c 1993 Burt A. Rice 100 SECONDS TO CHARON by Burt Rice The big Turtle had not really slept for centuries: The ninety-million-ton rock on its back had been grinding closer and closer toward the precipicex and to a drop from the 3,000-foot summit to the valley below. But it was February, 1903 now; and six hundred people had come to live down there in the shadow of Turtle Mountain in a town they called Frank. Soon it would be spring: There would be days of thawing followed by nights of freezing. Under cover of darkness, ice forming deep inside crevices on the heights would expand, forcing the seams ever wider, pushing the gigantic limestone wedge to the point of imbalance. The people below had come together here on the southern spine of the Canadian Rockies to hack coal out of the Turtle's belly. So far, they had chewed some 5,000 feet inside, ripping out caverns nine to twelve feet across. Occasionally, the mountain would sag a little, trying to squeeze the innermost tunnels shut again, and the creeping mass above would respond very, very subtly ... "What the devilx?" Loren White's mount and the pack horse following veered sideways, as a riderless, saddled cayuse burst from a canyon trail to his right and thundered past them. In a moment its terror had taken it down and around a turn in the road and out of sight to their rear. Without hesitation, Loren diverted his two animals to the side path. "Someone's got to be in trouble, Fresco," he said aloud to the animal carrying him. Except for drifts, only about four inches of snow covered the ground, and it was not dangerously cold yet. But Loren White had worked as a Montana Cowboy. He knew about savage winters and what even moderate cold can do to an injured or unprotected person. He was aware, too, how rapidly mountain temperatures can plummet in February. It was not difficult to backtrack along the runaway pony's route. Loren could have done it without deep hoof prints to follow, because the path was the only level, unimpeded passage along the rock- and conifer-cluttered side of the canyon. After a time, a shadow blocked the sun for an instant. Loren looked up just as a large golden eagle swooped low over them before circling away, wobbling on wind gusts and whistling in alarm. "Wingspan must have reached seven feet, Fresco. Some day I'll try to paint him the way he looked against that snow-covered crag over there," Loren mused. But then he paused. "Funny thing, though. He seemed more scared for me than of me." He laughed nervously: "Another one of my preposterous imaginings, I guess." The trail took them around a high outcropping then exposed to view a wider section of level ground ahead where the snow was heavily trampled. Bare earth was visible in spots, and there was a sharp drop-off on the gorge side. A man's boot was lying near the edge. He spurred toward the place and entered a pocket of bitter cold, just as both horses shied violently again, yawing backward and rearing. As Loren struggled to keep them away from the cliff, he glimpsed a shadowy form on the upper hillside about fifty yards away. When he had calmed the pair, he dismounted and looked back up the slope. He saw nothing but mountainside. But all around the trampled area where Loren stoodx especially near the lone bootx were the unmistakable tracks of grizzly. Loren tethered the horses and walked close to the lip of the bluff where he picked up the boot and moved to peer over the cliff's edge. The extreme cold had passed; nonetheless, he shivered. Was the boot's owner down there somewhere x partly eaten? A red shirt flared against gray rock and winter white about eighteen feet below. It covered the torso of a man otherwise almost buried in snow. The figure was motionless and seemed to be wedged against a granite upthrust at the boundary of a longer, near- vertical drop down the canyon. Loren White lobbed the boot to the trail and began a descent backwards. He had to negotiate a precipitous wall, yet its face consisted of almost a natural ladder of stone. By assuring himself of careful hand- and footholds, he reached without much difficulty the small ledge where the man lay. He turned around into another sudden cell of deep cold and to a loud flapping of wings. A big vulture had swooped up from the canyon depths and, in a breath, had soared higher and out of sight. It had come close enough for Loren to see its bald, red head clearly and to catch the glint of its eyes. "Damn!" he complained, as he stepped toward the fallen man. "This canyon is crawling with crittersx but that one was the nastiest." The creature had wafted a foul odor directly into his nostrils. He bent over the still form and put his ear to the mouth. There was shallow breathing. It was a tiny old man with dirty, white hair covering almost his entire head and face. There were tobacco and blood stains on his beard and a gash on his forehead. He was racked with chills. "Hold on, Santa Claus," Loren said, brushing snow away from the lower body. "We're gonna' get you out of this. "Hell, he looks about ninety," his mind disagreed. "I'll probably kill him trying to drag him up to the horses." He gasped. The trousers, visible now, were torn and bloodied, and the left arm and leg were contorted unnaturally against the granite barrier. Both limbs obviously were broken. "Stay unconscious, old man, because this is going to hurt like hell." In almost a single motion, Loren grasped the little fellow's upper, right arm, pulled him vertically, then swept him to his shoulders in a fireman's carry. There was a yodeling scream. "I know, I know, you poor old devil, but it's better than being buzzard bait." "Git away, gitx git away!" The injured man made a gagging sound, and Loren felt the skinny frame writhe before another cry squeezed from it. Then it relaxed, and there was silence. "That's better for both of us, partner. Stay asleep so I can get us up to that ledge." The ascent was hazardous. Although the weight on Loren's shoulders seemed little more that a hundred pounds, it was enough to arc him back sickeningly with each slippery pull and step up. Luckily, the oldster remained immobile all the way to the path. Once there, and with the inert weight still across his shoulders, Loren White trudged over to his pack horse and managed to work a pair of blankets out of the load. Clearing snow away from the smoothest place on the ground, he spread one blanket out and eased his burden down upon it. This brought a further cry of pain. The faded blue eyes snapped open, half- focused on Loren, then distended in terror. His howl now was like an animal's; and it was followed by a stream of incoherences spattered with curses and other recognizable words. "Hoodoo!" and "cannibal!" were repeated often. It seemed to Loren that much of the babbling, however, was in some other language, possibly a Native American dialect. The stranger accompanied all of this with vigorous shivering; and Loren covered him with the second blanket. This had an instant calming effect, and reason flowed into the eyes. "Thank ye, young feller," he said weakly. "Reckon I got myself s-stove in a bit. Don't know who ye are, but I'm obliged." "Name's Loren White. Welcome back, old timer. You broke your left arm and leg, and I've got to splint them with something fast before you freeze. It's gonna hurt like almighty hell." "A snort a' g-good whiskey might help." "Damn! Why didn't I think of that?" Loren returned to the pack horse and reappeared with a bottle. He raised the scraggly head. There were three large gulps. "Aaah! Almost better'n a white woman! Don't even t- taste no chawin' tabacca 'er the like in it." Loren didn't understand the reference to tobacco until he remembered hearing how whiskey traders used to adulterate their stuff for Indian consumption. They mixed in almost any manner of filth, including red ink for color and, yes, chewing tobacco. The younger man was pushing a boot onto a filthy right foot now. This was the same piece of footwear he had tossed back from the cliff. "Keep the bottle there; you're gonna need it, Mr.x." "Not misterx Zeb. Zeb C-Clanton. Cold as h-hell out here." "Yes. Well, we better get to it." Loren made a third trip to the pack horse, removed an axe, then walked up the hillside. The crack of its blade echoed briefly throughout the canyon; then he was back with several matched lengths of straight wood, each of two heavy pieces about twelve feet long. He could see that Zeb had been making liberal references to his anesthetic. Using whatever he could find from the pack for padding and binding, he labored at splinting both broken limbs, glancing repeatedly at his patient. But the old man had watched the entire process almost without reaction, only occasionally acknowledging his discomfort by a low grunt or a "som'bitch!" "Either you're a tough old geezer, Zeb, or my whiskey is a lot better than I thought." Clanton's grin was lop-sided "Booze is a-runnin' low. Shoulda' brung yer- yerself some." "Stingy old geezer, too." Loren turned his attention away from the cripple and swiftly fashioned a travois using for shafts the long poles he had cut. These he secured to the pack horse and glanced up at the sun. "Not bad. Only about nine, and we can't be far from Crowsnest. Should be a doctor there ... Okay, Zeb, what do you think of your hammock?" But Zeb, his fingers still holding the neck of the bottle, had eased back into semi- consciousness. Loren removed the blanket covering him and spread it on the travois. Then he eased his hands gently under the little body and lifted, wondering as he did so how such an aged and outwardly fragile creature could have survived the terrible punishment it had endured here. There were a few groans when White lowered his burden to the travois; otherwise, there was no real complaint. However, this action brought Loren's face close to Clanton's body and made him aware of something that had been just beneath his cognizance ever since he had hoisted Zeb to his shoulders down on the ledge. It was that foul smell. Although no more than a suggestion now, it was the same stink that had surrounded the vulture. The stench continued, slight but pervading, as Loren began fashioning a shoulder sling to keep the patient from slipping down the litter's incline. "Yuk! You must have been sleeping in the bird's filthy nest, you flea-bitten old coyote." "Rich," Clanton mumbled; but his eyes remained closed through a boozy belch. "Richest damn ... throat-cuttin' ... B-Bearspaw." "Right, you old fossil. Now I know why you can't die. Too damned rotten- crazy." But Loren was gentle as he secured the ground blanket around this strange little elf of a man. In a moment, then, he was on Fresco's back once more, leading the pack horse and its trailing travois back toward the road. He looked over his shoulder. Zeb seemed to be quiet. Loren's thoughts slipped inward. Dad ... Dad never ceased to be a haunt, although he had been gone for two years. Mama had followed barely six months later. Well, maybe the old man deserved to be disappointed: In the early years his only son had been his life. But later, things began to change; and Loren could sense in him a deepening pain. But Dad continued to lavish all the opportunities upon his youngster: a rich home, a university education ... And then the boy had betrayed himx had no ambition other than to be a vagabond, cowboy artist. "Go ahead, throw away your life!" Dad had shouted once near the end. "Toss it into your pile of horse shit if you want. A man who paints pretty little posies on a hillside doesn't have the balls to do much else, anyway!" "... doesn't have the balls ...!" The words would endure; but they had become like knives, gradually cutting his father's face from his memory ... Suddenly, they had reached the road. Loren swung his little caravan east, back up the hill toward Crowsnest, a little coal mining settlement with the same name as the mountain pass where it stoodx a community sentinel on the border separating British Columbia from the administrative district of Alberta. Other coal towns lined the pass. One of them was called Frank. It lay on the Alberta side between the Canadian Pacific tracks and the Oldman River. Under a mountain called Turtle. There was a chink-chink-chink to the rear. Loren turned to see the approach of a buggy drawn by a glistening, ebony horse. No one was in the conveyance but the driver. "Just what we need!" Loren White exulted, pulling over and stopping. "Hello! What have you got there?" The buggy had halted, and its driver was walking over carrying a black bag. "An old man who broke at least an arm and a leg getting thrown off a cliff." "You throw him off?" Loren grinned. "Maybe I should have. Cantankerous old maverick. Does that black bag mean you're a doctor?" "Yes. Better let me have a look at him." The physician removed a stethoscope from the satchel and pulled away Clanton's blankets. "Seems to be sleeping like ax." "Git back, you murderin' bastard!" Zeb followed this imprecation with a penetrating scream and tried to strike out with his splinted arm. But he fell back, groaning and slavering, then lapsed again into non-resistance and unintelligible mouthings. The doctor was unruffled. "Nasty gash on the head. Going to need a few stitches. Ummm ... yes, and a lot of bruises and abrasions. No broken ribs ... Good job on the splints. We'll leave them until ... Nice, strong heartbeat, and the lungs are clear. Surprising. Not in shock." "Might be some internal damage, Doctor. I had to get pretty rough bringing him up from the cliff." "Possibly. We'll find out later." He straightened up. His face was red. "What kind of rot-gut booze have you been feeding him? Smells like a distillery in a mortuary." "Some of your best Canadian stuff, Doc. Mix it with a buzzard's armpit, though, and something gets lost in the translation." "Who is he?" "Calls himself Zeb Clanton. Some kind of mountain man, I guess. His runaway horse flew out of the woods and passed right by me a while ago. I back-tracked it to where it apparently threw him off over a cliff. He's been half in and out of his head." "Good thing you happened by. Must have been within minutes of the accident, because there is no serious hypothermia. But he wouldn't have survived a night in the cold ... We'd better get him into my buggy." The two men removed Zeb from the travois and carried him to the four-wheeler where they bundled and tied him in. The little man's ravings intensified. "I can't understand why he's carrying on like this," the doctor frowned. "Of course, I haven't been able to examine him thoroughly, but there's no fever, no visible physical cause for such aberrant behaviorx even considering the whiskey." "No physical cause?" "That's what I'm afraid of. By the way, I'm Dr. Edwardson. Unhook that travois and tie your horses behind the buggy. You can ride up front with me." "Thanks, Dr. Edwardson, I'll do it. I'm Loren White." They shook hands. "We'll have to take him into Frank," the doctor said as they moved out shortly afterwards. "This is Sunday. None of the intervening medical people will be available. We have a rotating agreement for weekends and holidays. Besides, I have a rather well- equipped little hospital in Frank. It's a small but surprisingly modern and thriving community." "Is it far?" "Maybe twenty-some miles. I'm not good about distances, though. Anyway, your friend seems to have quieted and appears to be warm and reasonably comfortable now. We'll keep a careful eye on him, of course. Your patch-up work was done rather well. Where did you learn your first aid?" "Well, I punched cattle for a time in Montana. Gets a bit rough sometimes: You learn some things." He turned his head and grinned at his companion. "That buzzard whiskey probably did Zeb more good than anything." "You don't talk much like a cowhand." "I grew up in San Francisco. San Franciscans never did learn to talk like real people." They turned a corner, and a magnificent, alpine peak seemed to rise directly in front of them. "God didn't spare the beautiful when he made this part of Canada," Loren marveled. "Makes you want to stop at every turn in the road and drag out your paint brushes." "You're an artist, too, then?" "I try to be; and I've always been lured by this kind of country. When we reach the summit, I'll wait around for warmer weather then follow north along the backbone of the divide as far as it will let me." "Painting as you go." "Yes." "What a marvelous way to live! That's why we brought our practice to Frank. The beauty, I mean. I could prosper in the big prairie settlementsx Calgary or Edmonton, perhapsx but I wouldn't have this." Dr. Edwardson made a sweeping motion with his arm. "Fer th-thet toothless squaw? Why you f-flea-bitten, greasy heathen, this bottle oughter git me both a' them two young f-fat ones there, at least!" The men in the front of the buggy, startled, jerked their heads around to stare at their cargo. Zeb was motionless, his eyes closed. "As I said, a marvelous way to live," Dr. Edwardson grunted. Loren was looking shocked. "Now I know why that vulture smelled so bad. He got too close to that old man." He looked over at Edwardson and saw a twinkle in his eyes. They both burst into laughter. The snort and thud of the horses, the music of the traces, the crunch of wheels on snow, and the hypnotic squeak of the buggy held sway for some minutes. "I wonder how this pass through the mountains was ever discovered," Loren ventured at last. "Buffalo." "Buffalo?" "Yes, indirectly. Two men looking for gold traveled through this area back in 1873. They didn't realize they had gone through to the east side without climbing over a mountain range until they saw buffalo hair on the trees." Edwardson laughed. "They were disappointed, though, because they had found no goldx only coal, coal everywhere they turned. And, of course, coal is why Frank and all the other towns along Crowsnest Pass came into being." Zeb slept quietly throughout the rest of the journey. It was dark when they reached Frank. Loren was surprised to see the settlement glittering with electric lights. They moved part way up the main street, a dirt thoroughfare lined with wooden sidewalks and false-front businesses. It was called Dominion Avenue. There were people everywhere, and they all seemed to know the doctor. Most of them had greetings. "Hey, Doc!" a swaying fellow trying to stay upright in front of a hotel called out. "Did th-that feller in back there s-succumb ta m-modern med'cine?" "That's Tony Slink. Must have started early tonight," Edwardson chuckled. "No, Tony, he's dead from the same stuff you've been pouring into your belly!" he shouted. They passed a post office, a bank, and a drug store, among other enterprises, before the doctor pulled sharply around. "Couldn't resist showing you a piece of the town," he said proudly. "Newcomers are always amazed. We have most of the luxuries of any eastern city. All permanent residents are served by the electric light plant and the waterworks system. We have a two- story school, our own concert hall, a new railroad station, the Sulphur Springs Sanitorium, andx." He laughed. "Well, enough of that. You'll be seeing for yourself." In a few moments they halted before a residence with lights shining cheerfully from its windows. "The hospital ward is beside my home, there, Loren; but I've had to use my living room for overflow, because we've had a bit of a flu epidemic. It's about over now, though." They stepped from the buggy and walked back to remove Clanton's restraints. Their touch, however, immediately sent the mountain man into a torrent of cursing and howling. "Simmer down! Easy, old feller; we're your friends," Loren tried, patting the little man's good arm. But Zeb threw off the hand and began struggling against his bonds, accompanying his flailings with animal-like noises. A small silhouette materialized across from Loren and beside Dr. Edwardson. "Hush, dear; hush, baby," a soft, feminine voice soothed. Although the light was dim, Loren could see her hand caressing the matted hair. "There, there, now. You're safe, you're home." Zeb calmed instantly. A door to the ward opened, flooding the buggy with light. Two women hurried out, leaving the door open. The taller one carried a lantern that transformed the silhouette before Loren into a delicate-appearing young woman with short blonde hair. She was very pretty. "Bring the stretcher, please," Edwardson said to the women from the hospital, "then make sure there's a bed ready for him in the isolation room." The men had Zeb's tie-downs removed by the time the stretcher arrived. They placed him on it, lifted, and started to move inside; but a voice stopped them. "Wait." It was Zeb. He was holding out his right hand to the blonde girl. "Thank ye, young lady," he said very properly. "You're quite welcome. Please get well soon." She stepped back into the shadows and melted away. Loren White and Dr. Edwardson carried Clanton into a little room at the rear of the ward. A boy of about thirteen had entered the building behind them. "Want me ta take the rig and the horses ta the liv'ry stable on my way home, Doctor?" the youngster asked, as the patient was being lowered to his bed. "Yes, please, Lester." He glanced at Loren. "Can you get by tonight without your gear?" "Sure. And I saw a hotel on the way in ... Here, son." He handed the boy a coin. "Thanks, mister." The teenager went back outside. At this point the mountain man went berserk again, and it required everyone's help to place him back in restraints. Edwardson then administered a sedative. When Zeb had quieted, the doctor sighed heavily and straightened up. But when he looked at Loren, his eyes were sparkling. "Ladies, the gentleman responsible for this debacle is that tall fellow there. His name is Loren White. He likes to splint geriatrics with tree trunks. He's a cowboy-artist x a Yankx and if he hadn't decided to save a wild man's life, we would have enjoyed a peaceful Sunday evening with our families." The two women were smiling at White's reddening face. "Loren, these two fine young nurses whose weekend you have shattered are," Edwardson indicated the smaller woman first, "Miss Landy and Mrs. Allen." "So very nice to meet you," Miss Landy responded simply. But her companion became very animated: "An artist; how fascinating! And a cowboy, too. What a rare combination! Do you specialize in - in painting western subjects?" Loren was sure he had never seen a more beautiful and vibrant woman. "N-no, Mrs. Allen," he stammered, "I do that. But landscapesx mountains, too." "Please call me Melody. This is still something of a frontier town. Formalities and coal dust don't mix toox." Zeb cut her off with a low groan. She looked at the doctor. "Oh, that poor old man." "Yes," he said guiltily. "We'd better get back to him. Loren, you can watch, if you want. Who knows? We might need your help again, anyway." "Thanks, Doc, I'd like to stay." "Eau de carrion, ladies," Dr. Edwardson shuddered; "Obviously our most life- threatening problem. Lots of soap and water, if you please." The cowboy-artist watched a rush of coordinated activity. First, Clanton was scrubbed, then the doctor examined him again very thoroughly while materials for casting the broken bones were prepared. Next, the "tree trunks" were removed from the patient's left arm and leg and the two limbs were gently cleansed. Finally, casts were emplaced, the head cut was stitched, and other wounds were tended. Throughout, Dr. Edwardson and Nurse Landy spoke only when necessary. Melody Allen, however, tempered her competence with a shower of quiet endearments: "little daddy," "sweetie," "honey," and so on. Loren was captivated. She was an unbelievable combination of beauty and compassion. She was an angel. He could not help notice, however, that Miss Landy would register an occasional look of irritation in response to Melody's cooing. Loren attributed this to fatigue or ill temper. At last, they left the sleeping Clanton to his little room and moved forward together to a kitchen area. The nurses started tea; but Dr. Edwardson brought out brandy and two glasses. "It's been a long day," he said wearily, handing a full glass to the younger man. "A long hard day, Doctor. Thanks." They all sat down around a small table. "Who was that marvelous young woman, Doc? The one who came out of the shadows and transformed Zeb into a pussy cat?" Melody sniffed, but Miss Landy shot her a silent reproof apparent only to the two nurses. "Oh, that was Gina Olson. Isn't she a sweetheart? I've seen her work that magic before, but it's usually with animals. Ordinarily, she's very shy and unassuming. Works at the post office. Her father is a retired barrister from Victoria. Fine people." "From what I've seen so far," Loren said earnestly, "this town is full of fine people. Which reminds me: What's the prognosis for the little broken man?" "I tell you, I'll never understand it. How far did you say he fell down that cliff?" "I'd guess about eighteen vertical feet. But his fall probably was broken somewhat by intervening rocks. He would have tumbled three times as far, if he hadn't stopped against a boulder at the brink of a little ledge." "Our bantam rooster back there is about seventy years old." Dr. Edwardson shook his head. "And yet the broken bones, cuts, and scrapes seem to be the absolute extent of his injuries ... Prognosis? When those bones heal I expect him to be fit as a fiddle." "That's wonderful. I was afraid I might have done some terrible damage slinging him over my shoulders to carry him up to the horses." "Well, Loren, there is something else we're probably going to have to face," Edwardson said grimly. Everyone stared at him. "Unless I'm totally misreading the signs, that old man is violently insane." * * * The painter-cowhand removed a pipe and two pouches from his jacket then lay down fully clothed on the hotel bed. The pillow kept his back partially raised. From the first pouch he removed a pinch of tobacco and tapped it inside the bowl of the pipe. Then he took a small dark-brown object from the second leather container and dropped it into the opening as well. At last, he filled the remaining space in the pipe with more tobacco and lit the mixture, inhaling deeply. Loren closed his eyes, puffing languidly, coaxing the magic forth, as his thoughts centered on the day's happenings: From the moment he had diverted to the canyon path this morning, he seemed almost to have entered a different dimension, a world of contradictions. He shivered, remembering those sudden pockets of cold along the trail. What had caused them, and why had they seemed to be infused with something sinisterx even evil? But how could evil co-exist with grandeur? He shook himself. Imaginings, always imaginings. He began to feel nauseous; but he sucked in more smoke, knowing the unpleasantness would be replaced quickly by a gentle peace, a solitude behind a sort of foggy door. Zeb was contradiction personified, too. One could see humor, amiability, stoicism. But there were terror and violence as well. And there was corruption. A pretty young face drifted up on the haze before him. It had a seraphic quality; the short golden hair was a halo crowning innocence. She had calmed what seemed like a rabid animal with no more than a light touch and a whisper. What did Doc say herx? Oh, yes, Gina. Gina Olson. Another comely likeness wafted up and expelled the first ... Melody. A perfect name! She was a melody of friendliness, tenderness, and grace. Loren White signed contentedly. Mrs. Melody Allen ... What was her husband like? It would take an extraordinary man to deserve such a lady. The fire died in the bowl. Trembling slightly, he put the pipe on the night stand, then folded his hands on his abdomen, and let the magic wrap him in a fuzzy mist ... II. "Glad to see you, Mrs. Allen," Dr. Edwardson said as soon as Melody appeared for duty Monday morning. "Our Mr. Clanton is still irrational, and I'd like to look him over again while you're around. You and Gina Olson seem to have a calming influence on him. We can do without another of his violent outbursts." Melody's spirits sagged. She had hoped for minimal contact today with the disgusting old man. She had had difficulty sleeping last night. Images of the wrinkled face, the slavering mouth, kept recurring. And that foul odor! Even after they had scrubbed the ugly little body, a residual stench remained in her nostrils. It seemed to be there still. "Oh, the poor old dear!" Melody exclaimed. "I tossed and turned worrying about him all night. We must find out if he has family. They would be worried sick." "Yes, whenever he can respond coherently, please see if you can draw him out. I don't think he's going to be competent enough to care for himself when his wounds heal; and he can't stay here forever. Without family to watch over him, he may end up in a mental hospital." "Oh, no!" Melody objected. "An institution? We just can't allow such a thing after all he's been through." There was a tiny cough. A rush of fury tightened Melody's jaw muscles. Evelyn Landy had walked up in time to overhear enough of the conversation to launch another of her stealthy reproofs. "Ugly little bitch," Melody thought. "Too plain to catch a man. Thinks she's special just because she's the full-time nurse." Aloud she said innocently: "Good morning, Evie. That cough? Are you getting the flu, too? Perhaps Doctor shouldx." "No, Melody," the little woman responded evenly. "It's just an irritant, a simple little environmental irritant." Dr. Edwardson, entirely oblivious to the flash of red on Melody's cheeks, turned toward the isolation room. "Come on, ladies. Perhaps we'll find that to be all of Zeb's trouble, too." Then to Melody Allen he added: "But he's in restraints again. I can't just keep him sedated; and yet I can't have him injuring himself, either." The three entered the room to a deluge of curses. Zeb was rage in a mass of writhing bandages. "Good morning, Mr. Clanton," Dr. Edwardson tried. "Are you about ready for some breakfast?" "Hah! Thet outfit don't fool me none, ya' murderin' savage," Clanton hissed very distinctly. "I know who ya' are." "Of course you do, Mr. Clanton. I'm Dr. Edwardson, the man who patched you up last night, remember? You had a nasty fall, but those broken bonesx." "Nipuhao!" the mountain man rasped venomously. The physician jerked back. "Well, then, we don't have much choice, do we?" He nodded to Miss Landy who hurried off. In a moment she returned with a syringe which Edwardson administered, despite renewed howls and convolutions. They waited until the contortions and swearing subsided into silence. "Whatx what was that he whispered? Evelyn Landy asked nervously. "It sounded like a voodoo incantation." "Nonsense!" Melody chided. "I'm sure it meant nothing at all. Don't you realize the pain that poorx?" "Oh, it meant something, all right," Edwardson said grimly. "And I doubt if pain had much to do with it." "What was it, Doctor?" Miss Landy persisted. "It was a Cree word. It means 'kill'." Once again Edwardson examined the old man with extreme care. When he was finished, he looked at the two women resignedly. "Well, I suspected it would be a waste of time, and it was. The patient may look frail, but he's living inside a surprisingly sound body." He paused and placed a gentle hand on the little fellow's tangle of hair. "There's nothing left but psychosis. We'll have to leave the restraints in place and keep him isolated." "Oh, let me stay with him a while then, Doctor," Melody begged. "When the sedative wears off and he finds himself still in restraints, he'll be terrified. I'll talk to him, try to find out about family." Edwardson looked at Miss Landy. She wore just the trace of a smile. "No problem, Doctor. I can handle all the other patients." But as they walked away leaving Melody and Zeb alone, Doctor Edwardson was quietly impressed again, as he had been so many times before, by the sweetness of this strikingly handsome woman whose selflessness compelled her to remain back there alone with a pitiful but utterly foul human being. Melody's thoughts, however, had not quite registered on "utterly foul," much less on "human being:" You're like a hideous toad soiling a human's bed, Zeb Clanton. You're a shriveled-up stench of a man, you horrid little beast. But as long as you stay unconscious, you're better than emptying bed pans. He groaned. Oh, no! Could he be coming out of it already? "There, there, little daddy. Mama's right here with you. Sleep, sleep, tiny one," she murmured aloud. Good. He's quieting again ... Loren White. Nice, straightforward name. Handsome and very athletic looking. Tall ... What is there about tall men? Seems a little shy; and I know he was taken with me. Almost wet his britches stammering and gawking there ... An artist and a cowboy? Like oil and water, almost. But he doesn't smell like a barnyardx or a grimy coal miner ... Wonder what it would be like ...? "Where's t'other good-lookin' one?" The question came from a relaxed mouth in a snowy head set with faded, blue eyes. They were rational now, even twinkling, those eyes; and he looked like any child's doting grandfather. The words had jolted into Melody's reverie. "Who, the other nurse? Evie? That shortx?" "No, the yeller-haired one in the lantern light." "Oh, her. She's not a nurse. Works in the post office. Feeling better?" "Some. Why am I trussed up like a horse thief? An' what place is this?" "It's a hospital, Mr. Clanton. You had a terrible fall out in the mountains somewhere. A good man happened along just in time to save your life." "Yeah. Nice young feller. I'm obliged ta him. Be obliged, too, if ye'd untie me." "I can't yet, Mr. Clanton. See the casts on your arm and leg? Broken bones. Badly broken. The restraints are to restrict your movements so those bones can get a start at healing properly. Only the doctor can remove the tie- downs." "Got any whiskey?" "Not allowed in a hospital." