"You're going on that way?" Chickadee asked Horse.
"The little one wants to see if her people are livingthere," Horse said, surprising the child. Was that what she wanted?
Chickadee looked disapproving, as she often did. She whistled a few notes thoughtfully, another of her habits, and then got up. "I'll come along."
"That's great," Horse said, thankfully.
"Ill scout," Chickadee said, and off she went, surprisingly fast, ahead of them, while Horse took up his steady long lope.
The sour smell was stronger in the air.
Chickadee halted, way ahead of them on a slight rise, and stood still. Horse dropped to a walk, and then stopped. "There," he said in a low voice.
The child stared. In the strange light and slight mist before sunrise she could not see clearly, and when she strained and peered she felt as if her left eye were not seeing at all. "What is it?" she whispered.
"One of the holes. Across the wall—see?"
It did seem there was a line, a straight, jerky line drawn across the sagebrush plain, and on the far side of it— nothing? Was it mist? Something moved there—"It's cattle!" she said. Horse stood silent, uneasy. Chickadee was coming back towards them.
"It's a ranch," the child said. "That's a fence. There's a lot of Herefords." The words tasted like iron, like salt in her mouth. The things she named wavered in her sight and faded, leaving nothing—a hole in the world, a burned place like a cigarette bum. "Go closer!" she urged Horse. "I want to see."
And as if he owed her obedience, he went forward, tense but unquestioning.
Chickadee came up to them. "Nobody around," she said in her small, dry voice, "but there's one of those fast turtle things coming."