To ensure we wouldn’t be seen approaching the rocks, we slunk from shadow to shadow, and finished our trek by crawling on our bellies the last ten feet. Heat radiated from the dry earth, supercharged air shimmered all around. Cicadas chirped and other swift-flying insects whirred. A dry clattering sound, like sand shifting between rocks, came from just ahead. I was about to fling myself into the rather iffy shelter of a dark rent in the broken stone when Teagun yanked me back.
“Rattlesnake,” he whispered, his mouth close enough to my ear to raise the hair on the back of my neck.
Needless to say, I about had a heart attack.
“Where? Where?” I tried to crawl backward, but was stopped by his hand on my rump.
“Hold still.” He fished in one of his many pockets and drew out a folding knife. Not an oscillator, I noted with relief as he flipped open the blade. I’d seen all of that implement I ever wanted to see. This knife was of the plain old hunting variety, as had served in some form for all the years man had walked upright.
Not everyone I knew had his skill, however. Like a phantom, he rose up from beside me and threw the knife, slicing off the reptile’s head with one clean stroke. The creature’s body continued to writhe, rattles clattering, which made me kind of uncomfortable until I realized the lethal part was no longer a threat.
He pushed to get me moving again. “Go on. I got him.”
“What if there’re more of them hiding in those rocks?”
He glanced briefly at me out of the corner of his eyes. “What if there are? Which kind you prefer to meet? Another snake or another man like Kurt Villanova?”
As he’d no doubt known it would, the comparison forced me into motion, although at least he crawled forward to take the lead himself. As he passed me, I murmured, “You can be fairly poisonous yourself, fella.”
I caught a glimpse of a barely-hidden smile and the telltale dimple as I removed my glasses and stowed them in a pocket.
With the coming of night, truck drivers, travelers and tourists were departing the hotel like worker bees leaving the hive. Having eaten the evening meal in the hotel dining room, drivers came out to warm up the trucks, inspect the fans and do whatever other safety checks were required. I judged the truckers to be a close-knit group, for when the rest of the hotel guests simply started their vehicles and darted away like lightning bugs into the dusk, the truckers took time to visit a little with their friends.
Consequently, a great many people filled the courtyard, a swirling, constantly shifting community. I couldn’t visualize any good reason to whisper. As people on the move do, this group was making plenty of racket to cover any noise Teagun and I made talking.
Of course, I’d been fooled before, I reminded myself. Look what happened on my original trip here.
It was easy to pick out the outlaws from the others. They were the ones standing around, eyes watchful, their hands never far from pockets where one could surmise weapons were hidden. The ones who sought to intimidate a few lowly truckers. As far as I could see they weren’t getting much response, but I saw a few brows raised at their tactics.
I counted the outlaws for myself. There had been four who came with along with Adainette Plover before I figured in the story; Teagun killed one of those. Next came the group of six arrivals. I shot one of these, Sy-enna two, and Clive took away three as prisoners. Now two unexpected reinforcements turned up and we had six in all to contend with. The worst of the whole bunch, according to the records on Teagun’s computer. Incredibly, right now all five were together outside, guarding the front entrance. Which left no one in charge of Petra Dill.
“Teagun,” I said, excitement rising inside me like mercury in a thermometer. “Do you see your mother anywhere?” I had to be sure.
“Nah. They haven’t let her out of doors since they took over the hotel.”
“Is there any other way into the hotel grounds?”
“Well, yes.” His answer was slow, as though even now he didn’t want to give away any more than he could afford to lose. “Why? What good would it do to get in there? If either of us were caught, we’d just be another hostage.”
“The point is, don’t get caught. Anyway, isn’t the object of this exercise to get your mother out of there? If you can once get in, then I’d think both of you can get back out, especially if we worked out a diversion.”
“You don’t know my mother,” he said dryly, though I sensed wry humor lurking under the surface. “You see, the object isn’t only to get Petra out. If all she wanted was to escape, she could probably do that herself at her own convenience.”