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "But if you're good, Mr. Clanton, I might be able to sneak some in soon." He grinned. "Not Clantonx Zeb." "Oh, how sweet. Zeb! And please call me Melody. I'm sick of all this stuffy Mrs. Allen nonsense." "Melx Melody." His eyes were misty. They're all the same, these men. Even broken-down cadavers like this one. They cling to their erotic little dreams. "Zeb, honey. Where are your people? We need to tell them where you are and that you're safe." "Hah! People? Got no people a-tall. Ain't had none since the old man got took out at the Gouge Eye. Back in '53 I think it were. Californy gold fields ... weren't no loss." "Oh, I'm sorry. No wife or children?" "None thet Ix." He suppressed a half-formed leer. "No. No livin' kin a-tall." "Well, never mind. We'll take care of you just fine." The old eyes misted again. "Thank ye, ma'am. Sure would like ta git these hobbles off, though." He grinned wickedly now. "An' taste some good whiskey ... an a plug ta chaw on." "Yes, yes. Be patient, we'llx." "Oh, yes, Mr. White." It was Miss Landy's voice. "He's still in the back. Mrs. Allen isx." Melody's head swiveled toward the front, but she couldn't hear the remaining conversation. In a moment, however, Loren entered the room. His face brightened when he saw her. "Good morning, Mrs. Allen. It's good to see our patient in such competent hands. How is he?" "Well, he's just fine today. But why don't you ask him?" "Hello there, young feller. Ye ain't gonna drag me across no more mountains, are ye?" "Why, you old fossil!" White laughed delightedly. "I knew you were too mean to kill." "Powerful thirsty, though." "Thought you'd be." Loren reached inside his jacket but paused and looked at Melody inquiringly. "I'll never tell," she chuckled. Loren removed a flask and handed it to Clanton. "Just a coupla' pulls. This one you can't keep." Clanton swallowed three or four times before returning the container. "Now thet's real med'cine. If them doctors had any sense ... Say, young feller, I been meanin' ta ask ye ..." His eyes grew suspicious, hawkish. "Did ye find anything a' mine back there where I got throwed?" "Only your boot. But I shoved that back on your foot, remember?" "My boot?" Ye didn't find nothin' else a-tall?" "Afraid not. Your saddle horse probably ended up in Cranbrook, the way he was moving. Something really spooked him. But your saddle bags might still be on him. Of course, someonex ." The mountain man's face had darkened. "Them filthy heathens. Mebbe they got it." Then, as if remembering something terrifying, his eyes bulged and he began to tremble. "Gimme thet flask agin, son. I-I feel somethin'." Loren complied, and the old fellow took three more long pulls before his head fell back to the pillow. "Devils! Devils!" His voice was becoming shrill. "Ever'where. Ye can't git awayx aaah!" His fearful eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "I'd better go," Loren whispered. "Shall I find the doctor?" "No, I can handle him. Thanks for coming." He turned to walk out. "Mr. White?" "Yes?" "Please come again." She dropped her eyes demurely. "He likes you." "I will. Thank you." Loren White departed with his head full of her perfume. When she returned her attention to Clanton, she saw with satisfaction that his eyes were closed and that he had calmed considerably. Now there were just jerky movements and indecipherable growlings. Melody remained close until the patient had relaxed into quiet sleep. Then she scowled and stood up. Why don't you just die, you old reprobate? That would solve everyone's problems. Throughout the following day, Zeb slept most of the time. Melody hovered about, only half aware of the patient's off again, on again hallucinatory outbursts. She had almost grown accustomed to his maniacal laughter, his shrieks, his cries about hoodoo, hexes, spells, demons, and the like. Finally, however, the old man yodeled out a single, one-syllable word that galvanized her into absolute attention. "Gold!" he screeched. "Gold! Gold!" Gold! Is that what the old fool hasx?" "Never seed a strike so rich! Lookit thet! It's durned near pure gold!" His cries ceased. There was only hard breathing and a twitching right hand. She wanted to shake more out of him: Go on, go on, Zeb! What gold? Where? "Yeller an' black fires? Don't know whatx git away from mex git away!" "Zeb, Zeb, sweetheart. It's all right. They can't hurt you. I'm here." Melody caressed his cheek. "Gold, Zeb. Where is the gold?" "French. Musta' belonged ta French. Stupid savage ... fer a bottle ... fer a bottle a' pizen!" "Tell me about the gold, Zeb. You're safe here. You're safe now." His eyes snapped open. They were shot with lunacy. "Lemon's. The lost mine. Hee! Hee!" Then just as suddenly, the eyes focused, registering fear once more. "Git out. Leave me be. Ain't tellin' nobody nothin.' Yer' all conivin' thieves. Don't know nothin.' Didn't findx didn't find nothin' ..." He slipped back into his void. Melody sat down almost in shock, her eyes still on Clanton's face. She looked at the isolation room door fearfully. It was slightly ajar. No, Miss Prissy wouldn't have heard: She's buried in her beloved papers up front, and there aren't any other patients close to this room ... But gold! What else did he say? That he had never seen such a rich strike? Yes! And Lemon, the lost Lemon Mine. Could he have? Could he possibly have? She grappled with the immensity of the thought. Everyone had heard the legend: About thirty years ago two shady characters named Blackjack and Lemon had stumbled upon a fabulous vein of gold somewhere in this part of the Rockies. That night Lemon went berserk and killed his partner with an axe, but a pair of Stoney braves had secretly witnessed the murder. When Lemon departed, the Indians destroyed all traces of the strike, as well as landmarks leading to it. No one, apparently, including Lemon, had ever been able to find it again. Yes, that was it. No, there was more ... Think, Melody, what else? Louis Malfin, that other crazy mountain man down by the river, he's always full of tales about the Lemon Mine. French! French, that's it! He claims someone named Lafayette French was supposed to have located it, and Clanton just mentioned a person with that name. Zeb grunted, and Melody's gaze centered upon him once more. He fully looked the part of an asylum inmate. You're in another world, aren't you, wild man? You're a blithering schizoid. You're nothing but a hollow shell ... Yes, Melody, yes. But you don't have to be sane to fall into a pot of gold. Gold, Melody! What harm will it do to keep your ears open? Miss Landy, of course, could not hear her colleague's thoughts; but she didn't seem to be concentrating on her paper work at the moment, either. Instead, her pencil was making a nervous little tapping motion against the counter top, and there was a troubled expression on her face. She was staring back toward the isolation room door ... And so it came to pass that the beautiful young woman and the shrunken old man entered into a more intense relationship: Melody could not have been more solicitous: She was at his bedside at every opportunity; and whenever the patient cried out, she swept to his side, comforting him and smothering him with endearments. Dr. Edwardson watched the growth of her possessive attachment with sympathy. "I wonder if she lost her own father under tragic circumstances?" he conjectured at one point. "She clings to that old man in an almost unnatural way. It worries me just a little." "Melody is in no danger, Doctor," Evelyn Landy responded stiffly. "I'm sure Zeb Clanton is the one who deserves our concern." "I beg your pardon?" The physician looked at her in astonishment. "Well, Doctor, as you pointed out, the patient is insane; and he seems to be worsening." "Oh. No, he is unstable, but his periods of lucidity appear to be lengthening. We don't have all the answers, Miss Landy. Perhaps, with such loving care, he may surprise us all one day. She is a most remarkable woman, you know." Dr. Edwardson managed to understand the ensuing little sniff this time. He raised an eyebrow. "Jealousy? Can there be an undercurrent of jealousy here?" he asked himself. "I hope not. Miss Landy has been a real professional ... but one could understand it ... She is rather plain." By Wednesday, Zeb was starting his third day in the hospital; and his mental state was much improvedx so much so, in fact, that the doctor had removed all restraints. This, in turn, had a further salutary effect, especially since the old prospector could now spend most of his time in a wheel chair. He was unable to manipulate it, however, because of the cast on his left arm. But Melody was beside herself. Clanton had said no more about gold; and she saw no prospect of drawing him out if he continued to rally. Moreover, the more she dwelled upon this unfortunate circumstance, the more convinced she became that Zeb had indeed chanced upon a new El Dorado; and it infuriated her to know that it was just beyond her reach. "Well, now, Mr. Clanton, I cannot explain your sudden improvement any other way," the doctor had enthused earlier that morning: "It has to be because of Mrs. Allen here. Do you realize she has hardly left your side since your arrival? I have never seen such a dedicated display of nursing." "Nobody never fussed over me before," Zeb acknowledged, flashing Melody a gummy smile before pointing to his shoulder-length hair. "An' nobody never curried me before, neither." Then, almost inaudibly, he said: "Don't deserve none a' it, but I'm ... I'm obliged." "Oh, you two!" Melody exclaimed with a convincing display of discomfiture. Then she seemed to pump up new courage: "But Ix I never had a sweeter, more deserving patient." With that, she had whirled away, as if too embarrassed to remain . * * * You won't get away with it, you addled old bone-bag. I'll think of something. Ah, but you're a sly little fox, aren't you? You think nobody has an inkling about your big secret. But Mama does, Mama does ... She watched him with abhorrence. He was slumped forward in his chair, asleep and drooling like any vacuous geriatric. It was afternoon now, and she and the old man were alone on the ward. All the flu patients had been discharged, and the doctor and Miss Landy were off on house calls. She could indulge her antipathy. But someone had just walked up quietly behind her. She turned to find Loren White staring at the patient. "Is that really Zeb?" he asked. "Zeb in a wheel chair?" Melody put a finger before her lips. "Yes. But let's go to the kitchen so we can talk without disturbing him," she whispered. Loren followed her back, noticing the flowing motion of her walk. "Doctor Edwardson thinks it's miraculous," she said, handing him a cup of tea. "And I suppose it is, considering how bad he was only yesterday." Loren White's expressions of delight were protracted. Finally, however, she found an opening: "Tell me about your work, Loren. I've been dying to hear about it. I've never known a real artist before; and creative talent doesn't exactly abound in a smelly coal town. Honestly, it's like breathing fresh air to have something to discuss besides mine tipples and black damp. Why, just try talking to a local about oil on canvas and he'll picture goop dripping from a rail car onto his trousers. "Why are you smiling? Oh, yes!" she giggled. "I see. I haven't even given you a chance to answer, have I?" She put a hand over her mouth. "Oh, but you're not going to work in the mine, are you?" There was an instant of silence; then, suddenly, they were both laughing. Good work, Melody. There isn't a man alive who can withstand an appeal to his ego. "No, Mrs.x ahx Melody. Come spring I plan to pack north into as much of your big mountain country as I can. It's been the ambition of my life. You Canadians have some of the most awesome alpine scenery in the world here. An artist is by his very nature compelled to try to capture some of it." She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes. "Oh, it's wonderful, so wonderful! You cannot believe how inspiring it is. Imagine! A man driven to express beauty, instead of - of how hard it is to get coal dust out of his nostrils." "Oh, well, Ix Ix ." "And you can articulate! Don't you know most conversation in this town consists of grunts and monosyllables? A university man, I can tell! There aren't many of us who havex." Enough, enough, Melody. Don't overdo a good thing. You'll frighten Miss Muffet away. "I'm sorry, Loren. Sometimes I let my prattle transport me off somewhere." "Oh, no, no. But I don'tx ," he flushed as he stood up and looked at his pocket watch. "I have just enough time to check on Zeb quickly. Thanks for the tea and ... and conversation." In two minutes, he was gone. You idiot, Melody, you scared the pants off him. He's probably high-tailing it back to Montana. What kind of pressing engagement could he possibly have? For no justifiable reason, then, Melody thought of Gina Olson . * * * Despite his having slept fitfully, Loren White woke early the next morning. He dressed rapidly, feeling a need to escape into fresh air: For some reason, the early nausea always accompanying his nighttime smoke had not really dissipated. He still felt a trace of it. But he was troubled, too, and didn't know why. He wondered if there had been some impurity in the magic pellet. As soon as he stepped outside the hotel, he was struck again by the proximity of Turtle Mountain. From where he stood on Dominion Avenue, the near-vertical mass of it seemed to thrust up from the very back yard of the town. He looked down the business- lined slope of the thoroughfare. There was an illusion of the commercial section's being caught between two forces conspiring to push Frank into the Oldman River far below. One force was the slippery incline of the street, the other, the towering wall of rock. A lot of people were bustling about already; and no one appeared to feel Loren's disquiet or even to be aware of the big Turtle. On the contrary, they called cheerfully to one another about the bright and unusually balmy February day. Several of them greeted the newcomer, addressing him by name. In a community of six hundred people, no one is a stranger for long. They knew all about him and considered him something of a hero for rescuing the demented old prospector. He noticed a group of men beginning to assemble nearby. They were a jocular group: There was much back-slapping, laughter, and horseplay. Their dress betrayed them as miners; and Loren realized it was the day crew coming together to crawl into the hole. Their good spirits made him feel ridiculous. "Why are you always reading dire things into ordinary events?" he demanded of himself. "No wonder Dad always considered you ax ." "You must be Loren White!" A very tall man had broken away from the group and was walking over. He carried himself with the confidence of an athlete, and the thick garb of his trade could not disguise his muscularity. There was a shock of curly, blond hair showing under his cap. He was ruggedly handsome. "I been hearin' all about you for days," he laughed, holding out his hand. "Fact is, I'm almost sick of ya'." Loren liked him instantly. "You think you've got trouble? I've been sick of me for thirty-one years." Even as he chuckled through the words, Loren realized he was looking up into the fellow's blue eyes. A six-footer is accustomed to looking down to most people. "Welcome to Frank. I'm glad I finally got to meet ya'x Hey, you moles!" His companions looked over. "This is the feller that can punch cows, splint heads, an' paint dandelions." "Watch out, Abel, he's almost as big as you. He might just split yer head," one of them yelled. "Or take ta punchin' a yeller-haired mule instead of a cow," another cackled. "Kin he do them things all at the same time?" a gleeful miner shouted. "Can you imagine gettin' thrown in a pit every day with that nest of vipers?" Abel asked in a voice obviously calculated to be heard by the others. "Damn! Here comes the foreman. Feller hates to let his grubs see the light of day." He offered his hand again; and, as Loren took it, he felt a flood of warmth for this affable giant. "Hey, it's been great! Maybe we'll get a chance to lift one together soon, uh, Abel. Your friend did call you Abel, didn't he?" "Yeah, Abel. Abel Allen. Sure, let's do it soon. At my house. I know Melody will be glad to have you." He rejoined his comrades. They already were walking toward the railroad spur line leading to the hole in the Turtle's side. But his last words were still clattering inside Loren's skull: "... Abel. Abel Allen ... Melody will be glad to have you." Melody Allen ... Melody's husband! Loren stumbled off feeling sick again; and he realized he had been harboring a sub-surface hope that her man would be someone easy to hate, someone who didn't deserve such an exquisite companion. Instead, he found himself despising Loren White. Nonetheless, his footsteps carried him inexorably toward the hospital. Melody looked up in mild surprise when Loren walked in. Everyone was up front in the office area. "Ah, Loren," Doctor Edwardson said, obviously pleased. "You're just in time to join in our little conference. It seems to me you have as much right as anyone to participate in a decision about Zeb Clanton." The three were inside behind the counter. The physician was holding some papers; the nurses were seated. Melody, as always, looked gorgeous. Evelyn Landy's expression was cryptic. "I've just examined him again. His behavior continues to improve, but I suspect his emotional stability to bex uhx still precarious. Physically, however, his only impairment is from the two casts. "Doctor thinks he should be out of a hospital environment," Melody said with a smile. "Especially for his mental health. But he will continue to need care as long as the casts remain. He just can't get around." Edwardson could not conceal his delight: "Mrs. Allen has proposed a most generous solution. She has offered to take the patient into her own home for as long as necessary." Melody lowered her eyes and toyed with a thread on her skirt. "While I am sure this will bex " Edwardson grinnedx "just what the doctor ordered for the old man, I am concerned for Mrs. Allen. After all, Zeb has violent tendencies, as we've all seen; and she would be alone with him all day." He focused on Loren. "What are your feelings?" White had been aware of the smaller nurse's strange, noncommittal behavior. It made him uneasy. "Miss Landy," he evaded. "I'd appreciate hearing your opinion, too." "Oh, Ix I don't thinkx Well, if you must know, I'm more concerned with Mr. Clanton's welfare." "Mr. Clanton's?" Melody gasped. "Why, you just heard the doctor sayx." She began to giggle. "Evie, when was the last time you saw me attack a patient?" Everyone laughed except Evelyn. Her face was crimson, and she looked miserable. "I think that is most commendable, Miss Landy," Edwardson tried. "I am lucky to have associates who place the welfare of patients above all else." She gave him a weak smile of gratitude. "Do you have many close neighborsx menx who are home during the dayxpeople you could alert to come to your aid on a prearranged signal?" Loren asked. "Yes," Melody responded. "Two, at least." "Well, then, I can't see any problem. After all, we're dealing with a tiny aged man. But I don't quite understand. Doesn't Mrs. Allen work here every day?" "Oh, of course you would be confused," Dr. Edwardson said. "She is an on-call nurse. She helps us during overloads. As you know, we've just been through a flu epidemic; but the last of those who had been hospitalized were discharged yesterday. There is no present need." "How will your husband react to all this?" Miss Landy asked unexpectedly. "Abel?" She laughed. "Abel does anything I tell him to do. He's a six-foot-four pussycat." "So it's settled. He can go right after lunch; and you may borrow the wheel chair for as long as it's needed, Mrs. Allen. Loren, would you like to be chauffeur?" The doctor looked suddenly impish. "No, no, don't cut down any of our jack pines for a travois. Use my buggy. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if anything unusual develops with the patient, Mrs. Allen. And mark your calendar so you don't forget to bring him in for cast removal." "I won't forget, Doctor ... I never forget." Neither of the men noticed the silent communication taking place then between the two nurses: Melody's sweet smile met a comprehending stare. On the trip to the Allen house, Zeb was cheerful but subdued. He sat in the back of the buggy beside his beautiful benefactor and grappled with his astounding mystery: Why would this sophisticated young lady take a scoundrel like himself into her own home? In his entire seventy years he had never encountered such a magnanimous act. "Jest don't make no sense a-tall, none a-tall," he told himself. But the buggy's squeak seemed to take up the crafty voice of that other old scoundrel, his long-dead father: "Ye don't never git nothin' fer nothin'; ye don't never git nothin' fer nothin'; ye don't ..." Loren, the wheel chair tied in beside him, was surprised to find that Melody lived rather close to the livery stable. He had passed her place several times on his business there with Robert Watt, the stable boss. Her place was sixth among a row of seven red and white cottages for miners. "There it is," she said. "See? There's a night shift miner living on each side of me. That one belongs to John Watkins and the other to Alex Clark. They're both here sleeping all day long." Loren had no difficulty getting the little man inside and into the wheel chair. "You're very welcome to visit him ... us ... any time you like, Loren," she said huskily as he turned to go. "Thanks, M-Melody, I will. Goodbye, Zeb." "Goodbye, young feller. Thanks ferx thanks ferx ." "Think nothin' of it, you old sidewinder." Back at the hotel he entered the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey, even though there was a full bottle in his room. It didn't help at all. Finally, he went upstairs. It was early afternoon, but he lay wearily down on the bed and reached for his magic formula. Perhaps it would blot from his mind the image of a desirable woman whose husband could easily become his very best friend. III. Loren White walked out of Frank Cafe feeling wonderful. It was mid-day on a spring-like Saturday. He had risen with the sun and had spent the morning roaming about trying to cleanse himself in scenery and clean, crisp air again. His mind still pictured Crowsnest Mountainx how it had shimmered off in the distance like a fortified ice castle above the passx how it had reminded him, suddenly, of his reason for coming to this place. She had expressed it as " ... a man driven to express beauty ... " "Not to exploit it, not to creep among the shadows to steal it," he paraphrased her next words grimly. Then he had resolved to ride up there to the mountain at the first opportunity, to be free again, to find out if there were any hues besides black left for his canvas. Two well-dressed matrons were approaching him along the boardwalk. They were so immersed in conversation that they seemed unaware of their surroundings; and Loren had to step aside to let them pass. "Oh, yes," one of them was saying, "that little Gina Olson is such a pretty, accommodating thing. But it's a terrible shame, her being so ... well ... so masculine. It must be a trial for her parentsx such finex ." The woman caught herself, realizing she had almost collided with a man. "Oh! Oh, good afternoon, Mr. White. Isn't it a sparkling day for February?" "Good afternoon, ladies. Yes, yes, it is." As they waddled away, they confined themselves now to embarrassed whispering. "Masculine?" Loren gasped to himself. "That's the most preposterous thing I've everx ! Why, if they're talking about the same delicate little ... Probably two old busybodies with nothing better to do than to pillory their neighbors, especially those not about half-eaten by ugly." "How do you do, Mr. White," an approving voice said. This time it was Loren who had almost bumped into someone. "Mr. Farmer. Hello. Sorry, I guess I was daydreaming there." "Yes. Only something immensely interesting could absorb a person so," he smiled. "A penny for your thoughts, sir." Loren could not resist: "Only a penny, Mr. Farmer? No wonder you're such a prosperous banker." Some further small talk ensued; then the two men parted. "A most substantial young man," the banker mused silently, remembering the sizeable transfer of funds his establishment had just received in behalf of the artist. "It would be interesting to learn how he came into his fortune." There was no missing the imminence of Abel Allen a moment later. The friendly giant had trumpeted a greeting while still thirty feet down the walk. "Hey, Loren! Better not try it: You'll be takin' yer life in yer hands!" Melody's husband again! Is there no way to get her out of my mind? "What the devil are you talking about, Abel? I'd better not try what?" Loren laughed, expecting the worst and getting it. "I saw ya' sizin' up Mr. Union Bank there a minute ago. But don't try breakin' into his vault unless I help ya'. He lives directly upstairs at the place, and he sleeps on four loaded revolvers every night." "Well, I'll just have to risk it, I guess. Not half as scary as honest work ... Why is your face all puffed up?" Abel put a thick hand to his cheek. "That Doc Barratt shouldn't be allowed to work on a dead horse. Pulled a perfectly good tooth. Hurts like holyx . Hey, I was just headin' home to soak the bloody wound in some healin' hundred-proof. Why don't ya' join me?" "No, I don't think so, Abel. I've got somex ." "The hell you do. There's not one old cow in Frank worth punchin'." He guffawed. "No pretty pink bloomers to paint, either. You wouldn't leave me alone with that spooky little feller, would ya'? Melody's plannin' to run off to Lang's for a fluffy thing. Or was it hip boots?" A meaty arm fell across Loren's shoulders. "Besides, I have a score to settle with you for droppin' that tipsy gnome off in my lap the other day." Loren White winced. "I was worried about that. Has he torn up the place yet?" They had already reached Gold Creek and were clomping across the foot bridge. The row of red and white houses was directly ahead. "Naw. He's weird, no doubt about it. But he's likeable enough, too, in a twisted kinda' way. Good company around the fire at night. Damndest liar I ever met. Reminds me of ol' Louis Malfin. Lives down at the river. Louis can curl yer hair with his whoppers about the lost Lemon Minex . Ah, here we are. Melody'll be glad to see ya'." She was. Her greeting and smile were enough to threaten any man's lofty resolve. "Well, durn me!" Zeb cackled from his wheel chair. "When did you two bust outa' jail?" "Don't go near him, Loren," Abel cautioned. "He's rabid." "What have they been feeding you, Zeb? You look wonderful!" Loren missed the sudden frown that flicked across Melody's face. "Nothin' much. Table scraps an'x ." Abel snorted. "Hah! He's eaten everything in the house except the doorknobs, Loren; and I've seen himx." He put a hand to his cheek. Melody caught the movement. "Oh-oh. Did Dr. Barratt pull that tooth, honey?" "Naw, he knocked it out with a sledge hammer. I"m gonna need all yer lovin' care for a month or two. We'll have to throw that old man out in the snow." "All right. If I get back from Lang's before spring," she joked. "Sorry, Loren, I have to rush off. Next time. Or perhaps later." She turned to her husband. "No orgies while I'm gone." "How about when you get back?" She wrinkled her nose at him, gave Loren another dazzling smile, and disappeared. "How'd a polecat like you ever trap sech a fine woman?" "That does it, old man. You're really goin' out in the snow now. Loren, wheel him to the door while I get his medicine. 'Course, you don't get any, Pop; it's for Loren and me." "Fresh air will do you good, Zeb," Loren said as he opened the door. "Feels like April out there." Abel thrust a full bottle into Clanton's blanketed lap, then the two younger men lifted the wheel chair outside. A moment later they were all sitting in the sunshine. "Why, you rotten thief," Abel laughed, snatching the bottle form Zeb. "You've already stolen half of it!" Within a half-hour the bottle had passed around the circle several times, and Zeb had consumed most of what was missing. Abel pulled the container away from him again now and fixed the old fellow with a lop-sided grin. "Zeb, I been meanin' to ask ya': Are you the only one of your kind, or did ya' come from a long line of animals?" "Fer a big feller, you sure take a lot a' chances," Clanton wheezed, shaking a tiny fist in mocking menace. "No, I was borned of a real white woman, my daddy claimed. But don't rec'lect her a-tall. He taught me all about drinkin', an' wenchin', an' pannin' fer gold. But some feller laid open his throat with a broken bottle one night back in '53. In a place called the Gouge Eye Bar. Damndest, bloodiest thing I ever seed ... Good riddance, though: Ol' tramp uster like punchin' on me before I got big enough ta fight ... Left Californy after that 'cause the gold was petered out. Tried prospectin' in B.C. an' Montana. Managed ta stay alive. Then I high-tailed it up ta git in on the Fraser River gold strike up from Yale, then across ta the big one in Cariboo." "Didn't you ever hit a rich one, Zeb?" "What's thet ye say? Oh ... No, not 'tilx. No, not never, really. Was glad to be in the Cariboo, even so. Thet's when thet fool Lincoln was a-slaughterin' good white folk fer them Nigras. I b'lieve I was borned a Yank, an' I coulda' ended up daid in the army fer some blubberin' slave ... Best thing that ever happened was when thet big woodchopper took a bullet in the skull ... Damn! Who's a- hoggin' the b-booze?" "Here, Zeb," Loren said grimly. "Don't let it go to your head. Reminds me, Abel, What did youx?" "Heerd about Fort Whoop-up then," Zeb interrupted. He seemed almost unaware of his surroundings at this point. "Heerd how them boys was a-gittin' rich sellin' whiskey ta the Blackfeet an' them other savages fer furs, an' squaws, an'x Hee! Hee! Them greasy critters would sell their wives ferx. Hee! Hee! But the damn Mounties ruint thet." Loren and Abel exchanged dark looks; but the old man plunged on, his voice becoming shrill. "Last March, though, I give one a them heathens a bottle a' pizen fer a scrap a' paper. Thet's all it were ta him. Hah! Best move I everx." Zeb jerked suddenly, and his eyes refocused. He glowered at his companions fearfully then leaned back into heavy breathing, mumbling and trembling. "You all right?" Loren asked. "Yeah," he grunted morosely, clamping his eyes shut. "L-let m-me be ... Let me rest a b-bit." His tone was edged with suspicion now. Abel stared at the weatherbeaten face and felt a little sick. He hadn't realized that depravity had come to dwell in his own house. Loren White cleared his throat to get Abel's attention: The cowboy artist wore a somber expression and was tapping his temple with an index finger. The big miner nodded, rose, and went into the house to cache the offending bottle. When he returned, the mountain man was snoring. "What's happening inside the Turtle?" Loren asked at length, grasping for any release from Clanton's twisted world. "Same old mule labor, Lorenx except ..." A worried expression wrenched at his features. "Well, I've been cuttin' out coal long enough to know that a mine is ... is kind of a livin' thing. Ya' can feel it, sort of, without really knowin' how. Maybe it's because a part of a feller, deep down somewhere, is always listenin', always aware that he's walkin' around in methane gas an' explosive coal dust that just one little spark canx . Anyhow, a coupla' fellers quit yesterday. Don't mention it to Melody." "No, no. Of course not." It was the first time Loren had seen this side of his new friend. The happy-go- lucky, devil-may-care fellow had disappeared; and the artist wondered if what remained were the real person, a person unmasked to reveal a fear that stalked him every day of his life. "Did something unusual happen to make them quit, Abel?" "Well, maybe not anything you could put your finger on lately. Like I said, though, ya' get so ya' canx can sense somethin'. An' now and then there have been little kinda' rumblin' noises, an' creakin's, an' ground movements." He laughed nervously. "Sort of like a big ghost trampin' around in the dark there somewhere, hammerin' at the supports or smashin' against the walls. "An' it's not all imagination, either: Coupla' months ago we found two-foot square timbers set by the night boys splintered like so much kindlin'." Loren gave a low whistle. "Back in October, too, there was an explosion in the mine. Killed two greenhorns. Some say it was because they had been using the old flame-type lamps, but nobody knows for sure." "Git out! Git the hell out, Abel, while ye still kin!" Zeb shouted. He was sitting upright in his wheel chair, and his eyes were rolling crazily. "Them was warnin's, Abel, warnin's! They's happenin's all around us thet most folks don't never understand. They's warped places ... frozen, twisty places ... out in the mountains where no human has ever set foot. An' they's evil things ... evil things out there a-watchin'ever'wherex waitin' fer the right time ta cut us down fer trespassin' on their sacred ground." His voice was almost a shriek now, and he was bouncing and pounding his casts against the chair. "Easy, easy, old man," Loren soothed. "You've been dreaming. You just woke up. It'sx ." "Dammit, listen ta me, ya' young fool! I ain't crazy like ya' all been a-sayin'. People's gonna die! The devils say all a' Crowsnest Pass is sacred, an' the white man's done vi'lated it. Git outa' thet mountain, Abel, or yer' a dead man!" "Calm down, Zeb, before ya' hurt yourself," Abel cajoled. "It's demon rum talkin'. You drank most of the bottle." Zeb took a shuddering breath and exhaled. He looked at Abel steadily for a moment then spoke quietly: "The big Turtle's one a' the hexed spots, young feller. I know, I beenx I been told. Why do ye s'pose the Indians won't camp under it, hah? Didn't think I knowed thet, did ye? An' why do ye s'pose they call it the 'mountain that walked'? Didn't think I knowed thet either, did ye? I wouldn't a-mentioned these things, but you an' yer lady been good ta me. Think I like bein' called a crazy man? I heerdx ." A large shape made a swooping arc just a few feet overhead, and there was a whine of wind on feathers before the sky was abruptly clear again. Everyone ducked involuntarily. Zeb let out a shriek and tried to scramble from the wheel chair, but Loren and Abel jumped to prevent it. "Tshyplal! Oh, God! See? Cannibal! I told ye, I told ye! Git yer filthy hands off x let me loose!" He fought at them savagely. "Stop it. Zeb, it was nothin'!" Abel shouted. "I thought you said you weren't crazy." Clanton fell limp. "I ain't. I ... I'm sick, thet's all. G-git me inta the house, please, q-quick. W-won't cause no more trouble." But he continued to shoot terrified looks overhead. "That's better. Come on, Loren, give me a hand." They carried the wheel chair back inside, removed the quivering body, and placed it on the bed in a small back room. Abel covered him with a blanket, and the old man looked up gratefully. There was rolling perspiration pasting tangled, white hair to his forehead. "Obliged, young feller. Sorry. Won't ... won't cause ye no more trouble." "No problem, Pop. Get some sleep." Both younger men went back outside and sat down again. Abel Allen sighed deeply and looked with wonder at his friend. "What the bloody hell do you suppose that was all about? Nothin' but a big buzzard comin' in low. Prob'ly after somethin' dead farther out in the flats somewhere. Didn't see us sittin' up close under the trees." "Beats me. Zeb must be some strange kind of vulture bait, though: Last Sunday, just as I reached him where he was lying like a dead man on his ledge, another large one, about the same size, acted as if it wanted to knock me the rest of the way down the cliff." Abel grinned almost normally. "Maybe those three old birds know somethin' we don't ... Did ya' hear that cannibal stuff? And what was that other blood-curdlin' thing he hollered? Did ya' catch it? Gave me the creeps. Sounded like 'shiplall' or somethin'." "Yes, I heard it. Probably Indian. He was jabbering out some stuff like that on Sunday, too; and then I'm told he used a Cree word on Dr. Edwardson the other day. Doc didn't like it at all. He understands a little Cree, I guess. Got Zeb a quick needle in the flesh." "No foolin'? Did the doctor tell you what it meant?" "Yeah. Noting serious." Loren smiled and paused. "It meant 'kill'." Abel evidently saw no humor in the anecdote. He bit his lip and looked toward Clanton's room. White watched him reflectively for a moment then asked: "Why don't you get out of the mine, Abel?" "Goin' to. Been workin' on it for a long while; and, finally, I'm just about there, in spite of hard times. By spring I'll have enough saved for a down payment on a beautiful spread of land up by Fort Saskatchewan. Plan to take some time off in April to go up there an' make final arrangements. When I get back, me an' Melody are gonna kiss this place goodbye an' be dirt farmers. Gonna raise a million acres a' wheat an' a hundred fat kids." Loren winced in spite of himself. He was unaccountably disturbed and had difficulty visualizing Melody as a hinterland farm matron with runny-nosed babies hanging from her apron. He just couldn't paint her into a picture of outhouses in twenty below zero snow banks. "Well, good, Abel," he managed. "Be sure to tell Old Father Time. It might ease his mindx if he still has one. And I'll bet Melody is counting the days." "Melody? Oh, she's not ... not all that excited about it. But I know she'll be taken with the country when she sees it." ... When Melody had left the three men, however, she was taken with fury instead. As she moved up the footpath toward town, she gave vent to two days of suppressed frustration. Ever since they had brought Zeb Clanton home, he had said no more about gold. In fact, his mental state seemed to have accomplished almost a complete turn. For the most part now, he was talkative and friendly; and he and Abel had been getting along famously. It was infuriating. "You despicable, youx you absolutely loathsome old degenerate!" she hissed aloud. "And all I can do is play little Miss Nursemaid-Nosewipe and watch the hours tick away." She clenched her fists. "What right do you have, you horrible old man? Don't you realize how precious little time is left? Don't you knowx ?" She saw a neighbor approaching and collected herself. "Oh, how nice to see you, Mrs. Ennis," she beamed when they had come abreast. "How is your little Ellen today? I've been so worried about her, what with the flu epidemic we've just suffered through." "No, no, she's fine today, Mrs. Allen. I guess it was just a little cold. But what about that broken-up little man you and your husband have taken under your wings? What a marvelous thing to do for a stranger! How is he?" "Much better. It's amazing, really." They parted after a moment more, and Melody's rancor took a new focus: "He's turned into nothing but a bloody miser. I'm going to indulge myself for a change. I just can't stand much more of this stifling little town, these grimy people, these rags. Damn! Why does a woman's destiny have to be tied to a man's? Why does society force her to waste talents and education on ax ? What right do they have to expect women to be no more than mindless wallflowers or barefoot, brood mares? "Well, Abel boy, not Melody, not sweet little Melody!" She had reached A. V. Lang's ladies' ready-to-wear clothing store before realizing it. Inside, she found it occupied by several tastefully-attired shoppers, all of whom greeted her warmly. She responded in kind, even as she tried to hide a threadbare spot on her dress. So the fat grubs have wriggled out en masse to flaunt their riches ... Wait, ladies, just you wait ... A beautiful piece of apparel on special display caught her eye. She walked over. Just my size! Wouldn't that knock the boys' eyes out? I've got to have it; I've just got to have it! It's been so long since I'vex Aah! Look at that price! It must be a mistake. There's no way Ix . "Oh, isn't that gorgeous! And it suits you perfectly. Is it your size?" It was one of the grubs. "Yes, but ... " "Really? And look at the price! Why, that's an absolute bargain. I wonder how Mr. Lang can afford tox ? Oh, Mrs. Allen, snatch it up; it's a steal." You gushing hypocrite. You know damned well I don't have that kind of money. You know Abel is nothing but a laborer. Rub it in, you virtuous little community leader. Melody stepped back and looked at the display critically. "No, no ... I don't think so. It's pretty enough, but it just doesn't appeal to me." "Really? Well, that's wonderful, because it happens to be my size, too." The woman snatched up the item and turned away. "Miss, miss!" she called. Why you little tramp! You dirty little tramp! Melody fled from the store without making a purchase. Damn you, damn you, Abel! Unaccountably, another face filled her mind. It was that of Dr. Edwardson's full- time nurse. It seemed to wear an accusatory smirk. "Damn you, too, Evelyn Landy-bitch!" Mrs. Allen spat aloud, fighting back tears. As she stumbled toward home she reflected again upon the stupid mistake she had made: She shouldn't have run off and left that stodgy little man. He was a grub, too, middle- aged and bald with a pot belly. Elmer. The name fit him somehow, him with his fat, pink hands, his greasy bodyx his rich, greasy body. Elmer was a prominent, Toronto merchant; and her parents had approved of the marriage. In fact, she had always suspected they had set up the whole messy arrangement. She shuddered. She was young and naive then, still filled with silly dreams of Lochinvars and romantic love. And Lochinvar came along. She never had seen anything like Abel. He was a great tower of masculine beauty. He was joyful, unaffectedx and alive. He harbored fantasies of coming west to make his fortune. "Out there is where the future of Canada lies," he had enthused. And so she had kicked off the traces and run away with him. She had leaped into his arms and left the greasy pot of gold to consume himself in his own fires. Then she was disinherited. Her parents' betrayal had been the worst. Every fledgling believes in its heart that no tempest can tear down its nest; but when it happens, the whole world disintegrates. There had been no contact for years. Yes, I should have stayed with the fat man. No! No! I can still see that pendulous mass hanging over his abdomen ... Abel. Abel is gorgeous, but he has no ambition ... Maybe Loren. There are rumors around town that he has money. How much, though? A little bit? That's not enough. I want to roll in it. I want to be able to buy any Goddam thing Ix. Melody kicked a rock away from the path. "The future of Canada, ay?" Her thoughts were audible now. "Some miserable future! Well, Mr. Abel Allen, this little lady is not going to end up mired in some Fort Saskatchewan pig sty. I don't care what it takes. That just wasn't in the contract, pretty boy." Her secret Sturm und Drang had boiled over inside when Abel had revealed, with all the excitement of a little child, his preposterous dream of a life in the