Abandon, стр. 60
She gazed up the east slope, searching for the mine where they’d all taken shelter Christmas night. What she saw instead, obscured by the falling snow, were figures near the rimrock.
Heathens.
She squinted, but instead of hostiles, her eyes sharpened the features of three burros bearing their riders into the mountain.
She post-holed north up Main, the snow coming to her waist, her feet mercifully going numb again, panting when she finally reached the chapel.
By the time she arrived at the base of the rimrock, the burros had disappeared into the mountain, the canyon fading toward a night she would never survive without roof and walls and fire.
When she caught her wind, she fought her way up the last of the burro trail, finally standing just inside the opening to the mine.
This warm passage smelled of trail-worn animals.
She heard water dripping.
Harness bells.
The clap of metal into rock.
Her eyes discerned movement in the dark, something coming toward her up the passage, and she’d started to retreat when the first burro moved by, out of the mine, back down the slope toward Abandon.
It took a minute for the pack train to depart the mine, and as the last burro ambled past, a man shrieked from someplace deep inside the mountain.
Lana ventured three steps into the mine.
A speck of firelight flickered a ways down the tunnel and a door slammed shut.
Someone knocked on it.
Someone wept and whispered and then abruptly hushed.
Water dripped.
Metal clanged into metal.
Outside, the jingle of harness bells dwindled.
“Are you real?” A man’s voice, thick with tears, and something familiar about it—a refinement, the subtlest drawl.
Then footsteps pounded up the tunnel again, and not a hooved animal, but the softer squeak of boots on wet rock. Lana began backpedaling toward the opening, glancing over her shoulder into the snowstorm and the blue dusk.
“No, don’t be afraid.”
The footsteps coming faster now.
She knew this voice.
The preacher, Stephen Cole, emerged from the shadows, geed up, utterly wasted, gray-skinned, eyes bloodshot and black-ringed, hair unwashed, more like a creature sprung from the innards of the mountain than Abandon’s spiritual compass.
“Miss Hartman, what are you doing out here?” He’d stopped just a few feet away, both of them close enough to the opening to be stung with the razor cold of stray snowflakes. “Weren’t you in the mine with everyone else Christmas night?”
Lana nodded.
“A band of heathens rode through town just a couple hours ago. They’re on the peck. Nearly raised my scalp. Everyone’s still in the mine. I’ve been bringing food and water, extra candles. Packer’s gold’s in there, too. That’s what all the burros were carrying.”
It suddenly clicked. Stephen had hidden in Abandon since Christmas night, eluding the heathens, waiting for an opportunity to bring provisions to those who had holed up in the mountain. She felt a shot of relief and admiration, hoped Joss had made it back to everyone else in the main cavern.
“Come with me. We’re not safe out here, particularly with night coming on.”
Lana looked once more down into Abandon, nothing to see but snow and darkness and—
A single grain of light burned on the other side of the canyon—a firelit cabin.
When she turned back, the preacher had lit a shadowgee, and he stared intently into her eyes, offering his hand.
“Don’t be ringey. You need to come with me right now.”
She didn’t take his hand, but she did walk beside him into the passage, and as they went on, candlelight glinting on the slickensides of the day hole, a strange thing happened. Her mouth ran dry and her heart raced, and as rays of firelight reached the iron door at the tunnel’s end, she realized what it was—the preacher’s eyes, his voice. You need to come with me right now. A predatory insistence bordering on desperation that she’d seen in another pair of eyes, heard in another voice three years ago that awful night in Santa Fe, and though it made no sense, she knew at some gut level that the preacher intended to kill her.
They reached the door and Stephen fished a key out of his pocket, slid it into the keyhole of a large padlock.
He turned just as she lunged at his back, the blade refracting shards of firelight. Stephen swung his arm down onto her wrist, and it might have knocked the bowie to the rock, but Lana had momentum and a ferocious grip.
The blade sank into his thigh.
The preacher screamed and Lana saw him reach into his frock coat.
Lana was running now, enveloped in darkness. She tripped on the uneven rock, fell as a revolver thundered. Her ears ringing, she scrambled back onto her feet and hauled toward that oval of dark gray in the distance, glancing back—flare of fire, another gunshot shattering the passage.
Ten seconds of hard running brought her out of the tunnel and into the early-evening light.
She followed the burro tracks under the rimrock, moving as fast as she could manage downhill toward Abandon, the hood of her cape blown back, snow pouring into her hair, down her neck.
It was the preacher’s cabin glowing on the west slope, she figured. Had he lied about the heathens? Devised some way to murder the entire town?
On Main Street, Lana bent over, gasping, petered out, saw the preacher already halfway down the slope.
She looked south toward all the dark, empty buildings.
She could try to hide, but he’d hunt her all night.
North of town, she spotted movement, took a moment to realize it was just those burros Stephen had driven out of the mine, congregating at the livery.
Inside the barn, an albino, still saddled and toting a slicker roll, stood eating a bale of hay.
When Lana grasped the harness, the horse threw his head and whinnied, but she held firm and stroked his neck.
Her arctic slipped into the stirrup and she stood and swung her other leg over and settled into the saddle. She took up the reins and gave him a little kick, and he trotted out of the stable, halting under the overhanging roof.
The snow had let up and a bit of moon shone through between the clouds.
There was nothing left of dusk, and a voice whispered that she would die out there if she did this.
Gonna die here if I stay.
In the last light, she glimpsed the profile of a man hobbling out of town, heading toward the stables.
She dug the heel of her arctic into the horse’s side and rode off into the dark.
2009
SEVENTY-FIVE
T
he wind was storm force at the Sawblade, blasting through the gap in streamers of freezing fog, the pass blown clean of snow. Scott held up a small yellow instrument with a digital display, locking arms with Abigail to keep her from blowing off the mountain.
They took cover on the lee side of the pass behind the palisade. Scott clipped a couple of carabiners onto the hip belts of their packs and short-roped them together.
He leaned over, shouted in Abigail’s ear, “My Sherpa clocked that last wind gust at fifty-one miles per hour! Stay close!”
As they started down, Abigail couldn’t help but think it a good thing the clouds had socked them in, so she couldn’t see the sheer drop that awaited even the slightest misstep. Two days ago, she’d freaked out on this part of the mountain, been paralyzed by vertigo.
Despite the relentless wind, the rocky trail near the top lay under three feet of snow.
Scott led, Abigail close enough behind so she could touch his pack if she reached out.
They descended slowly, painstakingly.