SEVENTY-ONE
T
hey struck out south toward their campsite, choosing a route behind the buildings in an effort to remain unseen. Despite his wound, Scott moved quickly through the snow, and soon they’d left behind the row of false-fronted cribs at the end of town.
Up-canyon, Abigail spotted the boulder standing on the outskirts of camp. “I recognize that rock,” she said. “The tents are just beyond it.”
As they passed the boulder, Scott said, “Where’s our stuff?”
He went out ahead of her, moving in frantic circles through the area where the tents had been. “I’m not believing this,” he said as he dug in the snow. “Quinn must’ve taken our gear. Everything’s gone. Even Gunter and Gerald.”
“Who?”
“The llamas. Fucker better be packing a fucking arsenal if he touched my boys.”
“You’re sure the tents aren’t just buried? The snow would’ve covered them, right?”
“See this?” Scott knocked the powder off the top of a pyramid-shaped boulder that barely jutted out of the snow. “Lawrence put his tent up right here, by this rock, so he could lay his things on it. Now all his stuff’s gone. But cross your fingers and your toes.” Scott waded over to another boulder, this one capped with four feet of snow. “I never set my tent up Monday night,” he said. “I was too busy fixing supper, helping everyone else get settled into camp. I was gonna do it when we got back from photographing the ghost town. What I’m hoping is that by the time Quinn found our camp, enough snow had fallen to bury my big pack, which I left beside this boulder.”
Scott ducked under the snow. A moment later, he popped up, hoisting his internal-frame Dana Design backpack like a trophy above his head.
Abigail worked her way over to him. “What do you have in there?”
“Everything. My tent. Extra clothes. First-aid kit. Sleeping bag. More bottles of water. A gas stove. Food. I don’t think we’d have made it without this.” He brushed the snow off his solid-black pack and loosened the compression straps.
“Please tell me you have a cell phone.”
“Hate the fuckers.”
“So we’re hiking out.”
“Seventeen beautiful miles.” He dropped a big compression bag in the snow. “But no worries. I’ll whip us up a meal before we go.” He reached into the bag, emerged with two packets of Backpacker’s Pantry freeze-dried dinners. “What’s your pleasure? Paella with saffron rice and chicken, or turkey Stroganoff?”
Within the hour, they were on the move again, heading toward the Sawblade, swaddled in ashen clouds.
After a half mile, Quinn’s tracks branched off from the canyon and climbed the slope toward Emerald Basin.
They pushed on, taking turns breaking a trail through the deepening powder.
By the time they reached the ruins of the Godsend, the drifts came to Abigail’s chest.
“Let’s take a breather,” Scott said. They collapsed near the stamp mill at the foot of that steep white slope that swept up two thousand feet into the clouds.
“What happens if Quinn sees our tracks?” Abigail asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been worried about that.”
“I mean, he will eventually see them, right?”
“Probably. And you’re exhausted. I’m hurting. He won’t have to travel that fast to catch us, and he has one hell of an interest in our never leaving these mountains. I’d feel a lot better if it was snowing like a bastard. We’re target practice out here in the open.”
“You got a gun in your pack?”
“Jerrod kept the pistol with him.”
Abigail squinted down-canyon, subconsciously searching for a tiny figure plodding toward them through the snow. “I’ll bet Quinn has a gun,” she said.
“What we have to do is get as much of a head start as we possibly can. I was listening to my weather radio in the hotel last night, and it sounds like it only snowed above eighty-five hundred feet. If we can get down that far, we should be safe. He won’t be able to track us. But as long as we stay in the snow, it’s just a matter of time.”
Abigail struggled to her feet, gave Scott a hand up. “Then let’s get going,” she said. “I’ll lead for a while.”
1893
SEVENTY-TWO
S
he used her thumb to pull the hammer back.
“Good. Now put your finger right here.” He eased it onto the trigger. “No, don’t squeeze yet. Not until you’re ready to shoot something.”
“I’m ready.”
“What are you aiming at?”
“Our cabin.”
The hammer snapped down on an empty chamber.
“Okay, now what if you wanna shoot it again?”
She worked the big hammer back.
“Perfect.”
“This time, I’m shootin the chimney.”
Snap.
“I think you’ve got it.”
She heard harness bells ringing a couple hundred feet below, the burros growing antsy. The preacher took the gun from her and broke it open, dropped shiny cartridges into the chambers.
“This becomes dangerous now,” Stephen said. “It’ll be loud.”
“Why you cryin?”
He gave her the gun, took a wipe from his frock coat, and dabbed his eyes.
“Don’t draw the hammer back ’til you’re ready to shoot it.”
Peering through snow-clad branches, she saw the mule skinner emerge from an empty cabin across the canyon.
“See him?” Stephen asked.
“That man’s sold his saddle like Miss Madsen?”
“He’s even more sick in the head. You wanna help him, don’t you? Send him up to God with everyone else?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You keep the gun inside your cloak until you get close. I don’t want you trying to shoot him until he’s as near to you as that fir tree.”
“Will it hurt him?”
“No. Like Molly, he’s already in great pain. You’re making it go away. After the first shot, he’ll fall down. You be real careful, and you pull that hammer back again, and you walk up to him and shoot him in the head.”
The sick mule skinner shouted, “Anyone here?”—his voice so faint and lonesome, rising like a prayer from the canyon floor.
“I don’t wanna.”
“I know, but it’s time.”
“I’m scared.”
“Nothing to be scared of, Harriet.”
“You do it.” She handed him the gun, but he shoved it back.
“God told me this chore falls to you, that you’re His little angel of darkness, and He allowed me to save you for this very purpose. Do you see the perfection of His grand design? Please, Harriet. Go end that poor man’s suffering.”
“If I do good, you’ll dope me with a sinker and some raspberry jam?”
“I promise.”
“Mr. Cole, is God gonna give me new ones?”
“New what, honey?”
“Daddy and Mama.”
Stephen stared down into Harriet’s dark eyes. “I’ll be caring for you.”
“Bethany’s daddy was the best I ever saw. She called him Papa.”
Stephen blushed. “Well, I suppose that would probably be all right if you wanted to um . . . you know . . . call me that.”
Harriet smiled. “Okay, Papa.”
The little girl pushed through the trees and stepped out from the motte of firs. He watched her through the branches, webbing downhill, hands concealed in her cloak, just like he’d told her.
He looked over Abandon—the empty, smokeless cabins, the cribs, silent dance hall, his dark chapel on the opposite slope—and he couldn’t stop the thoughts, remembering that first day he’d arrived here by stage, the town pure energy and motion, the new-sawn yellow boards of the buildings and the smell of fresh-cut wood, streets a soup of mud and shit and garbage, crowded with horses, buggies, pack trains, sidewalks jammed with miners, packers, whores, gamblers, con men, everyone trying to fill their wallets, eyes electric with a peculiar mix of misery, lust, and manic greed.