mud. And he would drag his grubstake out of this filthy mountain. She laughed bitterly, recalling how desperate she had become after that. There had been wild fantasies about robbing the Union Bank somehow. It was said that the establishment was accustomed to plunking out $125,000 in American silver dollars on mine pay days. But who would help her? And how could anyone smuggle out 125,000 silver dollars? Besides, she hadn't missed the tales about the four loaded revolvers. "Hello, Gertrude, dear. Hello, Albert, sweetie." She was nearing home and had greeted two of several youngsters playing ball between the path and the line of seven houses. She shook her head. What made miners so prolific? One day she and Abel had estimated the six neighboring couples had produced a total of thirty children. "Turtle Mountain hangin' over us up there is the house of a fertility god, Melody," he had guffawed. "An Assiniboine shaman told me. Better watch out; I can feel it." Then he had pinched her buttocks, knowing how it would irritate her. Another nasty expression of males' need to dominate. Don't they realize what a humiliating gesture that is? I'm no man's chattel, Abel boy, not even yours! ... You'll think of something, Melody; you'll think of something. You've got until April ... "What, no orgy?" The two men were so engrossed in conversation they had not seen her approach. "Where have you hidden the dancing girls, Loren?" she persisted. He turned scarlet and couldn't stammer out a comprehensible reply. "Now, Mr. White, don't try to deny it. I've been up town listening to all the silly girls' tittering about a dashing young artist who pranced into town a few days ago and turned every eligible maiden's head." "Are the fillies fallin' for gruesome nowadays?" Abel laughed, enjoying Loren's squirming. "What, no packages, honey?" "No," Melody said with just a trace of sharpness. "Where's Zeb?" "Oh, that oldx ," Abel scowled. "He guzzled most of my whiskey then went berserk again. He's sleepin' it off in his room. That old man is livin' in another world, Melody. You should have heard him screamin' about cannibals, an' evil spirits, an' pannin' for gold." "Gold? What did he say about gold?" "Huh? Oh, nothin' much. Talked about how he and his brute of a father had been with the Argonauts and in the Cariboo strike. You know, typical lyin' prospector stuff." "Oh ... Whiskey loosened his tongue a bit, did it?" "You can say that again. He screeched an' hollered outside here enough to wake the dead; but you know what bothers me the most? Nobody came to see who was gettin' murdered. I thought John Watkins and Alex Clark were supposed to come runnin' to your rescue if they heard anything like that." Melody put her arms around her husband and looked up at him adoringly. "Why, you big boob, they knew you were home today, that's why. And they knew Loren was here, too, I'm sure. I'll bet they felt you two big muscle men might be able to control a tiny Rip Van Winkle, a skeleton with a broken arm and leg." Abel grinned sheepishly, and Loren's mirth came out in leg-slapping glee. The blond giant sobered quickly, however; and he studied his wife worriedly. "There's something else that disturbs me about Zeb, honey. I'm not sure I want him in my house ... "His brain is a cesspool ..." The sun was edging down behind Turtle and Goat Mountains when Loren White threaded his way along the dirt path toward his hotel. His day had begun on a lofty note; he had been exhilarated by the majesty of Crowsnest Mountain and had felt renewed. His evening, however, was sullied by disquieting questions: Why had the vulture materializing over Zeb today reeked of the same, foul odor surrounding the one back at the cliff's edge? And had a sudden chill really fallen over everything again on this latest occasionx just before the big bird had appeared? Abel hadn't noticed it or hadn't deemed it significant enough for comment. The question that gnawed most persistently, however, was the most outlandish: Was Zeb's warning about trespassers onto sacred ground not insane babbling after all? IV. Loren White knew there was no basis for panic. He still had what seemed to be an adequate supply; and he certainly could stop using the stuff whenever he chose. This dependence rot was a myth spread by alarmists and holier-than-thouers. Besides, he hadn't been smoking it forever; and there was no evidence, really, that it was doing him any harm. On the contrary, its ability to replace anxietyx even hunger and certain base urgesx with an aura of tranquility had to be a significant factor for good. Those little side issues of transitory nausea and occasional constipation were inconsequential. He had come to suspect the quality of his last shipment, however: It had been necessary lately to alter the pellet-tobacco ratio to "open the sorcerer's door" adequately or to "find the keys to the cave," as he liked to describe the experience. He would complain to his supplier. Yes, he confirmed to himself, there certainly was a lot less in the bag than he had remembered; but, with just a bit of moderationx say, use on alternate nights, rather than every nightx he should be able to manage quite nicely until the next shipment arrived. He would dispatch a letter today. And it wasn't panic, anyhow ... just a minor uneasiness ... An hour later he walked into the post office to rent a box and mail his letter. There was only one customer blocking access to the clerk at the window, but the man moved aside to leave almost as soon as Loren fell in behind him. "Well, Loren White!" It was Dr. Edwardson, beaming with pleasure. "What a surprise bumping into you. How have you been, and how is old Mr. Clanton? I understand you've been to visit him." "Good to see you, Doctor. I'm fine, and so is Zeb ... Well, not altogether. You never know when he's going to drop off the edge again, so to speak. Yes, I visited him at the Allen's on Saturday. He was perfectly fine until he got a snoot full. That seemed to trigger it." Edwardson was troubled. "Yes. And, of course, in this case, alcohol may be less of a cause than a catalyst. You know, we really shouldn't blame him for his ... uh ... startling, anti- social outbursts. He can't help himself: I'm convinced they are strictly psychogenic. Don't misunderstand me, though, I'm sure prolonged abuse of alcoholx or for that matter, any other kind of mind-altering substancex is going to damage the brain, as well as other organs. "Hah!" he chuckled. "That reminds me. Stop by and visit when you can. We'll abuse another shot or two of brandy together." Loren was thankful for the levity. It gave him a means to disguise the discomfort wrought by the physician's earlier words. "I will, Doctor, I will; and I'm glad we bumped into one another." "Yes, indeed. Goodbye, Loren." "Goodbye, Doctor." "How do you do, Mr. White. How can I help you?" The greeting came through a smile highlighting a pretty face and a shock of short blonde hair. "Ginax I'm sorryx Miss Olson! I'd heard you ... were ... you worked here, but I wasn't expecting to ... " "Well," she laughed, "I'm surprised you recognized me. It was so dark when you and the doctor brought your patient in that night. I'm glad to know he is improvingx that is, physically." She reddened and dropped her eyes. "Forgive me, I couldn't help overhearing." "That's quite all right. We weren't exactly whispering." Hazel eyes ... and such an innocent, such a child-like, face ... "Please, Miss Olson, I don't want to embarrass you, but a question has been nagging at me ever since that Sunday. Just what kind of magic did you work on Zeb to quiet him so miraculously?" She reddened again. "Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all. He was just terrified, couldn't you tell? He was like a tiny forest creature you manage to catch in your hand for a second. All heartpound and tremble." Her eyes dropped once more. A fragment of an ancient verse dropped into Loren's mind: "... Whispers 'mid the gathered sheaves: Shadow- pixies in the leaves ..." "Mr. White?" She was studying him with perplexity. He jerked, realizing he had been caught up in reverie even as he stood before her. "How can I help you?" she repeated. "Oh, yes, yes. I'm sorry. Ix uhx I need to ... to rent a box." "Oh, good. That confirms you will be staying on a while." She blushed a third time then hurried to comply with his request, leaving the window for a moment. Loren heard someone enter the building and turned to see an agreeable-looking young man in the uniform of the North-West Mounted Police. The officer appraised him for an instant then smiled and held out his hand. "Well, unless I miss my guess, you would be Loren White, the notorious cowboy- artist who has taken our community by storm." "I'd like to contact my mouthpiece," White laughed, shaking the lawman's hand with warmth. "I'm Constable Quartersloe. Welcome to Frank. No, welcome to Canada. I understand you're from Montana." "Yes, indirectly. You did say 'Quartersloe'?" The constable grinned wryly. "Yes, I'm afraid so; and I suppose we had better get the whole, sordid story behind us. Right, Miss Olson?" Gina had reappeared at the window and was smiling broadly. "Constable Quartersloe is the Pennycuick of Crowsnest Pass," she said to Loren. "Pennycuick?" "That's what I get for having a name like Quartersloe. But, in all honesty, I don't deserve the Pennycuick honor. I'm just a footsore, run-of-the-mill policeman." "But I don't understand. Whox?" "Of course. I should have realized," Quartersloe chuckled. "Most Yanks probably wouldn't have heard of our famous Alick Pennycuick. He's called 'The Sherlock Holmes of the Mounted Police.' His first real notoriety came from some unbelievable sleuthing he did in the Yukon about three years ago. Then he did it again just last year down the hill in Calgary. Fantastic stuff. Poor, struggling murderers didn't have a chance." "You left out the sordid part, Constable," Gina chided delightedly. "You promised." The young fellow sighed. "Ah, yes; so I did. Maybe we should call you Pennycuick, Miss Relentless," he teased. "All right, all right. Among the lawless and inebriated set hereabouts, Mr. White, you may hear certain whispered slogans. Yes, as I recall, one is: 'Quartersloe or Pennycuick? No question. The poor people of Frank have more need of a slow quarter than a quick penny.'" There was a little titter from behind the window. "Then there are: 'When he's on a scent, he keeps his nose high and his hind quarters low' and 'He can't move fast because he's a quarter slow' ... That's not a smile is it, Mr. White?" "Oh, no, certainly not, Constable. Are there any more?" "No. And the originators of those vile sayings have received the maximum penalty: They have all been banished to Quebec for life." "Those terrible words will never, ever cross my lips, sir," Loren guffawed. "Life sentences, Mr. White. Life." The Mountie beamed mischievously and offered his hand again. "But I had better pick up the company mail and be on my way. I hope you enjoy your stay north of the border enough to settle permanently, sir. Canada needs all the good people it can get to fully realize its potential." "Who knows, Constable? Maybe I will. Thank you." The officer turned away, and Gina Olson busied herself briefly to complete Loren's transaction. Then she looked up eagerly. "I've been wanting to ask you something, too, Mr. White, if you don't mind." "Really? What have I done? Whatever it is, please don't tell the policeman." "I'll find out anyway," Quartersloe teased on his way out. "I'll keep my nose high." The door closed on his laughter. "It's about your art," Gina said with animation." Dr. Edwardson said you are going to follow the Rockies north in the spring, that you intend to fill your canvases with mountains, and lakes, and rivers; that you will roam free and alone, perhaps where no one has everx ." She inhaled sharply. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm always letting ... " "No, no, not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm delighted: Most people look at a painting and see color, and composition, perhaps, or treatments of light and shadow, maybe. That sort of thing. But once in a while ... uh, well ... " Loren found himself fumbling self-consciously for words; but then he managed to recover enough to go on lamely: "Once in a while, Miss Olson, an artist encounters someone who seems to hear the x wellx the song he's trying to sing." "Yes, that's it." Her eyes widened. "Have you really heard it? Do you really know it? The song, I mean." "Once or twice I've thought so. But then it fades, and I forget ... Are you an artist, Miss Olson?" "Oh, no. But I love the tangled, wild places, andx ." A couple came in and walked to the window. "Thank you very much, Miss Olson," Loren said. "I hope I didn't take too much of your time." "Of course not, Mr. White. Perhaps we canx ." Her face was crimson again as she cut herself short. A bit later, Loren was walking back to his hotel alone, remembering the woman who had nearly collided with him on Saturday. "That little Gina Olson is ... sox wellx so masculine," she had mouthed to her companion. The enormity of the characterization was staggering. He could not imagine any circumstance that could vindicate such a judgment. Finally, he settled on the only reasonable explanation: There had to be two Gina Olsons in town. "A shadow-pixie in the leaves," he murmured. "What an exquisite little person!" Just behind this shining image, however, there lurked an insidious one. It had to do with brain damage behind the sorcerer's door ... For the next forty hours, Loren's thoughts were dominated by Gina. He was sure there could be no one in the world at all like her, no one who could possibly combine such charm and purity. Gone, too, were the conflicting emotions he had always felt whenever Melody was involved. He was swept clean of anxiety; and, for two nights, he hadn't thought once of snatching at "the keys to the cave." His chief problem was resisting a compulsion to return to the post office on some silly pretense. He awoke at dawn on Wednesday with Gina's words in the forefront of his mind: "I love the tangled, wild places," she had said. He leaped from bed. On a breath of whimsy she had revealed herself to be a kindred soul. How many times in his own life had he sought out the balancing influences of some elemental sanctuary? Well, today would be another: He would walk to the top of Turtle Mountain. He had been told that many of Frank's residents, drawn by the spectacular view, would do this on occasion. Not wanting to waste any time, he dressed hurriedly and went outside, taking no provisions except a canteen of water and some beef jerky. He sighted on a promising point to begin his climb and started toward it. Following the Canadian Pacific spur line, he crossed the Oldman River via the railroad bridge. He could see the mine entrance with men working at the tipple, but he turned away to the right. When he reached the spot he had selected to ascend, he was delighted to find a trail clearly defined by foot-packed snow. His progress, through heavily-wooded and rocky terrain, was arduous, requiring many rest stops. After a long struggle, however, he broke out on top of one of the Turtle's spires. It was as if he could see forever. On an impulse, though, he walked to what seemed to be a central peak composed primarily of limestone. He sat on a great rock there and tried to comprehend all that his eyes presented. He didn't know the names of all the landmarks, but Crowsnest Mountain in the distance was unmistakable. He picked out Goat Mountain and Tallon Peak, then looked east across a vast expanse of plains that lost itself in mist. He dropped his eyes and identified the communities of Bellevue, Hillcrest, and Blairmore. Far below to his right, near the base of the mountain and just across the Oldman River, he located the house and outbuildings of James Graham's dairy farm. Nearby could be seen a solitary little tent. "That must be old Louis Malfin's campsite," Loren told himself. He had been intrigued by what Abel and other Frank residents had told him about this old trapper who chose to live year-round down there in his fragile shelter. Loren had always admired self-sufficiency; and here was a man of advanced age still able to survive on his own with the barest of protection against wintertime temperatures often dipping below zero. Too, White had been tantalized by the scraps he had heard of Malfin's lost Lemon Mine stories. This had to be a remarkable person. Loren resolved to seek him out. He focused upon Frank's Dominion Avenue and found what he had suddenly come to regard as its principal buildingx the post office. His stomach twisted. Gold Creek glinted in the sunlight. He followed it to the row of miners' cottages. The sixth one seemed to leap up at him. A "dashing young artist," Melody had called him. His stomach twisted again. He wrenched his eyes away and studied the other dwellings scattered among the jack pines throughout the flats, a giddy, near-vertical fall below. They all presented as dismally fragile; and, from these heights, so utterly insignificant. Yet, he knew these homes housed love, dreams, honorx even fear, hate, and, yes ... covetousness. A strange dread assailed him, and he could not escape the notion that all the tiny creatures down there were caught in some way within the power ofx what did Zeb claim the Indians called it? The mountain that walked. A moan rose from somewhere behind him. Startled, Loren leaped up and whirled around. The sound intensified, and far back down he could see a cyclonic action walking through the treetops and climbing rapidly toward him. Loren scrambled into a crevice as the moan became a howl and the temperature plummeted. Instinctively, he hunched into a fetal position, clasped his hands across the back of his neck, and braced himself against the enclosing rocks. The force screamed over him. There was a terrible pain in both his ears, and he was certain he and the entire mountain were being sucked into the sky. Everything was din and motion for about ten seconds; then something like the crack of a rifle sounded from inside the Turtle, and the monolith shuddered. At last all was still, and the warm sun could be felt again. Loren White resumed breathing and pulled himself shakily from the crevice. He felt a desperate need to get off the limestone upthrust and down to the safety of the valley. "What the hell was that?" he asked himself as he stumbled down the path, absently noting that the outside, upper section of his trousers was torn on both legs. His nose was bleeding, as well. "Why, just a freak windstorm, you moron, what else could it have been?" But a crazy man's wail seemed to bounce from the rocks: "They's frozen, twisty places ... evil things a- watchin' ... ta cut us down fer trespassin' on their sacred ground." Loren's descent was comparatively rapid; but, by the time he neared the mine entrance, the day crew was already exiting and beginning the trek toward town. Abel, towering above the rest, spotted the artist quickly and hailed him. When they came together, Abel Allen looked at his friend in alarm. "What the devil! Did you wrestle down a grizzly or somethin'? Are you all right?" "I'm fine, Abel," Loren laughed unconvincingly. I climbed to the top of your Turtle, that's all; and some rippin' whirlwind came up and tried to blow me off into the river." "Damn, fool Yank. There's two big reasons why you shouldn't have gone up there. The first is: The Turtle doesn't like the smell of foreigners; and the second is: I don't allow any extra weight up top when I'm down in the crumbly hole." He squinted at White, noting the blood on his face. "Tell you what, let's sneak into the Imperial Hotel and clean up just a bit. Otherwise, their barman might not think you can pay for the wee bit of rum you're gonna buy me." "See how you are? Just like you to take advantage of a bleeding and helpless man." At the bar they were accosted by a very friendly but slightly swaying fellow. He threw an arm around Loren's shoulders and breathed the foul breath of a habitual drunk into his face. "Hey, Yank!" he slobbered. "I got a cousin in Minneap'lis. Maybe you know her. Name is Claudine Beau- Beaufort. Big fat blonde with ax." "This is Tony Slink, Loren. Goes to church every communion Sunday for the refreshments." "Did you know this ugly bas-bastard's got the prettiest wife in Frank, Yank? Hee, hee! Frank Yank!" Tony Slink burped concentrated fumes into White's nostrils again. "Yup. Beautiful an'-an' too good fer the likes a' him. S- some day I'm gonna stealx." "Shut up, Tony, and get out of here," Abel laughed. "We're not buyin' you any drinks, no matter how gorgeous you say Melody is." "Stingy bugger, t-too. Okay, okay, buddy." He lurched away. "You'll b-be sorry. One a' these days her an' m-me is gonna elope." He slurred into a wobbly sing-song: "Me an' Mel-Melody Allen, M-Melody Allen; Mel-ody, Melody, Mel- ody Allen ..." The drunken refrain stayed with Loren long after the two friends had departed; and it stalked up the stairs beside him to his hotel room that night. It lay down with him on his bed. Finally, through a curtain of blue smoke, it hammered against the sorcerer's door and caromed back and forth throughout the walls of the cave, until it was consumed at last by whirling darkness . * * * Louis Malfin reached down painfully and brought his line of fish up out of the icy water. The old man, as he affectionately called the Oldman River, had never failed him. He knew in his marrow, however, that it would not need to sustain him much longer. Louis was a very old man, too; and he sensed with the instinct of his little brothers, the animals he trapped, that his time was very near. He recognized this without dismay, understanding by means of that same innate sense that the earth forever longs to enfold its children back within the protection of its womb. A movement caught his eye, and he scowled. It was an approaching horseman. Occasionally, children would drop by to sit with him on the river bank, just to listen and become entranced by his tales. These innocents he welcomed because they were without guile. He avoided most adults, however. He could read the amused contempt with which they regarded him; and they were too consumed by self to suspect he had selected this isolated spot next to the rushing waters in an effort to escape their faces. His frown gradually faded. There was something about the way the rider sat his horse. Ah, yes. Good, good. This wasn't one of the dead ones. This man has walked under solitary moons. "Hello. Sorry to bust in on you," the big fellow said as he dismounted. "My name is Loren White. You must be Mr. Malfin." "I be thet. Good mornin' to ye. Good lookin' horse ye got there." "Best friend I've got, almost. Fresco's carried me through a lot of rough places." "You like trout?" "Yes, but I didn't come here tox." "The old man musta' knowed I was gonna have a visitor. Come on in." Malfin turned and walked past a hobbled burro toward his tent, leaving no opportunity for further objections. Loren, following him inside, found himself surrounded by a trapper's paraphernalia: Against the length of one canvas wall, a structure formed of thong-secured poles supported hanging pelts, traps, and rough items of clothing. A similar contrivance occupying almost half of the entrance wall contained skis, snowshoes, a canteen, a hide-covered rifle, and other equipment. A bedroll stood upright in the opposite corner, a bearskin rug lay on the floor; and a battered camp table with two chairs took up most of the space remaining. "Set, son, set," the old man urged. He walked to a pot- bellied stove placed forward about five feet from the wall. Its stovepipe was aimed at a high window with an open flap. Malfin put a lump of coal on the hot embers and removed a big knife from his belt. "Grub'll be ready pretty quick. How'd ya' find me way out here?" "I climbed to the top of the Turtle yesterday and spotted your tent. I ... uh ... I sort of admired the way you live, andx ." "No feather bed, no 'lectricity, a dirt floor, an outside trench-toilet behind a tree, smoky and cold as hell inside here sometimes." Malfin's grin was toothless, and his face was a living mass of wrinkles. "And free as an eagle," White smiled back. The ancient eyes twinkled. "Mebbe you deserve thet fine animal you got after all ... Thought I saw somethin' movin' up on the Turtle yesterday ... Anything unnatur'l happen up there?" Loren jerked. "Unnatural? Whyx uhx there was a crazy kind of windstorm, that's all. Sounded and felt as if a world full of devils had been turned loose on me." "Mebbe they was, mebbe they was." The fish were sizzling in the pan now. "High places an' far places is full a' strange things; an' I've lived long enough ta know them smart, pink boys with all the book-learnin' don't know too much a' nothin' worth knowin'." "Why did you ask if anything unnatural had happened on the mountain?" "Well, I been camped down under the big Turtle fer quite a spell. An' I been in the way-out back country all by myself long enough ta be able ta read a few signs. A feller learns ta listen, too, an' ta feel, sorta'. Folks in town think I'm outa' my mind." "Town folks know about towns, Mr. Malfin." "Louis," the old man grinned. "'Mr. Malfin' be town- folk talk." "Good. And I'm Loren. But I don't mind 'son' or 'sonofabitch', as long as you smile, as the feller says. But did you see something up top yesterday?" "Kind of a cloud. Didn't last long. Didn't seem ta fit, neither. But lately, some nights I kin hear things, mebbe the old man talkin' er the trees whisperin'. Things is stirrin'-like, talkin' 'bout changes comin'." "Is it true the Indians call the Turtle ' the mountain that walked' and that they won't camp hereabouts?" "Yup. Them Stoneys. Don't blame 'em fer bein' skeered. Them people been in this country fer cent'ries; an' they hear what the mountains say. But I ain't much bothered 'bout the Turtle. Never thought a feller should run from no hatchet meant fer him." "A few days ago an old man told me the entire Crowsnest Pass area is a sacred place, I guess to the Indians, and that white people are going to die for violating it. Do you believe that?" Louis Malfin looked at him solemnly out of sunken eyes. "Lotta' folk has died already. Last year a explosion in the Coal Creek mine killed 128 men, an' another one right inside the Turtle took two more fellers last October. Five year back aroun' thet little town called Crowsnest, 'bout thirty construction workers died a' typhoid." "But most people would say you have to expect accidents in mines, and that people will always die in epidemics." "Yup. Could be true. We'll jest have ta wait an' see how many more a' yer accidents er epidemics is goin' ta happen. But I tell ye, they's gonna be changes." Malfin stood up and grunted. A claw-like hand clutched at the small of his back. "Time ta gnaw on rainbows," he chuckled as he went to the frying pan. They ate the fish from a single tin plate and used their hunting knives and fingers for cutlery. "Best meal I've had since I've been in Frank, Louis," Loren exulted, wiping a hand on his trousers. "How long ye been here, son? Are ye goin' ta crawl inta the Turtle with the rest a' the gophers?" Loren told him of his plans, how he had worked in Montana as a cowboy and something of his earlier life. "Didn't figger ya' fer a coal-diggin' man," Malfin said. "Thought mebbe ya' might be trackin' the Lemon Mine like a lotta' other pore fools, but thet didn't seem ta fit neither." "Abel Allen said you know something about the lost Lemon Mine story. I'd like to hear about it." "You're a friend a' Abel Allen? Now there's a right fine lad. Not many like him. He's been out ta chew the fat once er twice. Welcome any timex like you. You two been chiseled from the same tree, 'cept he don't b'lieve all my stories. "Yup, I know somethin' 'bout the mine, not 'cause I went lookin' but 'cause I got some good Bearspaw, an' Chiniki, an' Wesley, an' Blackfoot friends thet knows the real story. They really is a mine out there, son, an' I got a pretty good notion where it be. I been in thet country an' I seen some a' the secret trails, an' rivers, an' mountains thet ain't on no maps. But, mostly, I felt things an' I heerd things; an' I know a white man ain't safe out there lookin' fer the Lemon gold. "I'm glad yer' not one a' the fools, son. Anyways, ain't much ta the story. Fellers named Blackjack an' Lemon jest stumbled on the vein thirty-odd years ago; and Lemon went crazy an' murdered his partner over it. Coupla' Stoney Indians saw the killin', though, an' told their chief. So when Lemon left all a-ravin', old Chief Bearspaw made his braves wipe out any trace a' the strike. Didn't need no army a' whites outa' their minds over 'yeller fire' stampedin' in an' ruinin' their huntin' grounds. Ain't nobody ever been able ta find the exact spot since then, not even Lemon. An' thet's about it." Loren whistled. "That's quite a story; and, from what you say, maybe there really are such things as hexes. Maybe old Zeb Clanton was right." "Clanton? Zebadiah Clanton?" Louis Malfin was obviously distressed. "Would thet be a little skinny prospector almost as old as me with long white hair all over his head an' face? Uster do some whiskey-tradin' an' knockin' aroun' in the B.C. gold strikes?" "Sounds like the same feller. Do you know him, Louis? He's here in Frank with a broken arm and leg." "No, never met 'im. Jest know of 'im." Malfin's shriveled face darkened. "Stay away from 'im son ... He's pizen." V. Sit there and drool. Sit in your wheel chair and snore, you infuriating blob of human refuse. Sit there and digest my cooking while you sleep, vermin. Oh, how it galls me to have to smile sweetly whenever you cram my food inside that weasel mouth! And the only thing that comes out of that hole in your face is what seeps from its corners. Aah! Look how it mixes with the filth already on your nasty old beard. No, no, Zeb -rot. I'll squeeze the secret out of that stringy neck one way or another. I just have to think, to think. There must be a way. Use your brain, girl, your brain! Melody Allen pretended to read as these thoughts tumbled through her mind, even as she watched and waitedx and silently entreated Zeb Clanton to go crazy again and talk about gold. But he had been in her home for ten days now and had not given so much as a hint about the Lemon Mine. Not since that drunken episode with Abel and Loren two days after she had taken him in. The strain was taking its toll: She was losing weight; every day it became more difficult to hide her impatience. Each night found her lying half awake listening for the slightest sound from the old man's room; and she would slip over to him in the darkness at his every groan or mumble. To this end, Melody had insisted upon leaving his door ajar. "In case you need me at night, little daddy," she had whispered endearingly. Of course, this meant leaving the Allen's bedroom door cracked open, too, a concession Abel made only after a great show of indignation. Melody, of course, always prevailed. She had prevailed, too, when Abel had wanted to turn Clanton out of the house. "I tell you, Melody, that old manure pile is rotten clean through," he had insisted with much animation. "You can't imagine the sewage he was babblin' while you were shoppin' the other day. I don't care if he was drunk. Matter of fact, I think liquor lets you see the real person behind the mask. He'llx he'll tarnish our home, Melody. If we sleep with a pig, we'll soon smell like a pig!" "Oh, come now, honey," she had responded with practiced charm and intimate gestures of affection. "You heard a man out of his mind talking. That was the Devil in possession. No, you've seen that broken little fellow's sweet side as well as I have. That's the real person. And do you know what? Our fallen sparrow loves you, Abel. You must have noticed. He can't wait for you to come home in the evening. "Uh-uh. I know you, you big old, softy. You're not going to turn any frail granddaddy out in the cold." It had been easy; but Abel was always easy. It had become disappointing in a way, however. She had thought in the beginning that he would be stronger; but the idea made her laugh inside now. She had learned a lot since those giddy, flighty days. Menxhah! They're all weaklings inside, in spite of their muscles and bravado. Especially you, mountain man Zeb. "Hee, hee!" Clanton snickered, as if to mock her from his dream state. Even though Melody knew his laughter rose from subconscious imagery, its derisive sting served to shock her into more productive deliberation. All right, Melody, this is getting you nowhere. Wallowing in misery never solved anything. Logic, logic. Look the monster problem in the eye and bring it down to your size: Just what are you facing? Time ... time, first and foremost, that's what. It's March 1st, and Abel will be leaving for Fort Saskatchewan in April to buy his precious farm. When he returns for me, I'll have no choice but to go with him if I'm still here. That means the gold mine must actually be found before he gets back ... Oh, it's just impossiblex it can'tx ! Shut up, idiot, and think! It can be done, because there's no acceptable alternative. All right, you must find a way to get yourself as much time as possible. How do you do that? ... Why, it's simple, dummy! You can convince Abel to be gone at least two weeks. You can say a move that important cannot be taken precipitously. Check everything twice. Check and double-check, Abel boy. If you don't take that much time, I'll know you've overlooked something, sweetheart. Yes. Yes. Now I'll cook up a ruse to make him delay his departure until the latter part of April, say about the 23rd. If he does that and stays away the full two weeks, that will give me until early May, over 60 days from today. See, Melody? The monster is shrinking. You've got a lot more time than you imagined. So what's next? That smelly little brute over there, obviously. Nothing is going to happen until he talks. But what then? What if he wakes up two minutes from now and tells me everything? You can't go trekking off into the wilderness by yourself. That's like the crazy idea you had about robbing the Union Bank. You have to have help. Not Abel, of course; because he would still drag you off into the outback. Damn! Deliver me from a fool with a dream! Suddenly, a laugh burst partially through her lips; but Zeb snorted, and Melody managed to stifle the rest of it. She held her breath and watched a toothless lower jaw move grotesquely up to the nose and down again several times. There were smacking sounds. At last, he slipped back into quiet sleep, allowing Mrs. Allen's celebration to resume, silent but undiminished. Loren White! Loren White, of course! He will be my confederate. I knew I was grooming that cowpuncher for something. Just a little artful persuasion, and the big tomcat will throw himself into the fires for me. Isn't he already helping me slay this mental dragon? But the monster is still alive, lady. You haven't sorted everything out, yet: Zebadiah isn't cooperating, and he is all but recovered, except for those casts. When they come off, he is certain to disappear on his own. After all, he's not that crazy. Why should he share his gold with anybody? Damn! How can I get him to talk? No, no, Melody. You're getting ahead of yourself. Everything in decency and order, as the man said. She giggled, recognizing the incongruity of her thought but realizing, nonetheless, that she was thinking clearly at last. So the little fox is keeping his counsel for now. Well, maybe he has revealed more than either of us realizes. Just how much do you know, lady? Go back, go back; retrace the steps ... What do you remember? ... Yes, there was something Zeb asked Loren the day after the old man entered the hospital. Something about a boot, I think. Yes! He acted suspicious and wanted to know if Loren had found anything besides his boot back where the horse had thrown him off the cliff. And Loren had said no. But what could have been causing a very sick man such concern? Well, of course! If Clanton had really struck it rich, he would have been carrying some gold with him. Gold! What else would worry him so? Then what could have happened to it? Did Loren steal it? He seems to have a lot of money. Melody smirked at the idea. What a ridiculous thought! Pollyanna doesn't steal. He may ogle pretty women, but he certainly doesn't steal. What then? The gold is still in the areax or someone else found it! Her chest constricted. No, it's probably still at the accident site! After all, Loren said they were off the beaten path. Who else was likely to go there? And the good cowboy would have been consumed by only one objective: rescuing a badly injured man. He might not have seen it if he had stumbled over itx . Wait! Zeb had said something else, something about heathens and devils. Yes, he thought maybe "filthy heathens" got it. Indians? Well, you can probably discount that, Melody: The old fossil was speculating, too. Besides, he was half out of his head at that point, as I recall. Yes, the gold must still be out there in the snow. Now we're getting somewhere ... See, old cadaver? You won't talk, but I'm squeezing the secret out of your mind even while you sleep. Come on, Melody, don't gloat, yet. There's that other gigantic issue. Reconfirm. Did Zeb really find the Lemon Mine? What specifically has he said about that? ... Ah, yes; it was on his second day in the hospital when he started screaming about spells, and demons, and gold. I'll never forget his exact words: "Lemon's. The lost mine." Hold it! "Lemon's," "Lemon's." That means something that belonged to Lemon, the murderer who made the original strike. What property of Lemon's could Zeb possibly have? ... That's it! That's it! It's been staring you in the face all the time, dummy. That other thing you said, old man; I'll never forget that, either: "French. Musta' belonged ta' French. Stupid savage ... fer a bottle a' pizen!" Zeb had had a mapx a map to the mine, I'll bet my life on it! He had traded an Indianx a "stupid savage"x a bottle of whiskey for something that belonged to Lafayette French. There's your confirmation, Melody. Remember the story? French was supposed to have come into possession of a map made by Lemon himself. Yes, yes: At the headwaters of a three-forked stream shown on that map, Lemon allegedly placed a cross and wrote "GOLD" to pinpoint the mine's location. No wonder Lafayette French has never been able to locate the place. He lost his map somehow, then an Indian must have found it and made the swap with Clanton. That's why