Chapter Nineteen

 

 

Twenty-four hours later Doc was still not well enough to travel up the trail toward Leadville.

 

He had become feverish and restless, sleeping patchily during the night and even more restlessly during the day. There had been another nosebleed, though not so severe as the previous one, and he had twice thrown up food.

 

The fruit and supplies that they'd raided from Ma's Place were almost gone, and J.B. had asked Mildred to kill a couple of the hairy marmots that proliferated around the open hillside. The pop of her ZKR 551 was quickly swallowed up by the vast space around them. Now their dog-size carcasses were roasting under Jak's care.

 

Krysty was becoming uneasy at the delay, even though she recognized that the old man was doing his best. He'd made a couple of tries at carrying on, but each time his wobbling legs and spinning head had let him down, and Jak had helped him to lie down again in the shade.

 

"I am so sorry," he kept repeating weakly. "I realize what an anchor I am upon this expedition. If only I could go outside the tent and be some time, like good Captain Oates." He saw bewilderment on the faces of his friends. "He was a gallant gentleman who went with Scott to the Pole. Suffered terribly from frostbite and slowed down his companions. Blizzards and whatnot. Said he was going outside and would be some time. They all knew he was walking to his death. Wish I could do the same."

 

"And that saved all lives?" Jak said admiringly.

 

Doc coughed. "Well, not exactly. In fact, in a manner of speaking, it didn't. You see, they all died."

 

"Then there's not much point in your going for a short walk off a high cliff, is there, Doc?" Mildred said, patting him on the wrist. "So put that stupe idea straight in the 'forget' file."

 

 

 

LATE THAT AFTERNOON, with the sun sinking slowly into a dazzlingly beautiful sky of orange and red, Krysty and Mildred walked a little way up a side trail.

 

"Think he'll be all right?" Krysty asked, the last bright rays from the west setting her hair ablaze.

 

Mildred stopped and looked at her. "Now, are we thinking about Dr. Theophilus Tanner or might we be worrying more about Ryan Cawdor?"

 

"Both, I guess. No, Doc's more pressing. If any man in Deathlands can look after himself, it's Ryan. Shouldn't run into trouble just taking his son to school."

 

"I think Doc just needs a break. God knows, I feel a need for a rest sometimes. Just to be able to sit back someplace where there's no chilling, killing and no switchblade knife. Don't you feel that, Krysty? I know you do, 'cause you've talked about it before, haven't you?"

 

Krysty nodded. "Place with good grass and clean water and no cold heart calling to you from the shadows? Me and Ryan and Dean, and our friends coming to visit? It's my dream, Millie. But every day that passes makes it seem more like a dream that's never going to come true."

 

 

 

THEY CAME ACROSS an odd physical occurrence.

 

An earth slip had severed the track off the main highway, probably very shortly after skydark. Then, some time in the past few years, there had been another slide from higher up the mountain and it had repaired the great gash in the slope, making it possible to walk along it.

 

"Shouldn't stay out too long," Mildred said. "Like to keep an eye on Doc."

 

"Will he be well enough to walk on tomorrow?" The woman shook her head, the plaited beads in her hair whispering in the evening stillness. "Who knows? Let's hope so."

 

"Hey," Krysty said, "there's a house up yonder." It was a two-story building, made mainly from wood, with a sharply peaked roof, set into the hillside. A double garage stood at the side. Unusually none of the windows appeared to be broken, and apart from a few missing shingles near the chimney, the roof was intact.

 

"Let's go take a look." Krysty was excited. Because of the speed of the nuke war and the unbelievable death toll it exacted, it wasn't unprecedented to find an isolated property untouched since the long winters. But there was always a thrill, with the uncertainty of not knowing what might be found.

 

 

 

A MAILBOX WAS PERCHED crookedly at the end of a short circular drive, its paint stripped back to bare metal by a hundred Colorado winters.

 

"Any letters?" Mildred asked, opening it herself to find it held only a few shreds of dust-dry paper. "Nope. Bugs got here first."

 

"If it's safe, we could bring Doc up here for the night. Lot better shelter for his old bones than lying out on the cold, cold ground."

 

"Why not? Best take a look-see for ourselves first. There's some cords of wood stacked against the wall."

 

Krysty nodded. "Place like this, when we've heard word of various swift and evil bastards around, not to mention stickies, it's best we go in on double red. I'll take the front door and you slide around the back."

 

"Fine."

 

"Watch yourself."

 

Mildred gave her the thumbs-up, drawing her revolver from its holster.

 

Krysty watched her friend walking slowly around the side of the property, giving her a few seconds before making her own move toward the front door.

 

While she waited, she concentrated for a moment, drawing on the power of the Earth Mother, trying to see if there was anyone close by. She picked up the vibrations from Mildred but nobody else that she could detect.

 

The 5-shot .38 Smith amp; Wesson was gripped firmly in her right hand as she walked toward the front door of the house.

 

The setting sun glinted off the solar panels in the roof, blazing like fire. She paused and looked behind her, seeing what a fantastic view the house had across the Rockies.

 

Two steps nearer and Krysty jumped as a sec light came on, flooding the drive with its brilliance. She froze like a rabbit trapped in headlights, waiting for a hail of bullets to tear her apart. But nothing happened.

 

As she reached the door, the light clicked off.

