Ryan realized that the boy was right. The mules were off and running, but the reins had snagged, dragging them inexorably toward the drop on the right.
They were within fifteen feet of the last upright bandit, who was now swearing at his mare, urging her out of the way of the charging mules. Ryan balanced himself against the rocking of the rig, firing once, seeing the man go down with blood blossoming from his chest, his arms flung wide.
“Dad! Foot’s caught!”
Then the rig began to tilt, seeming to hang sickeningly on the edge of the sighing space for an eternity before the terrified team pulled it right off the trail.
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as the wag, with Ryan and Dean waving goodbye, had vanished from the outskirts of Glenwood Springs, J.B. suggested they should start looking for transport to follow up the southeasterly trail.
But they quickly came across three problems.
One was that parts of the ville, mainly along the Frontage Road, had suffered badly from an earthquake and few of the buildings in that sector had more than a shell left. Which cut down the options of locating a rig.
Secondly, as the weather had deteriorated, becoming colder, with a short flurry of snow, all of the wild horses and mules that had been feeding quietly on the lower pastures around the ville chose to kick up their heels and trek west out of town, moving parallel to the Colorado River, the ruined railway and the buckled interstate.
But the third unexpected problem was far more dangerous to the five companions.
They’d split up to facilitate the search, and Krysty and Doc had paired up, moving along the side roads, past what looked like a park.
“That might perchance be worth a little investigation,” Doc said, pointing with the tip of his swordstick at a rusted wrought-iron sign that had toppled sideways, but was held up by a spreading fig tree. It read, Rio Rancho Bar-B-Q Eats and Livery Stable.
Krysty grinned at the old man. “Sounds a better bet than Ma’s Place, Doc.”
“Of blessed memory,” he said, crossing himself.
There was an overgrown entrance drive, between two rows of fallen picket fencing. The pavement was broken up and covered in weeds, though it still showed occasional smudges of white paint where cars had been parked.
The front of the building was designed to look like a nineteenth-century ranch, constructed from pitched logs with deep-set windows and rifle slits. But as Krysty and Doc drew nearer to the entrance, they could see that this was all a crude facade and that behind the exterior was a single-story concrete building in poor repair.
The doorway gaped like an unfilled tooth, and the row of shattered windows stared like blinded eyes.
“Some outbuildings around back,” Krysty said. “Barn with its roof still in place.”
The park was quiet, with only a gentle wind blowing through the fluttering leaves of some stately aspens that had seeded themselves at the rear of the restaurant. There were some peculiar shapes in what had to have been the back garden, mostly buried in yellow-flowering creeper and poison ivy, which Krysty finally realized were just the rotting relics of plastic picnic tables and chairs.
Thunder rumbled somewhere to the north of Glenwood Springs, where a bank of dark purple chem clouds threatened a serious storm.
“Long way off,” Krysty said.
“I do most fondly hope so. I would not like to think of Ryan and the poor dear lad caught out in the open in inclement weather. I shall not feel totally happy until this year has crawled by and we are reunited once more with Master Dean.”
“I’ll feel happy when we meet up with Ryan again,” Krysty said, running her fingers through her fiery hair, feeling the tightness of the curls.
“Up by Fairplay. One of the things that amazed me, when I was trawled back to the days just before pre-dark, was the way that snowy, remote Colorado had become infinitely fashionable Colorado. Little hamlets that one passed through, like Vail, becoming the abode of the briefly rich and famous.”
They were only a few paces from the barn, with one door swinging gently back and forth, when Krysty held up a hand, silently drawing her Model 640 Smith amp; Wesson double-action .38. Doc raised an eyebrow, pulling out his own Le Mat, thumbing back the scatter-gun hammer.