Zeb was laughing through his dementia. Imagine trading a mountain of gold for a bottle of whiskey traders' contaminated firewater! Oh, damnation! This means there's not just a bag or two of gold back there where Zeb got broken up, there's a map to that mountain of gold, too, Melody. You've got to get Loren out there right away to find it before someone else does ... if that hasn't happened already. No, idiot, you can't do that yet! You haven't given the cowboy any reason to bring it back. He's not that stupid, either. You would never see him again, and you would live out your days slopping pigs in Fort Saskatchewan. All right, all right; no need to despair. You've already concluded that the site of Zeb's calamity was isolated enough to make discovery improbable. It's likely that you have time enough to provide Loren with some incentive to come back to Mama. There was a sudden commotion outside. It was obvious from the cacophony of snarls, barks, and yelps that several dogs were fighting savagely, almost on her doorstep. Then there were shouts and curses followed by more yelps and, finally, silence. Zeb stirred and mumbled but did not awaken. Melody shook her head in irritation, wondering why Alfred Dawe didn't bother to keep his fox terrier confined when it was in heat. It seemed as if the little bitch could send every male dog in Frank into a frenzy. Abruptly, she seemed to freeze for an instant; but then she smiled, realizing another solution had been presented: Cowboy artists can be frenzied, toox by the same kind of stimulus. See, Melody? You're slaying all the dragons, one by one. But the next one loomed immediately: She knew it was of paramount importance to break Zeb down as soon as possible and by any means, because there just might not be any map waiting out in the woods. In that case, she would have to convince Zeb somehow to lead her bewitched artist to the mine or to reconstruct the map from memory. Mrs. Allen winced, remembering how she had tried priming the cantankerous mountain man with another near- lethal dose of Abel's whiskey. The attempt had closely followed her husband's report of Zeb's loose tongue attack during that Saturday drinking bout. She had kicked herself when she heard of it, wondering why she hadn't recalled it was liquor that had first sent him into babblings about heathens and demons. It hadn't taken long for an opportunity to present itself: "See, little daddy?' she had purred, handing him the bottle when she knew the two of them would be alone all day in the house. "I promised you this that second day in the hospital. I'll bet you thought I'd forgotten." "Damn!" Zeb blurted as he snatched the container, uncorked it with his teeth and swallowed almost in a single action. "Damn! Thet's first-rate stuff, Melody. Now thet's real med'cine, the kind a man in terr'ble pain's jest got ta have." "Yes, I agree. Anyway, you deserve it; but don't tell Abel. He thinks it's bad for you, and I had to sneak it." She changed to a whisper. "It will be our little secret, sweetie; but I know you'll never tell, just as I wouldn't ever tell one of yours." She smoothed the hair away from his eyes and giggled. Then she sat back and watched him with an air of contentment and devotion. Clanton raised and lowered the bottle several times then hiccupped violently. "Secrets. Ever'body's got secrets. Hee! Hee!" Another pull. "But ain't nobody got no secret like mine. Hee! Hee! Hee!" Melody's hopes leaped. "Oh, Mr. Clanton, I'm shocked. I'll bet your secret is about some poor, broken- hearted woman. That's it, isn't it? I can tell. A lady always knows. Was she pretty?" "Cain't figger why yer' so good ta me, Melody, you an' Abel. I don't deserve it noways. I done some awful things ... awful things ... in my life." Come on, pig slop, stay on the track. It's on the tip of your tongue." "Well, I'm sure the lady has gotten over it, Zeb, dear. I know you couldn't have done anything really bad, anyway." She giggled again and poked him in the ribs. "I've got a hunch the naughty little woman enjoyed every minute of it, anyway, right? Come on, you've got me all a-titter. Tell me your little secret, Zeb, honey; tell Mama all about it." Zebadiah's demeanor shifted suddenly, and the reptile slipped back to his eyes. "Weren't 'bout no-no woman. Was jest a-spoofin' ya', anyways. D-don't have no secret a-tall." Melody became exasperated all over again as she recalled the incident. She glared at Zeb where he still snored before her in his chair. Oh, yes, you hideous bug. You made me cluck over you, and pet you, and rub your alligator neck. You made me sit and stew while you drank that whole bottle, and belched, and slobbered; but the only thing that came out of your mouth was vomit. Oh, if I didn't need what was inside your withered skull, Zeb Clanton, I'd make sure you ended up outside somewhere to freeze in the snow. So you're the last roadblock, the very last one. How do I get around you? What do I have to do? ... Well, first of all, it's obvious I need more time for this problem, too. I don't think you're going to break before those casts come off, and you're certain to fly away, old crow, when that happens. I must devise a way to clip your wings; I must get you to trust me absolutely; and I must learn to turn your lunatic switch back on so you will tell me all about everything. If only you would get sick again! Melody stiffened, and a hand came up to cover her mouth. If only you would get sick again! If only you would get sick again! ... That's it! ... Oh, Melody, do you have the guts? Guts? Is there any question, when it's the only thing between you and the dwarf's pot of gold? And why the consternation? You're a nurse; you can control it. There's no real risk. "But what if there really is no gold, Melody?" an inner voice seemed to ask. "What if all of Zeb's ravings are no more than the product of his sick mind? Or what if they are simply the dreams and imagery one would expect from a broken-down old man who has spent his whole life in a vain search for riches?" She pushed the thoughts away with an irritable toss of her head. Now she rose deliberately, walked to the kitchen, and put the kettle on for tea. Then she picked up a chair and placed it beneath a high cupboard. She climbed up and opened the little door. "Ah, it's still there," she whispered, reaching up and grasping a jar. A moment later she had placed the object on the table. A wide piece of surgical tape pasted to its side bore her crude, hand-printed inscription in black crayon. "RAT POISON," it said. As she prepared two cups of tea, she found herself feeling thankful for the rat plague they had suffered last year. Otherwise, she wouldn't have had anything like this in the house. Should be just exactly what I need, too. It's colorless and tasteless and almost impossible to detect in thex in someone, if something should go wrong. Stop it, Melody! Nothing is going to go wrong. No ... But the dosage. Just enough to keep him sick. How much? How much? She put a small amount into his cup and paused. Come on, Melody, he's a lot bigger than a rat. Just a little more. Yes. That should do it. Mrs. Allen carried the steaming cups to the living room table then walked over toward Zeb and threw more coal inside the stove. Now she went up to the old man and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Zeb, darling. Wake up, honey. Time for your tea." The little fellow straightened, banging his head against the back of his wheel chair. "Whut? Whut?" "Are you going to sleep all winter, black bear? Your tea is ready." She tucked his lap blanket closer about his legs and rolled the chair toward the table. Clanton yawned. "Well, t'ain't good whiskey, but I'm still obliged." he grinned. "When I was a fire-eatin' young buck, I wouldn't drink nothin' 'less it come from a long- necked bottle. All the rest was pizen, pure pizen." She was still walking behind his conveyance. This prevented his noticing her stricken look, nor could he see the color drain from her face. Melody's grip tightened on the chair. What? Could he havex ? Oh, don't be stupid. He was sound asleep and out of sight in another room. Just a crazy coincidence. Her heart was still pounding as she rolled him close to his teacup. When she had taken her own place opposite him, however, she had recovered. "This far south, even bears come out once in a while during the winter if it's warm enough, little daddy. You've almost slept the afternoon away. Must have been a beautiful dream. Was it about that poor, pretty lady you left crying off in the wilderness? "Hee! Hee! Wasn't nary a one of 'em cried when I left. I was mostly a-runnin', an' they was mostly a- shootin'." Well, how long are you going to stir that stuff? Drink it, you toothless buzzard, drink it! "Oh, I don't believe that, Zeb honey." She assumed a wicked air. "Unless it was a husband shooting." "Hee! Hee!" Clanton repeated, lowering the cup just before it reached his lips. "Naw, I weren't thet dumb. They was enough squx uhx single ones aroun' most a' the time." He took a sip. "Damn!" His face reddened. "Damn!" he said again. "Hot as a x ." In about fifteen minutes both cups were empty, and Melody had returned Zeb next to the stove with a copy of the Frank Sentinel. His reading skills were rudimentary, but he enjoyed the newspaper. "Don't know why you two er so good ta me," Zeb said softly. She showed him her sweetest face and leaned forward. "Because we love you, that's why, little bear. Now be quiet and let me read my magazine." Melody lowered her eyes but, of course, registered little presented by the pages. She felt like a cat before a gopher hole, transfixed by stealth and anticipation, alert for any telltale movement or sound. But for a time there was little to be heard beyond the occasional rustling of pages, the ticking of the old mantle clock. What are you, some kind of iron man, Clanton? Have you developed such a tolerance for booze that you are even immune to ... ? Oh, no! Maybe I didn't give him enough. I was afraid of that. Melody, why were you so damnedx?" Clanton had groaned slightly; and she looked up to see the paper slip from his hands. He pressed his head against the back of the chair, and Melody could see his knuckles white on an arm rest. There was a glint of perspiration on his forehead. She forced her eyes back to the periodical; and the clock metered away dispassionately. Her pulse outraced it. There was a peal of childish laughter outside ... And Melody waited. "Aaaah!" Zebadiah's right hand was clutching his abdomen, and his head had slumped forward. His face was chalky and running with sweat. "Zeb! Zeb! What's wrong?" Melody darted to his side. "Are you sick? What's the matter?" "Oh, aah! My mouth ... throat ... on fire. Got the worst bellyache I everx aah!" "Oh, let me help you, little daddy. You must have the flu. There's still some going around. Don't worry, honey, Mama's right here; Mama's going to take care of you." But the little man got progressively worse as an hour passed, then another. His abdominal pain became excruciating, and there was much vomiting. Melody became desperate. Don't die on me now, you little cheat! That isn't in the plan, yet. Melody, you fool! You never should have given him that extra ... And Abel's due home any minute. What can I do? What can I do? Nothing. She could do nothing but watch the writhings, pretend to commiseratex and despair. Zeb's distress continued to mount, until it seemed there was no hope at all; and panic rolled over her. Oh, he is going to diex he is! He's showing all the symptoms of acute poisoning. In an hour he will be gone. How will I explain it? Dr. Edwardson is bound to suspect. He knows Zeb was perfectlyx . An uglier probability struck her, and she was swept with fury. The gold! That old miser is going to slip away without telling me anything. Oh, no, Zeb! You won't get away with that. I'll rattle it out of you! The old man opened his eyes in time to see her reaching for him, and he mistook her anger for worry. "It's ... it's all right. Easin' up a b-bit." He groaned and looked at her pitifully. "Never had no-no hurt like this 'afore ... Thank ye ... D-don't know what I'd a' done without ye." Melody exhaled hard and put her arms around him. "Oh, I'm so relieved, little daddy," she said in all honesty. "I can't bear to see anyone suffer, especially you. You've become like my own father." Her tears were genuine, too, as were his. The door opened. It was Abel. His eyes took in the scene instantly: his wife on her knees cradling Zebadiah, newspapers and magazines scattered about, tear-stained facesx one deathly grayx a full emesis basin by the wheel chair. "What's wrong? What happened? Is somebody hurt?" "No, honey. Poor Zeb has come down with a terrible attack of the flu. He has been awfully sick for a couple of hours." "Well, I'll get Dr. Edwardson right away." He turned to leave. I'll be rightx." Zeb raised a bony hand shakily. "No, young feller. I feel s-some better now. Thet sawbones couldn'tx." He took a few shallow breaths. "Thet quack couldn't do me n-no bettern'n thisyere f-fine nurse." "Maybe you need a snort of whiskey, old man." "No, Abel. Don't need no more fire in my belly, an' my mouth an' throat's still a- blisterin'." The big miner turned to his wife in perplexity. "Flu you said? I never heard of flu actin' like that, Melody. Maybe I should get Doc. Won't hurt." "Flu attacks people in different ways, honey; I've seen a lot of it lately. No he is doing better all of a sudden, and I'll watch him carefully. I can't see any reason to bother Dr. Edwardson, because our little daddy is going to be just fine." She patted his hand. Abel relaxed visibly and shook his head as he smiled. "You crazy old badger. If you're not throwin' yourself off cliffs, you're gettin' sick-drunk all over my livin' room." "F-from tryin' ta digest yer-yer rotten table scraps, ye little whelp." Clanton shut his eyes. "Leave me be. Gonna ... gonna die after all, jest fer spite." Melody stayed at Zeb's bedside all night, catching cat naps in her chair. The old man had a difficult time, retching frequently and still suffering pain. But his difficulties lessened, and by first light he was resting quietly. She fell asleep, relieved that her charge had survived but frustrated, nonetheless: He had uttered not a word about gold. She had hoped for new delirium-wrought revelations ... Mrs. Allen awoke in her own bed. Abel obviously had carried her there before leaving for the mine. She dressed and went into the kitchen. It was ten minutes to eleven; and there was a note propped against the sugar bowl. You're an absolute angel. I'll never know how I caught you. Zeb and I are both lucky to be alivexbut for different reasons. Why that old pussycat! He always was a sentimentalist. Too bad he'sx . Oh, well, he had his chance. Nothing personal, gorgeous. After breakfast she heaved a deep sigh and tip-toed into Clanton's room. He was wide awake and had propped himself up. "Well, if you don't look like a strutting cock this morning, Mr. Zeb! How are you feeling?" "Like a feller mule-kicked in the belly an' a critter with hoof an' mouth disease. But I ain't fixin' ta cross over no more, thanks ta you." A tiny sob escaped through his beard, and he riveted his eyes to the comforter. "Fer what ye done, they's no way I kin repay ye." She patted the top of his head and walked out, as if too touched to respond. Oh, but there is a way, little carcass; you'll see. I know just how to fix your tea now. Melody Allen walked to the mirror and stood before it for a full minute. She smiled then, imagining a second image in there beside her. It was that of Loren White. VI. Loren White had been running away from himself again ever since Abel Allen had dragged him into the Imperial Hotel for a drink. Somehow, his encounter there with the drunken Tony Slink's sing-song about Melody had re-ignited all his turmoils and sent him back every night through the sorcerer's door. It seemed as if the little dark-brown pellet were the only way he could truly escape his rising guilt. But, of course, relief was temporary. There always was another morning. He let Fresco have his head now. After all, he was going nowhere in particular. "That's a fact," he laughed bitterly. "Exactly what you've been doing all your life, Loren, going nowhere in particular." Frank huddled down behind them like a little toy town as the horse continued to move up Goat Mountain on an easy, circuitous climb. Snow still clung to the trees from last night's storm, and the countryside was a mural come to life. It was cold. But Loren was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. "A man who paints pretty little posies on a hillside doesn't have the balls to do much else, anyway." Will I ever forget those words? No, never. To be emasculated by your own father is the ultimate rebuke. Loren gritted his teeth remembering it all again. Dad had managed to geld him every day of his life since puberty. "Failure," "ne'er do well," and "lazy" were some of the words. Even death didn't stop it: The inheritance managed to corroborate the accusations: Dad was still supporting a son who could "throw away his life" and "toss it into a pile of horse shit." "Well, Dad, lately I've even failed at that," Loren grimaced. "I've been in Frank for just about two weeks, and I haven't painted so much as one of your damned little posies." A great heat of culpability blazed through him. What a mess he was making of everything! If he had any sense, he would keep riding out of Frank and never return. But he knew he would not. Two beautiful faces danced before him. Melody and Gina! Gina and Melody! How could he be so attracted to two women simultaneously? And, of course, he had no right to either: One was happily married to his best friend (whom he betrayed every time he looked at Melody); and he had sullied himself for the other by coveting another man's wife. He had felt unfit to go near Gina since encountering her in the post office; and he was avoiding any contact with the Allens. These bedevilments, in turn, intensified his nightly compulsion to call forth the dragon and let it eat away his mind little by little. What had Dr. Edwardson said? "... prolonged use of alcoholx or any other mind-altering substancex is going to damage the brain, as well as other organs." It was this kind of agitation, then, more than curiosity, that had driven him, a few days past, to seek out the old trapper, Louis Malfin. He had gone as if presuming this ancient hermit, who apparently had found his own peace in solitude, to be some kind of seer. Louis had proven to be something of a mystic, to be sure; but he was no soothsaying guru. Without warning, Fresco snorted now and quavered, snatching White away from morbid introspection. "Easy, boy, easy," Loren soothed, patting the horse's neck. He could see no reason at all for the animal's nervous behavior. Continuing on, they emerged from the trees and were treated to a spectacular view of the mountain top almost directly above. The intervening space was heavily covered with snow, precipitous, and apparently uncluttered by growth. Unexpectedly again, Fresco veered sideways, and his head jerked up and down several times. Loren reined to a stop, but the horse continued to tremble, as his rider paused to scan their surroundings carefully. He could detect no sound or movement. "What the devil's wrong, old nag?" he demanded. "Too much good livin' back at the livery stable, maybe. Simmer down, or I'll have Mr. Watt cut off your oats. There isn't a damn thingx ." Goat Mountain's heights wavered before his eyes, and dizziness distorted his vision.. White swayed in the saddle and experienced an instant of disorientation. "What the hell?" In a rush of confusion, he thought he was having some kind of attack; but when the ground underfoot seemed to collide violently within itself, he realized what was happening. Earthquake! He had been raised in San Francisco; and, to a native Californian, earthquakes are almost a way of life. "Easy, Fresco, it will pass. Nothing to bex ." A low rumble came from above. Loren looked up to see a huge section of snow breaking loose directly overhead near the summit, even as the earth continued to roll. He whirled his horse around and spurred. Fresco leaped forward and galloped precariously back toward the trees. The rumble became thunderous; then White felt a wave of frigid wind pass over them and heard a great whoosh and the crack of breaking trees to their rear. Then, like the rogue whirlwind he had encountered atop the Turtle, in a twinkling everything stabilized. He halted Fresco and turned in his saddle. Back where they had just been was an impassable wall of snow, rocks, and broken conifers. "Sonofagun!" he managed through gasps for breath. "What kind of country is this, anyway? Windstorms, earthquakes, and now an avalanche. What's next?" He had no way to divine, of course, that in a scant three years his beautiful San Francisco would come close to obliteration by a monster earthquake and fire. Nor could he guess what awaited Frank in a matter of days ... "Abel!" he choked. "Abel is in the mine!" He spurred again and pounded off toward the settlement, remembering with horror his friend's secret fears of a mine disaster. Loren recalled, too, a townsman's recollection of a small temblor there in 1901x two years agox but it was not of a magnitude to cause injury or damage. He pushed Fresco hard, all the while praying fervently for Abel to be spared, promising never to think of Melody as anything but a friend, if only her husband could be kept out of harm's way. Fresco was badly lathered when Loren reached the outskirts of town. "Was anyone hurt in the quake?" he shouted to a stranger walking along the way. "Are the miners safe?" "What's that ya' say?" The old man cupped a hand to an ear. Loren had left him too far behind to repeat the question. He headed directly for the livery stable because of the cold weather and his horse's overheated condition. He saw no one until he encountered Francis Rochette, assistant to the stable boss there. "What the blazes ya' been doin' ta that animal?" Rochette demanded angrily. "The earthquake! Were any of the men hurt at the mine?" "Earthquake? What the devil you talkin' about? I ain't heard a' no earthquake. Hey, boss!" he shouted, "Did you feel a earthquake?" "How's that, Francis?" Did I feel what?" Robert Watt called from inside. "A earthquake!" Watt, holding a pitchfork, emerged from the building, and his eyes went immediately to Fresco. "What the hell happened to that horse, White? Get him inside before he catches pneumonia." Loren, however, was already leading his mount through the big door. The two men busied themselves immediately with Fresco's care and answered the artist's questions with lingering annoyance: No, they had not been aware of any ground movement; no, they had heard nothing from anyone about earthquakes; no, the town had been peaceful and quiet all day. Finally, the Montana cowboy left the stable and, totally perplexed, struck out toward town on the footpath. A horseman was approaching. Loren recognized him as John McVeigh, general manager of the McVeigh and Poupore Construction Company. "Mr. McVeigh, did you feel an earthquake within the last hour or so?" "An earthquake? Why, no, did you?" "Yes, but not here. I was riding up the side of Goat Mountain. I felt one just before an avalanche almost buried me and my horse alive." "Damn snowslides! They're always derailin' engines, or twistin' rails, or wreakin' some other kind of havoc around here. No, Mr. White; maybe it was the mass of snow shiftin' just before the fall. Everything's been normal here, thank the good Lord. I would have been one of the first to hear of something ... uh ... unusual like that!" They said their goodbyes and departed; then Loren resumed his walk into town. He was relieved, on the one hand, to learn that Abel and his crew were safe. On the other hand, he could not accept McVeigh's explanation. White had been through too many earthquakes in his life to have been mistaken: He had experienced that unique, giddy sensation of earth turned to rubber much too often. Dr. Edwardson's voice suddenly filled his head: "... we really shouldn't blame him for his startling anti-social outbursts ... I'm convinced they're psychogenic." Psychogenic! The doctor had been speaking about Zebadiah Clanton, but a sickening question arose in Loren's mind. Is this how lunacy starts? Was the earthquake another of his wild imaginings? Was his dizziness back on Goat Mountain a product of dementia? "... Prolonged use of alcoholx or any other mind- altering substancex is going to damage the brain, as well as other organs," the ghost-like voice whispered again. Loren was crossing the Gold Creek foot bridge at this point. He stopped, leaned on the railing, and looked blankly at the gurgling water. A stream-warped reflection wobbled up at him and gradually came into focus. Then all at once Loren White, vagabond cowboy artist and melancholy disappointment to his father, recognized the face in the stream. It was a dope addict's. He took a long breath and straightened up, knowing at last what had to be done: He would go to Frank Cafe and try to collect himself over a meal. Then he would seek out the doctor and ask for help ... It was 4:45 p.m. when he walked into the hospital. He was surprised to see Constable Quartersloe at the front counter talking to Evelyn Landy. "Well, good evening, Mr. White. It's about time you came back to visit us," Nurse Landy said. "I understand you've already met our constable." "Yes," Loren replied, making a good pretense of joviality. "About one minute into our acquaintance he threatened me with lifetime banishment." "Oh, my goodness. What terrible thing did you do?" "Well," the Mountie cut in mischievously, "I suspected he was in league with those Alaskans and that Rough Rider with the big stick who have been trying to cut northwestern Canada off from the sea." He stuck out his hand engagingly. "How are you, Mr. White? Or is that a stupid question for someone who has just walked into a sick bay?" The policeman's good humor was infectious. "I'm fine, Constable; and don't worry. Your Prime Minister Laurier is a knight, isn't he? Since when has a dragon killer had any difficulty with a stick-wielding mortal, especially when the Pennycuick of Crowsnest Pass is in the knight's corner?" "Well, well, Evelyn; maybe we should get Mr. White into our diplomatic service. Did you see the way he sidestepped that one?" "I certainly did," Miss Landy giggled. But she turned serious: "You look a bit drawn, Mr. White. Thinner. Are you sure you didn't come to see the doctor?" "Uhx well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact. But only at his invitation ... for ax a shot. low blood sugar. Doc says a shot or two of brandy ought to take care of it." "He's on a house call, but we're expecting him back any time," she smiled. "By the way, I understand your Mr. Clanton is repairing nicely, is that correct?" "I hadn't heard. Well, that's good news. No, I haven't seen him for over a week. I'd better get by." "Yes." She frowned. "I hope you will do that as often as you can. I don't ... I don't know why, but I feel very uneasy about that poor old man." She blushed. "I just cannot shake the feeling that there's somethingx wellx wrong." The Mountie grinned. "After we turn you into a paid diplomat, Yank, we're going to get this lady into law enforcement, too. She functions just like a cop: no mentality; all instinct." Evelyn Landy sent a paper clip whizzing past his head. "On second thought, I don't think we can use her. Rotten shot. Anyway, I have to go. See you tomorrow, Evie. Nice bumping into you again, Mr. White." "Goodbye, Martin," the little nurse said softly. "Goodbye, Constable," Loren responded. When the door had closed behind the policeman, Loren White became unexpectedly serious. "That's a fine young man, your Constable Quartersloe." Nurse Landy looked down at her desk and blushed again. "He's not my Constable Quartersloe, Mr. White." Loren's face seemed to turn ashen. "Well, he should be. Snatch him up, Miss Landy; I've never seen two people more right for each other." The door opened. It was Dr. Edwardson. "Loren White! Good to see you, son, If this isn't a social visit, I'm going to bex." He tilted his head suddenly, his eyes penetrating. "You look like hell. What have you been doing to yourself?" "Oh, it's nothing, nothing, Doctor. I'm a bit tired, that's all. I almost got caught in an avalanche over at Goat Mountain earlier today. Scared thex," he glanced at Miss Landy. "Scared the devil out of me." "What in tarnation would you be doing at Goat Mountain on a cold day like this? Even the goats know better than that! And are you going to tell me the avalanche knocked ten pounds of flesh off your bones?" Loren smiled weakly. "Hey, Dad, I'm okay." The physician broke into a wide grin. "Well, you sure as blazes don't look like it. Don't act like it, either. Goat Mountain!" He shook his head, still smiling, however. "Probably hypothermia. Miss Landy, we're going into the kitchen for a bit of heat therapy." "Watch out for thermoanesthesia," she cautioned wickedly. "I'd get rid of that nurse, but my practice would collapse," Edwardson snickered as he led the way into the kitchen. Once there, he filled two small glasses, then the two men sat down at the little table. They nursed their drinks silently, the younger man groping for courage, the doctor trying to transmit it silently. "Come on, boy, come on!" his mind cried. "How can I help? What is it? What is it?" "Good stuff, Doc," Loren ventured at last. "Reminds me of the night we brought Zeb in. I wouldn't want to go through that day again, though, just to get some of your brandy." His humor couldn't quite break through. "No ... no. Sometimes this stuff is no remedy at all, anyway," Edwardson primed. "Not for what some humans beings find themselves grappling with. Dammit, Loren, can you possibly imagine what turmoil some of my patients are in? It makes me feel so terribly inadequate most of the time. I set the bones, or suture their wounds; or, sometimes, all I can do is slip them little placebos, because I know their physical ills havex uhx other origins. "Yes, Doc, I can imagine. I ... I've known people like that." The next period of silence lasted until the glasses were empty. Loren started to rise; but the physician poured again. The Yank darted a trapped look outside the room then settled back in his chair. "The real tragedy is this, son. I've always known I could help such peoplex if only they would let me." Dr. Edwardson turned his glass between two fingers and studied the amber liquid. His next words were almost inaudible: "But it's the worst when ... when the patient is someone who has become like part of my family." The conversation thereafter degenerated into small talk; and, finally, Edwardson did not try to detain him when Loren rose again to leave. "Thanks for the companyx and the medicine, Doc. I hope you'll allow me to scratch at your door again sometime." "You won't have to scratch, Loren. It will always be open." * * * "If you're tailing me, you're pretty damned obvious about it." Constable Martin Quartersloe slid into the stool beside Loren at Frank Cafe. "Clever, ay? You see, this way the criminal is never really sure," the lawman grinned. He ordered coffee. "Actually, I did come on urgent business." White's smile faded. "A beautiful young woman named Gina Olson has been asking discreet questions about you, White. Things like: 'Have you seen our artist friend lately?' or 'I wonder why he hasn't picked up his mail.' That sort of thing. Nothing serious. Just a pitiful little lamb showing signs of suffering and neglect." Loren was sure everyone in the place had heard and was staring. "I'm going to-to turn you in for abuse above and beyond the call," he managed to stammer through his wriggling. "Don't believe I ever enjoyed a cup of coffee as much as this one, Yank; and it hasn't even been served to me, yet." The waitress heard him and hurried over. "Sorry, Julie," he said, "I was justx ." She sniffed and turned away muttering. Loren was delighted. "Murder will out, my friend," he leered. Quartersloe took a sip from his cup and knotted up his face. "Yuk! Strong enough to choke a mule," he whispered. "Which reminds me. Your tough little mule, Zebadiah Clanton may not be so tough after all. I'm told he came down with a dangerous case of the flu about six days agox the night before I saw you at the hospital. Did you know?" "No, I didn't. Seems I'm neglecting everybody. I'll look in on him today. How is he now?" "Apparently a lot better. A man of his age, though ... you never know." Quartersloe chuckled again. "I guess Evie was on to something. Damned women's intuition." "Evelyn Landy?" Loren's voice could be heard throughout the restaurant. "Yes, Constable Quartersloe, you're absolutely right. Evelyn Landy is a gorgeous, thoroughly captivating woman, and I don't blame you for being so taken with her." The Mountie stood up and plunked a coin onto the counter. His face was the color of his dress uniform. "Shut up, Yank," he muttered. "Murder will out," he added, slinking off. Loren White's enjoyment was fleeting: He had to go to the post office and he had to visit the Allens'. Gina had said there was mail for him. It must be his shipment! He felt relieved and tainted at the same time: His supply of the stuff was diminishing rapidly; and he had been using it every single night. Damn coward! Doc Edwardson held out his hand to you, but you chose to sink back into the mire. And now it's worse than ever. How can you show your face to a little innocent like Gina? But you will, won't you? Because a tiny brown pellet has taken control of your life. When he entered the post office, however, there was no one at the window; and he was able to go to his box apparently unobserved. Hell! Nothing but a letter from the bank and a worthless advertisement. No notice of a package to pick up. What the devil is delaying my order? He slammed the little metal door shut and moved toward the exit. "I was hoping you would bring by a painting for us to see, Mr. Allen." The clerk's window was full of flaxen hair and sparkle. "Oh, Miss Olson. I'm sorry. I ... I didn't think you'd be here on a Saturday. How have you been?" "Fine. I understand you've had some difficulty, though." "No, Ix difficulty?" "Yes. Is it true that a mountain of goats tried to fall on you?" Loren grinned weakly. "Oh, that. Yes, but we managed to outrun it." "Well, I'm glad it missed. After all, we would hate to lose our only resident artist. But, seriously, I ... we can't wait to see some of your work." "I can't either." He looked down at the floor. "I've been lax. I haven't done a thing." He returned his eyes to her face and noticed some of the sparkle was gone. "When I do, though, I'd be pleased to let you see it ... It's been nice talking to you." He turned to leave. "Mr. White?" Loren looked back. "Yes?" "Don't stop listening for the music." "N-no; I won't. Thank you." He stumbled out into the street ... Two hours later he was back on Fresco headed to what now seemed to be his only untainted sanctuary in Frank: old Louis Malfin and his Turtle Mountain tabernacle. Loren had just come from the Allen house. He had managed to talk himself into going there, because he knew Abel was home on weekends. On this particular Saturday, however, Abel was elsewhere. Zeb had been delighted to see the man who had saved his life; and Loren initially had enjoyed a lively visit with the old fellow. Aside from seeming somewhat shaky, Clanton appeared to have recovered fully from his bout with influenza. Melody, however, had been delighted as well: After a show of pampering her patient, and after wheeling the old fellow into his room for a nap, she showered Loren with flattery, smiles, and suggestive little mockeries. And Loren soon became almost unaware of anything else. At last, he managed to escape. As he rode through the flats among the temporary dwellings now, her perfume lingered in his mind; and he realized there had been no escape at all. Worse, he knew it had taken him a mere five days to break his promise to God about Melody and Abel. The Montana cowboy could see a thin line of smoke coming from Malfin's tent window as he rode up; and the hobbled burro appeared to be nuzzling the same old spot in the snow. "C'mon in, son," a voice called from inside. "Coffee's a-waitin'." The old trapper was sitting at the table. It held two steaming, tin cups. "Saw ya' comin' through the jack pine. Set down, set down. Thought you'd be here before today. Don't take long fer the city ta grit the teeth of a real man." "Maybe he's a guru, after all," Loren thought. As he sat down, he said aloud: "Thanks for the 'real man.' It's good to see you, Louis. How have you been?" "Not bad for a half-gone old timber wolf with no bite left. See you ain't makin' it too good, though. What is it, whiskey or women?" "Something like both, I guess." "Well, then; ain't no help fer ya'; them kinda' things a man's gotta lick on his own. Cain't 'spect nobody else ta do the facin'-up fer him ... What's wrong? Don't ya' like forty-day coffee grinds?" White apologized and began to work on his cup, all the while trying to hide his disappointment. He had hoped for more than "things a man's gotta lick on his own." Eventually, however, he relaxed and listened to more of Malfin's tales of the wilderness. At length, Louis fell silent for a moment then asked: "How did you happen across Zebadiah Clanton?" "About three weeks ago, I dragged him up from a cliff ledge on the other side of the pass near the summit. He was all broken up and raving like a lunatic about gold, and hoodoo, and cannibals. He had been thrown from his horse. Probably spooked by a grizzly because I saw signs; and some foul-smelling vulture already was interested in him. Biggest buzzard I ever saw. In fact, when it swooped up at me, I thought it was going to take my head off." "Oh, hell!" Malfin swore almost under his breath. His chin was clutched in a bony hand, and he was staring at Loren out of horrified eyes. "Gold, hoodoo, cannibalsx even the grizzly and the buzzard! Listen ta me hard, son, 'cause you been walkin' the edge a' the pit! "I told you I been all through Lemon Mine country an' I said no white man be safe a-pokin' 'round there. Now I got ta tell ya' somethin' else, somethin' I never mentioned ta nobody: They's not only secret, hidden places back in them glaciers, son, they's secret people, too. They's from a time before time when nothin' was like it is nowx no livin' thing was the same then, not even humans. But these people is a pure strain; they