The bad feeling Rick had had before suddenly got worse. He climbed the wooden steps and looked at Bert, poking around, pushing open the cabin door which was already ajar. The door had a small window in it. Its glass was stained with grime. A around hole had been rubbed in the dirt.
A peepho/e.
Bert’s curiosity got the better of her, she was about to step inside.
“Bert...” he began.
A manic whoop cut through the stillness, then tapered off into a coy giggle. The giggle ended in a humorless titter.
Angus.
Who else?
Appearing from the far end of the cabin, making his way slowly along the porch toward them. Head cocked like a wary animal.
Angus with a gun this time. An old hunting rifle held loosely but, Rick saw, with the practiced ease of an expert. It hung cocked in the crook of his arm.
King of the Wild Frontier or Preacher Man. Which is be today? Rick wondered. Whatever, the guy means business...
Bert, taken off guard, backed up against the doorframe. Her face had paled. A look of defiance had the twist of fear that was already teasing her gut.
“Hi Angus,” she managed, cheerfully. “Care to give two weary travelers a drink of water?”
The coyote skins, even in this heat, shook around the preacher’s shoulders. His bony chest was naked. Roughly stitched skin trousers covered his bowed legs. He let out a bark that Bert took to be laughter. She blanched again, hearing the triumphant ring to it.
“Yeah,” Rick bluffed. “We were just passing by and thought you might offer us a drink—then we’ll be on our way... On the other hand, no worries about the drink. We’ll just be on our way. Bert?”
“Why yes,” she chirped. “We’ll be on our way. Er ... have a nice day, Angus!”
Suddenly they were looking down the barrel of the preacher’s gun. His face was screwed up alongside.
Easy does it... Rick’s eyes signaled the message to Bert.
Catching his drift, she nodded imperceptibly.
The gun jerked toward the cabin door.
“Get on it, get on in there, my fine, young travelin’ friends.”
Angus at his most amiable. Most wily.
A bullet clicked home.
Angus at his most persuasive, most lethal, Rick decided.
They turned and trouped in through the doorway.
First thing they noticed was the stench. Rotten food, human smells and something else; gamey, putrid. Couldn’t make out what it was. Angus jostled them to a deal table. It was stained with coffee, food and God knew what else. The surface was cluttered and cracked with age.
Sweeping aside the dirty crocks, stale food and other debris, Angus made one end clear. He jerked the gun again.
They slid out of their packs and sat down.
Taking the rickety spindle-back chairs either side of the table, Bert had her back to the door. Rick faced her. Angus took his place at the head of the table, to the right of Bert, and eased himself into a wooden armchair. The rifle rested across his bony knees.
A moment’s silence. Then Angus snatched off his hat and tossed it to one side. It landed in a mangy heap on the cabin floor. His head was bare, but for a few long gray hairs crawling through patches of thick, yellow scales. Grinning, he made his scraggly beard wiggle at them, and tapped the tabletop with a bony forefinger. Bert stared in disgust at the finger’s long, grimy nail, noting that all of his nails were black—and curved, like the talons of a giant bird of prey.
“Put ‘em down, right here!” he ordered. “That’s it. You heard me right first time. Them huntin’ knives you got tucked away in there.”
They didn’t want to do it, but right at this moment there wasn’t a hope in hell of playing it any other way. Angus held the aces. And the gun.
Slowly, they unfastened their belts and placed the sheathed weapons, and the looped belts, side by side at the center of the table. Angus leaned over, raked them in and dropped them into his lap.
Rick and Bert remained poker-faced. Wouldn’t do to let the bastard see that taking their knives was any major deal.
“Well, now,” Angus smiled craftily, looking from one to the other. “Ain’t this fine an’ dandy. Just the three of us. Sitting here like old friends.” He settled back into the curve of his chair and smiled some more.
Way too big for a skinny runt like him, Bert thought. It’s built for a bigger man ... She glanced around the one room cabin. Seated on her side of the table, she didn’t have to move her head to do it.
A tousled bed with grimy, greasy covers stood in the top right comer. The filthy ticking pillow skewed sideways, half on, half off the mattress. Bert’s eyes followed the pillow downward. To a huddle of dark canvas stashed beneath the bed. A loop or a strap had strayed from the pile. It lay curled like a snake on the worn wood floor.
A breath of fear flicked at her throat.
Over the bfass-knobbed headrail hung a framed picture of Christ on the cross. Bert figured it probably served as a reminder to Angus to keep up the Lord’s good works. She pictured him jumping out at them yesterday. Screaming insults and vile words.
No chance he’d forget, she reckoned.
To the right, sunlight filtered through a dirty rag-draped window. In the comer stood a large store cupboard. Its dark veneer had been polished at some stage of its life, but not anymore. She looked at the dull, wormy wood and reckoned it must be at least a hundred years old. An heirloom.
Like the dresser, with its heavy, carved shelves towering above the good-sized set of storage drawers. The whole thing filled most of the cabin’s facing wall. Religious bric-a-brac and faded sepia photographs in brass frames littered the shelves and top surface of the drawers.
Bert’s eyes lingered on a picture of a small, gentle-looking woman standing by the side of a seated, autocratic man. Both were laced up to the chin in Victorian-style dress.
In particular, she studied a photograph of a young girl with mournful eyes. She wore a crocheted shawl and stood with one arm across the shoulders of a small, pixie-faced boy with blond curls.
Family photos.
Was Angus that small boy?
An old Indian blanket thrown roughly over a wooden rail came next. Bert reckoned it could hide another door. Or a secret store of weapons, maybe. Her mind worked overtime. If Angus got caught off guard, Rick could tackle him. I could rush the blanket, grab a gun or something, and we could shoot our way out...
Yeah. Pigs might fly.
Her eyes slid around to the left, taking in the plastered walls scarred at intervals by brown floral wallpaper. A section of the left-hand wall, the far side of one of the cabin’s three windows, hoasted a rogue’s gallery of faded heads.
Clerics of long ago. Much of a muchness: dog collars, around wide-brimmed hats and pursed, pained expressions. Different images of two men, it appeared. One, the elder, had a full bushy beard and mean eyes. The other had the same mean eyes, but was younger and clean shaven.
Father and son.
To her left, by the remaining window, stood a brownstone sink. Next to it, a lit stove made tiny spitting, crackling noises. It exuded a malodorous stink. The ash can beneath the stove was catching gobs and spills of grease. The falling grease made dark holes in the mounds of fine gray ash.
“You interested in my pictures, whore? Them there’s my daddy an’ my granddaddy. Both good men of the cloth. Preachin’ the Lord’s word all of their lives...
“Yessir ... they wus good men, my daddy and my granddaddy. Men a mother could be proud of. Ridding the world as they did, of SCUM LIKE YOU!”