spotted it—made no difference. You didn’t screw around with a member of what
passed for the law in Jordan Teague’s bailiwick. Jordan Teague didn’t like it,
and he had peculiar ideas on how to avenge insults in his own special brand of
law. Kurt had spent most of the night shitting himself in a cross-the-tracks
cathouse, a real sleazepit not even the grossest of Teague’s minions would
touch, before sneaking out to get some food at Joe’s—and running into
McCandless.
McCandless was in a hurry. A hell of a hurry. He was heading out into the
Deathlands there and then. The guy he’d hired as blaster had thought better of
it and disappeared and Kurt didn’t blame him. The very idea of venturing into
the Dark Hills was clearly the product of a diseased imagination, and that about
summed up McCandless’s mind. Even Jordan Teague had never contemplated an
expedition into the Darks. Despite the possibility that something weird and
wonderful could be hidden among those brooding peaks, the fact was that over the
years many had gone looking for it and only one had ever returned.
Kurt remembered that return very clearly. He had good reason to remember it. His
brain switched back, the camera of his memory revealing a scene now nearly two
decades old, the screen in his mind showing a crazed, babbling wreck of a human
being, brain fried, wild eyed, clothes in rags and tatters, crawling toward him
along the dusty apology for a once busy blacktop.
Dolfo Kaler. A man with creds in store, real estate; a power in the land. Or as
much of a power as one could ever be under the gross shadow of Jordan Teague.
Certainly more power than most in Teague’s primitive gold-based miniempire. He
had his own satraps, his own bullyboys, a fleet of land wagons, a few good trade
routes mainly to the East, and fuel-alcohol supplies if not exactly on tap at
least regular. Teague let him be. Kaler had solid contacts in the East, some
kind of kin who would only deal with him. Teague knew that if he deeped Kaler
those contacts would be lost. He kept an eye on Kaler, just in case Kaler
started to dream dreams of empire, but otherwise left him alone; there was a
wary truce between the two men.
But the fact was that Kaler was not greedy for what Teague had. He watched his
back when Teague was around, but otherwise he was not involved with the man. He
had other dreams, sparked by whispers that nagged at his brain, insistent
ghostly murmurs that urged him to think the unthinkable.
Somewhere up in that vast range of hills that they called the Darks was…
something. Treasure, they said. A fantastic, unbelievable hoard just sitting
there, just waiting for a strong man to claim it.
That was what was said. That was what had been whispered for a generation. Two
generations. More. Maybe going right back to the Nuke.
Maybe going back to before the Nuke.
So there had to be something there. It was a hand-me-down tale, a story embedded
deep in the recent folk memory. Kaler, a sensible man, discounted stories of
gold, jewels, fine raiments, all that stuff. It was so much crap, so much
useless crap. Who needed it? So okay, Jordan Teague was starting to create an
economy, a life-style, on the gold he was digging out of the seams exposed by
the Nuke, forgotten through the Chill—just like everything had been
forgotten—and rediscovered only a few years back. Teague was moving the stuff
very gingerly to the East, and guys out there were sniffing at it, pondering its
possibilities, wondering if it would do them any good. And maybe in another ten
years gold would be back in fashion, but ten years was a long time and right now
the only worthwhile way of doing things was barter, trade, credit. Sure, coin
was coming back; it was useful. But thus far it sure as hell didn’t beat fresh
food, canned food, animals—as long as they were reasonably pure—weapons, ammo.
Especially it didn’t beat ammo.
And that was what Dolfo Kaler figured was up there in the Darks. No fairy-tale