ain't changed at all. "I'm the only white man's ever seen one, I guess. I didn't know what he was, 'cause he weren't natural; an' he was stove up pretty bad. Happened ta have a Indian guide with me. Feller got all excited. Said it were a baby, even though it musta' been five-foot tall. He took the little feller off inta the snow somewheres. "We was old friends, thet guide an' me, an' we trusted each other; so when he got back he told me about the Apahanis. Thet's what he called 'em, the secret people, I mean. Swore me ta secrecy, an' I never told no one before you. "Ain't got a choice now, though, 'cause more than jest yer life's at stake. Anyways, the Apahanis ain't no threat themselves. Even most Indians don't know about 'em, an' they've hid from whites since the beginnin' fer two reasons: They think we're the ones thet's killers; but, most of all, they's skeered a' what they call 'The Cannibal a' the Walkin' Ice.' They say he's a demon thet lives inside a big glacier with two lesser devils. "Their glacier an' what's left a' the Apahani band is located smack dab in the middle a' Lemon Mine country, an' the demons is guardians of the 'yeller an' black fires'x thet's gold an' coal, son. They's told the Apahanis they'll destroy ever' last one of 'em if they ever have anything ta do with white folk. "But thet ain't all of it. The Lemon Mine an' the gold in it is sacred ta' the demons, an' so is some a' the coal- bearin' places aroun' the pass here. Like Turtle Mountain. Any man thet trespasses is hunted down by them devils an'x . The first minor demon is called Ixtlhaupti. Thet means 'terror.' The next in line is U-Makiluk. Thet means 'rout.' An' the worst one, the Cannibal a' the Walkin' Ice,' is called Tshyplal. Thet means 'annihilation.'" "Did you say Tshyplal?" Loren gasped. "Yep. Tshyplal." "It can't be. I swear that's what Zeb screamed when a second buzzard flew over him a few days back. Clanton was full of whiskey and out of his mind again." Louis Malfin stared silently at Loren for a full thirty seconds. "Out a' his mind, ay?" he grunted at last. "Mebbe you'd be, too, son. See, the Apahanis believe Tshyplal kin take the form of a vulture whenever he wants, an' thet his demon, U-Makiluk, prefers slitherin' about in the body of a rattler. "Mebbe thet latest buzzard was the same one as the first ... mebbe you seen Tshyplal twice, but he was after Clanton 'stead a' you." "One more thing, Loren," Louis Malfin said quietly." Ixtlhaupti, the third demon, prowls aroun' as a grizzly bear." VII. "Saw Francis Rochette from the livery stable yesterday," Abel Allen said between monstrous bites of ham and toast. "Francis says our friend Loren came gallopin' up to the stable hell bent for leather the other day during that cold snap. Horse was all lathered up, an' Loren was scared to death an' talkin' crazy about an earthquake. You hear anything about that, Melody? Doesn't sound like Loren. He's a pretty cool customer, an' he'd never mistreat that horse of his without a damn good reason." "Young feller stopped in fer a few minutes yesterday," Zeb volunteered. "Didn't mention no earthquake. Acted kinda' jumpy, though." "Yes, I forgot to mention it," Melody said. "After Loren left yesterday, Sam Ennis dropped us off a load of coal. He knew all about it. Apparently Loren was riding up on Goat Mountain that day and almost got buried in an avalanche. He thought it had been triggered by an earthquake." "So that's it. But why did hex ? Oh, I'll betx ." "Yes, Abel," Melody confirmed. "He thought the earthquake might have damaged the mine, and he was worried about all you men in there." She paused. "As far as I know, there's only one miner he knows very well ... He was scared to death for you, Abel." The big man dropped his head, and a hand came up to hide his eyes. The fingers were trembling. "Damn!" "That there's a mighty fine lad," Zeb said quietly. "Reckon he was a-thinkin' ta try ta save yer hide, too, boy." "Drink your tea, little daddy, before it gets cold. How is Mama ever going to get you well if you just pick at your food?" Melody purred. It's the right formula this time, papa-puke. The honeymoon's over; you've had a whole week off. "Tea's okay, but 'tain't food. Whiskey's food." "Hah! Whiskey's crazy food in your wrinkled breadbasket, Pop," Abel laughed. "Three weeks." "Three weeks what, mountain man?" "In three weeks, I'm gittin' these ce-ment blocks offa' my arm an' leg, an' then I'm gonna whittle a certain young buck down ta human size. After thet, I'm headin' out." You won't be 'headin' out' anywhere, little corpse. In just a bit, that nasty flu bug is going to start gnawing through your belly again and scare the hell out of you ... Ah, that's better now. Bottoms up! Bonne sant‚, petit vieillard. "No, no, old man; you get everything wrong," Abel taunted. "When those casts come off, I'm gonna put a brass collar around your chicken neck an' chain you to a tree outside. Grazin's not bad out there. Gonna make you my slave, because of all the food an' booze you've guzzled." "What a terrible thing to say, Abel!" Melody's horror act was convincing. "I don't care if you are joking, that's justx." "And then, when we load up the wagon to move to Fort Saskatchewan, I'm gonna hook you to itx not behindx in front. The horses are gonna be behind." And you're a horse's behind, too, pretty man, if you think either one of us is going to be in that wagon. "When we get there, you'll be all practiced up. You're gonna be the nastiest little plough mule in the North-West Territories." "Well, now, little feller, jestx ." "Stop it, you two children!" Melody interceded. "Can't we ever be serious around here? I know you've been wanting to go off on your own about April 1st to make final arrangements for the farm, honey; but if Zeb isn't all better by then, you might have to delay a few days." "Hold on, hold on!" Zeb cried. "By April 1st I'll be gone! You prob'ly won't even remember who I was, I'll be gone so long. I'll prob'ly be off somewheres a'-wallowin' in big yeller nuggets." He leered secretively. "I got me a place in mind." "Hey, Melody, he'll be gone by then, all right," Abel snickered. "If he doesn't stop this fakery pretty damn quick, a certain hospitable feller's gonna sell him off to the fox farm." Very nice; very nice. Keep talking gold, old canker. As for you, farm boy, I can plant seeds, too. We'll just let that "delay a few days" idea germinate a while ... Feels good to be in control again: You proved yourself yesterday, Melody; nice to know you've still got it! Pitiful little creatures, these men. How easy it was to send that big Montana cowboy off into red-eyed rut. Mama's ring is in your nose now, Loren honey! She came out of herself realizing the two men were still baiting one another joyously. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said shamefully. "I've let your teacups run dry. That's the trouble with Sunday mornings; they always bring out that lazy streak in me." Abel watched his beautiful wife walk dutifully around the table to serve tea. He smiled contentedly, knowing every male in town envied him. He felt himself to be the luckiest man in the world. Zeb gave Melody a grateful look as she refilled his cup, but he wondered if he should drink it. For some reason, even the thought of whiskey was suddenly unappealing. He was feeling strange . * * * Loren was feeling strange, too. It had been four days since Louis Malfin had filled him with wild stories about demons and the shadowy Apahanis. White had graduated from a respected university, and he had been saturated with learned derisions of "sub-cultures" and their "childish superstitions." Ever since Zeb's runaway horse had deflected him to the mountain side path, however, it was as if he had passed through an unnatural door. Moreover, no matter how many haughty rationalizations he devised for the old trapper's allegations, Loren always found himself blocked at the same dead end: Zeb Clanton's uproars tended to be corroborative. He had managed to break through another source of discomfort, however: He had sat back and analyzed his adolescent reactions to Melody's behavior on his last visit to the Allen house. As a result, he now was utterly ashamed. It was obvious he had misinterpreted everythingx after all, what did Loren White think he had that could possibly arouse in an elegant, happily-married woman anything other than friendliness? What stupidity! Melody Allen had been her normal, vivacious self, that's all. One little pellet in his pipe last night had helped him claw through those particular weeds. The stuff was like that; it had a peculiar ability to deaden the beast in a man. Still, on his way to visit Zeb again now, he could not deny that he had waited until evening to be sure Abel would be home from the mine this time. Loren felt compelled to look in because of talk throughout the little town alleging that "the crazy old man at the Allens" had taken sick again, or gone out of his mind, or something last Sundayx three days ago ... "Where have you been, cowboy?" Abel was instantly animated when he opened the door. "I haven't seen you for two weeks." As soon as Loren came into the light, however, the big coal miner whistled. "You look like a damn skeleton, friend! What did you do, escape from a leper colony? Melody! Bring out that bucket of lard. We've gotta fatten up this little calf. What the hell's wrong, Loren?" "I've been trying to tell you what's wrong," White laughed, "but you haven't given me a chance." "Okay, so here's your chance: What's wrong?" "Nothing. I've been off my feed lately, that's all. Happens every once in a while with me ... Where's Zeb? From what I've heard, he's the one we should be concerned about." "Leave the poor man alone, honey; he looks beautiful as always," Melody warbled. She had just appeared from the direction of Zebadiah's room. "I'm trying to get the little fellow to sleep, Loren. That poor, sweet man has had a terrible time. I'm beginning to think his old body may just be breaking down, little by little. He's seventy, you know, and he hasn't had an easy life." She glared at her husband. "Did I actually hear you screaming for a bucket of lard or something when I was trying to lull your tiny sick guest to sleep?" Abel grinned sheepishly. "Never mind. Loren doesn't deserve it, anyway. Besides, he'd probably hog the whole, damn thing, an' we'd have nothing to eat in the house." "What happened this time, Melody?" Loren asked. "A flu relapse? He seemed to be doing so well on Saturday. What does Dr. Edwardson think?" "Dr. Edwardson? Oh, no. No, it hasn't been necessary to consult him. There's no question but that it is a relapse, Loren. He just needs a lot of loving care. These geriatric cases sometimes take a long, long time to mend from the simplest things." She came close and tapped his chest with an admonishing finger. "It's so sweet of you to worry about your friend, but stop it. Mama's taking good care of baby." She swished off toward the kitchen. "I think you poor, tired boys need a bit of tonic." The men sat at the table; and Loren watched his friend's eyes, brimming with pride, follow his wife's movements. Abel's head was moving from side to side, and a little smile played with the corners of his mouth. "What a fool I've been!" Loren agonized inwardly. "How could I have so insulted this house and this devoted couple?" Melody reappeared with a bottle and two glasses. "I don't know how you males can stand this vile stuff." She made a gagging sound as she poured, first Loren's, then Abel's. "I tasted it once, and I'm sure all they do is pour kerosene into pretty containers with fancy labels." She sat next to Abel then; and the three involved themselves in carefree, inconsequential talk. "I understand you fell off your horse up at Goat Mountain a few days ago," Abel tested Loren finally. "People are saying you made up a story about an earthquake and an avalanche, because you didn't want anyone to know that Montana cowboys are so afraid of horses they have to be tied in their saddles or they fall off. Come on, boy, trying to cover up your spill with a snowslide is takin' it pretty far." "Loren's a big 'fraidy cat," Melody snickered. The interjection startled even her husband. "See, Yank?" he gloated, nonetheless. "Melody's on to you, too." "In that case, I have to go," Loren laughed, rising. "Thanks for your hospitality; and I'm glad Zeb is in such capable hands. He probably would have died without you two." He turned toward the door. There was a sharp cry from Zeb's room. "Oh, honey, would you check on him?" Melody asked wearily. "He has tired me out today. I'll see Loren out." "Sure, Melody. Thanks for coming, Loren." He hurried away. Mrs. Allen preceded Loren to the door. Her perfume swirled behind. She turned the knob and smiled up at him. "You are a big 'fraidy cat, cowboy. Do you know why?" "Sure," he ventured, "becausex ." "No. Because you never come unless you think Abel will be here." * * * Melody Allen had no idea of the time. She knew, however about lying awake here for hours listening to her husband snore. There had been one or two mutterings from Zeb; but each time she had tiptoed through the moonlit house to his room, her efforts to worm out his secret had failed. "Tell, Mama, Zeb. Tell Mama. Where is it? Where is it?" She would whisper. Once, the old man had started awake: "Whut? Whut? Where is whut?" "Where is the hurt, little daddy?" "Don't hurt. Nightmares. An' weak ... weaker ever' day." And so it had gone. He had been back on his "special medicine" for eight days now, but the wily old mountaineer was keeping his counsel. The adjusted dosage, she believed, was about right to keep him down even after the casts were removed; but it was not strong enough to trigger any talkative insanity. One thing was certain: She could not continue like this. For twenty-five days, ever since Zeb had entered the house, she had been living a nightmare of sleeplessness, anxiety, andx most of allx anger. The toll was becoming more and more physically evident, and Melody was finding it increasingly difficult to play her role of devoted wife and selfless nurse. She longed to be able to rip off the mask and lash out at the community of fools imprisoning her. Stop it, dummy, stop it! You're falling into that gnashing-of-teeth pit again. No way out of that, remember? Think again, think! All right, what do I know? Easy. It's not working, and the clock is ticking. Forget the clock! It will tick on no matter what you do ... Yes, that's it: If it's not working, you stop doing it, idiot. Well, then, what would loosen your little black tongue, Zeb, if not booze or insanity any more? Is there any way I can make you lead me to the gold willingly? Willingly ... She giggled suddenly, sending the sleeping Abel into groans and mushy jabberings beside her. Of course, little flame, that battered old moth is no different from all the other drunken bugs! Bring out the big guns, stupid! Get him to love you, Melody; get him to worship you. Keep him sick and keep him needing you. Finally, with the help of some skillfully-subtle suggestions, he will realize there will never be any more going out after the Lemon gold all by himself. He will turn to the one person in the world he trusts the most. Then I'll send off that other frenzied moth, my little cow dung Rembrandt. In a moment, she was deep in restful sleep ... A terrible scream catapulted Melody and Abel from bed. "Zeb!" Abel shouted, even as he ran toward the oldster's bedroom with Melody at his heels. When he burst inside, he could see the old prospector clearly in the moonlight. Despite his casts, Zeb had gotten himself up and was cowering in a corner; and the house reverberated with his continuing terror. "Shut up! Stop it!" Abel cried, shaking Clanton's skinny shoulders. "Did you hear me, old man? I've had enough of your damn, crazy yelling! Did you hear me? Shut up!" Zeb wilted into trembling silence, and Abel eased him to a sitting position back on the bed. "What is it? What the hell's bothering you this time?" "Cain't ye hear it?" Zeb's eyes were rolling again. "Listen, listen." He looked fearfully toward the unshaded window. He was breathing hard. There was a woofing sound, and Zeb stiffened, sucking in his breath and holding it. "Well damn! What kind of a mountain man do you call yourself? Nothin' but a bear prowlin' around out there." "No, n-no. Ain't no ord'nary bear. Griz-grizzly. An' ye don't understand ..." "So it's a damn grizzly. Who cares?" Abel was losing all patience. There were four hard thuds against the outer wall, and a mirror broke loose to smash on the floor. "Oh, Abel!" Melody gasped. "He's trying tox to crash through into the house!" "See? See?" Zeb screeched. "I told yex I told ye! Oh L-Lord, he's afterx !" "We'll see about that!" Abel snarled, running out of the room for his rifle. Now the woofing could be heard directly underneath Zeb's window; then, all of a sudden, a great shape rose up almost filling the opening and casting a long shadow inside. The creature's concave snout swayed from side to side. "Abel! Abel!" Melody shrieked, just as her husband materialized in the bedroom doorway and the window imploded ahead of flailing claws. Abel's rifle met cascading glass and wood fragments with two bursts of fire; but the bear already had dropped away. "Ye missed, ye missed! Ye cain't stop them d-devils. They never quit 'tilx !" But massive forelegs already were battering heavily against the front door now. Abel cursed again and ran toward the back exit. "No, Abel! It's not safe out there!" Melody pleaded. "Don't openx !" But her husband had already swept outside. She flew to bolt the door after him then backed away with a hand clutching her throat. Two more shots were heard and, a few moments later, Abel re-entered breathlessly from the front. He was barefoot, but seemed unaware of cold. "I-I caught him up-up close right in the-the face. I'm sure of it be-because it was like broad daylight out there. He went running off then, but Ix but I couldn't have missed. Biggest damn grizzly I ever saw. I'll be he wasx I'll bet he was a couple of inches taller than me." "Cain't kill 'em, no matter whut ye do. Won't be no trace of 'em in the mornin', 'cept mebbe footprints in the snow; an' even those'll fade away. Won't be nothin' not even blood." Abel laughed nervously. "Papa bear, how can a scrawny little beast like you have such a big imagination? Cover yourself up there. We'll clean up that glass, and then all three of usx even Melodyx are gonna have a stiff snort or two. Man, we've really earned it this night!" Although the ailing old fellow complained it "don't taste so good no more," the whiskey served well as a sedative for Zeb. Finally, he was asleep, and the Allens were able to crawl back into bed. "Oh, Abel, do you think that awful beast will come back?" Melody whispered tremulously. "Not a chance, honey. He took two bullets to the head. Go to sleep, sweetheart, don't listen to that wild old gnome; he's ready for the looney bin." But in the morning, aside from footprints that quickly trailed off to nothing in the snow, nowhere around was there any sign of bear. Not even blood. * * * "I'm going to have to find another place to take my meals, I guess," Loren White joked automatically when Abel Allen walked up to him in Frank Cafe. It was 7:15 a.m. "If it's not Mounties' interrupting my meals, it's coal eaters." But Abel wasn't smiling; he was looking uncharacteristically serious. Loren, realizing something was wrong, became concerned. "Sit down, Abel. What's eating you?" "Hello, Loren. Thanks. Figured I'd catch you here. I've only got a minute before the crew has to head over to the the mine. I need to ask a favor." "Sure, sure. Anything, buddy. What is it?" "Well, would you believe it? Old Zeb really went off his rocker again last night, and I'm worried about Melody being alone with him today. There was an awful lot of noisex even gunshotsx at our place, and I don't really think the neighborsx." "Gunshots? Whox Whatx ?" "Oh, some damn rogue grizzly smashed out Zeb's window in the wee hours this morning. Biggest bloody bear I ever saw. It was hammerin' at the door an' slammin' against outside walls like some kind of devil tryin' to knock the house over." "Did you shoot him?" Abel shook his head wonderingly. "That's the crazy part, Loren. He wasn't much farther away from me than you are right now, and I got off two quick shots right in his face. But he took off runnin'; and at sunup, I looked around out there. No carcass. No blood. An' his tracks seemed to just fade away as ifx," he laughed, "as if he'd gradually got himself airborne. Can you beat that?" "No, no; no way." Loren put his cup down nervously, rattling it against the saucer and sloshing coffee out. "And you say the ... the grizzly actually smashed out Clanton's window?" "Sure did. And, of course, the old man was convinced the critter was out for Zebadiah meat and nothin' else. Hollered an' screamed just like when that big buzzard flew over. Why would a mountain man be scared of birds and bears? He musta' been livin' side by side with wilderness animals the better part of his life." "I'm beginning to think there are a lot of things we don't understand, Abel. But how is Zeb otherwise?" "Not too good. Weak as a kitten. Sometimes I think he's gettin' worse every day ... But Melody says he's comin' along. Anyway, I've got to be going. Would you mind checkin' on her sometime today? I'm still a bit nervous about crazy men and bears lurkin' around my house. If you could do that, I won't feel all day like scramblin' out of the hole to see how she's doin'." Loren felt trapped again. "Dammit, Abel!" he thought, "I've been trying to stay away from that gorgeous wife of yours. Some favor I'd be doing you!" But he had no choice. "Sure, buddy," he said. "I'll look in on them for you. Don't worry, they'll be fine." Abel relaxed visibly and his resident humor revived. "A pure heart beats under that ugly hide of yours after all, Yank. Much obliged." Loren delayed until 11 a.m., knowing that Melody was sure to misinterpret this visit as a response to her challenge to come when Abel was absent. He did not know how to handle this at all. Once again, as he walked alongside the row of miners' cottages, he had an urge to keep going, to pass right by the Allen's house. The livery stable and Fresco were just a short distance way. Louis Malfin's words echoed in his ears: "Well, then, ain't no help fer ya; them kinda' things a man's gotta lick on his own," he had warned. "Cain't 'spect nobody else ta do the facin'-up fer him ..." "You're right, Louis," Loren muttered. "If I had any guts, I'd ride out now and never look back." "Well, Mr. 'Fraidy Cat! I can't believe my eyes!" Melody tittered as soon as she had opened the door. "Come in, come in. Zeb's not up yet, but the kettle's on." "Good morning, M-Melody. I came by because Abelx I mean ... I came by to check on ... on ..." "Did you really, now?" She leaned close to him. "Oh, but that's a shame. We have a visitor," she whispered. They walked to the kitchen. A pleasant-looking woman was seated at the table. "Mrs. Watkins, this is Loren White, the painter-cowboy from Montana you've heard so much about. Loren, Mrs. Watkins is my next-door neighbor." They exchanged polite greetings. "I stopped by, Mr. White, because I heard rifle shots last night from the Allen's house, and I wanted to find out what had happened. John works nights, and I was afraid tox Did you hear about that terrible grizzly?" "Yes. Abel told me about it earlier this morning. Hex uhx asked me to look in on Melody and Zeb." "Oh, isn't Mr. White a ... a pussy cat, Mrs. Watkins?" Melody smiled. "I mean to concern himself with our welfare like that?" Loren knew his face must be crimson. "I can't stay long, Mrs. Allen. Do you mind if I look in on Zeb?" "Oh, he would be so pleased. I'm sorry about the cardboard covering his window. Someone's supposed to fix it today. That's where the bear tried to break in." Her eyes were mocking. Loren walked through Zeb's open door and was shocked. The old man was lying with his head propped against a pillow; and, even without light from the window, one could see the gray cast to his face. Most of the blond streaks in his profusion of white hair seemed to have faded, and he looked much older than his seventy years. "Hello, young feller," he said weakly. "Gonna throw me offa' thet rock agin?" There was no smile. "Maybe I will if you don't perk up pretty soon. How are you feeling, Zeb?" "Weak. Weak as a bony hag. Cain't understan' how I kin be this weak an' still be alive. You ... you think I'm a-dyin', boy?" "Do you want to die?" "No, not while they'sx not while they's still gold in them mountains." "Well, then you aren't dying. Melody says it's the flu again. Hey, you're no young colt anymore, Zeb. It's hard for old folks to get over these things. Just do what Melody tells you. You're lucky to have such a fine nurse." "She ain't no nurse. She's a angel." Loren started to mention the grizzly incident but thought better of it when he recalled Malfin's incredible allegations about the bear-demon. What had he called it? Ixtlhaupti. Yes, he had said the word translated as "terror." White looked at the window covered with cardboard and shivered. "Terror," he repeated to himself. "It's a wonder Zeb didn't die of fright." A little while later, Melody escorted the big cowboy to the door again. It was just like before: the way she walked, the perfume, the smile after she had freed the latch. "I was wrong about the 'fraidy cat', she whispered this time. "You're a Chicken Little ... And I had such great hopes for you." When Loren stumbled outside and heard the door click shut behind him, he knew she was right, because one thing was certain now: The sky was falling. VIII. Warbling to one another in their own, peculiar mating language, a pair of big ravens flying in close formation arced high and away over Loren White's head. "They sound like frogs, Fresco," Loren laughed. But the horse's rhythmic gait and the answering squeak of leather soon leaked a different siren's call back into his head. "Chicken Little, Chicken Little, Chicken Little ...," it taunted; "'fraidy cat, 'fraidy, cat, 'fraidy cat ..." A flash of movement caught his eye. A spotted lynx had flushed a snowshoe hare up on the hillside. "Run, little bunny, run!" Loren coaxed. But there was a splash of snow; and, a moment later, the cat was trotting off with a small white body hanging limp from its mouth. "Death in tranquillity," Loren thought darkly, "slaughter in paradise; and God is unmoved by the cries of his children." He shook himself. "Don't blame your wallowings on God, boy, you crawled into the pigsty all by yourself. And don't contaminate His wilderness with self-pity. You came up here to be cleansed, remember?" It was March 23rd on another balmy morning. He hadn't been near the Allens for six days, and it had been more than two weeks since he had seen Gina. He had been checking the post office daily for his shipment but had been careful to do so only when no staff was present. His supply of the magic pellet was getting dangerously low; and he had not yet received a reply to a n urgent follow-up he had sent the supplier. The possibility of actually running out was real now, and the thought always filled him with panic. For about an hour, he had been following what appeared to be a wapiti trail. It was well-traveled, winding through an ascending valley bordered by snow-covered peaks. After two more hours, the surrounding beauty managed to overcome his dour state, and he found himself on a rocky summit overlooking three high, frozen lakes not far below. There was a little wooded island in the center of the largest one. Up on a frosted crag against some wind-swept rocks he could see some silvery mountain goats. His view seemed all- encompassing. "This is the place, Fresco," he said, dismounting. The horse began to nibble through the snow as the Montana artist sat down on a high rock. There was a sketch pad in his lap. He felt alive again. After an indeterminate time, a gray jay made a bold pass at a few pieces of jerky Loren had placed on a rock at his side. "Whoa, wis-ka-tjon, you little thief," he chuckled, using the Indian name Malfin had taught him. "You've got more guts than brains." The bird flitted down the mountainside to White's right; and, as Loren's eyes followed, they were brought in line with something else. He could see a rider flickering in and out among the trees far below. He was approaching via the same trail Loren had used. "Damn! I hope he doesn't spot me and come up here. Just when I was finding a little peace!" He tied Fresco behind some trees then hunkered down to watch. In twenty minutes, the horseman unexpectedly veered off the main trail and began moving up toward the little lakes. Eventually, the stranger dismounted on the east side of the largest body of water and at some distance from a high hill. He tethered his mount, untied something bulky from behind his saddle, and carried it about three hundred yards to the base of the hill where a mass of big rocks worked up the slope. At this juncture, he placed the object on the ground then stood motionless, peering up into the boulders with his right arm outstretched. "What the devil is he up to?" Loren asked himself. "Looks like some kind of pagan ritual." Suddenly, three tawny shapes came bounding down from the rocks directly toward the man, who stood as if frozen in terror. In a moment, his hat flew off, and he was down and rolling around with the animals all over him. "Mountain lions!" Loren shouted, running for Fresco. In seconds, he was in the saddle, bouncing down the hill, and pulling his rifle free. One shot into the air sent the cougars fleeing back up the rocks. The fallen figure sat up effortlessly then, watching Loren gallop up and leap off. Hazel eyes edged with irritation looked up from under a shock of yellow hair. There was no torn clothing, there was no shredded flesh. There was only Gina Olson. "Loren White!" she exclaimed, her vexation gone. "Did you really have to save me like that? I don't remember calling for help." She rose and retrieved her hat. "Gina! Ginax ! What the devil are you doing way out here? What? Why did I save you? Didn't you have three mountain lions chewing on you?" Her lack of injury finally registered; and he realized she was smiling at him. "What's going on, Ginax uhx Miss Olson? I don't understand." "Gina's much nicer; and of course you wouldn't understand. I guess most people wouldn't." She looked up at the rocks. "That was Bengal with Scruff and Buff. Bengal's the mama; I've known her for years. I visit often, and their greetings tend to be a bit rough. They always get goodies, though. Unfortunately," she grinned, indicating the package on the snow, "you didn't let them sample their steak this time. No matter, they'll come back for it later." "You have wild lions for pets?" "Where were you, Loren, up there on that high point? Let's go back up so my kittens can calm down. I'll tell you about it on the way." She retrieved her horse, a shining sorrel named Clancy; and they rode up the slope, with White trying to collect his wits while she talked. It had started some years ago, when Gina had come to the lake to fish, only to discover the young lioness lying in some weeds near the shoreline. The animal was near death from starvation and was barely able to lift its head. It had been a bad season for game, and a recently-battered paw obviously had prevented her from capturing what might be found. Gina stayed all that day fishing and managed to catch about a dozen trout, all of which she lay close to the snarling beast. Two days later she returned to the lake and found the puma still there, but looking much better. She left a large piece of beef this time. Throughout the rest of the summer, the young woman came back at every opportunity, always leaving food. Eventually, the cougar would come running to meet her; and two years ago, Bengal had proudly brought twins down from her lair for introductions. Loren recalled how, on that first day, Gina had materialized out of the night to calm Zeb, after which Doc had said he had "seen her work that magic before, but it's usually with animals." Then later she had described the old man as being like a tiny forest creature you manage to catch in your hand for a second: all heartbeat and tremble. And White had likened her to a shadow-pixie in the leaves. "I have never heard of such a thing, Gina," Loren exclaimed now. "I've always regarded mountain lions as dangerous animals. I just wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it." They were sitting on the high rocks again. "I suppose they can be dangerous if cornered. Aren't we all?" She laughed. "But they are shy, affectionate creatures at heart, and they have been ruthlesslyx ." She caught her breath. "You've been sketching! May I see?" "But that's all they are, Gina, sketches. I'll turn them into paintings later." Now he was laughing. She was like a bubbly child. She looked at the pages carefully without comment. There were three drawings. At last, she closed the pad. "Yes, yes; that's how I would try to do it. It's not just snow, and ice, and rocks. It's ... it's the hand of God." There was no more speaking for some time after that. They sat in silence and listened to the mountains. After a while, though, she broke through again: "You thought I was a man, didn't you?" Before he could respond, she continued. "In Frank, I'm a disgrace to the afternoon tea set because I wear my hair short, and sit a horse like a man, and dress in men's clothes when I ride around in the wilderness alone like a brazen little hussy." Loren could see the glint of beginning tears in her eyes. He started to speak, but she picked up her theme once more. "I love this rugged country, and I'm not going to let myx my gender keep me from being alive and part of it. What sense do their ridiculous taboos make? They say it's the way of the Victorian age. Well, the good queen has been dead for two years, andx ." "Gina, Gina," Loren said softly. "Be what you are without regret. Listen to what your soul prompts you to be. Rise up on your own wings; walk with the heart of your beautiful lions." He brushed the trickle away from her cheek. "You are a masterpiece on God's canvas." She jumped up and turned her face away; but Loren had seen the gush of tears. There was another wordless interval between them. "I must be going," she said finally. "I should be home before dark." When she was on her horse she looked down at him and whispered. "You are a remarkable man, Mr. White. Thank you for the words." She pressed her heels into Clancy's side. Her mount was a blaze of reddish-brown against the pervading white; and Loren watched its diminishing shape until he could see it no more. "I feel as if she is walking out of my life, Fresco, and that a treasure is slipping through my fingers," he said sadly. He put his sketch pad into a saddlebag and started to swing up. But he stepped back, removed a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and placed it on a rock. He looked up into a tree where there was a gray fluttering. "For you, little wis-ka-tjon. You have more brains than I have guts," he muttered. "And you, for one, have the courage of your convictions." At last he climbed on Fresco and followed Clancy's tracks; but, as the light began to fade, he turned off into a tight, box canyon he had explored on the way in. At the dead end, he dismounted and removed Fresco's saddle. When the horse was tethered, Loren gave him his feed bag then set to building a campfire. This done, he pulled into it one end of a large limb from a dead aspen. "That ought to keep us for the night, Fresco," he murmured. Later, wrapped in warm blankets and propped against his saddle before the fire, he almost heard the freezing wind trying in vain to reach him down inside the rocks. The sky was ablaze with stars, but he neither saw them nor registered the wolf pack hot on an ending chase. He was aware of none of this, Because Loren White had become an interloper in Gina's pristine land: He belonged to the little pellet smouldering now inside his pipe. And to Melody Allen . * * * She was feeling smug. Loren had not been around for a week after checking on her subsequent to the grizzly scare. But then he had suddenly reappeared "to see Zeb," he had said in his fumbling way. She giggled. Moreover, this morningxonly two days laterxhe had somehow found it necessary to look in on the old croak again. Both times, however, it was obvious he had known Abel would be off in the mine. Melody laughed triumphantly inside. Administer one drop of lust and these pitiful males are ready to rip out a brother's throat for the chance tox hah! It was a good thing old fly meat over there was in the house. Fraidy Cat certainly isn't a Chicken Little any more ... I wonder what happened to all his lofty principles? ... Now the big problem is going to be keeping him at bay until I need him. Shouldn't be difficult, though, as long as Zebby-cadaver is leering down our necks. "Aah!" Zebadiah Clanton enthused, wiping his mouth again with the back of his hand. "I thought I was a-dyin' fer shore when this stuff didn't taste no good no more. An' I swear, Miz Allen, a man might jest as well roll over on his belly when fine whiskey an' a hot ... uh ... a hot meal stops bein' his reason fer livin'." Oh, no, you drunken lecher. Those are not your reasons for living at all. If it weren't for the real one, little rodent, I'd give you a full dose of that rat poison right now for all you've put me through. