They’d seen two separate herds of deer during the four miles or so they’d covered since leaving the redoubt. Ryan had been tempted to bring the Steyr to his shoulder and bag one for the pot, but he didn’t want to risk drawing anyone’s attention.
They passed a couple of children, a boy and a girl roughly eleven years old, and exchanged greetings with them, though the guarded faces told their own story of suspicion of outlanders.
“That long building must’ve been the hot pools and bathhouse,” Mildred said, as they paused again. This time they were within a quarter mile of the edge of Glenwood Springs.
“I was here just the once, fishing with my father,” Doc stated, lying back on the sun-warmed turf. “Must have been in ’87 or so, when I was in my late teens. The thing I remember best is that the town seemed to be still in mourning for the recent death of Doc Holliday, part-time dentist and full-time shootist.”
“One who rode with the Earps?” J.B. asked. “Dark night, Doc! You mean you were within a few months of actually meeting up with Doc Holliday?”
“I do indeed. It had been devilishly cold and they couldn’t get him up the hill to the cemetery, so they buried him down below. Grave marker tells us that he died in his bed, which I believe to be true. Him being consumptive and all.”
The conversation stopped and everyone turned to watch a six-wheel wag, its bodywork a patchwork of rust and green and blue paint, grinding its way into the ville from the north. Black smoke poured from its exhaust, and the engine was a cacophony of hideous metallic noises.
“Give it about twenty miles before the pistons come out through the side of the engine,” J.B. said.
“Mebbe we can get hold of a wag to transport us to the school,” Ryan said.
“To transport us to Harmony ville,” Krysty added. “And what does ‘get hold of mean? Steal?”
“Probably,” Ryan agreed. “Let’s go and scout the ville.”
THE HIKE FROM THE REDOUBT had taken longer than Ryan had anticipated, and it was close to noon when they eventually found themselves in the center of the ville.
Most of the damage to the buildings appeared to have come from the passing of time rather than any nuking.
“Could’ve used neutrons,” J.B. suggested. “Just taken out all the life-forms and left most of the ville standing.”
Ryan nodded. “Makes sense.”
From above it looked as if the old resort town of Glenwood Springs had once held a population of around seven thousand. From street level, Ryan doubted more than a hundred people lived there.
Most of them looked like hunters and trappers, dressed in untreated skins and furs, despite the warmth of the day, hurrying by, often crossing the street when they saw the group of strangers. Most of them were armed with long-barreled muskets and bowie knives sheathed at their belts.
Ryan called to one of them, a limping man with a sallow complexion. “Good place to eat in the ville?”
“Only one place to eat in the ville, outlander.” He looked at their array of weapons. “Do you a good trade deal for a few of your bullets.”
“Where?”
“Ma’s Place. Block down to the north along that blacktop. Past the Happy Trails store.”
Happy Trails advertised itself in faded, sun-blistered lettering as being the Roy Rogers Emporium for all Western memorabilia. Its windows were long smashed in, and its empty doorway gaped like a toothless mouth.
Across the road from them was the wrecked frontage of the Sombrero Eatery, which still carried a faded poster in the unbroken corner of its window proclaiming that it was the hottest plateful in all Colorado.
Western Books was the last store on the opposite side of the wide highway. Like all the others, it had been smashed open and all of its stock long taken.
“Who in all Deathlands would want to steal books?” Mildred asked, shading her eyes against the bright sun to peer into the dark interior.
“Burn well,” Jak replied as laconic as ever.
“The Nazis discovered that about one hundred and fifty years ago,” Doc said bitterly.