I felt stupid, as if I’d missed a supremely important issue, lost along the wayside. “She could? Well, what does she want? Isn’t that why you brought me here? To help rescue your mother?”
Teagun groped around until he found the knife he’d used on the snake, taking the time to wipe the oozings off the blade onto the bottom of his burnoose. “True, as far as it goes. But at the same time, my mother wants her property back. And she wants the outlaws destroyed.”
“Oh, of course,” I said. “How ridiculous of me. I should’ve realized the hotel is worth more than her life. And I guess destroying outlaws is fine as long as you’re not the one doing the business.”
At this, he rolled over to face me. “The thing is, Boothenay, take away her legacy—the hotel—and you do take away her life. And, forgive me, but I wonder how you’d feel if a bunch of outlaws walked into your shop and said they were taking it. Wouldn’t you get a little argumentative? Feel a bit combative?”
“I thought that had already been done, more-or-less.” I picked a couple of marble-sized stones from under my belly and tossed them aside, trying to appear casual. “When you came along.”
His mouth jerked. “The situation is not the same and you know it. I never said I wanted your shop.”
“You threatened to tear it apart, which amounts to the same thing.”
He sighed, and either unable, or unwilling to come up with a denial, decided to change the subject. He must have felt fairly secure and hidden from any watching eyes, for he rose to his knees and crouched in the lee of a huge fallen rock as he scanned the area. “What diversion?”
I had to shift gears and try to think. “That’s a tough one. Especially with only two of us to carry out a plan. Well, only one of us, really. Me. You’re going to be busy with your mom.”
He was, I could see, waiting for me to come up with the plan. Probably so he could make fun of it.
There didn’t seem to be much in the way of choice. In a country almost empty of people, with limited access to the nearest population center and an almost total lack of resources, I hardly knew where to start. At last, inspiration struck.
“Fire,” I said
Teagun’s head snapped around. “What? Where?”
This was hardly the reaction I’d expected, yet, on second thought, it was the right reaction.
“No fire,” I said. “It hasn’t happened. Not yet, at any rate. That’s my idea. I’ll start a fire over—” My finger pointed, wavered, repointed. “—over there, and when the outlaws all make a dash to put it out, you can get in to see your mother.”
“Are you crazy?” Teagun sounded thoroughly disgusted. He glared at me. “No one in their right mind is going to go starting fires when there’s no means of putting it out. Not in this country. This isn’t the big city, Boothenay. And it isn’t the year 20⏤ whatever, either. We don’t have any fire trucks or firefighters in the Great Empty. We don’t have any water.”
I felt myself growing red and was grateful for the concealing darkness. “I’m not talking about a huge fire, for goodness sake. I was thinking more in the neighborhood of one dried-up sage. No more than enough to draw the outlaws outside the compound, but not enough to start a full-blown range fire. There’s no wind tonight. If I remember correctly, there’s a single bush about half a mile beyond that hill with nothing near that would feed a fire.” If he was disgusted, so was I, at wh
at I envisioned as unwarranted apprehension on his part.
“One fire, one plant. All it takes is a spark in the wrong spot and we’re screwed.”
Feeling put upon and a trifle angry, I shrugged. “Whatever you say. It’s your mother, your hotel, and your life. My suggestion is for you to either take me home or let me use the Weatherby so I can take myself. Either way I’ll be out of your hair. You can run your own damn campaign without any advice from me.”
He went still. After a bit he said, “I suppose everyone in the courtyard would run over to douse the fire.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“If they don’t, thousands of square miles of grassland could burn. Take out every bit of headway this country has made in coming back fertile.”
What grass? I hadn’t seen any grass besides a few clumps of blue-bunch. “They’d be crazy not to put it out.” I didn’t look at him.
Still he hesitated. “Petra would kill me if she ever guessed I’d done such a thing.”