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it, little daddy; but don't overdo it. Remember our bargain, honey. And I'm so glad you're feeling better again." Enjoy yourself, Mr. Clanton, it won't last. You've had seven days without your "medicine" and you'll get five more. Then we let Dr. Edwardson remove those casts. We want him to be impressed by my curative powers, don't we? After that, though, Mama's going to throw another log on your fire. "You an' Abel, an' Loren's got ta be the only real family I ever had, Melody. There was the old man a' course, but I laughed when he got took. Hee! Hee! Folks uster say the bottle was gonna be the death of 'im." The old prospector took another swig. "Never thought it would be the jagged edge a' one agin' his throat." "Oh, my, what a horrible thing to say, Zeb. You should be ashamed!" "Mebbe so, mebbe so. Anyways, some day I figger ta repay you three jest a little. Wait; you'll see." "Now you know you don't owe us a thing, sweetie. Of course, if you have a pot of gold buried out there somewhere, you can string me a bunch of big yellow nuggets for my neck, if you'd like." She tittered throatily. Well, the new tactic seems to be working, old lizard. The mooning cowhand's about ready, and a few more days of our special tonic ought to do it with you ... * * * It was 2:15 a.m. on March 27, 1903; and almost everyone was asleep in the little town of Frank couched here under the mountain with a reptile's name. Tony Slink was one of the exceptions. He was staggering home down Dominion Avenue after a fruitful night of panhandling drinks. Another was Albert Cordon, night shift laborer in the Canadian American Coal Company's profitable mine whose entrance fronted the Oldman River. Albert was almost a mile inside the Turtle. Suddenly, he straightened up. Did something move again? Was there a foreign sound off in the dark labyrinth somewhere? A bead of sweat broke loose from his forehead and followed one of the lighter paths already lining his blackened cheeks. A stream of ebony dust sifted down from the supports, nothing more. He shivered slightly and resumed his work, but his thoughts were with his wife and children. He could not have seen, of course, the cascade of boulders that had just broken away from the mountain top to make the long, long fall into the river. Nor could Louis Malfin, snoring peacefully on the dirt floor of his waterside tent. Nor could those inside the dark houses on the flats below the Turtle have known that an overhanging, ninety- million-ton mass high above had moved again, ever so slightly. * * * "Evie, would you mind holding the door open while Lester and I bring Mr. Clanton inside?" Nurse Landy jumped up. "Oh, Melody, you startled me! Yes, certainly; but let me help." "No, no, we can handle it. Lester here is a big muscle man, and Zeb is a little bird in the wheel chair." Mrs. Allen and the young teenager had no difficulty getting the old man up the steps and into the hospital. "Thanks for helping, Lester; don't be late for school now." Melody gave the boy a coin, and the 13-year-old thanked her before hurrying away. "So the little bird is going to fly again, Mr. Clanton," Miss Landy smiled. "Those casts are coming off, finally. Whatever will you do without them?" "Thought I might take ye dancin', young lady; an' then you an' me kin run off an' git married." "Aha! Perhaps a certain member of the North-West Mounted Police will have something to say about that! How are you, Mr. Clanton? So good to see you." Dr. Edwardson had walked up from the back and pretended not to notice his nurse's embarrassment. He shook Zeb's hand warmly. "Jest want ta git one thing straight, Doc, before ye take ta sharpenin' yer saws: Yer' s'posed ta hammer off these ce-ment blocks, not cut off the good arm an' leg ye fergot an' left me." Edwardson's mirth filled the big room. "A hostile witness, your honor," he said to Melody. "Obviously fully recovered. I think you can take him off the raw meat now." He swung the wheel chair around. "Come on, ladies, I'm going to need help with this onex especially since I'm not going to bother sharpening the saws." As he began to work on the old man, however, the physician grew serious. "You are a bit thin, nonetheless, Mr. Clanton. I understand you picked up a bit of the flu that's been bedeviling the community." "Yep. Nasty stuff. Reckon I'm mostly over it now, though." "That's an understatement, Doctor," Melody cut in. "He eats like a horse and kicks like a mule lately." Zeb grinned, but his smile faded rapidly. "Think I'd a'bought the farm, Doc, if it hadn't been fer this fine lady." "His skin is rather scaly," Miss Landy said, running her fingers along his good, right arm. "What do you make of that?" "I noticed that, too," Melody contributed quickly. "I think I'm going to change soaps. Probably too hard on his old body." "Umm, let's see." Edwardson looked at the arm closely and peered into Zeb's face. "Yes, Melody, good idea. Do that. Zeb, you said you're 'mostly' over the flu. What do you mean? What symptoms do you still have?" "Symx , whut, Doc?" "If you're not feeling perfectly well, Zeb, tell me what's bad. Tell me how you're hurting or maybe just uncomfortable." "Well, Doc, 'tain't much. Jest damned weak most a' the time. An', an'," he darted a look at the ladies, "I been havin' trouble ... you know ... goin'." "Urination is difficult?" "Yeah, but thet's been goin' on fer five-six years. No, the other." "Constipation." "Yeah. An' I git sorta' mixed up sometimes. Fergit where I am, like. But all thet's gittin' better. 'Tain't nowhere like thet first attack." "Oh, Zeb," Melody laughed, "You justx ." "One moment, Mrs. Allen, please," the doctor interrupted. "What do you mean, Mr. Clanton? What was the first attack like?" Shut up, you damned old fool, shut up! You're going to ruin everything! Melody felt Evelyn Landy's eyes hard upon her and glanced in that direction. The little nurse was inscrutable. Mrs. Allen smiled then but could not penetrate the somber barrier. All right. Keep staring, little bitch. You don't know a bloody thing. "Ain't never had no flu like thet, Doc. All of a sudden, my mouth an' throat took ta burnin' like fire, an' I got me the worst bellyache I ever had in my life. But Melody there stayed with me all day an' all night, an' I gradual' pulled out of it." "Mouth and throat burning ... strange. Have you had any more of that?" Zeb grinned. "Only when Abel forces his rot-gut, whiskey-tradin' booze down my craw." "Yes, he fights it all the way, kicking and screaming," Melody giggled, clutching at the levity. "Well, now, you're free again, Mr. Zebadiah Clanton. How does that feel?" Edwardson beamed. Zeb stood up, working his unencumbered left arm and leg. "Little stiff, Doc, but first-rate. An' you didn't even saw off them other two." "Sorry, I forgot about that. Well, if you keep swilling that rot gut, they'll probably wither and fall off all by themselves. Anyway, sit back down and let's listen to you and probe around a bit." When he had completed his examination, the physician pronounced Zeb fit enough. "But make sure you change that soap, Mr. Clanton. We can't do much about the urination problem, unfortunately, unless it really gets bad. You've got the curse that comes to most all of us old men sooner or later. I'll give you something for the constipation, though. "I don't really understand the mouth and throat burning unless it was something unusual you don't remember ingesting. Get in here immediately if it happens again. I'm not sure about the persistentx uhx the weakness you keep having or the bouts of confusion. Frankly, though, I must say these two things could be because of your age. I wouldn't suggest much more roaming about in the mountains alone, Mr. Clanton. Could be dangerous." He chuckled. "Send someone else out for your gold." "Who would have thought, Doctor?" Melody gloated to herself. "You scare the hell out of me, then you play right into my hands." She stole a look at the little nurse again and wondered if the woman's eyes had ever left her. What's inside that mousy head, woman? How far are you going to let your jealousy take you? "Hey, Doc," Zeb was saying. "Ain't nothin's gonna keep me rockin' in no chair. I got business thet won't set back fer no little flu beetle. Feelin' better ever' day, anyways. Thanks fer all ye done, though. Obliged." "No thanks necessary. I just did some patching. Your friend Loren White is the one who saved your life, and Mrs. Allen is the lady who nursed you back. By the way, Melody, if you see Loren before I do, tell him to drop by. I think he needs a check-up; but, if he won't do that, at least he could drop by for a quick hello." "I'll do that, Doctor. He comes by to see Zeb and Abel quite often." When they had gone, Edwardson sat down and toyed with his chin. "Another one of those frustrating cases, Miss Landy. I know there is something I'm just not seeing ... just not seeing. That old man was in near-perfect physical health when he left her in Feb- ruary, except for the broken bones, of course ... Scaling. Disorientation. Constipation. And the burning, the burning! Sounds almost like a case ofx . No, no, of course not; yet, he had to have taken something nasty orally." He stood up. "Well, there are more hazardous substances around ordinary households than most people suspect. And who knows what he may have done to himself, given his ambivalent behavior? That's probably the closest we will come to an answer." Nurse Landy did not respond. The next day, Constable Quartersloe walked into the hospital with a lively sparkle in his eye. Finally, after the usual banter with Evelyn Landy, he could contain himself no longer. "Evie," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Corporal Taylor slipped me a bit of good news today." "Oh, did he get a break in his big case? Is his investigation still going to take him off to Macleod temporarily?" "Well, yes and no. Yes, he will still be leaving town next month; and, no, my good news is not about his big case." He saw a copy of the Frank Sentinel on the counter and glanced at the lead story, pretending to have become distracted. "Look at that. Two misspelled words on page one. That bride of Harry's must be seriously distracting him." "Martin!" Evelyn laughed. "Are you going to tell me or not?" The Mountie came close to her, his young face aglow. "Evie, honey, there's a promotion in the mill for me. That means I'll be transferred to take over my own post somewhere." He saw her stricken look. "No, no, Evie. If it happens, I'll be able to ... I'll be asking you to ... to make an important decision." Somehow, Loren White's words pounded through her mind: "Snatch him up, Miss Landy; I've never seen two people more right for each other," he had said in his strange, haunted way. She busied herself with papers, however, unable to reply with more than a faltering monosyllable. Quartersloe picked up the newspaper again, just the barest trace of a smile on his face. In a moment, however, Nurse Landy had recovered; but she was troubled. "Martin, do you remember telling me a few weeks ago that policemen function mostly by instinct?" "Yes, but I believe I said, too, that there was no mentality involved, either," he chuckled. "Do you operate that wayx mostly by instinct?" "Yes, I'm afraid so." "And is it usually accurate?" "Uh-huh. Like now. What's eating you, Evie?" "Well, I don't know, really. All I can tell you is I'm sure there is something terribly wrong in the Allen house, and it concerns Mr. Clanton." "You don't like Melody Allen, do you?" "No. Frankly, she is absolutely the most deceitful person I have ever met. Behind that beautiful face and engaging personality lurks an awful ruthlessness. And what makes it frightening is her high intelligence." The policeman was shaking his head. "Well, there you are, honey." "No, Martin, that's not it. I'm not blinded by my own animosity. On the contrary, it makes me immune to her charms and more alert to her constant little machinations. I've worked with her; I know. She has an uncanny ability to hoodwink almost everyone, Martin, especially men." Quartersloe was listening intently now. "There must be more, Evie. Just what do you think is occurring at the Allens'?" "Well ... She brought Mr. Clanton in yesterday for cast removal. When Dr. Edwardson would question the old man, Melody would try to answer for him, making light of any physical complaints he had. And he does have some, toox things that are inconsistent with influenza. Even the doctor is ... is worried." "But the old prospector is in and out of his mind, isn't he? And I understand he considers Mrs. Allen to be a Godsend, and that he and Abel get along famously." "That's true. Nonetheless, I can't stop worrying about that poor little man. I can't forget, either, that on the day Mr. Clanton was discharged, Dr. Edwardson emphasized something to Melody. He told her to be sure to let him know if anything unusual developed. She did not do that, Martin." "I see. Well, what are the inconsistent symptoms?" "I suppose it won't sound like much, taken out of context, so to speak; but he had a terrible burning sensation in his mouth and throat at one point." "Umm ... And, of course, you're wanting to imply that Mrs. Allen has been maltreating Zebadiah for some reason. What reason, honey?" Nurse Landy sighed deeply and threw up her hands. "I guess that is where the lack of mentality enters in, Martin. I don't know. I just don't know." "Yes," the Mountie said rather absently. "Perhaps it will bear watching." IX. Loren White had been unable to break down the sorcerer's door for three nights. For at least the tenth time now, he examined his two leather pouches and was forced to the same conclusion: One contained only tobacco; the other was empty. Once again he tore through everything in his closet, his bureau, his bags. He even crawled about the floor against the possibility he had dropped a few pellets. Nothing. He had been to the livery stable twice; but, of course, there were no stray particles in his saddlebags. He sank into his chair with his palms on the table and watched his hands quiver. He was short of breath; and it seemed as if he might be developing a chest cold. "On top of this, that's all I need! Damn! What's wrong with that supplier? He said it was on its way. How many days ago was that? What if it got lost or stolen? I don't know where to start around here to find another source. I'm not sure of Canadian laws about this sort of thing, anyway." He looked at his watch again. In ten more minutes the mail will have been distributed. He got up and tried pacing away the time. As he moved about the room he tried to divert his mind with other thoughts, but he could not. He didn't give a damn about anything else: He didn't care about painting, or Dad, or Melodyx no, not even Gina. Not now. Not until he could rid himself of this awful thing gnawing away inside. "Maybe just plain tobacco will help," he thought wildly, reaching for the one useful container. Filling the bowl of his pipe, he spilled a lot on the floor; and the match wobbled in his hand, burning his fingers. He sucked his lungs full of smoke. "Ah! I ... I think that does help." Two more times he inhaled deeply; then, with a sort of whimper, he slammed the pipe to the floor, scattering sparks across the carpet. Little blue spirals began to rise from the fabric. "Burn, you bastard, burn; I don't give ax!" He pulled on his watch fob. "Good! It's time. Calm down, beast; it's got to be there today." He stamped the smoke from the rug. "It's got to be there today," he repeated. It wasn't. Loren couldn't believe his eyes. He stood transfixed in the post office, staring inside the little metal box. It yawned back at him like a gigantic empty cave. There had to be a mistake. He hurried to the window and fell in behind a ponderously fat woman talking to Gina. "Oh, Miss Olson, that cannot be correct. Why, that tiny parcel couldn't possibly weigh so much. Please check it again." Now I've got an elephant blockingx shut up, you hulkingx ! "No, ma'am, it registers the same. I'm sorry. Oh, hello, Loren," she smiled brightly, then gave him another quick look. "Hello, Gina." "Well, then, there must be something wrong with the scale. I hope you will get it checked at the very first opportunity. These are difficult times, miss; every penny counts for some of us." "Yes, ma'am. We'll check it. I'm sorry. Here's your change." Oh, hell! She's counting it twice. I wouldn't be surprised if she bit into each coin next. He coughed pointedly. The woman whirled and glowered at him. "Well!" she huffed then waddled out. "Gina, I ... uh ... I'm expecting a package. Shipment of ... of special oils. It should have been here days ago. There was no notice in my box. Maybe someone forgot. Will you check, please?" "Certainly, Loren. I'll do that for you right away." She looked worried and confused as she hurried off. In a moment she was back. "I'm sorry, there's no package for you. I would have known, anyway." She reddened. "Maybe tomorrow." "Yes, yes, thank you. Tomorrow." He turned and walked out. Gina stared after him. He looked like a ghost, a stranger; and he hadn't even said goodbye. All because of a shipment of oils? And it had been so beautiful up in the mountains. She turned away, biting her lip. Five minutes later, Tony Slink's hopes rose. Maybe his luck was getting better. "Hey, Frank Yank!" he called out through the barroom haze. "Where ya' been hidin'? Get over here an' tell me why all Yanks are so ugly." "Thank God there's still whiskey," the Montana cowboy whispered to himself ..." He awoke about an hour before noon on the next day feeling a little sick and with a slight headache. He didn't remember leaving the bar. Putting a hand to his head, he groaned; nonetheless, he was thankful for his new complaints: At least the booze had deadened the others. He cleaned up and went immediately to the post office and was not surprised to find his box empty, except for a crude circular offering "sensitive and caring mortuary services." "Fitting enough," he thought bitterly, "especially on April Fools' Day." At least he was hungry now. He slipped outside without encountering Gina and walked into Frank Cafe. "Well, if it isn't death warmed over!" Julie quipped, as if she, too, had received the same pamphlet. "You gonna have your regular, or did you just crawl in here to die?" She paused, and her voice softened: "Really, Loren, you'd better find a good woman to take care of you. You don't look much like the big cowboy hero that rode into town a few weeks ago." "Okay, I'll marry you if it will stop your nagging. But you'll have to do two things first: Get rid of your husband and bring me an edible breakfast for a change. This, of course, ends our engagement, because you'll never pass the second part of the test." She looked at the broad hand trembling against the water glass and worked out a smile. "I guess you're gonna live. Depends on how much venom I spill on your eggs, though." His meal over, Loren walked out into the sunlight. It hammered his eyes. There was a vile thing awakening inside himself somewhere, and his chest cold was worse. "So how do you get through another day, addict?" he asked himself. The answer seemed to come of its own volition. He had a full bottle in his room. "At least Gina didn't have to see you crawl out of the gutter today," a voice inside his head whispered, as he labored up the stairs. But Gina had. She had watched him walk into the post office with his eyes riveted on the wall of metal boxes. Miss Olson knew the mysterious package had not arrived, and she had fled out of sight to the back. She could not bear to see his face. Without warning, the man who used to live behind it had largely vanished; and the remnant seemed to be devouring himself, little by little. And nothing made sense anymore. On the following day, however, she could not avoid him. He pounded on the brass bell, forcing her to come forward. "Hello, Loren, whatx ?" "Gina, there is no-no notice in my box." His features were stark; his skin was beaded with moisture. "It has to be here. It must be-be lost somewhere in the back. Please s-search around." "Yes, Loren," she said almost inaudibly. Hurrying to the rear again, she leaned against a wall, looked up at the ceiling, and wiped the corners of her eyes. "Are you all right, Gina?" one of her co-workers asked. "Yes. Yes, Mrs. Boxer. Just give me a minute or two." But Mrs. Boxer knew better. She had seen who was waiting at the window. This was a small town. After about three minutes, she watched the young woman move reluctantly forward again. "No, Loren, I've had everyone alerted to watch for it, and we just looked around again. Perhaps we could start a tracer for you. But you seem to have a terrible cold. Please, what is it? Let me help you." "No, no, I'm fine. Thanks." The door slammed behind him. * * * Two days later, on Saturday, a sorrel named Clancy walked along a muddy trail bearing new signs of wapiti. A masculine-looking girl on his back looked longingly toward the reaching peaks as she and the horse plodded upwards. His package had come yesterday ... A carton of oils. Like a body possessed, he had snatched it from her and fled from the building without a word. An old song a friend's mother had written tugged at her mind: "Where does the wind go that stirs the silent treetops?" it began. "How does a heart know when a love has gone?" A carton of oils ... But the whispering conifers made sense now, and so did the squirrels' jabbering about spring; and so did Clancy's musky fragrance. He took her up beside a little lake between two hills and let himself be tethered about three hundred yards from an ascending line of rocks. And when the lions came down, she clung to their necks, and reveled in their warmth, and breathed them in. After a time, she turned and looked up to a lofty place where she could almost see a solitary figure laboring to translate the work of God. * * * Melody Allen opened her door and found herself looking directly into the eyes of a policeman. "Oh! Constable Quartersloe!" she exclaimed. "Ix I'm sorry. For some reason, I expected you to be a neighbor." "No, ma'am, I'm the one who should apologize for bursting in on you unannounced. I just happened to be in the vicinity, and I thought I'd look in on our famous Mr. Clanton. How is he progressing?" Strange how so many of the "innocents" react as if they've been caught in some felonious act. Makes one wonder how much nefarious activity hides behind respectable doors. Nothing like the element of surprise, though, to catch a hand in somebody's cookie jar. "Oh, he's better, so much better, especially since the casts have come off. Ah, but there I go again forgetting my manners. Please come in. Zeb thoroughly enjoys visitors." She called forth her most devastating smile. Steady, Melody. He has no reason to be suspicious; and, in spite of that impressive uniform, he is a mere man like all the rest of them. She led the Mountie into the living room. Zebadiah was sitting at the table looking like a contented family's beloved patriarch. A copy of the Frank Sentinel was spread out before him. "Zeb, honey, we have a distinguished visitor." "A lawman?" he growled. Then he was snarling suddenly: "Don't let us keep ye, sonny boy. Hate ta have ye miss a nice, legal lynchin' er somethin'. Er mebbe yer' jest out collectin' widder-woman pennies fer their breathin' permits, hey?" "Zeb, hush! Whatever happened to your manners? I've never seen you act like this. Constable Quartersloe is a welcome guest in this house, little daddy. Please don't forget that." She went over and patted the old prospector's head, as if fearful she had been too severe. Zeb looked up guiltily. "Jest not used ta ..." Clanton wilted. "Mebbe he wants some tea." He started to elevate himself shakily. "No, no, Mr. Clanton. Thank you both. I can't stay very long. Don't want to miss that lynching; so, as soon as I collect your breathing fee, Mrs. Allen, I'll be leaving. You are a widow, aren't you?" "Hee! Hee!" Zeb burst out, in spite of himself. "But do sit down for a moment, Constable," Melody gushed. "See how you are, Zebadiah? This nice young man stopped in just to find out how you're feeling." "Feelin' fine. Gonna be headin' out in a day er two. Soon as these two run outa' whiskey. Never felt better in my life. Like a twenty-years-older." "No more burning in the mouth or throat, Mr. Clanton?" Oh, damn! How did he find out about that? Who told him? What else has hex? Careful, careful, Melody, don't lose it. Charm, charm! "Naw, ain't had thet but once. Lately, jest been the flu a-hangin' on a bit. Gittin' stronger ever' day." You recovered there nicely, you gorgeous lady, didn't you? Evie, Evie, has your pretty little nose really sniffed out something rotten? Surprise ... good old element of surprise. Almost never fails. "Well, that's wonderful," the policeman smiled. "How about coming clean on your little secret, though, Mr. Clanton?" Two people looked shocked simultaneously. "Secret? Whut? Ain't nox ." "No, no," the officer laughed engagingly. "I guess it's not really a secret. I'm just curious. Why do you dislike policemen?" "Oh, well you ain't a bad sort. First one I ever met thet weren't, though. Them others wasn't the same a-tall. Before they come aroun', this were a big free country, an' a man could go out an' live like a man without worryin' about ... about nothin'." "Yes, I can understand why you would say that. I have a Blackfoot friend who feels the same. Lives on a reservation. His people used to roam free, just as you describe. His father was poisoned by whiskey traders." Zeb and Melody seemed to be in shock as Quartersloe rose to leave. "It's been nice visiting with both of you. Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Allen, and my best to your husband." Melody closed the door behind him and leaned against it, her heart pounding. My God, he's like a smiling cobra! What a terribly dangerous man! What does hex ? Who could havex ? She started to walk back into the living room, but then she stopped. Evelyn Landy's face had filled her consciousness. * * * Mrs. Allen had spent a sleepless night beginning in fear and ending in consuming fury. Curiously, her dreads ultimately had been vanquished by Abel and Zeb: Throughout her tossing and turning, she had been aware of a mounting irritation over their blissful snores in the face of her suffering. At last, they seemed to epitomize all of her difficulties, and her anger flared hot: "Just who in hell do you think you are?" her mind screamed out in the darkness. And then it took in all her adversaries. "What right do you have to stand in my way? What makes you think you have the capacity to outmaneuver me, you stifling mediocrities?" She zeroed in on Nurse Landy. "So you turned your police dog loose on me, did you, bitch? And what is this fearful dragon of yours? He's no more than a quavering bureaucrat hiding behind his uniform and using sadism to mask his own inadequacy. No, no, Miss Mousy, I see him naked now; and he doesn't scare me anymore." But the night eventually expired, and Abel had gone to work. As she pulled a chair over beneath her high cupboard, Melody realized she had been deceiving herself in part about Constable Quaartersloe. He did frighten her. Having seen the man behind the trappings, however, she felt better equipped to deal with him. Melody stood on the chair and reached up for the little door. But you, Zeb, you crumbling skeleton. Do you honestly think you can pit that withered brain of yours against mine? Do you think I'm going to let you walk out on me now? Didn't I tell you I was going to throw another log on your fire? Mrs. Allen stepped down and carried the jar to the table, covering with her hand the surgical tape bearing its crayoned inscription. She had to be very careful now, because Zeb was ambulatory. But his prostate difficulties were very useful: He made many trips to the bathroom. She could accomplish her secret things when she knew he was in there; and her signals to desist were the sounds of his pulling the chain and the rush of water from the water closet mounted high on the wall. She measured carefully before administering the additive to his tea. That should do it, little elf. Just a tiny bit more from now on. You got along much too well on the last formula. This one ought to turn you into a very religious man and bring you blubbering back to Mama. After secreting the jar again, she carried the two cups into the living room and had just placed them on the table, when Zeb walked in from the bathroom. "Thanks, anyways, Melody," he said, "but I don't reckon I want thet. I b'lieve it's whut's been a-causin' all my trouble." "Youx you what? What do you mean?" The old man sat down stiffly and stared at the wooden floor. "Well, you ... you rec'llect what I told the sawbones. All them liquids. You know, I ... I have trouble a-gittin' rid of 'em." Why, you old garbage! You're like a wet-diapered infant. Do I have to wipe your nose at every step? "Zeb, honey, you don't understand. That's precisely why you must take more liquids than younger men. You have to keep flushing those ... uh ... poisons out; otherwise, they accumx , they build up in your bladder and make matters worse." She giggled and tapped his hand. "You're a pot- bellied wood burner, Mr. Clanton; and we have to keep the soot out of your chimney." The mountain man picked up his teacup and slurped. "Oh, is thet whut the ol' quack was a-meanin'? All them big words. Cain't talk like no reg'lar human." Melody parked him outside in the sun after that. She had had enough of him and knew another long night loomed ahead: The "flu beetle" was back in town. She sat at the kitchen table and stared absently at the high cupboard. Now, Quartersloe. How are we going to deal with you? How can we get the bitch's bloodhound off my trail? ... All right ... We've seen you can't be vamped. Yes. But you certainly can be outwitted. She remained immobile for several minutes. The Spokane Flyer whistled as it rumbled into town. The bedlam of clanging bell and vented steam filled the town as the monster chugged into the station. But Melody was unaware. Now, however, her brown eyes widened, and a jubilant smile spread across her face. "Well, Evie," she gloated aloud. "Maybe the 'coon will tree the hound after all!" She leaned back into her musical laugh. "A simple little diversionary ploy. After that, it won't matter." She went to the sink singing like a dutiful housewife. In a moment she paused. "How far should I let him go, speaking of diversion? It might be interesting, now that the snoopy old man is about to be too sick to nose around. She sloshed the dishcloth around inside a porcelain vessel. "No, no; too soon. He's no good unless he dangles," she snickered. "You will just have to simmer on for a while, little teapot." This time, however, she had not been visualizing a Mountie. Her thoughts were of Loren White. Images of the fumbling cowboy continued to entertain her when, later, her exhaustion forced her to lie down. Her eyes closed. She came suddenly awake, having had no awareness of time's passage. "Oh, no, it's started already," she groaned to herself. "Damn him!" There were sounds of suffering coming from Zeb's room ... * * * "What do you mean he's sick again?" Abel demanded in uncharacteristic anger; but he lowered his voice when he saw the finger before her lips. "Dammit, Melody, this has got to stop! He has taken over our home. You're with him night and day; you're losing weight and we're both showing the strain. Don't you realize he's been in our house six weeks? And he's not really getting any better." "What would you have us do, Abel? he loves you as his son now. He has no family; where can he turn?" "There are institutions." "Abel!" she admonished. "Go in and look at him. Talk to him. And then come out and see if you can still throw him to the wolves." Thus, Melody prevailed again; Melody always prevailed. That night Zebadiah went out of his mind once more. Abel managed to snatch a little sleep by pulling the pillow tight against his ears. His wife, as she had anticipated, got very little. This time she didn't mind at all, however. The little fellow frothed and cackled on and on about finding the lost Lemon Minex and about a map. The next afternoon, Melody gave Nurse Landy another start. Evelyn had been deep in self-appraisal concerning Mrs. Allen, wondering if perhaps that talk with Martin had been a shameful thing to do. In retrospect, she wondered if enmity really had clouded her judgment after all, as he had suggested. "Oh, well," she had consoled herself, "Martin didn't seem to give my worries much credence. He probably will soon forget about it." Then, suddenly, here was Melody standing before her looking confident andx yes x exquisite, as always. "Hello, Evie, I'm sorry I don't have time to visit," she said without a trace of rancor." I must hurry back to Zeb. He is why I'm here, you see. I just don't understand what's happening. It's not any kind of emergency, but the poor little man has come down sick again. I don't think he has had the flu at all. I know Dr. Edwardson is terribly busy, and he has been generous to a fault; but could you possibly work in an appointment for sometime next week?" They settled on Mondayx four days hence; and when Melody had departed, the little nurse fled back into the empty isolation room and closeted herself alone there for some time. Mrs. Allen hurried away, too, but only because her neighbor, Mrs. Clark, wouldn't be able to baby-sit the seventy-year-old much longer. This is not what impelled the extra spring in her step, however. That was brought about by visions of an agonized look on bitch Landy's face ... and Constable Quartersloe treed by a raccoon. Twenty-four hours later, Zebadiah had been back on his special tea for two days, and he was still confined to bed. Melody hovered over him constantly, of course, today going so far as to prop his head up with pillows for easier consumption of the poisonous liquid. "No, Melody," he gasped this morning, "it jest don't sound good. Mebbe later taday er tamorra'x if I'm still here." "Now, honey, don't talk like that. 'if I'm still here', indeed! You'll be around for a long, long, time, but only if you listen to your nurse. Come on, now ... that's it. Just little sips." Oh, but you've become a sweet old filth, Zeb. Stay insane and sick and keep telling me all about finding the Lemon Mine, the way you did Wednesday. I knew it, I just knew it! I was right about the map, too, wasn't I? "Melody," Zeb interrupted her thoughts, "whut do ye reckon is a-eatin' at me? Don't seem like the flu oughter keepx," he stopped and caught his breath, "keep a-comin' back like this." "I don't know, little daddy. Maybe it's the flu and maybe it's not. There's one thing I know it's not, though, no matter what some people may say." Fright distended the little fellow's eyes. "Whut ... whut's some people a-sayin'?" "Oh, you know, Zebadiah; I'm sure you've heard them. Don't let it bother you; I know better." She looked down at her folded hands. