Clutching the toby, he extended a hand. He closed his eyes and focused his attention over the vast distance. The toby trembled. A tickle formed at his fingertips, like touching a wool coat charged with static. The sensation grew, tingling across his knuckles and into his palms. It pulled. Ray closed his hand and snapped open his eyes. He kicked the mare’s sides and rode her hard. To his left, the mountain range bore down like an enormous fortification, running north-south and stretching ahead and behind as far as Ray could see. The escape from the fort, and the days with nothing to fill his stomach but rank water, had left Ray weak in body and spirit. He was tempted to ride up into the high country, to catch game or forage for a meal, but travel in the mountains would be slow-going, and he couldn’t risk the steamcoach catching up. So he rode northbound over the sagebrush hills, with only the faintest hope of happening upon something worth eating. When twilight came, he camped by a stream.
