The monstrous trout slid back down among the jagged rocks, landing in the deep pool at the base of the falls. A thread of pale blood leaked into the dark water, circling as the fish flailed in its death throes.
The Armorer warned Jak as the albino started to go into the water to haul out the dying steelhead. “Look out for those jaws. Might only be a trout, but it’s a rad-blasted sizable creature to tangle with. Take your hand off at the wrist, easy as winking. Best we all help.”
The bullet had struck the mutie fish through the head, blowing a hole the size of a man’s fist as it exited. The wound was fatal, but the creature was still thrashing, its tail kicking up a bloody froth.
Despite the wet weather, it wasn’t that difficult to scavenge among the tall trees to find enough dry twigs to get a smokeless fire started. The Armorer used his thin-bladed flensing knife to slice the trout into dripping haunches, arranging them carefully on a network of thin branches that suspended them over the bright orange flames.
Krysty and Mildred went hunting with Doc and Dean to try to find something to eat along with the fish, returning with an armful of various roots and herbs that produced a delicious scent as they began to cook.
It took more than an hour before the steelhead was ready to eat. The companions sat around, blowing on their fingertips, peeling off the thick, blackened scales, dropping them hissing into the smoldering ashes.
It was excellent.
Ryan belched, leaning back against the worm-eaten bole of a larch, and yawned. “That was great.”
“You feel confident that the flavor of the cooking won’t have impinged upon our Native American friends, or upon any more of those religious maniacs?” Doc wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his frock coat.
Ryan sniffed. “Can never be sure, Doc. But a forest as thick as this should swallow up most smells. And the trees are so tall that there’s no chance of the smoke being seen. Should be safe enough, I reckon.”
“How much farther are we going?” asked Mildred, who’d been watching J.B. meticulously field-stripping and cleaning her revolver.
“See what one more day brings us,” Ryan replied.
Chapter Eleven
Between them the seven companions managed to eat the entire fish at two gut-stretching sittings, finishing it off in the late evening, with the moon already rising through the branches of the surrounding pines.
It was good to be able to relax, resting by the lulling sound of the pounding river. So much of their life in Deathlands was running, hiding and chilling.
The rain clouds had passed away, and the sky was clear from north to south, with the promise of a cool night. Somewhere far off they all heard the howling of a lone wolf, a noise that was picked up by another predator, a few miles closer. Ryan instinctively reached for the butt of his pistol, then relaxed as he realized that the nearer animal was still a good distance away from them, and no threat at all.
He had rarely felt as full, his stomach rebelling at the surfeit of strong-flavored fish. The wind was rising again, moving through the vast forest, coming in from the west, carrying the bitter sharpness of salt from the Cific across the hills.
They had allowed the fire to die down, and it had sunk to a small pile of gray ashes that occasionally flared crimson as the strengthening breeze reached it. Doc had already fallen asleep, lying on his back, gnarled hands folded across his chest like a crusader at his eternal rest on a tomb.
Jak and Dean were also dozing, curled up beside the embers of the fire.
Mildred and J.B. sat close together, hands entwined, whispering to each other. Every now and again one of them would laugh quietly.
Krysty looked across at them, then back at Ryan. They both lay close together, sharing a companionable silence.
Time passed, evening creeping imperceptibly into the darkness of full night.
They heard the keening of the wolf once more, but it didn’t seem to be getting any closer.