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it, but ... well ... it's that old talk about your beingx uhx crazy." "You reckon I am?" he almost whimpered. "Of course not! And that's why I mentioned it. If anyone should ever suggest that to youx and I don't care who it isx don't you listen." Melody put on a great show of indignation now. "You and I aren't going to let someone use that as an excuse for not knowing why you're sick! I'm sure with enough care, you'll soon be fit as a fiddle. You may not be able to tramp around alone in the mountains the way you used to; but, if you take care of yourself, you'll have a lot of good years left." The old man's lip trembled. "Don't know why yer' so good ta me," he murmured again. She stroked his hair and adjusted his blankets. "You know why; I've told you many times. We love you, Zeb." She sat back and watched him finish his tea. "Yesterday, while Mrs. Clark was here, I stopped in at the hospital and made an appointment for Dr. Edwardson to have another look at you. You'll see him in three days. Is that all right, sweetie?" "I-I reckon." "Good. And, remember, don't listen to any of that 'crazy' talk, no matter who says it. Get some rest now, honey." Sleep on these things, old bones. See if the implications can penetrate that atrophied brain. She started to walk out of the room, but he called her back. "I got a right, Melody. Don't be a-keepin' nothin' from me. Who's ... who's been a-sayin' I'm looney?" "Oh, now, what good is that going to do, sweetheart? I just didn't want you to start believing it yourself, that's all." "If I don't know who's got the forked tongue, I might start b'lievin' somethin' else: I might start suspectin' ever'body a' bein' the snake." She pretended to be shocked. "Oh! Wouldn't that be awful! I never thought of that. Oh, what a dilemma!" Melody sat down in a display of perplexity. Finally, she sighed as if in resignation. "Yes, I do believe it's true, little daddy; it is your right. But if I tell you, you must promise me you will never, ever let on you know. Will you do that?" "Won't nobody never git it outa' me." Melody sighed again. "All right. It'sx it's Dr. Edwardson. He's convinced there is nothing wrong with you, that it's all in your head. I wanted to give him one more chance to diagnose your illness so we could get you better fast, and so he would forget about ... about what he wants to do." Zeb was glowering. "Damn sawbones. Think they know ever'thing because a' all thet book learnin' ...Whut's he a- wantin' ta do?" "Oh, Zeb, don't worry; we won't let anyonex ." "Jest-jest tell me, Melody. I'm gittin' plumb tuckered out." "He wants to put you into an institution." "Instax ? Whut's that?" Melody threw her arms around the tiny man. "It's ... it's an insane asylum, honey." She felt him stiffen. Get set for the coup de fusil, Constable Police Dog. "A nut house? He wants ta-ta throw me in the looney bin?" Zeb was panting. "But we won't let him, little daddy; that's my promise." She leaned back and put her finger to his lips. "Hush, now; rest. Don't give it another thought." She took the extra pillows away. "I ain't a-goin' to. I know h-how ta handle rattlers: I stay away from 'em." He glared at the ceiling for a moment then closed his eyes. "You jest cancel thet 'pointment. Ain't never goin' back there." Coup de grƒce, Mountie. X. My pretty artist hasn't been around for more than a week. I hope I didn't throw too much cold water on his ardor. Melody snickered, recalling Loren's clumsy fumblings, his guilt-ridden passions; but she couldn't help feeling uneasy about his rather long absence. Then she remembered hearing gossip about some uncharacteristic drinking bouts he had engaged in during the last two or three days, and she smiled again. Admit it, Melody Allen, you've merely driven him out of his mind, that's all. Crook your little finger and he'll come panting back. Maybe this is the way it's always been: The studs make a big show of snorting about the meadow, while the fillies roll around in the grass and call the shots. She leaned back on her doorstep and soaked in the April sun, thankful that the old man had fallen into troubled sleep at last. Or maybe they're all stupid. My God, what is more malleable than a man? They're almost no challenge anymore: Zeb, Loren, Abel ... well, Quartersloe was difficult for a time. Oh, but how it has changed now! And how I'd like to be a fly on the wall wherever he is when he finds out: "She made a doctor's appointment for her victim? That doesn't make sense!" Mrs. Allen laughed out loud. Maybe you are the victim, Mr. Mountie. Ah, but the really sweet touch is my getting the poor creature himself to refuse to go. That, Constable, is class; that took finesse. And no need to hurry the cancellation, Melody. You've got three days tox oh, damn! Zeb was calling for her. "Yer' right, Melody," he said weakly, when she had walked into his room. "Of course, honey, Mama's always right," she teased. What is it, dog meat? Can't you vegetate for more than an hour without me? He wasn't smiling. He was lying flat on the bed with his head turned toward her. The face looked waxy, and he seemed to be having some trouble breathing. "Yer' right. I don't think I'll ever be able ta climb them mountains alone agin. I ... I might even be a-dyin'." "Nonsense, you're notx." "So I gotta be a-tellin' ye somethin', an' I gotta be a- askin' ye somethin'." Melody's heart leaped. She sensed a breakthrough at last. "Well, sweetheart, you just ask anything you want. You're part of this family now." "Listen, listen, Melody. They's a secret place out where most white folk ain't never been." There was sudden fire in the old man's eyes, and color had flooded back into his cheeks. "I found it, Melody! I found it right where the feller marked it were! A vein a' pure gold, almost. Comin' right out of a rocky ledge. Hee! Hee! The whole world's been a-searchin' fer it all this time, an' I done found itx me, Zebadiah Clanton!" He caught himself, a hint of the old suspicion creeping back into his eyes. Then he looked at her blankly. "Whut ... whut was I a-sayin'?" Don't go dumb on me now. Not now, old man! "Zeb, darling, you said you had found gold! I can't believe it! How wonderful! You're going to be a rich man, honey. And you said you wanted to ask something." "Oh ... yeah. Well ... see, I was jest a-comin' back from the strike, an' I had some diggins with me when thet ... thet ... ," he shivered, and fear swept across his face, "when thet grizzly spooked my horses an' I fell offa' the cliff." He paused for breath. "I never told you an' Loren, er Abel, but I had a pack horse with me, too. See, Loren saw only my saddle horse a-runnin' off; an', unless the pack animal run the other way, I - I figger he fell off the cliff, too ... Damn, I'm weak." "Yes, little daddy, don't hurry; rest a minute." Torture me, old corpse! Drag the story out! Dangle me on the edge, too, flesh- crawler! Oh, it would be just like you to die on me now! "Loren said I got caught on some rocks part way down or I'd a-been kilt. Well, I figgger thet pack horse went all the way, an' he's prob'ly a-layin' dead down at the bottom somewheres. An' my diggins an' stuff is prob'ly still with 'im, unless some thieves happened by. Yer' the only ones I kin trust, Melody, you, an' Loren, an Abel." "Of course you can, honey. How can we help you?" "If you could ask Loren ta go back there, I'd be obliged. He's the only one knows the spot. He could bring back my diggins an' stuff. I'll ... I'll make it up ta ye like I promised before." Melody felt like shouting, and dancing, and singing. Pay dirt! Pay dirt was in sight, and the mother lode was glittering just around the bend. Somehow, she managed to restrain herself. "Why, certainly, Zebadiah. Such a little thing to ask; and I'm sure Mr. White will be pleased to do that for you. It's a shame you didn't ask sooner; there very well could have been thieves. But I'll send for Loren right away." She looked at the clock. "Yes, Lester Johnson will be home from school by now. He lives only three houses away, and he loves to earn a nickel or two. You go back to sleep. I'll be gone no longer than ten or fifteen minutes." Her feet seemed to have grown wings as she half-ran outside. The wheels are turning at last, Melody! It's actually starting to happen: Everything is beginning to fall into place! It was 6:30 p.m. before Loren White knocked on the door. "Now you really do look like a corpse!" Abel cried almost angrily. "Get in before the wind blows you away, boy; an' don't show me any more of your fast footwork. What the devil have you been doing to yourself? Somebody said you've been trying to beat out Tony Slink as town drunk, too. An' where the hell have you been hidin'?" "Could I come in before the wind blows me away, Abel?" "Ay? Oh," he grinned, "why not? Melody!" he shouted, "Loren's here. You do look like hell, through, Loren. What's wrong?" The big miner's wife appeared from around the corner. "Oh, hello, Loren; thanks forx . What happened to you? You've lost a lot of weight. Come in where it's warm." "Maybe I died," the cowboy artist suggested with something of his old humor. "Can't a body rest in peace? No, I've been under the weatherx chest cold, I guess. Tried to burn it out with booze, but I'm okay now, I think. Where's Zeb?" He avoided Melody's eyes. "Damn old badger took sick again day before yesterday," Abel scowled. "Melody got him an appointment with Doc Edwardson for Monday; but old looney says he won't go. Can you beat that? Hey!" he burst out laughing. "You two look like twins now! You must have caught the Bugsy Clanton fever, Loren." "Don't you ever stop, Abel?" Melody demanded. "Sit down, Loren; I'll bring you some hot coffee. Better not look in on Zeb; he's asleep now. That is, if someone's shouting didn't wake him up as usual." She gave her husband a severe look. "Just a moment, Loren, and I'll explain why I sent for you." Loren got a mocking wink before she glided into the kitchen "She sent for you?" "Yes, Abel. Didn't you know?" "I didn't want to tell the unbelievable story twice, Abel," Melody explained, as she re-entered with the coffee. "What I am about to tell you will literally knock the ears off both of you." They sat spellbound and listened. Neither one, however, had any way of knowing the tale had undergone some editing: She did not mention the Lemon Mine, nor the alleged richness of Zeb's strike, nor his delirious rantings about a map. She concentrated upon the old prospector's "wonderfully good luck finding a little gold after searching all his life." "Well, isn't that marvelous! Who would have thought?" Loren grinned. "He finally did it." "He couldn't have pulled enough out of the ground to pay for all my whiskey and food," the blond giant quipped. "Now, Abel," Melody giggled, "he eats like a bird." "Yeah, like an ostrich with a tapeworm." "Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing. What's wrong with me?" Melody said. "Zebadiah wants this to be a great secret. He made me swear not to tell anyone but you two. He says we three are the only people in the world he trusts." "Silly old conker," Abel sniffed. "He can trust me to the death, but you two ..." "That wild, wild little man!" Loren shook his head. "He's maybe the most decadent human I ever ran across; and, yet, he has some almostx almost tender qualities." "Do you want to make the trip for him, Loren?" Melody asked. "Are you up to it?" His eyes met hers almost for the first time. "Yes, I'm up to it. In fact, it's just what I need. It will be great to get away for a while." "Don't tarry too long. Perhaps there will be a nice little reward waiting for you when you get back." She smiled meaningfully. "Uh, Zeb dropped a hint or two ..." * * * Melody Allen walked along the footpath toward the commercial section of town. She was a bit uneasy. What had Loren meant day before yesterday by his "It will be great to get away for a while" remark? Well, it's too late now. He should have left yesterday to search for Zeb's "diggins." Had she given him enough incentive to return, especially if he finds there a map to the lost Lemon Mine and recognizes it for what it is? Complications. Why did there always have to be complications? She clomped across the Gold Creek bridge. And you, Abel. What should I read into your little twister about Zeb: "He can trust me to the death, but you two ..." Oh, you big gullible oaf! Don't tell me you're getting suspicious now, too? Dammit! That's the last thing I need. She walked into the hospital and found Nurse Landy, as usual, busy at the front counter with her papers. "Ohx oh, Melx Melody," she stammered. "But have you gotten your times mixed up? Zeb's appointment isn't until two." "No, Evie. I'm sorry. I'm here to cancel." The flare of distrust on the nurse's face was unmistakable. Mrs. Allen read it clearly. Don't gloat yet, bitch. The party isn't quite over. "He's still sick, although I don't believe he's in any danger; but he absolutely refuses to let the doctor have a look a t him." "Zeb refuses! Why?" "I wish I knew. I have a hunch he fears some terrible disease and doesn't want to face the truth. But no amount of coaxing will change his mind. He's adamant." "Well, what a strange turn of affairs." Evelyn Landy was perplexed. "Do you think Dr. Edwardson should stop by the house?" "No, but that's up to the doctor, of course." She gave a tiny laugh. "He will do so at his own risk, however. How did Zeb put it? 'Ain't never goin' near no damn sawbones agin.' As I just said, though, the old man is not in any danger; and, frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if his whole problem isn't, well, mental." Evelyn had become inscrutable again. "Perhaps," she murmured. "Perhaps." "Mull that over, little pipeline," Melody taunted silently; "I'll bet that gets transmitted in a hurry to the mighty Quartersloe." The two women engaged in ritual prattle for a few moments, each one's secret self heavily preoccupied. After an acceptable time, then, they parted in an air of surface amiability. On the way home, Melody diverted to Lang's ready-to- wear clothing store and looked at the window display. "Damn, small-town exhibitionists!" she whispered. "You dissembling, kept sluts! In a little while I'll be buying cheap rags like those for foot wipes." She turned away, her "small-town" invective reminding her of Abel's growing agitation to hurry off to Fort Saskatchewan to nail down his farm purchase. "How can anyone be so driven to suffocate himself?" she muttered. "And he's perfectly willing to drag me down with him. Well, I've managed to delay his departure until April 18, anyhowx twelve days from now. And I've convinced him to stay at least two weeks to check and double-check for loose ends. That gives me until about the first of May to find the mine and disappear. "It ought to be enough! It ought to work! Oh, Melody, you're really making it happen. You're doing the impossible all by yourself!" * * * "Atta boy! Split his head open with thet axe! Ol' Blackjack ain't gonna be a-cuttin' in on us now! Hee! Hee! Watch out! Watch out! Who's thet a-sneakin' aroun' out there in them weeds? Pick 'im off! Pick 'im off!" Zebadiah's ravings had preceded a restless night. Then, beginning about 9 a.m., he had launched himself into another series of wild vocalizations, each followed by a period of exhausted mumbling. He seemed to be struggling against a host of imaginary adversaries, all intent on murder or larceny. Melody did not try to quiet him. She merely sat watching, listening, and glowering x wondering if the poison would have to be cut back again. She was so weary, she almost wished he would die and let her get some rest. "No, no! Stay away from me! Cannibal! Cannibal!" Zeb's curdling scream terrified her out of a moment's nodding and had made her imagine that a mountainous grizzly was breaking through into her house again. "Shut up!" She shouted involuntarily. "Stop that infernal racket, you lunatic!" Zeb's eyes fixed upon her face without recognition. "Hee, hee!" he leered. "Where's yer fat sister?" This was followed by more cries and weeping about Stoney curses, demons, "ice people," etc. At last, perhaps from utter exhaustion, he slipped into a coma-like state; but Melody didn't care. She fell asleep. Clanton continued quiescent until the following morning, escaping one day's "medicine." He awoke weak but lucid. "I been sick agin, ain't I, Melody?" "I'm afraid so, honey; but you seem fine now." "Don't remember much, but I do rec'lect ye a-stayin' close an' a-keepin' watch night an' day the way ye always done. An' I come back alive this mornin' knowin' I was a- goin' ta do somethin' good fer the first time in my life." Melody's heart pounded inside her ears, but she managed to keep her composure. "You don't have to do anything, little daddy, except get well." "Figgered ye'd say somethin' like thet. But listen ta me, girl. Year ago March I got me a ... I got me a map. Hee, hee!" He rested a moment. "From a drunked-up savage fer a bottle a' watered-down firewater. Ign'rant heathen thought he were a-trickin' me, but he didn't know whut he had. Said some shaman done witched it with good med'cine. Hee! Hee!" He fixed her with a hawkish look then rasped: "Ye ever hear a' the lost Lemon Mine, girl?" "Yes, Zeb. Everyone in the world has. But you couldn't havex ." "But I did, young 'un, I did!" He coughed violently for a moment then spit on the floor. You pig! You low-life, filthy pig! And, dammit! All I can do is look the other way. "The paper were drawed by Lemon hisself. Writ his own name on it. Showed a three-forked stream out in a way, lost place in the mountains. At the headwaters there he done put a big cross and writ 'GOLD' in big letters 'longside it." "Little daddy, honey!" Melody feigned astonishment, "Is that where your gold samples came from? Did you actually use that map to find the Lemon Mine?" Fright possessed him again for a moment, sending his eyes darting about everywhere. "Shhh! They's always a- creepin' 'bout. Shhh! Listen ..." Mrs. Allen pretended to do as he said. Then she whispered: "I think it's safe now, honey. You did find it, didn't you? You found the Lemon Mine, and you're going to live out the rest of your days a very rich man. Isn't that amazing? Isn't that absolutely wonderful?" She caught the frail body in her arms. "Oh, Zeb darling, after all you've been through, you deserve it allx all!" "Gonna cut you, an' Abel, an' Loren in on shares." "You what? What did you say?" "Cain't go after it alone, so I'd have ta git help from somebody. Enough gold there fer a army, anyways. Might as well split it four ways." "Oh, Zeb! That's the most generous thing I ever heard! Who ever could have guessed thatx?" "When Loren gits back, I'll draw a new map an' he kin file a claim fer the four of us." "A new map? But what happened to the original one?" "Don't know, but," the old man looked confused, "but think I lost it someways comin' out. Kept 'er right here," he indicated the breast pocket area, "all the time. Checked ta make sure over an' over ever' day all day long. Then one time it jest weren't there." His eyes bulged suddenly and he took a shuddering breath. "Musta' been th-them devx , them savages," he stuttered. "What savages, sweetheart?" "Don't know. Don't know. But best tell ye the gold ain't in no nat'ral place. Man's lucky ta come back alive. They's things ..." "What things, Zebadiah?" But he would say no more. For his magnanimous offer, then, the tiny prospector was allowed a little napx followed by a cup of piping-hot tea laced with a somewhat less generous amount of rat poison. * * * Oh, you doddering old fool! Don't die on me now, not now! It was the next day, and Zeb had taken a sudden turn for the worse: He was not talking at all; and, in response to Melody's prompting, his tongue seemed leaden, his words meaningless. Muscular activity appeared somewhat impaired, and there was subtle, but widespread trembling. Maybe it's not the poison. Maybe he's having a stroke. Oh, hell! Maybe he'll never speak again. Maybe he'll be paralyzed, and his secret will be locked forever inside that worm-eaten brain! She hardly left his side all day, adding blankets when he gave signs of being cold, removing them when he perspired. She mopped his forehead and wiped his mouth; she cooed, clucked, and cajoled. At last, she fell to her knees and dropped her head down on his bed, surrendering herself to despair. When she lifted her face, his faded, blue eyes were on her. There was recognition; and there was a gentle smile. Melody gathered him into her arms again and broke into tears. Oh, Zeb! You frightened me. I thought you werex ." She raised up. "How do you feel? Can you talk?" "Ain't dead yet," he smiled. Then his eyes filled. "Saw ye ... saw whut ye was a-doin'. Don't ... don't know why yer' so good ta me." He raised a claw-like hand to her cheek. "So damn weak ... tired ... sleep now." The hand dropped like a lever to close his eyes. She looked down at the wasted face and exhaled. Okay, old man. I don't think we will be needing any more poison for a while. You're obviously not going anywhere. ... Clanton, true to form, had rallied considerably by the next day. But he didn't think so: "Melody, I'm a- dyin'," he labored. P-please git me a - a priest." "Nonsense! Don't talk like that. You're doing much, much better today. And there are two reasons why I won't be getting you a priest: First of all, there aren't any in Frank; and, secondly," she grinned and snapped him lightly on the head, "you're too bloody ornery to die." In another week, the old whiskey trader was out of bed and walking about; he even had progressed so far as to take two or three short strolls outside. This afternoon he was in the living room stretching a short glass of whiskey when Melody answered a knock on the door. "Oh!" "Yes, Mrs. Allen. A bad penny always turns up, doesn't it?" Constable Quartersloe beamed. "Perhaps that is why they call me the Pennycuick of Crowsnest Pass." "I'm sure that's not the reason at all," Mrs. Allen laughed. "Our little town is very proud of its number two lawman. Please come inx unless you're afraid Mr. Clanton will attack you again." Why does he always frighten me? I've got him on the run; and I knew he would be stopping by after his little snitch got to him with the latest. "Oh, I don't think Mr. Clanton would really attack," the policeman chuckled. They entered the living room. Zeb, baleful and silent, watched their approach. When the Mountie stood before him, the mountaineer tossed down the last of his drink and drew a sleeve across his mouth. "Nothin' kin spile the good taste a' whiskey like a tin badge." "Funny thing," Quartersloe countered, "my Blackfoot friend claimed it was the filth added by whiskey-trading murderers." He broke into laughter and extended his hand. "How are you this time, Mr. Clanton? Are you mending?" Zeb's initial scowl was replaced by a grin. "Fer a damn, snoopin-aroun' upstart, yer' a likable little beast." He shook the offered hand. "Feelin' first-rate last coupla' days. Better'n ever. Set down. Cain't offer ye no whiskey. 'Tain't mine." "Now you know he can't do that on duty, little daddy. What would you like, Constable?" "Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Allen." He turned back to Zeb. "Well, I'm delighted to hear you're doing well. I had heard you took another bad turn about two weeks ago, and I was a bit worried. You're our most famous elderly resident now, you must realize. Everyone has been uneasy because you've been down much, much too long." "Ain't down. Ain't sick. Doin' fine." "Yes, but you never know. All these ups and downs. There could be something seriously wrong, and you shouldn't treat your condition lightly, not at your age. Is it true you canceled your last appointment with the doctor?" Quartersloe shifted his attention to Melody's face. She smiled sweetly. Total control this time, Mrs. Allen? Too much control this time, Mrs. Allen? Zeb's features had darkened again. "Betcher life I canceled Ain't never goin' there agin!" "Never? Why? Didn't Dr. Edwardson treat you well before?" "Mebbe. Mebbe. Jest don't take ta no quacks. Never did ... Young feller, was you borned with a big nose er did Laurier pin it on with thet little badge? An' whut the devil does a old man's aches got ta do with the bloody North- West Mounted Police?" "Zeb, Zeb, honey!" Melody chastised. "Why can't you ever be nice to this young man? He's here because of his concern for you, that's all. Do you think he spends all his time beating the bushes for criminals?" She giggled. "Great heavens! He hasn't exactly been looking under our beds." "Not exactly," the Mountie smiled with little sign of humor. "Sorry, s-sorry," Zeb stumbled. "Ain't used ta havin' no lawman hangin' aroun' fer tea-talkin'." "That's quite all right, Mr. Clanton." Quartersloe stood up. "Most people have difficulty relaxing around this uniform. It's a shame they can't all be like Mrs. Allen. It would make the job so much more interesting." Shortly thereafter, the officer took his leave; and Melody found herself leaning breathlessly against the closed door again. "My regards to Evie," she had said. "Your best ones, of course," he had laughed. "Like a cobra. Like a damned cobra," she thought, her heart pounding. Melody Allen walked into the kitchen and began to prepare supper; but she was in turmoil once more. This time, however, there was no talking herself out of it: It was obvious by his changed behavior that the Mountie really did suspect her of something. He was openly toying with her now, challenging her with veiled but suggestive repartee. What a God-awful dilemma! I can't start the old manure factory back on his rat soup, because Quartersloe could show up unannounced at any time again. And Loren is long overduex damn! It's been twelve days. What the hell could have happened? Maybe the fool cowboy fell off the cadaver's cliff and got himself killed. She slammed a butcher knife into a cut of beef. And if Zeb keeps improving, he might get more silly ideas about going off on his own again. The thought chilled her. She stiffened, wiped her hands resolutely on her apron, and walked into where Zeb sat. He smiled when she appeared. "Zeb, honey, something just occurred to me, something we just have to face." She put her arms around his neck but leaned back to look into his eyes. "I know you're feeling fine now, but you were almost as fit just before that last attack. The policeman is right: We don't know what's causing all these ups and downs. Who knows? You may never have any more trouble. On the other hand, you could suffer another ... uh ... seizure at any timex any minute. Listen to me for a bit, honey." Zebadiah watched her, his face expressionless. "Now I'm not suggesting you go back to the doctor. I know you would refuse to do that. I respect your decision, because it's your right; and we're not going to let anyone drag you away from us." Melody stopped and put a hand across her mouth, fabricating a look of sudden horror. "Do you suppose? Oh, no! I just could never believe that! Still ..." Her behavior filled the old man with fear. "Whut, Melody?" he croaked. "Well, it's probably not truex just a silly fright I had there. But why else would that policeman show up here twice? I'm sure he doesn't really give a damn about your welfare ... Zeb! I'll bet he's working with Dr. Edwardson and Nurse Landy! I'll bet they're trying to see if they can estabx if you're showing sings of insanity sox ." "Why, them damn, sneakin' night crawlers!" Zeb spat. "So's they kin toss me in the looney bin." "Well, we showed them, didn't we, sweetheart? No looney bin candidate could have out-talked a policeman the way you did today. Why, you did so well, maybe we should elect you to political office." Melody did a little dance, to Clanton's obvious delight, then she stopped and grew serious again. "But let's forget that arrogant little policeman. We must address that other matter; it won't go away no matter how much we would like it to: When you got so sick this last time, Zeb, you couldn't talk at all; in fact, you could hardly even move. I was terribly frightened; and I was afraid that ... that you had had a stroke, that you might never be able to talk or move your hands again." She could see anxiety returning to the old prospector's features and took heart. "The point is, little, daddy, I couldn't bear to see you lose out on the greatest good fortune of your life. If you should ever become as sick as you seemed then, do you realize what it would mean? You would know inside your head exactly where the lost Lemon Mine is; but you would never be able to get there, or tell anyone about it, or draw a map so someone could find it again for you." She paused ominously. "Sooner or later someone else would stumble across it and steal it from you." She paused again. "Well, let's make sure that doesn't happen, honey. Draw the map today, right now, right this very minute." He looked at her sourly. "No. Ain't a-gonna do it. Don't need ta, 'cause I ain't a-gonna git sick no more. Gonna wait fer Loren ta come back any day, an' I'm gonna ride out with 'im an' lead 'im ta the place myself." XI. This time it felt as if some gigantic object had slammed into the mountain; and Timberman Albert Cordon, deep inside the coal mine, felt his chest constrict in fear. It was 1:30 a.m. The big Turtle shuddered momentarily after the shock, and tunnel supports groaned painfully. Albert watched black powder sift to the floor again here and there, after which everything seemed normal. In the dim light of his lamp, it was as if he could see his wife, Marie, standing close; and the cascading dust became ebony hair shimmering down her back. She had given him four sons. Later that morning he walked over to the office and said the words that would remove the terror from their lives. They would go to Calgary, and he would return to the world of the sun. Almost coincident with the miner's exit from the hole, Louis Malfin, trapper, emerged from his tent beside the Oldman River and looked up at Turtle Mountain. Al- though he was weighted down with years, for the first time in his life Louis realized his eagle vision was shutting down. But his secret ear was as sharp as ever. All night he had listened to the communing of rocks and water with trees and windx with mountain and ice; and he knew that the message had changed at last. Malfin limped over to his hobbled burro and ran his fingers up and down its spine. Then he dropped to his knees and removed the little animal's fetters. Rising stiffly, he straightened and slapped the donkey hard on its rump. "Go, little brother, go!" he whispered urgently, as the creature disappeared into the jack pines. Now Louis made his way back inside the tent where he lay down on his old bearskin and pulled the worn blankets over himself. At this moment there was no elementals' song; but when he closed his eyes he saw clearly a young woman's face. Her lips were moving. "Oui, Maman," he smiled, Je viens." * * * It was Sunday when Loren White had struck out for the wilderness again on his mission for Zebadiah Clanton. Church bells throughout the town extolled the warm, spring awakening and collided with the black thoughts of the Montana cowboy-artist. He managed to return the greetings of those townspeople he encountered as he passed through the settlement; however, his mind was largely preoccupied. "Perhaps there will be a nice little reward waiting for you when you get back," she had teased under the very nose of her husband. "Good old Abel," Loren thought, gritting his teeth. "He breaks his back inside the mountain every day for her; and every stray cur is his friend. But you, Loren White, you'd take a step up in honor by rolling around in the weeds with a streetwalker! ... 'them kinda' things a man's gotta lick on his own,' Louis Malfin had said. 'Cain't 'spect nobody else ta do the facin'-up fer him.' So just how do you face up to anything, little cowboy coward, if not in a dark closet like any other cringing dope fiend? "Well, what do you expect, Dad?" he asked the ghost in his head. "So I'm throwing my life into a pile of horse shit. Isn't that where horse shit belongs?" Fresco, with Chesty the pack horse following, had taken him out of Frank now, and the spectacular Canadian Rockies suddenly were filled with another voice, another face: "Have you really heard it? Do you really know it? The song, I mean? ... I love the tangled, wild places ...You are a remarkable man, Mr. White. Thank you for the words." Gina! Gina was as sparkling and fresh as an alpine stream. And he hadx !" Loren clamped his mind shut. This he could not face. This he would not face: "Me an' Melody Allen, Melody Allen; Melody, Melody, Melody Allen," had become his drunken marching song. The monotony of the long ride became his narcotic now. He passed through one coal town after another: Blairmore, Coleman, Sentinel, Crowsnest. Abruptly, he came awake again. "Just look at Crowsnest Mountain over there, Fresco!" he marveled. "And I never did paint it. It looks for all the world like a mighty fortress standing guard over the pass." He shivered at the simile, once more visualizing Louis Malfin, mystic unaware, speaking of demons hunting down violators of the sacred places. Louis had whispered about hidden tangles, about secret people "from a time before time," and had warned Loren he had been "walkin' on the edge a' the pit." The Yank pushed over the top of the divide into British Columbia. "Hell," he sneered, "I haven't been on the edge, Louis, I've been in it!" In the late afternoon he came to an "S" curve in the road. Over his shoulder he could see the snowy peak he had admired on his way up with Dr. Edwardson. Not very far beyond the curve, he knew, was the side path out of which Zeb's runaway cayuse had come bounding in February, a little less than two months ago. It seemed like a year. Sure enough, it wasn't long until he found the trail and turned off. At length, he came to the spot where the great golden eagle had flared up as if to warn him; and a low dread traveled up his spine to touch the hair follicles at his nape. He fought off an impulse to flee. Finally, they rounded the high rock outcropping and stopped at the wide place alongside Clanton's cliff. Loren looked up the hillside, half-expecting to see grizzly but discovered nothing but trees and boulders. The sun was low now. He would have to search for the old man's "diggins" in the morning. By the time he had seen to the horses, built a campfire, and tended to his own needs, it was dark. He wrapped himself in his blankets and propped his head against his saddle, as he had countless times before in innumerable, lonely places. In the good years, this had been his opportunity to reflect on surrounding miracles, to revel in his own participation, his unquestioned kinship, with eons of mystery. But now it was a time only for blotting out accusatory sounds, images, and ugly promptings. He reached for his pipe and pouches, his jagged keys to the cave ... In the late morning he walked close to the edge of the drop where he had found the little mountain man's solitary boot. He looked down at the ledge that had prevented Clanton from falling the rest of the way. It was south- facing; and the snow on its surface had been largely replaced by mud. Black globs and spatterings of it, in fact, were plastered all over nearby rocks; and the little collection of earth from which the stuff had come was all scraped and abused. "Looks as if something went mad and tore up the place searching for that old man," Loren speculated. But he shook the idea away and centered on finding a way down to the very bottom, where Zebadiah believed his pack horse to be lying. "No way from this point," he concluded, moving back and walking over to Fresco. He rode westward along the precipice edge for about two miles before giving up. If anything, the drop in that direction became steadily more hazardous, and it was boxed in here at the end. The opposite side of the canyon was sheer rock all along with a drop of several hundred feet. He turned around and explored along the way he had come. Not far beyond Zeb's point of fall, the trail curved sharply back upon itself, reversed again, and split off to thread through a broken mass of rocks on a long, steep incline to the bottom. He went back to his campsite and hooked up Chesty. Then the little caravan worked its way to the canyon floor and doubled back until it came in line with Zeb's ledge, now some thirty feet straight above. Directly in front of Loren, hidden by rocks, bushes, rubble, and partly-broken trees, lay a dead horse, its bones almost completely gnawed and picked of flesh. Even the pack cinch had been chewed in two. "That's got to be it!" Loren exclaimed. Dismounting, he walked over to the remains and into a surrounding of cold air. He pulled hard at the pack saddle. When it came free, there was a rattling of loose bones. But the rattling didn't stop. White leaped back. Inside the rib cage, coiled on the backbone, was the largest rattlesnake he had ever seen. His first flash of thought was that it was too early for timber rattlers to be out; but any reasoning was overwhelmed by an onrush of fear; and he wanted nothing but to get away, to run headlong, to tear away from the furies like Clanton's cayuse. "Hold it, old woman! What the hell's wrong with you? Have you fallen totally apart?" he admonished himself. "My God, Montana used to be alive with rattlers in the summertime. How often did you wake up out on the prairie and find one snuggled up beside you? All you ever did was ease out of the blankets and crush its head with a rock." He leaned over and picked up a boulder. But when he looked back to the skeleton, there was no sign of the reptile, and the clutch of cold had dissipated. His trembling and unwarranted dreads had not. "How could he have gotten away so fast? There just wasn't enough time." "Tshyplal kin take the form of a vulture," Louis Malfin seemed to be saying again from the shadows ... "his demon, U- Makiluk, prefers slitherin' about in the body of a rattler." Loren's blood seemed to coagulate in his veins, then, when he remembered what the old trapper had said before that: "... U-Makiluk. Thet means 'rout.'" A trace of the old fire suddenly returned, however: He got mad. He leaped over to the clutter of bones and kicked hard, sending pieces clattering through rocks and bouncing off branches. Both horses vented their alarm. "Damn, silly old maid!" he shouted. "Nothing but a quavering little reptile trying to defend itself." Feeling somewhat vindicated, he began a cursory examination of Zebadiah's belongings. There were the usual prospector's tools and survival equipment. Some items were smashed. In addition, he found two small and colorful, but hideous-looking, icon-like objects fashioned from a material similar to petrified wood. Each had long wavy hair coming from the top of its head. The strands had a lustrous quality, almost as if alive. The figures were undamaged. And there were two bags of gold. White whistled. "Damn me! He really did it! I wonder how much more is out there where this came from? And all Melody said was that he had found 'a little gold.'" He had nearly finished securing Zeb's belongings to Chesty's back when a shadow scudded across the face of the bluff. He raised his eyes in time to see a magnificent, golden eagle passing overhead, the sun, pinion filtered, setting its wings afire. "Looks like the same big fellow we saw on our trek in last February, Chesty," Loren said. "Never did paint himx or anything else, for that matter." Then, once again, he was struck by an uneasy feeling that the creature held some significance he did not understand. "What kind of a lop-sided place is this, anyway?" He shivered. "It's just like before." When they had started the trek back, however, he recalled something Dr. Edwardson had said. It had to do with brain damage. They had proceeded only about fifty feet when a loud rumbling came from beyond the bend ahead. Both horses squealed and danced about as a shock wave was transmitted to their hooves. A black cloud of birds rose up from the area, and a pair of elk burst from the trees to pound past the little procession, missing them by inches. The clamor ceased after about thirty seconds, and Loren was able to calm the horses enough to continue on. "Well, if it's bloody brain damage, the whole world's got it!" Loren gasped. He was breathing heavily. "Now what the hell is going on? And, dammit! We've got to head right into that spot; it's the only way out." When they came in sight of the long incline by which they had reached the canyon floor, however, he hoped he was wrong. The trail out was blocked now by a monumental slide of huge rocks. The man from Montana reined to a stop and looked around. He was aghast. They appeared to be bottled up: He had already sought in vain a way down to the rear, and the towering, south wall was out of the question as far as the eye could see. But instead of desperation, Loren felt a flood of anger again. He raised up in his saddle and shook his fist at the canyon. "Go to hell, U-Makiluk, or whatever your bloody name is!" he shouted. "There's no way you're going to trap usx we'll get out! We'll get out!" But the mountains mocked him, bouncing his words back and forth until they died. Loren explored eastward for about an hour, finding no exit. At last they stopped again, because they could go no farther: The canyon narrowed to a point. It was closed at both ends. The big cowboy dismounted and let the horses nibble at new grass while he fixed his eyes on every detail of the cliffs. Then his gaze dropped to a little stream emerging from the base of the rocks ahead, and he realized the flow was coming around a baffle-like projection obstructing his view beyond. He ran around the barrier and saw that the rivulet had carved a serpentine channel through the stone all the way from the top. It looked hazardous but potentially negotiable for a man leading one horse. "You first, Fresco!" he called enthusiastically, as he jogged back to his mount. And then it was a furious battle upwards. They slipped and swayed, sloshed and stumbled, leaped and strained, and finally reached the summit. Loren fell to the ground until his breathing returned to normal. Then he sat up and looked at his torn, wet clothing, his abrasions. "Dammit, Fresco," he muttered, standing up. "Now I've got to go do it again." By the time he had dragged the pack horse up and had rested, the day was ending, and he prepared camp where they were. Hot coffee and food restored him considerably; and when he lay back against his saddle with warm blankets enclosing his body, he felt triumphant, albeit somewhat foolish. "Nothing but a damned snake, idiot," he muttered, as he tamped tobacco around two tiny pellets and held a glowing firebrand to the bowl of his pipe. After the rush of nausea had passed, he was embraced by a gentle euphoria, then nothing mattered beyond his being warm and alive before the crackling fire. And then his father seemed to be standing over him, admonishing as usual. But it didn't matter: Loren couldn't see the face. It had been a blur in his memory for years. "Shut up, Dad," he muttered thickly. "Go away, Dad," he whispered, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, he saw two gigantic figures