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in soft earth,
going toward the water. A little further, one of her shoes was stuck in the mud
and abandoned.
    The creek was shallow—no more than
knee deep for someone her size. I waded across, picked up the shoe, located her
tracks in the mud on the far side and saw them joined by two other sets of
footprints. Bare feet, larger than hers. I began to feel cold and hot inside at
the same time.
    I went back to the tent, strapped on
the belt with the holstered revolver and took the carbine. The carbine held
thirteen shells and it was semi-automatic. My first thought was of following
the tracks up the hill; and then I realized that this would be more likely to
alert whoever the other two people had been than if I drove. If they saw me
coming in the panel, they might figure I'd given up the girl and left her. If
they saw me coming on foot, particularly with Sunday, they wouldn't have much
choice but to think I was chasing her down.
    I packed the gear. It would be hard
to replace, maybe; and there was no guarantee we'd be coming back this way
again. Then I got into the panel, letting Sunday up on the seat beside me for
once, but making him lie down out of sight from outside. I pulled out on the
highway and headed up the road parallel to the way I had last seen the
footprints going.
    We did not have far to go. Just up
and over the rise that belonged to the meadow across the creek, I saw a trailer
camp with some sort of large building up in front of all the trailers. No one
had cut the grass in the camp for a long time, but there were figures moving
about the trailers. I drove up to the building in front. There were a couple of
dusty gas pumps there, and a cheer-fully-grinning, skinny, little old man in
coveralls too big for him came out of the building as I stopped.
    "Hi," he said, coming up
within about four feet of Sunday's side of the car and squinting across through
the open window at me. "Want some gas?"
    "No thanks," I said.
"I'm looking for a girl. A girl about fourteen, fifteen years old with
dark hair and doesn't talk. Have you seen—"
    "Nope!" he chirped.
"Want some gas?"
    Gas was something you had to
scrounge for these days. I was suddenly very interested in him.
    "Yes," I said. "I
think I'll have some gas. And..."
    I let my voice trail off into
silence. He came closer, cocking his left ear at me.
    "What'd y'say?" He stuck
his head in the window and came face to face with Sunday, only inches between
them. He stopped, perfectly still.
    "That's right," I said.
"Don't move or make a sound, now. And don't try to run. The leopard can
catch you before you can take three steps." He didn't know that Sunday
would never have understood in a million years any command I might have given
to chase someone.
    I jerked my thumb at the back of the
panel. Sunday understood that. He turned and leaped into the back, out of the
right hand seat in one flowing movement. The old man's eyes followed him. I
slid over into the right hand seat.
    "Now," I said, "turn
around. Give me room to open the door."
    He did. I opened the door on that
side of the panel a crack. The baggy coverall on his back was only inches away.
Vertically in the center of the back, about belt level, was a tear or cut about
eight inches long. I reached in through it and closed my hand on pretty much
what I expected. A handgun—a five-chamber .22 revolver-stuck in a belt around
his waist under the coveralls.
    "All right," I said,
picking up the carbine and getting out of the panel behind him. "Walk
straight ahead of me. Act ordinary and don't try to run. The leopard will be
with me; and if I don't get you, he will. Now, where's the girl? Keep your
voice down when you answer."
    "Bub-bu-bu—," the old man
stammered. Sounds, nothing understandable. Plainly, as his repeated offer of
gas had shown, whoever lived in this camp had chosen one of their less bright
citizens to stand out front and make the place look harmless.
    "Come on, Sunday," I said.
    The leopard came. We followed