Chapter 11“I—is—is he dead?” Mari stammered out a choked whisper.
Dusty stepped into the dusky interior, turning to kneel beside the body. Crumpled and twisted, the horse trainer’s form was a warped parody of a human body. He seemed shrunken and empty, all violence and vitality gone. He lay almost face down, his hat several feet beyond his body. His shirt and jeans were grey with dust, rumpled and askew.
The question had to be answered, as much as he did not want to touch the awkward shape. He leaned down, slipped his fingers under the collar, and let them rest on the side of Berne’s neck. The flesh was warm, at least. Then, after a moment, he felt the faint stir of a pulse. He looked up at Mari, standing frozen and stiff, one hand wedged against her mouth as if holding back either a scr