standing motionless on the other side of the campfire. They appeared to be about seven feet tall and were totally covered with snow-white hair. Loren thought he heard the hobbled horses clamoring in the background. "Well, well, a coupla' big teddy bears," he giggled. "Did you come outa' my pipe or outa' my dream?" No sound or movement came from the pair. They merely stood in the flickering light with their eyes fixed upon him. Then, gradually, it seemed to Loren there were non- voices implanting thoughts in his brain: "We are here at great peril at the hands of Tshyplal, The Annihilator," one seemed to say. "But we have come for the sake of the ancient one who listens beneath The Mountain that Walked. He hears the cries of the wounded land, this man, the one who saved a child of our father. He has enveloped you in his love and made you worthy in our sight." Loren struggled in confusion. "Who ... what are you?" "We are Apahani, and we were here before the molten rocks cooled; and we were here when the world was ice, and when the great peaks scraped up into the skies and the dry land separated. And we watched in sadness when the new white plague crept forth upon the sacred earth." "I don't understand. What are you saying? Are you real?" "And so we have come to warn you. You must arise now and flee from this place. You must do this at once, this very instant; because you are in awful danger at the whim of evil forces enraged because of your association with that other old man and the sorceress who controls him. "Get up! Stand up! Throw into the flames your wild man's stolen, yellow fire, the evil idols, and the devil crystals devouring your mind. Fly away from the Crowsnest now! There is little time remaining." White sat up and blinked across the campfire. There was nothing there; and, except for sputtering faggots, there was no sound. He put a hand to his head. "What kind of a ridiculous dream was that?" He fell back against his saddle and groaned, clamping his eyes shut again. "I wonder what the hell time it is ... Apahanis! Louis Malfin, you old devil. See what kind of crazy nightmares you're giving me? Damn! Damn! Can't I ever find peace? Can't I ever get any rest?" He sat up again and reached for his pipe. "Me and Melody Allen," a burning log hissed, "Melody Allen; Melody, Melody, Melody Allen ..." * * * The world was aroar in flames. Dark animal shapesx bleating, snarling, trumpeting, and yappingx were leaping over him out of the night and bounding about him through a tempest that ripped burning embers from the trees, slamming them into the ground or against towering rocks. He tried to find the horses, but smoke blinded him, filling his lungs. He staggered about, choking and struggling for breath amid a cascade of sparks. The searing wind twisted him about, totally disorienting him, pummeling him inside a breaking wave of fury and fire. He fell and hit something hard. After a long, long time, he could hear rushing water and the crash of thunder. He opened his eyes and saw through repeated flashes of lightning a pounding downpour of rain. He seemed to be caught among jagged projections inside a cave; and he could sense some awesome force plummeting down upon him from the heights outside. There was an impact, then dead silence; and he found himself suspended in a paralyzing, white cold. His chest was compressed, and he could not move; nor could he see beyond the opaque white crowding against his eyes. Unaccountably, although he could not breathe, he felt no need for oxygen. In his mind, for just an instant, three fantastic figures materialized dimly. They seemed to be part human, and all were moving toward himxone standing high on thick, clawed paws, another scraping along on its belly, the last one bouncing forward in the gait of an ungainly, black bird. "Oh, no!" a voice screamed. "Somebody help me!" * * * Everything was crimson. Loren White opened his eyes and found the sun shining in his face. He was in his bedroll on the grass, and he thought he could hear birds singing; but he was afraid to turn his head to orient himself for fear the terrors would begin anew. Then he heard a familiar, soft nicker. He raised his head slightly and was almost overjoyed to see Fresco standing a few feet away looking at him entreatingly. Chesty was some distance off drinking from a stream. Loren let his head drop back, thankful now for the warm sunlight, the peace: The long night was over. Finally, however, the urgency of his situation broke through: "I've got to get out of this place," he said weakly. "It's warped. There's something unnatural here. I'm not that unbalanced." He raised up on his elbows into a sickening vertigo, and his breathing quickened. "What the blazes? I'm as weak as a kitten!" He came to a sitting position with great difficulty. Locking his hands around his knees, he let his head drop and waited for a semblance of strength to return. Then he realized he was terribly thirsty and hungry. Crawling to his pack, he found the canteen. When he was quenched, he fumbled about and withdrew several pieces of his beef-jerky staple. As he devoured them, he looked down at himself in confusion: "My clothes are filthy and almost ripped from my body! And I'm covered with wounds. I don't remember getting that messed up bringing the horses out of the canyon. And why am I so damned weak? I'm not sure I can even stand up." He staggered to his feet, nonetheless, but swayed precariously, a dark film trying to edge across his vision from the sides. "Am I dying?" he asked himself hoarsely. "Well, one thing is sure: If I don't get out of here, I soon will be." What followed was another kind of foggy nightmare. His condition gradually deteriorated; and he became like an automaton, stumbling about in a mental cloud, taking inordinate amounts of time doing simple tasks, all requiring enormous effort. His existence subsided into semi-awareness and painful slow-motion. Now he descended into a half-dream state of alternating darkness and light, where he had intermittent glimpses of Fresco's head bobbing up and down before him in an endless journey through swaying pain. Loren was aware of colliding with hard ground several times; and it seemed on those occasions that a giant being covered with white hair would ease him back into the saddle and return the reins to his hand. Once or twice, too, in a dizzy twilight, he imagined this same snowy figure to be moving up ahead as if leading the way. Moreover, he had a dim recollection of the non-voices' returning for a time. They were engaged in some kind of monotonous repetition: "Break out! Break out while the way is still clear! In a little while you will pass the point of no return ... Break out! Break out ...!" It was pitch black when he realized he was falling again. His back slammed onto an unyielding surface, and he felt both feet crash against something upright. He tried to breathe, but his lungs were immobilized in pain. There was a fumbling noise he could not identify, then light flooded over him but quickly began to fade. "Loren! Loren!" she screamed from some hollow place. "Oh, no, Zeb! Help me, Zeb; it's Loren!" XII. Go ahead, taunt me with it, you addled old miser! It won't be yours for long. Oh, but it does stick in my craw to have to sit here and smile sweetly while you lust over that gold like some kind of drooling pervert. And you're still balking, aren't you? You still refuse to let the map seep out of that calcified brain. But I'll pry it out yet, Zeb; I'll pry it out. Any time now: I'll think of a way. Zeb was sitting at the living room table. He had just re-tied the tops of the gold bags after leering at their contents for what seemed to be the hundredth time. The "yellow fire" had temporarily revivified the old man; but his face was flushed, his movements were jerky, and the crazed look would take over his eyes occasionally. Moreover, he had never ceased to suffer flashes of disorientation, nor had those sporadic interruptions of memory disappeared. These latter symptoms, of course, were a continuing source of anxiety for Melody: She was in dread of his losing his mind altogether, thus locking the location of the Lemon Mine behind a wall of insanity. "I'm sorry, little daddy," Melody said with a start, realizing the old prospector had been trying to penetrate her thoughts. "I guess I was daydreaming again. What did you say?" "Said I still cain't b'lieve Loren done it. He near killed hisself, but he brought back my diggins. We're gonna be rich! Rich! Soon's he's mended, him an' me's a-headin' outx if I kin think of a way tax . Gonna take him ta the mine an' have him stand guard there while I file a claim fer the four of us." "Oh, it's so wonderful, honey! And won't Abel be astonished when he gets back from Ft. Saskatchewan? I'm glad we decided to keep it a secret from him until our wedding anniversary in May. Thanks to you, he'll have the best anniversary present any man ever did." Zeb looked suddenly worried. "Are ye sure Loren's gonna make it? He looked like a dead man outside the door last night. Still looks like a dead man, too. How long ye figger he's gonna lay like a corpse in my bed the way he's a- doin'?" Melody favored the little man with one of her coy smiles. "Well, you just keep cuddling close to him there, sweetie, and he'll soon be prancing around here like old times." Her mood changed. "But I cannot imagine what happened to him: He's filthy and covered with nasty cuts and bruises, his clothes are ripped to shreds, and they were hanging on him as if to a skeleton. Honestly, Zeb, you'd think he hadn't had a bite to eat since he left. "And I can't understand what took him so long, can you?" Clanton looked suddenly secretive. "Well ... uh ... now he's done been in ... in wilderness country. Cain't never tell whutx whut a body's gonna run inta out there. Er mebbe he jest couldn't find the place agin at first. Prob'ly had ta search aroun' fer days. Yeah, an' mebbe it took a heap a' time ta find the pack horse, too." But Melody did not miss the evasiveness, and she remembered Zeb's fearful declaration some days ago that the gold wasn't in a "nat'ral" place, that a person going there was lucky to come back alive. He had hinted about "things," too. What could he have meant by that? Well, you're either a damn liar, Zeb, or your reason has just about left you. And I'm afraid we might be looking at both problems, you tight-lipped old nose wipe! She found herself thinking back to last night. There had been that terrible fright when she had been awakened by the loud crash at her front door. She had come back to consciousness expecting to see the giant bear exploding into her house again, especially since she could hear Zeb's whimpering in his room. She had lain in her bed too terrified to move, because Abel was not there to protect her this time. He had left on his farm trip just that morning. But there had been no further racket after the initial disturbance; and then she had heard a whinny. She sat up in the dark. "That horse is right outside the front door! It would be a mile away if a grizzly were prowling around out there. xLoren! Could it possibly be Loren back with the gold?" All trepidation left her. She threw on her robe as she ran. She managed to turn on the hall light, but her excitement gave her difficulty with the door latch. At last, however, she was able to push the door open; but the sight of Loren lying before her in bloody rags thrust her into new terror. "Loren! Loren! Oh, no, Zeb!" she screamed. "Help me, Zeb; it's Loren!" Then she saw the two horses milling about nervously. "Loren's pack horse! His pack hose is loaded! Zeb's gold!" She stepped over the fallen man and walked carefully toward the animal. "Come on, boy; easy, boy," she soothed. "Don't spook him now, Melody, whatever you do ... That's it, easy, easy." Just as she reached the horse, a shadow lobbed out from the doorway. "Loren! It is Loren!" Zebadiah screeched. Then his sharp intake of breath could be heard. "My diggins! Them's my diggins!" Then he, too, tottered over the unconscious cowboy. "Hold 'im, Melody, while I work at these ties. Why is it sox ? So damn weak, yet. Yessiree, thet's my pack saddle! The fall musta' broke the cinch there. Damn, Melody! Kin ye tie this critter ta thet tree an' give me a hand? I cain't even git at anything." In a few moments, they were making trips back and forth into the house to transfer Zeb's belongings to the living room. This process required them to step repeatedly over the crumpled man who would groan occasionally; but they seemed not to notice. When they were finished, Zebadiah made an animal-like noise, retrieved the two bags of gold, and held them triumphantly over his head. "See! See! Ye thought I was looney er lyin', mebbe!" He began to dance around the room, then he plunked the bags on the table. "Hee! Hee! Ever see real, outa'-the- ground gold before, Melody? Wanna see Lemon-yeller gold, Melody? Hee! Hee! Take a look at 'er!" He untied the bags. She gasped. "It's beautiful! It's a gorgeous yellow! I thought it would bex." "Thisyere's almost pure gold, girl, almost pure! An' they's a ton of it jest like this a-waitin' fer us out there. Me an' Lorenx ." He stopped. "Damn! Guess he's still a-layin' outside in the dark." "Oh, my goodness! Why the poor man!" She employed her innocent, shocked look. "How could we have been so unfeeling? Are you strong enough to help me get him inside?" "Dunno. Reckon I kin try." He grinned toothlessly. "If I cain't, we kin use one a' them horses ta pull 'im up through the door." "Oh, shame on you, Zeb! Let me hide the gold first, though. Someone may show up. There's been a lot of racket here tonight." "No. I'll be a-stashin' it in my closet. You tie up the other horse, if he ain't run off. I'll be right out." Somehow, they managed to drag the big cowboy by stages into Zeb's bedroom. They ripped off the remains of his shirt, removed his boots, and rolled him into bed. Understandably, neither the young woman nor the old man slept much after that ... "Didn't tell ye, Melody," Zeb brought her thoughts back to the present. He was looking grim. "They was somethin' missin' from my gear. Noticed it last night, and I been a- worryin' about it ever since. If ... if we don't find them things, we ... " "What things, honey? We got the gold. That's all that matters." "No, ye don't understan'. You rec'lect I told you how the map jest up an' disappeared right outa' my pocket when I'd been a-checkin' on it all the time? Well, I had a pair a' little witchey dolls with this stuff. Stx got 'em from another dumb savage. Well, they ain't here. Kept 'em 'cause I thought I could sell 'em ta some city dude." "Oh. Well, perhaps Loren threw them out." "Don't think so. Why would he do thet? They didn't weigh much a' nothin'." "Some of your things were broken. Maybe the dolls were as well." "Mebbe. But he didn't toss out any a' the other broke stuff." The familiar look of fear returned. "No. 'Spect Loren run inta some a' them murderin'x." "Murderers? What do you mean, Zebadiah? What murderers?" He looked at her blankly. "Whut? Whut did ye say? In Frank? Was somebody in Frank kilt?" * * * "How long have I been here?" Loren White asked weakly from the bed he had been sharing with Zeb. "You're starting your third day," Melody said. "You've been sleeping most of the time. How are you feeling?" "Like ground meat. Can't understand how I got so mauled. Look at all these abrasions. Must have been in a fight with one of Gina's cats." The cowboy-artist flushed suddenly, and Melody fixed him with a distrustful look. "Gina? Gina Olson? I didn't know shex." "Hey, young feller," Clanton interrupted. "Ye did it! Ye brought back my diggins! When Abel gits back from Ft. Saskatchewanx." "Abel is gone? When did he leave?" "Mornin' a' the same day ye tried ta break down the door with yer head. April 17th er 18th. An' I been a- havin' ta bed down beside yer ugly body ever since." Loren gave a shallow laugh. "Hey, you addled old cuss! Better get a new calendar: I left on April 5th, and I haven't been gone more than about three days. Better lay off ofx ." He stopped himself, noticing the questioning looks passing between Melody and Zebadiah. "What's wrong? I'm sure it was on the 5th." "It was, Loren. But you were gone a little over thirteen days," Melody said. "I should know: I counted every one. I was afraid something terrible might have happened to you. How could youx ? Well, you have obviously been through some kind of harrowing ordeal, and you have a lot of recovering to do yet. You'll remember when you feel better, I'm sure." "Thirteen days! But that's impossible." He put a hand across his eyes for a moment. "Maybe Ix Maybe I ... I don't know." "Whut happened out there, young feller?" Zeb looked frightened. "Ye didn't run inta anythingx uhx ye didn't go an' fall offa' my cliff, too, did ye?" he added with a false show of humor. Loren's face was marked by confusion. "I had some ... I guess ... nightmares you'd never believe. Hairy giants whispering inside my head, forest fires, electrical storms, avalanches, landslides. Maybe I'm the one who'd better lay off thex the booze." He tried to laugh again. "Man, I even dreamed about part-human animals comin' at me." Zeb had paled, and he was trembling visibly. "I had a coupla' little long-haired kinda' witchey dolls with my other stuff on the pack horse. They wasn't with the gear ye brung back. Did ye throw 'em out?" "No, Zeb. Look again. I brought them. Who could forget loading up those horrible things?" The old man turned grey. "If ya don't mind, I'm gonna head fer my chair by the stove. Ain't feelin' so good all of a sudden-like." "Oh, honey, can I help you? Can I get you something?" Melody Allen postured dramatically. "No. Be all right." The little man shuffled away unsteadily. "How's he been, Melody?" "A lot better. He gets his little spells, but he's almost normal nowx for Zeb. You're the one we've got to get on the mend, though." She smiled provocatively. "In a hurry. I have plans for you that require the ... services of a vigorous young man." Loren rose up part way then fell back. "Melody! I can't stay here. Abel is gone. He'd never undesrstand. And there's the neighbors!" "Neighbors! To hell with the neighbors!" Melody stopped, realizing she had forgotten her lines. "I'm sorry, Loren. It's just that I get infuriated with the small minds one encounters in a compressed community like Frank." She put a soft hand on his forehead. "Don't worry about it. They know we have a chaperone. Anyway," she grew suggestive again, "you're in no shape to be a threat to anyone. Go to sleep now." She walked away but paused at the door. "Perhaps you're the one in danger, cowboy." * * * It was the night of April 24, and Melody felt time pressing in on her again. Abel had been gone a week already, and the Yank had been recuperating in her home for the same length of time. Loren was much improved, but he was not quite ready to travel again into back country. And that old lunatic is driving me up the wall with his talk about "headin' out." Do you suppose he's thinking about doing it on his own again? Oh, you've got to do something, Melody! What if Abel should come home unexpectedly? I don't think he would believe Loren is sick enough to continue bedding down here. Even Abel is not that gullible. Damn! Damn! She was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling once more. After all my work! I'm so bloody close; but all I can do is smile, and pretend, and slave for those two like a damned scullery maid. And wait, and wait! But I can't, I just can't! There's not enough time! That cowboy, too: Is he getting guilt pangs? Oh, hell! What if he turns into little Miss Fraidy Cat on me again? Are both of them going to run off? She slammed over onto her belly and started to sob into the pillow. Then she stiffened, rolled over and sat up in the dark. No, dammit! I'm the one who's turning into little Miss Fraidy Cat! Work it out, woman! What the blazes are you accomplishing falling apart in the dark? There's still time. There's still time. Loren will be able to go in another few days. Zeb is the real problem. It's always the old cadaver. I just have to make sure he can't leave. Yes, I have no choice. Constable Quartersloe's frightening image filled her mind for an instant, but she shook her head violently. To the Devil with you, Quartersloe! I don't care if you do come sneaking around here again. You haven't been able to figure out anything yet, have you? You, too, you mooning cow-kicker! I'll just have to heat you up a bit more, that's all. And so it developed that Zebadiah Clanton's body became reacquainted with rat poison on the following morning. It had been free of it this time for sixteen days. In addition, the other interloper in Abel Allen's house was barraged throughout the day with tender little gestures wafted on tantalizing perfume. Loren, if he had been harboring any earlier bouts with principle, soon lost them in familiar, disturbing fantasies; and the drumbeat rattled forth anew: "Me and Melody Allen, Melody Allen; Melody ..." Suddenly, it was April 26, but summer appeared to have pounced upon them early: It was hot. And although Melody had reduced the strength of the additive to his tea, the little white-haired man became sick again. Melody watched him now, knowing he could die, knowing the constable might show up to probe around and ask more questions, but she found herself gloating, nonetheless: How does it feel, bastard? Not so cocksure anymore, are you? Aren't you sorry you put me through all this? Got a belly full of fire again? "There, there, honey," she clucked, mopping his face. "Don't fret. Mama's here; Mama's right here." "What is it, Melody?" Loren whispered. "Can I help? Shall I get Doc? He seems to be in a lot of pain." "No, no, Loren. Zeb doesn't want to see any more doctors, and he's going to be just fine, anyway. He's merely having another one of his spells. But I'll take care of him the way I always have, won't I, little daddy? Go in and light up your pipe and read the paper, Loren; everything is under control." Loren, of course, went dutifully. His mind was too consumed with other prospects to worry much about a crazy old mountain man any longer. "I have plans for you that require the services of a vigorous young man," her sultry voice repeated silently, beating against his brain ... "Perhaps you're the one in danger, cowboy." He looked at the paper but saw nothing. And he didn't worry much about Abel Allen now, either. After all, he didn't really owe the big man anything. In the other room Zebadiah Clanton looked up at his nurse plaintively: "Mel - Melody. I'm so sick an' weak agin." He gasped for breath. "It's jest like before, mebbe worse. I thought I done licked it." "I know, sweetheart, I know. But I'll stay with you, you know that. Don't be frightened." "Mebbe ... mebbe I am a-dyin'. Er mebbe I'm havin' ... one a' them ... strokes, like ye said." "I don't know, little daddy; but as soon as you feel betterx maybe tomorrowx you really must draw that map. We don't want anyone to steal your gold mine, do we?" The familiar, suspicious look crowded across his thin face. Then he shut his eyes. "No, we don't. Don't need ta draw ... ta draw no map, neither. Lemme sleep. I'm a sick man." Fear grabbed at Melody's throat. "Has he figured something out? Has he seen something?" her mind quailed. The next day, however, Mrs. Allen's dreads in that regard were swept away. The little whiskey trader drank his special tea dutifully and, true to form, he rallied somewhat in spite of it. It was oppressively hot again. By the twenty-eighth, Zebadiah, still sick, had begun to waver in his reluctance to reconstruct the map; and Loren seemed fit enough to leave. Melody resolved, however, not to reveal her plans to the artist until the stage had been properly set. And then another thought struck her: Strangely, Zeb had not tried to mention again to the Montanan anything about a second journey into the wilderness. "Maybe tomorrow," she thought breathlessly. "Maybe I'll have the map tomorrow and can send Loren off right away. If Abel returns too soon, I can handle his suspicions if the cowboy has gone; and I can always spirit my pretty coal miner away from here once more on a wild goose chase. Yes, I can say I heard about crooked operators selling off worthless land in the Ft. Saskatchewan area, or something. "Tonight or tomorrow, your old pustule. No more waiting!" The continuing heat seemed to aggravate her fury. * * * "Oh, and have you heard?" the portly one asked in outraged delight. "Poor Mr. Allen had barely left on his trip to Ft. Saskatchewan when that strange American artist moved right in with the Allen woman. The very same night! Why, it's the most disgraceful thing I've ever heard. This is supposed to be a decent community." "Oh, my, yes," the skinny one tittered. I heard all about it three days ago fromx ." "But I have it on good authority," the fat one persisted. "One of their neighbors assured me it was true. She saw that drunken foreigner being dragged into the house in the dead of night about ten days ago. And the brazen womanx you recall, she still has that lunatic mountain man living in, toox that uppity hussy is telling everyone her precious Mr. White is suffering from some obscure fever." The big-nosed one giggled now. "But we've heard about such fevers, haven't we? And I'm sure our tender-hearted nurse has been working on it diligently." "No doubt. And we've heard about such nursing, too, haven't we, sweetie?" There was ill-restrained laughter. "Perhaps we're not being fair," the skinny one said sanctimoniously. "After all, the old man is in the house with them." "That's true. But, on the other hand, possibly we can understand now why the old reprobate has been so reluctant to leave." Now their laughter was totally indulged as the trio walked out of the post office. A pretty young woman with short blonde hair had been sorting mail just behind the row of metal boxes shielding her from the three women. She was taken ill unexpectedly and had to go home early. XIII. It was 11 p.m., April 28, 1903. The town of Frank was caught in a deep freeze, colder than any night of the winter; while the cloud that had enshrouded Turtle Mountain since evening persisted, as if to hide the stresses grinding within. And Melody Allen lay in bed gloating about other masks concealing other impellers: My God, what pitiful creatures these men are when all that hypocrisy is peeled away! That's when you see them for the shallow things they really are. She stifled a laugh. They strut around mouthing their honor, and duty, and brotherhood, and Godx God! Their god is their screaming libidos. This is the ring in the raging bull's nose, Melody. Grab it and you can crush him underfoot like a bug. Loren had crept out of her room a few minutes ago. She smirked again knowing he belonged to her now; and it had been so easy. Such a transparent little ruse it was, too. She giggled. Comic opera! What a silly little comic opera! It was a shame, though, that there was no audience to see your performance, Mrs. Allen: "Oh, no, Loren, you must stop! We can't do this!" But then you nudged him close to the chasm and dangled him a little. Finally, you pushed him away from it. "But how do I know you're not ... how do I know you honestly care for me? How can I really trust you?" And so on, and so on. But then the little beast opens an artery in his ethics and bleeds out his devotion: "Anything, I will do anything, Melody!" It was hilarious. At the height of Loren's distress she had been struck by a perverse urge: "Oh, but what about your great friendship with Abel?" she wanted to ask. Fortunately, she overcame the idea; and the drama swept on: "Oh, yes, sweetheart, I'll run away with you if I can be sure you're not toying with me just to ... to take advantage of me." Melody pressed the pillow over her mouth and let goose feathers absorb her mirth. Oh, you poor little clown, Loren! And I was such a magnificent Sarah Bernhardt. You had him so numb, Melody, he hardly seemed to hear when you told him Zeb had found the fabulous, lost Lemon Mine. Now that's not just numb, that's gibbering dumbnumb! Yes, then another little push to get the panting animal to back away again. Now a throbbing "Do one thing for me, Loren, just one thing; so I can be sure. Tomorrow morning, get Zeb to draw a map to the mine then go out again and verify it. When you come back, we'll run off. We'll run away together!" Her humor drained away. Just once I'd like to find a real man! I wonder what it would be like to encounter one who would have the guts to reach out and take what he wants, to really be the power his bulk and muscles pretend to represent? But their was no laughter in the Montana cowboy. The song was dead; and the shadow-pixie mouldered in the leaves. Loren lay beside the snoring, occasionally vocalizing, little Zebadiah Clanton and listened to his own clamoringx the baying hounds within. Gradually, their wailing choked off into invisible smoke stealing up in the darkness. The hot fires began to die; the sorcerer's door scraped ajar; and what was left of the man crept through ... Time moved to 3:40 a.m., April 29, 1903. It didn't seem to Melody Allen that she had slept more than ten minutes before the old man wrenched her awake with his groaning and moaning. How the devil does Loren stand it? You would think he hasn't heard a sound. How long is that old maniac going to keep it up? If I could only go in there and gag him! How can Ix? Then she thought of something. Well, well, Zeb, you neglected little rat! Mama forgot to give you your poison yesterday, didn't she? Your little tummy must be all upset. Well, we'll see to that right now. She leaped from bed, turned on her light, and reached for her robe. When she had flooded the other bedroom with light, Zeb's eyes snapped open, and he stared back at her like a wounded mouse. Loren gave no sign of awareness. "Oh, little daddy, you poor dear. I couldn't help hearing your suffering. What's wrong? Where does it hurt?" "Don't hurt. Nightmares. But I'm so damned weak. Jest cain't seem ta kick this thing. Gittin' blamed tired a' beggin' fer air." She leaned over and patted his hand. "Well, I'll bet you just need something hot and warm to soothe away your distresses. You stay right here now. I'll be back to share a cup of tea with you. I need something myself. I've been staring at the walls like an owl." "No, Melody, reckon it won't help none. Anyways, it's ... it's gonna disturb Loren here." "No, Zeb honey. Remember, you must listen to your nurse. I know what that tired old body needs. And Loren? Don't worry about him. Look at him there sleeping like a baby. Hush, now; relax. I'll be back in a moment." Melody went into the kitchen. There were good, glowing remains in the firebox; and, in a moment, the small chunks of coal she tossed in had burst into flame. A short while later, she removed the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot. While the mixture brewed, she climbed on a chair and removed the jar from behind the high cupboard door. "You filthy little wretch, Zeb," she muttered, as she carried the container to the kitchen table and sat down. "I'm even getting sick of adding this to your tea every day. Monotony, boredom, and frustration." Melody yawned. Now she poured both cups full and opened the jar. Still muttering, she inserted a teaspoon, withdrew it, and sprinkled just the right dosage into Clanton's cup. "That cowboy had better choke the map out of your neck today, Mr. Clanton, or I might give you an accidental overdose of this, just to enjoy yourx !" A bony hand snatched the jar from the table and brought it up close to crazy, blue eyes. The surgical-tape label was smudged now and ragged at the edges, but its inscription left no room for misinterpretation. "Pizen? Rat pizen! Ye been a-pizenin' me?" Zeb screeched. He began to dance around the room, his screams growing louder and louder. "All this time ye been sneakin' aroun' an' a-pizenin' me? Why? Why?" He stopped dead and stared. "Zeb, honey," Melody pleaded. "You don't understand. That's not poison. That's an old label I didn't bother to scrape off. It's old and gummy, Zeb. No, that's not rat poison, it'sx !" "Gold! Ye done it fer my gold," he whispered hoarsely. "I heerd ye jest now. You an' the cowboy!" Now the old man resumed his hopping about, shaking his fist, slavering and yowling again: "Yer' both in cahoots with the cannibal! I shoulda' knowed! Tshyplal, Tshyplal, ye murderin' devil! Git yer witch away from me!" Loren, red-eyed and disheveled, appeared in the kitchen doorway. He seemed dazed. "Zeb, Zeb! Calm down! What's wrong? What's all the yelling about? Be quiet!" Melody Allen glared at the big man then shoved past him out of the room. White's words had been like a hand over the old prospector's mouth. He began to whisper haltingly: "Ye ... ye were likex like a son ta me, Loren. I ... loved ye like my own. Why did ye do this ta me? Why did ye drag me offa' the ... the rocks jest ta do this?" "What are you talking about, Zeb? Why did I do what? Has the whole world gonex ?" Melody pushed the cowboy roughly aside again and slammed back into the kitchen. She had Abel's rifle in her hands. "Draw the map right now, you filthy old man, or I'll blow your brains out! And don't try to fake it, either. We'll find out, then I'll still blow them out, but I'll start on your scrawny legs and work up." "Melodyx Melody!" Loren gasped. "Shut up, Loren. Get him paper and pencil." Zebadiah made a gagging sound then staggered backward into a foot stool and crashed to the floor. At the same moment, Loren took a step toward the rifle. "Stop, Melody!" he shouted. Far off in the distance, a wolf howled. Before the first note had died, the cry was picked up by another, then another. A deafening "crack!" came from the direction of Turtle Mountain, causing Melody, Loren, and Zebadiah to swivel their heads involuntarily in that direction. There was a consuming roar, then a crushing force collided with the house. An entire wall broke loose and flew directly at them. The clock registered 4:10 a.m.x But then it disintegrated ... * * * The hard crystal on Evelyn Landy's finger broke a thin ray of sunlight into a tiny dazzle of colors. "A rainbow," Dr. Edwardson murmured ... "'And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature ...'," he added almost inaudibly. "Out of the horror," he continued, "a gem. Your diamond, as I'm sure you are aware, Miss Landy, was created from carbon by tremendous heat and pressurex calamity, if you will." "Yes," Constable Quartersloe seemed to agree, " and Frank is a coal ... a carbon town. But I see only death and destruction. I find no diamonds; I see no rainbows, except a small one on a lady's hand." "No, Martin, you're mistaken," Nurse Landy said softly. "The diamonds are Sid Choquette, who flagged down the Spokane Flyer before it could slam into the rocks. The diamonds are seventeen miners who clawed their way out of a mountain that tried to entomb them. The diamonds are the people who dug out their neighbors. The diamonds are the miracle of a tiny baby thrown from the top floor of her house, only to land on a bale of hay that somehow tumbled beneath her from the livery stable a half-mile away." Dr. Edwardson continued the theme: "They are all the people who survived, tempered by tragedy into realizing the true meaning of brotherhood and how precious all life really is." "You're right, of course," the Mountie confessed. "Perhaps it's my profession. Perhaps I'm conditioned to see only the black side." Evelyn Landy reached for his hand. "No, Martin. A man who weeps for his brother is motivated from the Highest." There was a long silence among them, each trying to cope individually with the enormity that had changed their lives forever. It was May 13 now, two weeks after the mountain fell, burying the largely residential flats east of Gold Creek under rock upwards of one hundred feet deep. This throughout an expanse measuring a mile by more than a mile and a half. The commercial section of town was unscathed. Dr. Edwardson, Constable Quartersloe, and Evelyn Landy were seated around the table in the hospital's kitchen area. "The people are not moving back," the young policeman said at last. "They're leaving; the town is dying." "So many people," Evelyn sighed; "so many old friends scattered by the winds. The Olsons left yesterday, heading back to Victoria." "Did you know Gina Olson was in love with Loren White?" Martin Quartersloe asked, opening a subject they all had been avoiding. The physician shook his head almost in anger. "Yes, yes, and Loren was a fine person, in spite of the gossip about him and Mrs. Allen. I don't know why he despised himself so, why he came to suppress the beauty inside ... Gina and Loren ... what a damn waste! If only he had talked to me!" Evelyn turned the engagement ring between two fingers and looked at the uniformed man beside her. "One day, right after one of your visits to the hospital, Martin, Loren told me what a fine young man he considered you to be. 'Snatch him up,' he said; 'I've never seen two people more right for each other.'" The Mountie stared at the floor and swallowed hard. "I liked him the first time I saw him. I couldx I could punch him out for getting killed." When the young couple had left, Dr. Edwardson sat immobile for a while, staring blankly at one of the silent chairs before him. He wiped the base of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger before rising and walking to a cabinet. When he turned back to the table, he held a bottle of brandy and two empty glasses. He sat down, poured twice, and pushed one glass across in front of the empty chair. His toast was silent ... * * * Not long after that, a sign prepared by the Alberta government appeared on the western edge of the rubble: Disaster struck the town of Frank at 4:10 a.m. April 29, 1903, when a gigantic wedge of limestone, 2,100 feet high, 3,000 feet wide and 500 feet thick, crashed down from Turtle Mountain. Ninety million tons of rock swept over a mile of valley, destroying part of the town, taking 70 lives, and burying an entire mine plant and railway in approxi- mately 100 seconds. The old town was located at the western edge of the slide where many cellars still are visible. And so it came to pass that the big Turtle fell asleep at last, unaware of the destruction it had wrought. And blind to the glittering diamonds. End Of Part One Don't miss the exciting conclusion in Part Two of 100 seconds To Charon! Order the complete Book-On-Disk, 100 seconds To Charon! For onlt $4.95 plus $1 for shipping and handeling. 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