Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3)

by C. K. Crigger

  The cloak held close around me, with the hood up hiding my white skin and curly dark hair, I crept about like a wraith. Snippets of conversation came my way.

  “...raiders?” a dark-clad man shouted to the woman who’d driven the malfunctioning truck I’d hitched a ride on. He was parked in the slot ahead of this one and far enough away I missed the main part of his question.

  “Non,” she called back. Her accent sounded reminiscent of Teagun’s, though perhaps a trifle more pronounced. “The woman here, what does she say?”

  The first speaker shrugged and, casting a quick glance around, walked closer to the driver. Though he spoke more quietly now, his voice carried to me over the whir of the idling truck fans.

  “She’s sick, they said. There is a new woman. Be careful of her, Maganda. I don’t like her looks, and there are men here—bad men. I’ve seen their kind before.”

  The driver, busy with a ratchet under the raised engine cover, paused in her work. “There is a son of this house. Did you see him?”

  I heard anxiety in her question, and noted all at once that this woman was young and attractive. Tall and lissome, she had beautiful, kind eyes. Teagun should’ve enlisted her aid instead of mine, I thought wryly. When I got back to camp, I’d suggest he do so.

  “Non. I’m telling you, I saw no one except strangers inside. And the prices? Twenty-four credits for sixteen ounces of water.” There was an edge of complaint in this comment

  “Aiee,” Maganda said. “Doubled. Yet I will have to pay for I brought no water with me. The Crossroad has the best water in this part of the country and the only honest proprietors. I always buy a supply from the hotel, stocking up for the trip east.”

  “Me, too,” the man said gloomily. “Robbers and thieves, all of them.”

  Maganda cranked the ratchet a couple more turns before putting the tool aside. “Do you think they are the raiders?” she asked. “I heard a story about outlaws who took over a hotel in the southern desert country. The Rangers drove them out, but didn’t catch them. That was last year.”

  “Could be them. Did a woman lead them?”

  Maganda looked worried. “I don’t know.”

  “We must go carefully,” the man said. “In case of trouble. Warn the others.” He walked off to greet a new arrival, an acquaintance so I judged, with whom he began a conversation following along the same lines as his talk with the woman, Maganda.

  She was leaning over the truck engine, fiddling with a control of some kind that made the whine of the motor increase to a shrill peak until she backed it off. Listening a moment, she shook her head decisively, replaced the ratchet and a screwdriver in a toolbox, and slammed the cover down over the motor. Finished.

  Maganda wiped her hands on a towel smelling of some strong chemical—a cleaner, I assumed—that she also used to wipe down her suit. No bolero on this outfit, I observed. Strictly utilitarian.

  I had barely made the decision to break cover, step from the shadows and speak with her when I saw the tall, skinny man who’d been with Adainette this morning approaching. I froze. Shrinking into the cover of the truck skirting, I pulled the cloak tight, hiding the pale shine of my face deep within the hood.

  “Hola,” he said. His tongue flicked over fleshy lips.

  The tilt of Maganda’s head acknowledged his greeting with a barely perceptible movement. She didn’t look away from him, but met his eyes squarely. One of her hands crept toward the knife she wore poked through a belt loop.

  “Where you from, woman?” he asked.

  “East. Going back there now.”

  “You see a man on the road?”

  “There are many men on the road,” she answered carefully.

  “On foot.” He amplified his description. “A desert man.”

  “On foot?” Maganda repeated. “No one goes afoot in the Great Empty. Not even desert men.”

  Light reflected from his bald head as he moved in close, looming above her like an impatient buzzard. A keloid scar at least two inches long raised a shiny, bumpy welt along his jaw line. “You sure?”

  “Sure,” she said, backing up a step.

  He smiled without showing his teeth, the keloid creasing into accordion folds. “Traveling alone, woman? Are you in a hurry?”

  He must be threatening her; his behavior certainly came across like that. She must have thought so, too, because her hand came to rest on the knife hilt. All at once, I realized he was making her a proposition in a roundabout, obnoxious kind of way. I suppose his overture was a threat of sorts. She took it as one.

