Blueberry awoke mid-afternoon with a warm recognition of the soft mattress on which he lay and the sweet musk of lovemaking that hung in the room. He rolled back and forth in the mess of sheets, inspected his toes, and ensured all his itches had been thoroughly scratched before venturing out of bed. Only after stumbling into the main room did his mood begin to sour. He poked his head into the kitchen, then looked out the front window. He threw open the back door, bounded up the ladder to the loft and sprinted back to the bedroom. Beezy had left and taken all her things.
There had never before been any question of a woman staying. Both parties usually beat a hasty exit to avoid discovery or otherwise get on with scheming a living. Now, though, he had a home and food, even a tub for warm baths. The question then arose, "Why didn't she stay?" and Berry didn't like to think of the answer. Beezy had disliked Gravor, he remembered. Gravor must have said or done something to make her leave.
When he first encountered Beezy slinking down the road after dark the previous evening, he'd imagined she might stick around awhile. How long, Blueberry didn't know. At least a few days, or a week. Long enough for them to get enough of each other, he supposed. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted, but despite his inability to envision the endgame, he knew he wanted more.
Berry fantasized about running out and finding Beezy. He would tell her that they were two of a kind. He wasn't like Gravor. Like her, he was content sleeping under the stars, but that kind of life didn't afford the opportunity to laze about together in a soft bed. Naturally, even if he could find her, telling her would be futile. On the road there was little he could offer her that she couldn't provide herself. Besides, he wasn't ready to run off with her, so why did he care about what she thought of him? When he came to think of it, he didn't even understand why Beezy suddenly seemed so important. Other women would come, and Blueberry would start things out right. He wouldn't abide any more lies, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Gravor frighten the next one away.
The house began to feel small, and the slender arms of Blueberry's robe, borrowed from Gravor, constricted around his shoulders. He needed a little air, he decided, and when he stormed out the front door, he saw Gravor standing at the gate, vacant as a wickless lamp. Blueberry marched up to Gravor, who turned and glanced at him absently, and tapped a finger against Gravor's sternum with a resounding thump. "There's going to be some changes around here," he snarled, but he quickly removed his hand on seeing the malicious fury that flashed in Gravor's eyes.
Gravor turned back toward the road, letting his words spill from his mouth like blood, "I. perfectly. ag--" Something down the road had caught his eye. "ree...."
The local militia, a band of about ten volunteers from town, was approaching on the canyon road. They were still too far off to see, but Gravor thought he could make out a short, dark-maned figure being pushed along between them.
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