Doomseers, “doomies,” were human mutants, possessed or cursed with the psychic ability to foresee death. Krysty’s ability was somewhat similar, but she couldn’t visualize exact details, though she often sensed danger in the offing.
“What’s the flag for?” Jak asked.
“Means she wants company, or help for a chore. She always pays off in provisions.”
“The flour got wet at the river crossing,” J.B. said. “Might be good idea to mosey down there and trade for some.”
“What about the buffalo?” Ryan asked, frowning.
“We’ll keep them in sight,” Joe replied. “Won’t take but a few minutes for someone to go down there and get back to us.”
“I’ll go,” Mildred volunteered, “if someone comes with me.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Doc said. “My mouth is already primed for biscuits.”
“We’ll wait for you here,” Ryan told them.
Doc and Mildred guided their horses down the rock-ribbed slant. A chill wind sprang up and plucked at their hair and clothing. Their pants were still slightly damp from the river crossing the day before, and they shivered.
They cantered into the cabin’s compound. Reining Judas Redux to a halt, Doc glanced around, feeling an invisible, strange something emanating from the structure’s interior, like radiation. The hairs at his nape tingled, and he looked quickly at Mildred. If she sensed the same thing, she showed no sign of it.
Dismounting, they then started walking toward the cabin, but froze in their tracks when a low animal growl reached their ears. Rigid with fear and astonishment, they saw, tethered to a post at a corner of the log building, a tawny cougar, only it was gigantic, a breed spawned by radiation-induced polyploidism, the doubling of all or part of the chromosome complement.
Though this monster wasn’t as large as the twenty-five-foot puma that had nearly bitten Doc’s head off months earlier, it still stretched fifteen feet from nose to tail tip, and probably weighed nine hundred pounds.
The mouth was open, saliva dripping from the long yellow fangs. The creature didn’t snarl or hiss. It growled, very low, very menacing, and regarded them with calculating brown-green eyes. Looking at the rust-eaten chain that attached the beast to the post, both Doc and Mildred went for their blasters.
“He will not molest you, strangers,” a clear voice stated.
An old black woman stood in the doorway of the cabin, wearing a collection of colorful rags and scraps of fur. “You saw my flag?” Her voice was strong despite her advanced age.
After exchanging a glance with Doc, Mildred said, “Yes, ma’am. We’d like to trade for some flour.”
“Trade with what?”
“Chores or jack.”
The old woman smiled a speculative smile, and for a moment the expression on her face seemed a mirror image of the panther’s. “What are your names?”
“Dr. Mildred Wyeth and” Mildred hesitated, then nodded toward Doc, “Dr. T. A. Tanner.”
The wrinkled face collapsed in a network of lines and creases, and they realized the woman was laughing silently. “An embarrassment of doctors today. Enter, both of you, and be welcome.”
They tied their mounts to a post at the opposite corner from the cougar and, drawn by a gesture from a black-nailed hand, they ducked under the low doorway and entered the cabin. Something about the crone’s secret smile and easy manner made Doc’s hand itch for the comforting weight of his Le Mat. Surreptitiously he loosened the ebony case sheathing the blade of Toledo steel.
The old woman stoked the fire of buffalo chips in the shallow hearth, and the flames leaped higher. Mildred and Doc quickly studied the single-room dwelling. The wooden walls were covered by stretched animal hides and grinning skulls, bears with great fangs, long-horned steers and immense buffalo skulls. Dried herbs, desiccated birds and mummified reptiles dangled from the rafters. Doc was reminded of an apothecary’s shop.
The woman bade them to sit on a splintery wooden bench, and she busied herself stirring the contents of the pot in the hearth. “You are strangers to this land, you doctors?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mildred replied.
“Why do you ask?” Doc inquired.
“Everyone else fears to enter the abode of the doomie woman. I sniff deaths, you see. That is how I have lived here for so many years, unharmed by the tribes, the beasts, the brigands. I can foretell deaths, and no one wants to know about it. They are afraid that if they learn the time and manner of their death, it will arrive before they are ready.”