  “Not alone,” she lied with a perfect semblance of sincerity. “My partner has gone to use the facilities. I’m picking her up at the gate when I’ve bought water.”

  “Her?” His eyes seemed to search the shadows, and I shuddered as they passed my hiding place, unseeing.

  She only shrugged.

  “Too bad.” He let his gaze linger on her, stretching it out, before he licked his lips again and moved on.

  The woman watched until he became lost in the shadows between lights. When he had disappeared, she spoke aloud, as though to herself.

  “You should go, Miss, before he comes back. He didn’t believe me. He knows I am alone.”

  Only when she’d stalked off toward the hotel, presumably to purchase her water, did I figure out she had been speaking to me.

  CHAPTER 6

  I slowly released my white-knuckled grip on the edges of the burnoose where I’d held the fabric over all my face except my eyes. At last I felt free to take in a lung-filling breath, letting it out again with a shaky noiseless whistle.

  How had the woman, Maganda, known I was crouching behind the wide skirts of her truck? I owed her, big time, for not pointing out my hiding place; especially since I knew the bald-headed man had frightened her, too.

  More importantly, had the man also sensed me, honing in on my brain waves or body heat or something? Or had he guessed at all? It seemed as if he had, but if so, why not come forward right then? Why let me go? These questions and more seesawed through my brain. I wished I knew more of the people of this time, their mind set, their life experiences. I needed a benchmark from which to judge their reactions.

  I don’t like being kept in ignorance. Without all the proper information, it’s much too easy to make a mistake that can cost lives—possibly my own.

  Swallowing hard on a wave of too-long delayed fear, I came to the belated conclusion this junket may not have been such a smart idea. If the bald man did suspect an alien presence, the whole gang of outlaws was sure to be forewarned and doubly on guard. They would be on the lookout for a stranger who posed a danger to them. This did not predict a desirable outcome when Teagun and I began our offensive. Being so badly outnumbered, our only advantage lay in surprise. If I had spoiled that with my headlong curiosity⏤

  Maganda’s advice seemed sound. Time to leave.

  I started moving again, walking with soft-footed caution among the parked trucks and hovercraft, weaving my way between rows of vehicles. If someone had a surveillance system out here, I determined to make tracking me as difficult as possible. I hoped it had never occurred to anyone to think security in the parking lot a necessary expense.

  Why hadn’t I asked Teagun about security? About weapons the outlaws might be using? About technology that worked either for us or against us? Why hadn’t he flat-out told me? When I got back to camp, I promised myself, he and I were going to sit down and have a real heart- to-heart. No more secrets. Lay it all on the line.

  A man, his feet clattering on a metal rail, startled me by climbing into the driver’s seat of a long hauler rig with three trailers joined to a truck as I came abreast on his dark side. With these rigs, there was no need to waste time building air in the brakes or warming the oil or whatever it is the big diesels of my own time do. Instead, the engine immediately revved, the vanes under the skirting started whirring and the truck and cargo-hauling trailers simultaneously lifted a regulation five inc
hes off the ground. The driver released the brake.

  Seeing a gap there, I kept pace with the long rig as it made for the gates. The hauler inched slowly forward, with me walking, then jogging alongside. It quickly picked up speed. Just as it went past me, I jumped aboard the middle trailer’s skirting, planning on hitching a ride out. The trailer was painted a dark color. Wearing my dark cloak, when I curled up to make myself smaller, I should blend in without a trace.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Maganda, already walking back to her hauler, carrying a large box which I assumed held the bottles of water she needed. Her eyes darted around and I saw her look my way. Behind her, the double-doors to the hotel stood open, light glaring forth onto the dry-packed ground out front. The opening allowed a glimpse of a mirrored bar at the farthest distance, a few patrons sitting on stools. In between, most of the center court was taken up by something that looked like a tall pile of rocks. Tables sat around the edges of this.