“So don’t tell her. Anyway, you won’t be the one striking the match. I will.
I heard his teeth gritting together in indecision. “Only I’ll need the fire to get out, not in,” he said.
He’d made his declaration, I realized. He was committed. I couldn’t quite make up my mind whether to applaud his nerve or to be sorry.
“The timing is your choice,” I said. “We can synchronize our watches and I’ll do whatever you tell me.” Synchronize our watches. Didn’t that sound ridiculous? Yet I’d always wanted to say it.
His fingers drummed in nervous and guilty tension on the rock where he was leaning. “If I can talk to her, we’ll be able to coordinate our efforts. I can tell her about you, about how you’re helping.”
“Does she have a gun?”
“Sure. Or she did. As long as they haven’t found it and taken it away from her.”
“Ah. Good,” I said. “Well, then, if she knows who I am, maybe she won’t be as hot to shoot me.”
His grin, complete with dimple, flashed. “I hope not. Guess I’d better not tell her about the fire, though, just in case.”
FULL DARK CAME SOON ENOUGH. A few minutes later, Teagun had melted into the darkness leaving no more sign than a bottle of ink dissolved in a river. I followed suit, heading back over the hill from whence we’d come, although I doubt my departure went as smoothly as his.
I wasn’t worried about the role I was slated to play. It should be easy. I’d only to find the sage I’d noted on our way here, the one grown into a stunted tree during its life span, and prepare to sacrifice it in the Dills’s cause.
With old, desiccated foliage filled with concentrated aromatic resins and such, the sagebrush would, according to Teagun, flame brightly for a few minutes and as quickly die. I had to make sure the fuel would last long enough for him to make good his escape. I’d also promised him I would stay long enough to make sure the fire was doused. Then I, too, would flee to our agreed-upon meeting point—the fall of rocks and dirt where we’d buried Villanova’s body.
I don’t know why, but when Teagun left me alone in the arid landscape, I felt more vulnerable than ever. Although I’d carefully noted the landmarks for the route I was to follow before I started off, it seemed now as if I were lost. Panic welled inside of me; the thrum of my heartbeat roared loud in my ears, my lungs labored for air, my fingers knotted into fists. To my inexplicably blunted perceptions, everything looked alike.
Were those whispers I heard coming from beyond my shoulders and behind my back? I couldn’t be sure. It was too dark to tell.
I froze in place, my mind blank. Only my eyes seemed capable of movement, darting frantically from side to side, searching for an enemy I couldn’t place.
Finally, my sight lifted to the night sky. There I found the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Polaris, all comforting in their familiarity. This time, when I looked out across the high desert plateau, I knew where I was. The whispers of my imagination stilled. My brief flare of panic faded, although it didn’t entirely disappear as I limped off in my chosen direction.
Calm? Not much, but in control. I’ll admit, my hold was precarious.
I found the sage tree, eventually, rooted near where I remembered it, but only after several never-ending minutes that I spent convinced I’d gotten lost. Well, either lost or totally turned around, which of course amounted to the same thing.
Scraggly branches drooped from the sage’s twisted trunk. Silvery pale foliage crumbled under my touch when I ran my hand over the fronds, the resultant powder retaining enough strong scent to bite in my nostrils. It would go up like a flare, I knew, drawing as an audience everyone who could get here before the flames died.
The idea of using a decoy, especially a decoy of fire, wasn’t a ruse the outlaws could counteract in a hurry. They would have to stop and take care of it.
Too late to think up another plan, I told myself. Stop worrying. You’re committed to this action and so is Teagun. Stick with the plan and everything will be all right.
Good advice, I suppose, only once I started enumerating all the things that were possible to go wrong, I couldn’t seem to stop.
I feared no one would be interested, or no one would see the fire, in which case no one would come to investigate. Teagun and the Weatherby would inevitably be caught. Any probability of me getting home would be down the drain.
