Bright and early the following morning, the trio left the house carrying a small paper bag of food and a twenty-two-caliber rifle Mrs. Withers had produced along with three cartridges. Roger located the Aperture after a short search.
"We'd better stay close together," he said. "I suggest we hold hands, just to be sure we don't get separated and wind up in different localities."
Mrs. Withers offered a hand to each of her two escorts. Roger in the lead, they stepped forward—
—and emerged in deep twilight which gleamed on giant conifers spreading ice-crusted boughs in the stillness. Roger sank calf deep in the soft snow. The air was bitterly cold.
"That was a short day," Luke grunted. "Let's go back and try again."
"I should have thought of this," Roger said. "It must be below zero."
"I'll just run back and get coats," Mrs. Withers suggested.
"It doesn't work that way," Roger said. "We may wind up in a worse place than this. And while we're here, we may as well look around. For all we know, we're clear. There may be a road within fifty feet of us, a house just over the rise! We can't run away without even looking. Luke, you go that way"—he pointed up-slope—"and I'll check below. Mrs. Withers, you wait here. We'll be right back."
Luke nodded, looking unhappy, started off in the direction indicated. Roger patted the woman's arm and set off among the trees. Already, his hands and toes and ears ached as if pliers were clamped on them. His breath formed instantly into fog before his face. He had gone no more than a hundred feet when he saw the felled tree.
It was a small pine, a foot in diameter at the base, only lightly powdered with snow. Most of the branches had been trimmed off and were neatly stacked nearby. The stump was cleanly cut, as if by a sharp axe. Roger studied the ground for tracks, in a moment found them, partially filled by blown snow.
"Only a few hours old," he muttered half aloud. The tracks led directly up-slope. He started off, following them, not an easy task in the failing light. He had almost reached the ridge when the deep boom! of a gun shattered the arctic stillness.
For a moment Roger stood rigid, listening as the echoes of the single shot rang in the air. It had come from the right, the direction Luke Harwood had taken. He started off at a run. The drifted snow caught at his legs, dragging at him; the icy air burned in his throat. He fell back to a walk, scanning the shadowy forest all around for signs of life, detoured around a giant fallen tree, encountered deeper snow. He heard faint sounds of movement ahead, as of someone hurrying away through the snow.
"Wait!" Roger called, but his voice was only a weak croak. For an instant, panic gripped him, but he forced it down.
"Got to get out," he whispered. "Colder than I thought. Freezing. Find Luke, get back to Mrs. Withers . . . "
He stumbled on, his hands and feet numb now, forced his way through a tangle of dry, ice-coated brush, and saw a crumpled figure lying in the snow. It was Luke Harwood, lying on his back, a bullet hole in his chest, his sightless eyes already rimmed with frost.
There was nothing he could do for Luke, Roger saw. He turned and set off at a stumbling run for the spot where he had left Mrs. Withers. Ten minutes later he realized he was lost. He stood in the gathering dusk, staring about at ranks of identical trees. He shouted, but there was no answer.
"Poor Mrs. Withers," he thought, his teeth chattering. "I hope she goes back through before she freezes to death." He stumbled on a little farther. Then without remembering falling, he was lying softly cradled in the snow. The warm, cozy snow. All he had to do was curl up here and snooze a while, and later . . . when he was rested . . . try . . . again.
He awoke lying in a bed beside a hide-covered window aglow with watery daylight. A tall, gaunt, bearded man was standing over him, chewing his lower lip.
"Well, you're awake," Job Arkwright said. "Where was you headed anyways, stranger?"
"I . . . I . . . I . . . " Roger said. His hands and feet and nose hurt, but otherwise he seemed sound of mind and limb. "What happened? Who are you? How did I get here?" A sudden thought struck him. "Where is Mrs. Withers?"
"Your missus is all right. She's asleep." The gaunt man nodded toward a bunk above the one in which Roger lay.
"Say!" Roger sat bolt upright. "Are you the one that shot Luke?"
"Reckon so. Sorry about that. Friend o' yours, I s'pose. I took him for somebody else."
"Reckon it was the bad light."
"I mean—why were you going to shoot somebody else?"
"Why, heck, I never even met your friend to talk to, much less shoot, leastwise on purpose."
"I mean—oh, never mind. Poor Luke. I wonder what his last thoughts were, all alone out in the snow."
"Dunno. Why don't you ast him?" The stranger stepped back and Luke Harwood stood there, grinning down at Roger.
"B-but you're dead!" Roger yelped. "I saw you myself! There was a hole in you as big as your thumb!"
"Old Betsy's bite's as mean as her bark," Arkwright said proudly. "You should of seed Fly Beebody, time I picked him out of a pine at a hundred yards. One of my finest shots. He'll be along any minute now; get him to tell you about it."
"I told ye getting killed don't mean shucks," Luke said. "Job here done a clean job, never smarted a bit."
Roger flopped back with a groan. "I guess that means we're still stuck in the trap."
"Yes. But it could have been worse. At least Job here drug us inside out of the weather. I figger in your case, that saved yer skin."
There was a thumping at the door. A slim woman Roger hadn't noticed before opened it to admit a plump young fellow with a bundlesome overcoat and a resentful expression.
"The least thee could do, Brother Arkwright, would be to lay me out in Christian style after thee shoots me," he said as the woman took his coat and shook the snow from it.
"Don't like to see the remains cluttering up the place," Job said carelessly. "You ought to be thankful I let you in next morning."
"You mean—you actually shot that man?" Roger whispered hoarsely. "Intentionally?"
"Dern right. Caught him making up to Charity," he added in a lower tone. "That's my woman. Good cook, but flighty. And Fly's got a eye for the skinny ones. He goes along for a few days holding hisself under control, and then one day he busts loose and starts praising her corn meal mush, and I know it's time to teach him another lesson."