  Two men, one of them the bald outlaw, were coming down the low hotel steps as my ride paused at the gates, waiting for a break to cut in on the highway traffic. They were hurrying. The outlaw was gesturing, waving off toward Maganda’s parking place. The man with him broke off and headed that way. Baldy himself began walking purposefully toward the truck I was on. My breathing hiccupped. Somehow he must know of my existence. He was coming for me.

  I tried to make myself smaller. Oh, please, I was thinking. Oh, please.

  The hauler’s fans, whirling beneath the skirts, caused a wild vibration beneath my feet, a juddering that kept pace with my heart. How could I have possibly been so careless, so filled with misplaced confidence? I’d ruined everything with my arrogance—Teagun’s odds of regaining his home, and my own return to my real-time life.

  Reaching beneath the cloak and behind my back, I pulled the LadySmith from its holster. I wouldn’t give in without a fight, that’s for sure. Fortune might decree I never make it home, but the least I could do for Teagun was to see that he had one less adversary to worry about.

  Slowly, I stood up and became aware of the hauler’s skirt tilting under my feet, nearly spilling me from the deck as the driver started into the turn onto the road. The hauler surged forward at last. The outlaw ran after us.

  How long did it take for these rigs to come up to speed once they were underway I wondered frantically. Too long, that much was beginning to be obvious. Our pace was unbearably slow. Hunkering close to the deck, knees bent double, I leaned far forward, urging the truck to greater speed. I don’t know as my straining helped, although I heard the outlaw yelling something loud and angry.

  The truck made entry onto the road. So did the first of the three trailers in the train. I clung to the second, as it, too, came around in a 90-degree turn. Much to my relief, when I spared a glance behind, Baldy had fallen behind and was hidden from sight.

  Good. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me, or so I supposed. I heard him yell again, closer.

  Soon we would be out of the turn.

  With a sense of reprieve I noted we were quickly picking up speed, the truck engine being both fast and powerful. The hovercraft trailers were not bound by the same gravity that would’ve pulled a semi’s trailer right over or caused the rig to jackknife. These trailers must be equipped with a self-leveling device.

  It didn’t matter. Remembering the rocky nature of the countryside didn’t bring a lot of comfort, but I couldn’t let myself dwell on that. No time. I took a breath, lifted the cloak in one hand so I wouldn’t trip on the floating fabric, and jumped.

  At the last instant, I remembered I had the LadySmith, and that I must protect the weapon at all costs. No drop and roll to buffer the fall. I’d probably shoot myself, if I did.

  So I came down flat-footed, knees flexing, as the truck-hauler continued on, the final trailer coming around as smooth as butter.

  Not rocks. Gravel.

  The hand holding the pistol went numb, nerves tingling from an abused funny bone. My knees skidded on the loose gravel. I felt the skin peeling from the palm of my free hand. Pain shot through my neck as my head jolted backward with the force of my landing. Forget it. I crawled forward, frantic to reach shelter in the tumbled boulders a few paces ahead.

  Half-blinded by a gritty cloud of dust that puffed upward as I fell, I had a split second in which to glance back toward the hotel. What I saw sent me scrambling for the rocks at warp speed. Undeterred with what, by rights, he should have viewed as an accomplished getaway, the bald outlaw remained in pursuit.

  He’d made it unscathed, much to my disappointment, to the middle of the road already, and was dodging through fast-moving traffic with all the grace of a bullfighter and the luck of a Vegas high-flyer.

  Why didn’t he give up? Good Lord, what was with this guy? I hadn’t done anything to him. All I’d done is show up at the hotel. I could’ve been anybody, there for any purpose. Why the vendetta? Was he crazy?

  But he wouldn’t quit. Logic told me it wasn’t possible for him to have seen when I jumped. The hovercraft rode no more than four or five inches above the ground with no spaces beneath wheels or under carriage to look through. So why was he risking life and limb running through this traffic?

  The only reason I could think of was because of a bull-headed propensity for following his own hunches. Or maybe he believed this cat and mouse chase was a game. Or he sensed I was different.

