, Em, yer a Free Hawk now. You cain’t go screamin around like you done jest now, like some little kid. I told you before.

But I—

Who’s on lookout?

Me, she says.

So what’re you doin here? I says.

She heaves a sigh. Well, pardon me fer bein glad you ain’t dead, she says.

Git back there this second, go on, I says.

Saba? says Slim. There’s fruit bat gumbo in the pot.

I thought somethin smelled good. Lugh’s voice comes from the entranceway. I whirl around. He’s all in one piece. His smile stretches ear to ear as he opens his arms wide. Anybody miss me? he says.

I did, I did! Emmi dashes at him, leaps at him. He twirls her in a circle. You bum! she cries. I bin worried sick. Did you see Tommo? Creed?

What? They ain’t here yet? Sorry I bin so long, he says to me. I had to cut out wide to lose them Tonton. They took some shakin.

What did I tell you? says Slim.

Look who Saba found. It’s Mercy, Emmi says.

What? Then Lugh’s shakin Mercy’s hand, sayin, I sure wanna know how this came about. It’s bin a long time, ma’am.

You must be starvin, son, says Slim. Everybody come an eat.

That’s it fer Em goin back on watch. I’d hafta drag her there by her pigtail. An, after all, it’s daylight. We crowd around Slim’s cookpot an he loads our tins. Tracker an Nero make fast work of a stringy squirrel that he tosses their way. They keep a wary eye on him, anxious not to splat him with guts. Last time they did, he banished ’em from the fire fer two chilly nights. We’re jest gittin stuck into our meal an all wantin to ask Mercy this or tell her that, when Tommo pitches up at last. He tells the same tale as Lugh. He had to go off his set course to lose his pursuers. He falls on the food like a jackal.

Then a short while later, Creed arrives. He’s bare chested. His precious frock coat’s folded, tucked unner one arm. The other arm’s streaked with dried blood. There’s a arrow stuck in his shoulder.

Creed lounges aginst a boulder while Molly stitches his wound with a fine bone needle an gut thread. He looks like some spirit of nature. Wild curly hair, silver rings in his ears, tattooed waist to neck with twined vines an serpents.

Molly bends her head to her work. As always, there’s a scarf tied over her long blonde curls. Pulled low on her forehead to hide her brand. That loathsome letter. The lie that the Tonton seared in her skin. W. W fer whore. But it don’t mar her beauty. Nuthin could. A face to make angels weep fer joy. That’s what Ike used to say of Molly. An lips that detoured many a man to her Storm Belt junkshack tavern. In the hope that she’d serve them a smile with their drink.

She ain’t smilin now. She’s got her Creed look on. It says, if he does it agin, if he declares his love fer me in front of everybody I’ll slap his head from his neck. But Creed’s so punch drunk in love with her, he cain’t seem to stop hisself. He’s only got the one tactic. Open desperation. He must think she’ll be flattered or take pity on him an eventually give in. As if a delicious woman like her would ever go fer a hobbledy boy like him. Molly’s used to swattin off lust-lorn loobies from her tavern days, but Creed’s a whole new world of aggravation.

I go over to crouch beside them. Give her some relief. I says, With all them tattoos, I’m surprised you can see what yer doin. How deep did the arrow go?

Not very, she says. Surprise surprise, he’s makin out it’s worse than it is.

Creed says, Anythin to keep you close to me, darlin.

I ain’t yer darlin, she says.

Cut it out, Creed, I says.

He leans his head in close to hers. I’m crazy fer you, Molly. Marry me, he says.

She slaps him hard. Almost slaps his head off. Everybody turns at the sound. The angry crack of skin on skin. Her brown eyes spit. In a voice of low fury she says, I’ve told you an I’ve told you but you don’t pay no heed. I’m sick to death of this buck-at-the-rut pursuit. If you was a man, I’d of shot you by now. Fer once an fer all, Creed, leave me the hell alone!

She ends on a shout of frustration. There’s a fat silence as she goes to the fire an sits. Nobody dares move fer a long moment. Then they start eatin agin, with nervous caution. Not so much as a tink of a spoon. In case the sound sets her off agin.

I should never of let it come to this. Me an Slim had a talk some days ago. We agreed I oughta call Creed to order, but I bin puttin it off as ticklish work.

He looks at me with a plea in his eyes. The mark of her hand blooms ugly on his face. She’s left him half-stitched. The needle’s stuck in the wound, the thread danglin. I’m a nervous doctor but I sit down. I pull out the needle an, with clammy hands, I start to sew. I start in on him too, my voice hushed.