Stephen. You and
I, we've got
to trust each other. We've got to get them out."
"While you hold the gun, and I dig the grave?"
"No." Michael opened his coat, and tucked the pistol once more beneath
his belt. "Come back to the house with me now---don't try anything
foolish---and I'll find you something to eat. By rights I should dig
this grave myself."
"And the horse?"
"I will use it to bear the body, and keep it close to me at all times.
I said trust, Stephen, not stupidity. Trust isn't blind, any more than
faith is, if it's real."
"Faith in what? In God? You're dreaming."
"Call it God, or Life, or anything else you like. I haven't given up
on it. Because no matter how close I've come to it, Death has never
had the final word. My flesh still lives, and therefore my hope. Maybe
I am dreaming. But without dreams a man's got nothing, nothing at
all."
Stephen looked down, undecided.
"So what's to keep me from walking out, except the threat of a shot in
the back?"
"I won't shoot you. If you want to walk out into hostile country, a
wanted man, that's up to you.
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