  Far from turning back, Baldy passed unharmed through the streaming vehicles until only fifty feet or so separated him from my hiding spot. He stood, hands loose at his sides, on the narrow verge, watching as the next two haulers went past. Abruptly, and to my horror, he threw back his shoulders and turned in my direction.

  He didn’t come directly at me—or not to begin with. I felt tempted to make a run for it, but I didn’t quite dare. Under no illusion I could out distance him, I didn’t know enough to find my way back to camp without taking the time to check for landmarks. Without due caution, I wouldn’t need this freak to do me in. The land would do it for him.

  I rationalized the particular cluster of rocks concealing me must appear no different than the others scattered about. There was no reason for him to search this one, unless he searched them all. I made the decision to stay put—as still as one of those table-sized boulders.

  In any case, I’d dithered too long in making up my mind whether to stay or to go. If ever I’d had the means to escape, that option was gone now. I watched him cast about as though scenting the wind, before he seemed to quicken and head straight toward me

  All at once, I saw the little black splotches—only droplets, really—that stood out clearly against the moon-bleached white sand and steamed in the cold, high desert air.

  Damn! I was bleeding, and the blood like a trail of breadcrumbs was leading him directly to me.

  I tried to ease the LadySmith’s safety off with my thumb; couldn’t quite do it. Not yet.

  “Hola.” His hoarse whisper sounded almost friendly.

  Killers, thieves, rapists, child molesters, mutilators, batterers. Teagun accused the outlaws of this partial listing of crimes and more. I tried to thrust it out of my mind. Real respectable folk. I didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe.

  “I see blood, Ms. You hurt bad? Come out and let me see.” Not only friendly, he seemed to tease, as though his pursuit of me was all in good fun. I noticed he didn’t offer first-aid.

  I shivered suddenly, violently, in reaction. Everything went black for a period—seconds or minutes, I didn’t know—and when the shudder had passed, he had disappeared.

  How had that happened? Where had he gone? My head, hooded within the folds of the burnoose, came up.

  There! To my left. Was what I heard a stone clicking against another stone, disturbed by a man’s passage? To my right. Was that moving shadow in the image of a man or only the wind stirring in the branches of a bush?

  “Hola,” he said again. From behind me this time. A spider-thin ha
nd clamped onto my shoulder with a nip like a tarantula’s bite. He lifted me as though I weighed no more than a kitten, spinning me around to face him, pulling me close. A knife, glinting with wicked intent, made a funny whirring sound, the blade flashing blue as it slashed the air in front of my eyes. His tongue flicked over his lips.

  My heart nearly stopped.

  “Hola,” I replied, using his own word. I fought to keep my voice even, to remain calm. To pretend I didn’t see the knife. I’d been right to be afraid. I just hadn’t been afraid enough. “Como esta?”

  He eyed me suspiciously, trying to see into the depths of the hood. “What?” He’d expected me to scream, to cry; I could tell by the disappointment in his expression. He’d wanted me to beg.

  I shrugged.

  “Where you from, Ms.? Who sent you?” The hand holding me inched up from my shoulder to my collarbone; higher, to the side of my neck.

  “No one sent me,” I protested, trying to step away. “I’m passing through. Only passing through.”

  His grip never eased. “You sneaked in. Emanuel, he saw you. You’re a spy.”Flick went his tongue. The knife repeated the motion. It whirred and flicked. I never realized he’d cut my face, a smooth slice along the edge of my jaw, quick and bloody, until I felt the hot sting of open air in the wound.

  Mutilation, Teagun had said. This guy planned on killing me, a piece at a time, for the sheer hell of it. At least he was going to try.

  But I didn’t have to make it easy for him.

  “Spy for what? For whom? All I’m doing is passing through,” I repeated, aware of the panic lurking in a corner of my mind. I did my best to ignore the cut. “Going to Minneapolis,” I said, improvising. Hidden in the folds of the cloak, I’d managed to keep my grip on the LadySmith, though the hand holding it was still a little numb. I wasn’t at all sure I could release the safety, thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger, fast enough or smoothly enough, to get him before he could slice my throat. Keep him talking, that’s the ticket. Seemed good advice to me.