It was only a scratch, a glancing cut that might have taken his life, if it had been a fraction of an inch deeper.
Lincoln bound it up. “Now what?” he asked.
“I must go to the right, down the next road. I . . . I have to see a girl, if I can, before I ride on, Roger.”
“That’s pretty Nancy?”
“Do you know about her?”
“Everyone knows about her and you. Jack told me.”
“Jack?”
“She gave Jack my ring that you’d given her. It was Jack that found me and sent me back.”
“Bless him! But . . .”
“She’s not in her father’s house. She’s been sent away to the west . . . to the house of a cousin.”
“Then west, west!” said Torridon feverishly. “How far will it be?”
“Ten days of careful riding,” said Roger Lincoln. “Into a new world, lad.”
“And can we find her?” Torridon persisted.
“Perhaps, I don’t know.”
“West, then,” said Torridon, “if you’ll take me.”
“Look to Ashur,” said the plainsman. “Will he fail you?”
“Never.”
“He is only a horse,” said Roger Lincoln, “and I’ll hope to show you that I’m a man, Torridon.”