Second scenario: Everyone showed up. And I mean everyone, converging on this place like vultures drawn to carrion. There’d be no chance for me to slip away. I would be caught and I’d never make it home.
Action is the only remedy when I get in this state. I’d been in comparable situations often enough to comprehend the building stress, so in the interest of calming my nerves, I set to work.
A small supply of dry material already lay under the sage, tinder to start the conflagration. It didn’t seem enough. I searched my pockets for a tissue, jerked one out and wadded it among the leaves. Better, I decided, though still not satisfied.
I yanked on one of the sage’s drooping branches, surprised when the punky wood turned out to be extremely breakage resistant. Wiggling the limb back and forth merely dumped more dust and debris onto the ground, burying the already prepared kindling. This, I decided, blowing hair from my eyes, was getting exasperating.
Irritated, I reefed more strongly on the limb, my feet braced in resistance. The branch swayed, creaked, finally breaking away with a noise as loud as a gunshot. The echo crackled in my ears.
I nearly wet my pants. Panic roiled close beneath the surface again, an old friend—or enemy—I was learning to know well. Now what I wondered? Would the racket draw the outlaws to this spot prematurely? I waited for a rush of people, perhaps for the lash of a light garrote around my neck, or the burning seizure of a stunner charge. The night remained quiet.
At last I began to think the noise had been more a product of my over-charged imagination than real. Either that or the activity in the hotel courtyard had covered the sound. With the slack feeling of draining adrenaline, I set about pulling a few individual fronds from the branch and adding them to the pile. I left the rest intact, leaning the branch against the sage’s trunk to draw the flame to the top of the plant. The torch was ready.
Now I had only to wait for the hands of my watch to creep toward the appointed hour.
Before Teagun had left to find his secret way into the hotel compound, we’d set up a schedule—overly generous to my way of thinking—which allowed him precisely sixty minutes to get in, do his thing and get back out. I was afraid this left him too long in the open, made him too easy a mark for the outlaws to discover. His idea, I knew, was to be back before I found it necessary to light the fire.
Time dragged in unbelievably slow increments until I began to believe the batteries in my watch had long been dead, having been drawn forward more than a hundred years into their future.
And as though he wanted only to plague me, I kept seeing Caleb’s face as I’d seen
it last. Angry, on his way to somewhere, the love that drew us becoming foggy and unclear. I forced his image to the back of my mind, afraid to let dreams come to me while I was in this frame of mind and in this critical of an action.
I tried counting seconds by marking them off on my fingertips, forcing myself to wait at least five minutes before I’d tilt my watch to the starlight and squint at the dial
This worked only twice. I wanted to pace, but my ankle protested. Action might have relieved a part of my tension, but I figured I’d be wiser to conserve my resources. The way my luck was running, I’d stumble over a grain of sand and break a leg.
But ultimately everything, the good and the bad, comes to an end. The minute hand on my watch completed a circle. Teagun did not appear. I’d have to light the fire.
Only somewhere, somewhere, I’d lost the god-be-damned matches.
With frantic hands I went over my clothing; through every pocket in the burnoose, the two small ones in the bolero, the two side-pockets in the jumpsuit. Nothing.
No matches.
Oh, lots of stuff, but not the right stuff.
I checked the LadySmith’s holster, taking out the gun and ramming my fingers all the way to the bottom in case the matches had dropped through. Ditto the Guardian and the leg holster. I plopped on to the ground beside the sage, unwrapping the elastic bandage from around my bad ankle and trying there. Nothing.
No matches—not a trace.
If I hadn’t already been sitting, I think I would have then. Simply collapsed like a lung without air. I rewrapped the bandage around my ankle any which way. What did it matter?
“Think, stupid.” I barely realized I was talking out loud. How could I possibly have done such a thing? I knew for a fact the matches had been there when I started out from our camp. In well-visualized memory, I remembered taking things out of my purse that I’d fancied I might conceivably need with me. A half-empty book of matches had been among those items. So what had I done with them?
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 17
