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Doc found that his mood was intensely changeable, veering between exultation at
the beauty of the day and despair at his own predicament.
"Not mad," he whispered, making the mule prick up its ears again. "Let me not be
mad."
The afternoon drifted by.
Jak had given Doc careful instructions on the best and safest places for camping,
pressing home the warning that he'd seen the tracks of a big cat, not far from the
corral where they kept their own horses.
"Mutie fucker, Doc. Cougar that size could take head off in one bite."
But he had also pointed out that Judas wasn't likely to allow any large predator to
creep in too close without giving some sort of warning.
"Such as breaking its tether and running away like goose shit off a shovel, Doc,
leaving you out there." Mildred had been amused at the picture.
Doc was aiming for a box canyon for his first night's camping. There was a trail
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from its mouth that would then lead him higher, into the total desolation of the
mountains, opening up limitless options for the rest of his journey. However long
it might eventually be.
THE CANYON WAS ALIGNED east-west, so that the setting sun flooded
through in the last hour before dusk, heightening the vivid reds and oranges of the
sheer walls, throwing the cracks and fissures into deeper relief.
There was a shadowed pool at the end, just as the albino teenager had described it,
surrounded by some scrub willows and feathery tamarisks. Doc walked around it,
trying to see if there were any tracks that might give him cause for concern. But it
hadn't rained for several days, and he found it impossible to guess how old some
of the spoor was.
"Deer," he said. "That is less than difficult for an old frontiersman like myself.
Doc Tanner. Last of the moccasins. A man whose eyes focus only on the far,
misty horizons. Known to the Native Americans by his Apache name of Trail
Breaker." He laughed, his voice echoing back from the rocks around. "Talking to
oneself is supposed to be the first sign of incipient insanity, is it not? Well, I care
not for that. There is nothing so satisfying as having a conversation with someone
who is your perfect intellectual equal."
There was a set of tracks to and from the edge of the water that he thought might
have been wolves. Or coyotes. And another set that he squatted and stared at for
several seconds, wishing that he had Ryan or Jak with him to help him out.
"Far too big for a feral cat," he mused. "Not a bear? Though a big grizzly might&
No, I confess myself totally defeated by this one."
THE FIRE BLAZED brightly at the sixth attempt.
Doc had his pan of water bubbling merrily, with a small stew of meat and
vegetables that Krysty had prepared for him to take and cook.
Judas was securely tethered to a tree within easy reach of the water and ample
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grazing.
The flames gave enough light for Doc to be able to read the slim volume of verse
that he'd brought with him. He browsed through some of his old favorites, by
Herrick and Marvell, some Frost and even a little Emily Dickinson.
Finding that his eyelids were drooping, Doc carefully tucked the book back into
his pack, unrolled his quilted sleeping bag by the fire and climbed in, dutifully
checking that his Le Mat was ready at hand.
The flames died down to a ruby glow and Doc fell asleep, content with his first
day.
Less than a hundred yards away, upwind, a pair of unblinking golden eyes
watched.
Waited.
Chapter Nine
Ryan was stretched out on the softest feather mattress, beneath a rich coverlet of
silken brocade, relaxing into that delicious state that lay partway between a warm
languor and the waiting delights of deep, satisfying sleep.
A fire blazed in the hearth, the scented logs filling the bedchamber with their
perfume.
He could hear music, very faintly, brushing at the furthest edge of his
consciousness. Perhaps it was coming from an adjacent room.
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It was a flute, picking out and repeating a delicate, ghostly, haunting theme.
A tiny part of Ryan's mind was aware that someone was close to him.
"Krysty?" he breathed silently.
A hand was at his collar, touching him on the side of his throat, moving away the
curling black hair. He felt gentle pressure on the carotid artery.
"Krysty?"
It was like a lightning bolt, exploding from a clear summer sky.
Ryan felt as if he'd been trapped far, far beneath the waters of some gigantic lake,
deep within a sucking gruel that gripped his entire body.
The pleasant sound of the flute was suddenly discordant, a grating, morbid noise
that seemed to strip the layers from his bones and pick at the sensitive marrow.
He blinked open his eye.
It took all of his fighting instincts, honed to a razored edge over the years, to work
out precisely what was happening, where he was.
The underground mall in Seattle had been as dark as pitch when he'd fallen asleep.
Fallen asleep while on watch!
Now there was a dim light, coming from a number of shielded lanterns, all around
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