After a ride his leg stiffened and he had to hobble over to the porch. He hated carrying the saddle, but it was a shield of sorts; if he got caught in open country it might be the only cover he would have. Roscoe had not forgotten it. He pondered the matter for some time but reached no conclusion.
As they rode toward the little knoll where the buzzards swarmed, they passed a fat old badger carrying a human hand--a black hand at that. The man, whose name was Decker, was fat and stone drunk, leading Call to suspect that Goodnight had been right--the shot had been lucky. Ermoke was drunk and angry. A shroud for a journey, Augustus said.
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