 

The brass handle was cold, streaked with ancient verdigris that felt slightly sticky to the touch. It turned and the door swung silently open, showing her a hallway with two rooms opening off it and a staircase to her left.

 

Krysty held her breath for a moment before slowly letting it go. The place was fully furnished and it appeared that nobody had been there for the best part of a hundred years. She reached out her hand and pressed a wall switch and the interior lights tripped on, dazzlingly bright.

 

"That you, Krysty?"

 

"Yeah. Come ahead, Millie. I don't think we've got any company here."

 

"Back door's open. Kitchen through there's neat as a new pin. Everything stacked away on shelves, pots and pans all ranged in order, like someone just walked out."

 

"Rest of the house looks like it's just as trim. Let's take a look around."

 

"You don't feel anyone here?" Mildred asked nervously, rubbing her left hand across her forehead.

 

"No. Whoever lived here's long, long gone."

 

But for once Krysty's intuition had let her down.

 

 

 

RYAN'S IMMEDIATE REACTION to the accusation from Chris Akemoto had been to totally and blankly deny it. But there was such unquestioned confidence in the young man's voice that he guessed there was little point.

 

And it could easily have made a very difficult situation much, much worse.

 

To be spotted as the right-hand man of the notorious Trader might, literally, prove fatal. The old man's ideal for an enemy was for him to be dead. But over the years enough people had escaped, brimming with hatred for Trader and his men, to make it a potential hazard.

 

Ryan knew how distinctive he looked, even though Deathlands was filled with men with an eye missingor a hand or a leg or an arm or an ear.

 

But Akemoto didn't seem the sort of person who could be bluffed.

 

It was time to bite hard on the bullet and be ready to move fast and kill quietly.

 

"I rode with the Trader for years," he said. "Sorry, but I don't recall having crossed trails with you."

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan noticed that Dean was deep in eager conversation with the boys on either side of him, looking as though he'd known them all his life.

 

"More of the treacle pudding, Mr. Cawdor?" Natalie Davenport asked from the other side.

 

"No. No, thanks."

 

Once she'd turned away, Chris Akemoto continued. "Remember me? Why should you, Mr. Cawdor? I was a child of eleven years old when my parents were butchered and Trader came into my life."

 

"Your parents were chilled by Trader? Or by his people from the war wags?"

 

Akemoto shook his head. "No. No, you misunderstand me. I'm obviously not making myself plain."

 

"I thought that's what you meant."

 

"No."

 

"Where was all this? Gives me a decent clue to hang a memory onto."

 

"My mom and dad ran a small grocery store out near Memphis. Little ville called Yesteryear. One of the postnuke villes. They had some hard times and grief, being from Oriental stock, but all that passed. Me and my brothers and sisters learned how to give back better than we got, and gradually things became all right. Became good."

 

"This rings a small bell. Wasn't there some kind of rebirth of the Klan?"

 

Akemoto placed a hand on his arm and Ryan noticed that the young man was trembling with emotion. "That's it! You remember. It started in the east. Some said they came from old Georgia. But they were intent on riding off anyone who wasn't a white Anglo. They came to Yesteryear."

 

All around them, the meal was coming to an end. Spoons were laid on empty plates and Nicholas Brody rose to his feet, clapping his hands for silence, offering a quick prayer.

 

"There will be tea in the staff room, Mr. Cawdor, if you would care to join us?" Natalie suggested.

 

Chris leaned across. "I promised to show Mr. Cawdor the grounds after supper. Before full dark. But I'll bring him back in fifteen minutes or so."

 

 

 

IN THE EVENING COOL, alongside the limpid water of the lake, he carried on his story.

 

"My parents wouldn't move and most of the good folks in the ville supported them. Until the night ofof the burning. Trader had arrived, and your war wags were camped by a creek a half mile west. He'd bought plenty of provisions from our store."

 

It was seeping back to Ryan. A well-stocked general shop, run by a couple of friendly Orientals. And lots of kids running around helping to fill the big order for the wags.

 

"The Klan came that night," he said. "And they burned you out. I remember. Your parents were shot and their bodies thrown in the flames. And you kids escaped by"

 

"The storm cellar of the Reverend Mr. Dexter. True Christian. We heard Mom and Dad's screams. I still hear them."

 

They walked on in silence, while Akemoto regained control.

 

"The leaders of the Klan made a big mistake. They thought Trader would be on their side."

 

Ryan grinned. "Big error. Nothing Trader hated as much as hatred. The Imperial Wizard, or whatever he was, rode up the next morning, bold as brass with a dozen of his thugs. Asked for help in finding you kids. Said" He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he struggled for the memory. " 'We got the mongrel and his bitch. Might as well clean out the whole litter.' "

 

"And Trader hanged him," Akemoto said. "Him and all his crew. From a line of live oaks by the creek."

 

"I remember." Ryan saw in his mind's eye the row of kicking, strangling corpses that gradually became still, heard the squeaking of the new hemp ropes above the bubbling of the stream. "Yeah, I remember."

 

"Then Trader took a day off to rebuild the store for us and left a hatful of jack to restock it. Place is running still, with my older brother and two sisters there. Any time you're near Yesteryear"

 

"Thanks, Chris.... Can I call one of my son's teachers by his first name?"

 

"Sure can. What I wanted to say, swinging down all the years, was Thanks."

 

They walked back to the brightly lit school through the gathering gloom.