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him around. We could hear horses in the freight yard—or maybe they were our mules. Ma gave us chickory coffee, a rare treat.
    â€œYou need to get your wits stirring, if you’re going off with these long riders here,” she said.
    The only long rider I could see, besides Uncle Seth, was Sheriff Baldy Stone, who was evidently cold natured. He stood by the fireplace, warming his hands.
    â€œEddie, it’s just eight miles to Stumptown,” Ma said. “What’s the point of leaving so early?”
    â€œThe point is, there might be a siege,” the sheriff said, “and if it’s a long siege we stand to leave the services of Mr. Hickok. This is Thursday and he don’t work on Fridays. I want to take advantage of as much of Thursday as I can.”
    â€œThere’s another thing,” Ma said. “I’ve told Seth and I’ll tell you and I’ll even tell Mr. Hickok, if he puts in an appearance.”
    â€œWhat’s the other thing?” the sheriff asked.
    â€œI expect you to bring both my boys back alive, that’s the other thing,” Ma said.
    Then she gave us a few strips of horse meat tostuff in our saddlebags, after which she went outside and disappeared in the mist.
    â€œYou heard her, now stay alive,” the sheriff said. “I would rather not be on the bad side of your ma.”
    â€œFor that matter, I’d rather not be dead,” I remarked. G.T., who was still half asleep, thought it was so funny that he cackled—even Neva giggled.
    When we went out to the lots we found that Uncle Seth had already saddled each of us a mule, and Mr. Hickok
was
there, sitting off to himself on a good sorrel horse. Ma was just walking away from him when we came out. I imagine she was warning him, just as she had warned the sheriff.
    She didn’t say another word to us, which upset G.T. a little.
    â€œI hope she don’t forget to skin my coon,” he said—his lower lip was trembling. I doubt it was really that coon that he had on his mind.
    Uncle Seth seemed to be in a quiet mood, which was unusual for him. Everybody had rifles
and
pistols except us, which didn’t sit well with G.T.
    â€œI need a pistol and so does Shay,” he said.
    â€œNo, no side arms for you boys,” Uncle Seth said. “Side arms are only reliable in the hands of experts, and sometimes not then. I’m not too comfortable with the notion of Baldy having a pistol, but it’s too early in the day to be disarming the sheriff. Is that your opinion, Bill?”
    â€œI am rarely up this early,” Mr. Hickok said. “I don’t have an opinion.”
    â€œI’ve put you boys on the fastest mules,” Uncle Seth said. “That way you can outrun the Millers if you have to.”
    Mr. Hickok was all wrapped up in a gray slicker. He took one hand out from under his slicker and pointed his finger several times.
    â€œShooting a pistol is just a matter of pointing,” he said. “If you can point straight you can shoot straight.
    â€œVery few people can point straight,” he added, and then he didn’t say another word until we were almost to Stumptown.
    It was the thickest mist, that morning. If there hadn’t been a well-marked track between Boone’s Lick and Stumptown I have no doubt we would all have got lost from one another. Some of the time I couldn’t even see my mule’s head. I had to listen for the jingling of the bits and the creaking of the saddle leather to convince myself that I was still with the group. Sometimes the mist would clear for a minute and I would see everybody plain as day, but then it would close in again, white as cotton, and I’d have to proceed on hearing.
    G.T. was bothered by the ground mist, too. He was so anxious not to lose me that he kept bumping my mule, Little Nicky, a mule with a tendency to bite when he got irritated.
    â€œYou best quit bumping Nicky,” I told G.T.