James Axler – Trader Redux

“Close call.”

“When he called you old-timer, you mean?” Abe queried. “Thought you were going to lead off and blow him clean out of his boots.”

“Not that.”

Ryan made a guess. “The little guy watching us from the balcony of the house?”

“Gettin’ warm, pard.”

“His grandfather. One called Bart.”

Trader’s grin grew even broader. “Gettin’ positively hot, Ryan.”

“You said you knew him.” J.B. was beginning to get the story. “How come?”

Trader punched his right fist into his left hand, loud enough to make all the horses prick their ears.

“Old story, John Dix.”

“Wasn’t Comanche, was it, Trader?” Ryan felt his shirt sticking to his back with sweat and eased his shoulders. “Wasn’t any fireblasted Comanche at all.”

“Hell, I knew the name was familiar. But thirty years ago, Ryan.”

“You knew they thought it was Indians that did for this Bart Springham?”

“Sure, sure.” He hesitated. “Well, didn’t really sort of know it .”

“You could’ve gotten us all chilled there, Trader.” J.B. removed his fedora and banged dust off it, then replaced it. “Dark night! All of us.”

“Slipped my memory. Common sort of name. Think I can remember every single man, womanor child I ever sent over the black river? Bart Springham. Yeah. Little feed off the Pecos. Had three men with him. Kids, tell the truth. I always figured he had a taste for young boys. I came to his camp. Fed me. Had a beautiful Winchester repeater.”

“Which you went and stole.” Ryan couldn’t believe it. “I heard that story a dozen times from you, Trader. Two of the boys were jerking off, they spotted you sneaking out the camp with the blaster.”

“Right. Used the rifle. Five bullets to waste all four of them. Damned lovely gun, that Winchester. Silver inlay and engraved.”

“I remember that good old story, too, from the war wag times.” Abe laughed. “You lost the blaster in a buffalo run the very next day, didn’t you?”

Trader held up a hand like he was sitting in a court of law. “As God is my witness, Abe, I cannot tell you a lie. Just the way it was.”

“And that was Bart Springham you murdered, Trader?” Ryan felt his own anger building. “Then because of your memory like a torn fishing net you let us ride straight into the mouth of hell. Brilliant.”

“Nothing happened, Ryan.” There was a hint of an apology in Trader’s voice.

J.B. heeled his horse forward. “More luck than judgment, wasn’t it, Trader?”

Nobody spoke for the next quarter hour.

TWO NIGHTS LATER, in a desolate area, it seemed safe enough to camp without putting out a watch. The horses had been skittish all day, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that they would give instant warning of anything or anybody approaching.

They were at the bottom of a sheer-sided canyon, having picked their way down a steep trail that doubled back on itself like a brain-dead rattler. The river was fast-flowing for most of its visible length, but the track came to it at a place where there was a stretch of shallows, making fording easy.

The banks were wide enough at that point to drive a wag along them, though it looked through the distant pillar of spray as though they quickly narrowed downstream. There were scrub willows, and a grove of slender aspens, nearby.

As evening closed down and the light faded, the animals became even more restless.

“Could be a cougar around,” Trader suggested.

“Or just the noise of the river.” Ryan had checked a little way around their campsite but found no tracks of any predator. No tracks of any kind.

Just as they were dropping off to sleep they all heard the rumble of a rockfall, somewhere farther up the canyon. But it wasn’t repeated and they all slept well.

RYAN HAD BEEN DREAMING. There had been some sort of ancient temple, hewn from the living sandstone, with immense humanoid figures around its periphery that towered so high into the sky it made your neck hurt trying to look up at them.

Priests in feathered headdresses carried short axes of black stone. Some of the men wore ornately carved masks of birds and lizards, with golden beaks and teeth.