cried the black-haired man. In his haste to distance himself from Sam, he collided with the cart wheel. The pistol fell from his belt, but he seemed not to notice. “Come away!” he shouted to his men. “Take nothing with you!” When they hesitated, he bellowed, “Now, you gawking gypes! It’s the contagion!” Sam had climbed out of the careware now, and was staggering about, begging for a drink of water. When he shuffled toward the bandits who were unhitching our horses, they bolted. The other two let go of the sharers’ mounts and took to their heels as well. Now that I could move without fear of being shot or stabbed, I hastened to draw a cup of water from the keg strapped to the side of the careware and held it out to Sam. “Don’t give him that cup!” protested Ned Shakespeare. “He’ll contaminate it!” “Then we’ll get another,” I said. “Go on, Sam; take it.” Sam turned his hollow eyes gratefully upon me and reached out for the cup. As his trembling hands closed over mine, I gave an involuntary shudder, wondering how much contact was required to transmit the plague from one person to another.
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