A MAILBOX WAS PERCHED crookedly at the end of a short circular drive, its paint stripped back to bare metal by a hundred Colorado winters.
“Any letters?” Mildred asked, opening it herself to find it held only a few shreds of dust-dry paper. “Nope. Bugs got here first.”
“If it’s safe, we could bring Doc up here for the night. Lot better shelter for his old bones than lying out on the cold, cold ground.”
“Why not? Best take a look-see for ourselves first. There’s some cords of wood stacked against the wall.”
Krysty nodded. “Place like this, when we’ve heard word of various swift and evil bastards around, not to mention stickies, it’s best we go in on double red. I’ll take the front door and you slide around the back.”
“Fine.”
“Watch yourself.”
Mildred gave her the thumbs-up, drawing her revolver from its holster.
Krysty watched her friend walking slowly around the side of the property, giving her a few seconds before making her own move toward the front door.
While she waited, she concentrated for a moment, drawing on the power of the Earth Mother, trying to see if there was anyone close by. She picked up the vibrations from Mildred but nobody else that she could detect.
The 5-shot .38 Smith amp; Wesson was gripped firmly in her right hand as she walked toward the front door of the house.
The setting sun glinted off the solar panels in the roof, blazing like fire. She paused and looked behind her, seeing what a fantastic view the house had across the Rockies.
Two steps nearer and Krysty jumped as a sec light came on, flooding the drive with its brilliance. She froze like a rabbit trapped in headlights, waiting for a hail of bullets to tear her apart. But nothing happened.
As she reached the door, the light clicked off.
The brass handle was cold, streaked with ancient verdigris that felt slightly sticky to the touch. It turned and the door swung silently open, showing her a hallway with two rooms opening off it and a staircase to her left.
Krysty held her breath for a moment before slowly letting it go. The place was fully furnished and it appeared that nobody had been there for the best part of a hundred years. She reached out her hand and pressed a wall switch and the interior lights tripped on, dazzlingly bright.
“That you, Krysty?”
“Yeah. Come ahead, Millie. I don’t think we’ve got any company here.”
“Back door’s open. Kitchen through there’s neat as a new pin. Everything stacked away on shelves, pots and pans all ranged in order, like someone just walked out.”
“Rest of the house looks like it’s just as trim. Let’s take a look around.”
“You don’t feel anyone here?” Mildred asked nervously, rubbing her left hand across her forehead.
“No. Whoever lived here’s long, long gone.”
But for once Krysty’s intuition had let her down.
RYAN’S IMMEDIATE REACTION to the accusation from Chris Akemoto had been to totally and blankly deny it. But there was such unquestioned confidence in the young man’s voice that he guessed there was little point.
And it could easily have made a very difficult situation much, much worse.
To be spotted as the right-hand man of the notorious Trader might, literally, prove fatal. The old man’s ideal for an enemy was for him to be dead. But over the years enough people had escaped, brimming with hatred for Trader and his men, to make it a potential hazard.
Ryan knew how distinctive he looked, even though Deathlands was filled with men with an eye missingor a hand or a leg or an arm or an ear.
But Akemoto didn’t seem the sort of person who could be bluffed.
It was time to bite hard on the bullet and be ready to move fast and kill quietly.
“I rode with the Trader for years,” he said. “Sorry, but I don’t recall having crossed trails with you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan noticed that Dean was deep in eager conversation with the boys on either side of him, looking as though he’d known them all his life.