Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

A little after midnight Krysty stood by the picture window of the isolated house, gazing out at the moonlit snow-smeared land.

 

"You were right, J.B.," she said over her shoulder. "Must be four or five feet out there. Came down like out the back of a dump truck."

 

"Trader used to say that the more you wanted something, the more your judgment and common sense flew out the door," replied the Armorer, who was carefully placing a few more logs on the blazing fire.

 

"For once the old son of a bitch was probably right," Krysty said, smiling.

 

"Often was."

 

Doc had gone to bed, deciding an hour or so earlier that they weren't going anywhere for a while. "I think I should attempt to stoke up my batteries while I can. Good night, gentles all."

 

Mildred dozed on the sofa, while Jak was idly juggling with three of his knives, sending them high toward the ceiling in a weaving maze of honed steel. He had been doing it for several minutes and hadn't dropped them once.

 

They'd enjoyed a nutritious supper of freeze-dried mulligatawny soup and some more of the self-bake rolls, but Mildred had gone carefully through the entire larder and found very little else that she considered safe for them to eat.

 

Also, the hot-water system had packed up both for washing and for heating, which meant the house, despite its excellent insulation, was already beginning to drop in temperatureapart from the living room, where they were keeping the fire going. Jak had struggled out before the snow had settled in deep drifts and brought in several loads of wood, enough to ensure warmth for at least twenty-four hours.

 

"When do you reckon we can move on, J.B.?" Krysty asked. "Any chance of tomorrow?"

 

"Doubt it. You never know. Weather can change in a few hours. But that's serious snow, and nobody's going to be out there clearing the trail for us."

 

"You worried about Ryan?" Mildred asked.

 

"Course I am. What a stupe!" Krysty closed her emerald eyes and sighed. "Sorry. On edge. If only we knew where he was. Could be safe in the school. Could both be trapped out in the open, stuck in a snow hole with no food."

 

"Could be storm missed him," Jak said. "Looked like we was on north edge of it."

 

Krysty put her head on one side, close to the pane of glass, listening. "Anyone hear that?"

 

"Wolves," Jak said, never missing a beat with his intricate juggling.

 

"You can hear them, too?"

 

"Course. Heard them few minutes ago. Came closer. Went away. Coming closer again."

 

 

 

SUPPLIED WITH TRAIL FOOD by the kitchens of the Brody School, Ryan made good time. He reached the edge of Leadville well before dusk, passing the rusted remains of what had obviously been an old predark railroad.

 

A battered sign told when he passed the ten-thousand-foot altitude line, though his body had already warned him that he was approaching the edge of the comfort zone. His breathing was faster and more shallow, and when he stopped he was aware of the blood pounding in his ears.

 

The ghost of a headache pressed behind his eye, and he felt slightly nauseous. But after eating a handful of dried apples and apricots, and taking a good long drink from a crystal-clear stream alongside the trail, he felt refreshed and carried on toward the ville.

 

He knew from his memory of the map he'd seen in Glenwood Springs that Leadville was only about twenty-five miles from Fairplay.

 

As the crow flew.

 

Unfortunately only a crow could make it in that distance. For humans there was the little matter of fifteen-thousand-foot mountains in the way.

 

The only viable route involved heading back north from the ville, to Fremont Pass at eleven and a half thousand feet, then trying to cut across to the Hoosier Pass, above Breckenridge, at a similar height. To stick to the main highways would mean going all the way back to I-70, then heading south once more, which would be a total distance of more than sixty miles.

 

When he reached the fork in the road, Ryan hesitated. Part of him wanted to get on as fast as he could to reach Fairplay and meet up with Krysty and the others, who, he imagined, might well be ahead of him by now.

 

Evening was closing in, and the attractions of Leadville overrode his impatience. The chance of another night spent in a warm bed and some good hot food was altogether too tempting for him to resist.

 

He turned right, toward the distant buildings of the ville, a place that he knew well from his visit with Trader.

 

Back in the 1800's it had been a gold boomtown, then a silver boomtown. Its fortunes had been linked to the larger-than-life millionaire-philanderer Horace Tabor, but had declined by the middle of the twentieth century, when it had lurched from minibust to miniboom and back again.