"How long has this been going on?"
"All winter. And it's been a blamed long winter, I'll tell you, stranger."
"Poor fellow! It must be ghastly for him!"
"Oh, I dunno. Sometimes he puts one over on me and gets me first. But he's a mighty poor shot. Plugged Charity once, by mistake, jist like I plugged your sidekick."
"Oh, Charity gets in her licks, too. She nailed the both of us once. Didn't care for it, though, she said afterward. Too lonesome. Now she alternates."
"You mean—she's likely to shoot you without notice—just like that?"
"Yep. But I calculate a man's got to put up with a few little quirks in a female."
"Course, I don't much cotton to the idea of what goes on over my dead body—but I guess, long as she's a widder, it don't rightly count."
Charity Arkwright approached with a steaming bowl on a tray.
"Job, you go see to the kindling whilst I feed this nice young man some gruel," she said, giving Roger a bright smile.
"Thanks, anyway," Roger said quickly, recoiling. "I'm allergic to all forms of gruel."
"Look here, stranger," Job growled. "Charity's a good cook. You ought to try a little."
"I'm sure she's wonderful," Roger gulped. "I just don't want any."
"That sounds mighty like a slur to me, stranger!"
"No slur intended! It's just that I had a bad experience with my oatmeal as a child, and ever since I've been afraid to try again!"
"I bet I could help you with your problem," Charity offered, looking concerned. "The way I do it, it just melts in your mouth."
"Tell you what, Miz Charity," Luke Harwood put in. "I'll take a double helping—just to show ye ye're appreciated."
"Don't rush me, mister!" Charity said severely. "I'll get around to you when it's your turn!"
"Hey, stranger," Job said. "Your missus is awake; reckon she'd like some?"
"No! She hates the stuff!" Roger said, scrambling out of bed to find himself clad only in ill-fitting long johns. "Give me my clothes! Luke, Mrs. Withers, let's get out of here!"
"Now, hold on, partner! You're the first variety we've had around this place in shucks knows how long! Don't go getting huffy jist over a little breakfast food!"
"It's not the food—it's the prospect of getting to know Betsy better. Besides which, we started out to find a way out of this maze, not just to settle down being snowbound!"
"I swan," Charity said. "And me the finest gruelmaker west of the Missouri! Never thought I'd see the day when I couldn't give it away!"
"Mister, I reckon you got a few things to learn about frontier hospitality," Job said grimly, lifting a wide-mouth muzzle-loader down from above the door and aiming it at Roger's chin. "I don't reckon nobody ain't leaving here until they've at least tried it."
"How do you like it?" Charity inquired. "Plain, or with sugar and cream?"
"Goodness, what's all this talk about gruel?" Mrs. Withers inquired from her bunk, sitting up. "I've got a good mind to show you my crêpes suzettes."
"I never went in for none of them French specialties," Job said doubtfully. "But I could learn."
"Well, I like that!" Charity snapped. "I guess plain old country style's not good enough any more!"
"Well," Mrs. Withers said. "If it's all you can get . . . "
"Why, you scrawny little city sparrer!" Charity screeched, and leaped for the rival female. Roger yelled and lunged to intercept her. Job Arkwright's gun boomed like a cannon; the slug caught Charity under the ribs and hurled her across the room.
"Hey! I never meant—" That was as far as Arkwright got. The boom of a two-barreled derringer in the hands of Fly Beebody roared out. The blast knocked the bearded man backward against the door, which flew open under the impact, allowing him to pitch backward into the snow. As Roger staggered to his feet, a baroque shape loomed in the opening. Metallic tentacles rippled, bearing a rufous tuber shape, one-eyed, many-armed, into the cabin.
"Saints preserve us!" Luke yelled.
"Beelzebub!" squealed Fly Beebody, and fired his second round into the alien body at pointblank range. The bullet struck with a fruity smack!, spattering carroty material; but the creature turned, apparently unaffected, fixed his immense ocular on the parson. It rippled toward him, grasping members outstretched.
Roger grabbed a massive hand-hewn chair, swung it up, and brought it down with tremendous force atop the blunt upper end of the monstrosity. It toppled under the blow, rolled in a short arc like an overturned milk bottle, threshed its tentacles briefly, and was still.
"Now will you leave?" Roger inquired in the silence.
"I'll go with thee!" Beebody yelped. "Satan has taken over this house in spite of my prayers!"
"We can't leave this thing here," Roger said. "We'll have to take it along; otherwise it will be the first thing to greet them in the morning!" He took a blanket from the bed and rolled the creature in it.
"Best ye stay here, girl," Luke said to Mrs. Withers. "Lord knows what we'll run into next."
"They'll be themselves again tomorrow."
"Well, then; ye better don Charity's cloak."
"We'll leave the coats at the Aperture," Roger said. "In the morning, they'll be back here."
"I'll leave the can of soup," Mrs. Withers said as they prepared to step out into the sub-zero night. "I think Mr. Arkwright was getting a little tired of the same old gruel."
Outside, the wind struck at Roger's frost-nipped face like a spiked board. He pulled his borrowed muffler up around his ears, hefted his end of the shrouded alien, led the way up into the dark forest, following tracks made earlier that morning by Luke.
It was a fifteen-minute hike through blowing snow to the spot among the trees where they had arrived. All of them except Beebody stripped off their heavy outer garments; Roger took the blanket-sack over his shoulder, held Mrs. Withers' hand, while Luke and Beebody joined to form a shivering line, like children playing a macabre game.
"Too bad we couldn't even leave them a note," Roger said. He approached the faint-glowing line, which widened, closed in about him, and opened out into brilliant sunlight on a beach of red sand.