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horse on the rump. The animal bolted. Saulter hung on somehow, swaying and sagging weakly in the saddle. The horse raced past the saloon, wheeled left, and started out of the town. He went by the woman. She watched as the horse ran down the road, still racing under the impetus of the hat slap.
    He was quickly out of sight of the men behind the saloon. One of them walked toward the front a few yards to make sure that the horse was heading out of town. “He’s gone,” he called back.
    Billy said, “He’s dead for sure.”
    The other man said, “If Tomlain didn’t kill him, he’ll freeze in two hours. But he ought to make it a few miles first. Won’t be found until spring.”
    It was starting to snow harder. Billy glanced up at the flurries of flakes falling. “Let’s go in,” he said, “and get a drink. I got a bad taste in my mouth.”
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    Across the street, Letty stayed to watch. She was hidden in the darkening shadows of the front porch and she saw the horse begin to slow as he hit the edge of town. A little further on and he came to a stop. Letty could barely make him out; horse and rider were just a dim blur through the falling snow. Almost reluctantly she turned the knob of the front door. “None of my business anyway,” she said under her breath. She swung the door open. Inside was light and warmth. “Hell with it,” she said again. She went in.
    A half mile out of town the horse stood, stamping his feet in the snow, undecided about what to do. The nearly lifeless Saulter was barely in the saddle, mostly collapsed on the animal’s neck. He was only half conscious and aware only of the pain in his chest and side.
    It was growing dark, what little daylight there was being obscured by the snow. The horse looked back toward the town. Back there was a warm barn and hay. Out front was nothing but cold. Finally, of his own accord, he turned and took a tentative step back the way he’d come. Then, his head down, trudging because of the unaccustomed load on his neck, the horse made his way slowly back toward the buildings.
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    In the saloon the men sat around drinking and playing cards. One of them got up and went to the window and peered out. “Good dark,” he said. “Sure hate to be in that ol’ boy’s shoes right now. Ain’t even a star to be seen in the sky.” He turned from the window and took a chair at the table. Tomlain had the bottle of whiskey at his elbow and the man reached over, took it, and poured himself out a drink. “Quit hogging the whiskey, Tomlain.”
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    The horse came trudging down the street. He walked at a halting pace, uncertain about what to do. Saulter, swaying and slipping in the saddle, was virtually unconscious.
    In the house across the street the woman was watching out the window of the front room. The room was rough and crudely furnished; behind her were several other women who looked, in makeup and type, very much like her. They watched her.
    One of them said, “What the hell are you doing, Letty? Have you gone crazy from all this damn snow?”
    â€œShut up,” she said without looking around. But she herself didn’t know why she was keeping the vigil. Then she thought she saw something, a movement, a shape, in the black night. She went to the door and stepped out on the front porch. Saulter and his horse were standing in the middle of the road, nearer to her house than the saloon.
    From behind her one of the women called, “Letty, shut that damned door!”
    â€œShut up,” she said automatically, her eyes on Saulter. But she pulled the door to behind her, undecided about what to do with this problem in the road. But even as she watched, Saulter slowly slid down the side of the horse and fell in the snow. For a second he lay there. The motion had startled the horse, but Saulter still had the reins clutched in his hands. The coldness of the snow