 

When Ryan had visited the place with Trader and the lumbering war wags, it had been a bustling frontier pesthole with several gaudies and saloons, one of them established in what had been Leadville's very own opera house. He recalled that Doc had mentioned that a famous writer called Oscar Wilde had once traveled all the way to Leadville to perform there.

 

Now Ryan was back once more, this time on foot and alone, knowing that in pestholes like that, an outlander had to set his feet real careful. And watch his back.

 

Munching a tangy apple, he set off to walk the last mile or so into Leadville.

 

 

 

"MUTIES," Jak said tersely, looking out the wide picture window in the living room at the pack of huge timber wolves.

 

There were more than a dozen of them, rangy animals, the biggest of them standing at least four feet high at the shoulder. They had heralded their arrival by howling as they forced themselves through the powdery snow. But once they had reached the house and circled it a couple of times, they had fallen unnervingly silent, contenting themselves with sitting in a half circle and observing the humans observing them. Their shadows were crisp and clean in the bright moon.

 

"The brutes look half-starved to me," said Doc, who'd been roused from his bed by the noise of the pack. "Gaunt and hungered."

 

Krysty brushed back an errant strand of hair from her eyes. "Agree with that, Doc. Looks like they regard us as being their next meal."

 

"A choice selection of cold cuts," Doc said, "personally selected by our chef for your dining pleasure. I think they feel they've discovered the original boneless-chicken ranch. Look at the way their leader has his tongue hanging out. And those astounding fangs. Ah, yes, I remember them well. Fangs for the memory. Sorry."

 

The ferocious red eyes of the wolves glinted in the silver light, and their heads turned as one to follow any movement within the house.

 

Mildred had drawn her revolver and was taking aim at the animals, her finger settled on the trigger. "Bang," she whispered. "And another of the critters bit the dust. Yum, what delicious dust we have here." She laughed. "Not that I'm cracking up, friends. Not at all."

 

"Problem is how long they're prepared to stay out there," J.B. said.

 

"I don't think I'll be going out to bring in some more logs," Krysty stated.

 

"Chill all from upstairs," Jak suggested. "Easy target for you, Mildred."

 

The Armorer wiped his glasses while he spoke. "Not sure that's the best idea. Not yet, anyways. Rad-blasted animals would run at first or second death. Noise could bring more of them. Riding with Trader in northern Minnesota, we once counted a pack of nearly two hundred wolves, all running together. If that number turns up here, then we are in serious trouble."

 

It was a chilling thought and stopped any more conversation dead in its tracks.

 

 

 

A VACANT FACED LAD was hammering nails into a five-bar gate as Ryan passed the first few houses of Leadville. He walked over to him. "Hey! Is there a good place to stay the night in the ville?"

 

The teenager turned and gave him a moonish smile. "Why, sure, mister. I know that, all right. Palace Hotel. S-u-n spells Palace, don't it?"

 

"Likely it does, son."

 

"Around the corner and down the hill and on your right," he chanted in a singsong voice.

 

"Obliged," Ryan said.

 

Around the corner and down the hill brought him into the ville's main drag. The sun had almost set, and lights were on in many of the buildings. A number of saloons and gaudies were open for business. The Palace rooming house was where the boy had said it would be, and Ryan went and booked a room, paying with a little of what remained of his once-substantial amount of jack.

 

He didn't meet any sort of formality pay the jack, get the key, go to the room, which looked out over the desolate back of the main street, and lock it behind you.

 

The bed was narrow but comfortable, and the sheets were remarkably clean, making him guess that he'd arrived on washing day at the Palace.

 

There was a dining room in the place, but Ryan decided to check out the quality of some of the other eateries, walking along the left side of the street, down past the opera house, where a sign said that public donations were requested to carry out some urgently needed repairs and renovations. Ryan had the feeling that there had been a similar sign when he'd first come through the ville with Trader, a good twenty years earlier.

 

He crossed the street, waiting for a few seconds while a gas-driven wag rumbled slowly by, carrying a huge load of hewn logs on its flatbed, then headed for an eatery called Carl and Joanna's Diner, which looked to be pretty full for so early in the evening. Ryan hoped that the number of diners meant the place was good.

 

He pushed open the door and a bell jingled.

 

A middle-aged man with an apron tied over his ample stomach appeared, beaming, and offered him a handwritten menu. "You got the reading, stranger? Or one of the girls can tell you what we got on tonight."

 

"I read, thanks."

 

"Table for yourself, or do you mind sharing?"

 

"Prefer my own company."

 

The man put his finger to his lips. "Nod's as good as a wink to a blind man, friend. This way." He pushed between the tables, exchanging banter with his customers. "You passing through?"

 

"Yeah. Come up from Glenwood Springs. Meeting some people in a few days." Ryan was impressed with the incredible speed at which he'd gone from being a stranger to becoming a friend.

 

The menu offered what sounded like real good cooking. There was duck with a sauce made from oranges; turkey stuffed with cinnamon apples; breast of goose with mushrooms; steaks of all shapes and sizes with a range of about eight different vegetables.

 

Ryan picked the duck, choosing sweet corn and creamed potatoes with butter and mashed carrots and snow peas, selecting iced lemonade to go with the food.

 

The place was three parts full. There were several locals, probably storekeepers and folks working in offices, as well as a scattering of miners and trappers.

 

Carl was rushing around, busier than a one-legged man in an avalanche. The thin-faced woman with glasses visible in the kitchen had to be Joanna. She caught Ryan looking at her and gave him a distracted smile and a half wave of the hand.

 

The food was brought by a chubby young woman in a flowered print frock and a checked apron, who unloaded her tray with professional expertise, reeling off what everything was as she did so.

 

"That everything, mister?"

 

"Lemonade?"

 

"Sure. On the way. Enjoy your meal."

 

Ryan did.

 

Everything was delicious, cooked to perfection. As he was polishing off the last mouthful he again caught Joanna's eye and gave her a double thumbs-up, getting a broad smile in return.

 

"Couldn't have been better, Carl," he said, as he was settling his bill.

 

"Sure you can't make room for a dessert? You seen the special list?"

 

"I don't even have the room for a single grain of chocolate rice, thanks."

 

"Not the key lime pie? Or the French almond silk pie? The black cherry cobbler? The blueberry meringue with vanilla ice cream or fresh cream? The strawberry gteau with a brandy syllabub? Grapefruit sorbet with a sweet raspberry-liqueur? There must be something to tempt you, brother."

 

Now he'd gone from friend to brother.

 

Half the things on offer were alien to Ryan. "I don't think that I could Mebbe a small, and I mean small, portion of the black cherry cobbler."

 

"We got five other kinds of cobbler. There's"

 

Ryan held up his hand. "No. Don't push it, Carl. This may be a mistake and I'll have to go lie down for an hour to recover. But bring me the cobbler."

 

The small portion hung over the side of a large dish, soaked in thick cream.

 

Ryan was three parts through it, when he felt the coldness of steel against the back of his neck.

 

"One move and your face ends up blown into your plate, stranger. We want to talk to you about what happened to some friends down the Glenwood Trail."

 

From brother straight back to stranger.

 

 

 

EVERYONE IN THE HOUSE had finally gone to bed, leaving the fire piled high with enough wood to last most of the night.

 

And the half circle of panting wolves still sat patiently outside the big window.

 

Krysty lay on the sofa beneath a couple of blankets. Most of the bedding had gone to the upstairs sleepers, where the cold was beginning to bite.

 

She had lain awake for some time, plagued with worry that something had gone wrong for Ryan and Dean, finally slipping into an uneasy sleep, only to be jerked awake by a dull thumping sound.

 

There was nothing to see when she looked around, the bright flames dancing off the reflecting glass. Jak was still asleep across the room from her, his white hair tinted pink by the fire.

 

Another thump, much louder, made the room rattle.

 

Jak woke, blinking. "What was that?"

 

Krysty was up on her feet, walking toward the window. "Something knocked against" she began. "Oh, Gaia!"

 

It was the wolves.

 

One of them was just moving away, limping a little, and now the pack leader was coming at a rush. He charged through the snow, jaws wide, eyes flaring, straight for the glass.

 

It weighed at least three hundred pounds, and Krysty knew instantly that the window wasn't going to stop it.