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she said, shaking her head nostalgically. "I swear to God that it was one of
the most beautiful sights in the whole ever-loving world."
The damp earth and compressed leaf mold had given way to small pebbles and
bare rock. The trail had narrowed and become more distinct, zigzagging above
them in a steady climb. The last hundred feet or so had now disappeared in the
clinging bank of low cloud.
"Heard the drums again, lover," Krysty whispered at one of the sharp bends in
the path.
"Sure?"
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"Sure."
"SLOW DOWN, JAK!" Ryan called, feeling his voice muffled in fog the moment it
left his lips. The skin on his cheeks felt cold and tight, and his coat was
covered in a layer of fine drops of water. On an impulse he tasted it, finding
the slightest hint of salt.
"I'm top," the boy replied from somewhere ahead and above them.
"I fear that the bellows to this organ of mine are becoming a trifle short of
pressure," Doc said, doubling over in a coughing fit, hands on his knees.
"He means he's run out of breath," Mildred translated, picking up the ebony
cane the old man had dropped and handing it back to him.
"You certainly have a way with words, ma'am. Short and simple."
She didn't rise to his baiting.
"Looks like the ridge, here," J.B. said, moving a few cautious feet along the
spine of the hill, testing the path beneath his boots.
"Hear drums?" Jak asked suddenly, looking first to Krysty, as he knew that she
had the best hearing in the group.
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"Last night, in the tree, and this morning," she confirmed. "Down there. I can
also feel water. Like an ocean. Could be one of those big lakes you mentioned,
Mildred."
"Lake Superior? Could be. Would account more for this blasted fog."
J.B. joined Ryan. "Drums like they hear could mean Indians. Could be more of
this stinking wet forest down there. Figure we go on or turn back now? Could
be near the redoubt before full dark."
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Ryan thought about what the Trader used to say: "Most men, faced with going on
or turning back, will likely go forward. Nobody likes turning back. All you
have to do is think clear which option is best." Ryan sometimes wondered if
Trader's words had always been true. Certainly, in Deathlands, most men would
strike ahead.
"It'll be closing on dusk when we're down in that jungle, J.B., and we don't
know where those bastard mutie ants went. I say we go on, but slow and
careful. You?"
"On? Hell, I knew that all along, Ryan. Just wanted to check you thought the
same."
"DRUMS AGAIN, louder this time," Krysty called over her shoulder.
"And trees," Jak added, dancing light-footed ahead on point. "Spiky, not
soft."
They were conifers, sparse at first, looming from the mist like stunted guards
wrapped in cloaks of dark green. Then there were more of them, packed in
closer to the edges of the winding trail.
By now they could all hear the rhythmic beating of drums.
"Kind of chilly for Indian savages," Doc said.
"Crap! "Mildred spit.
"How's that, madam?"
"Saying Indians don't come from cold regions. I guess I could name you a dozen
tribes or more that do."
"Go on," Doc challenged, stopping on the path and bringing the whole group to
a halt.
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"Micmac, Penobscot, Algonquin, Huron, Ojibway, Mohawk, Yakima, Okanagan,
Tlingit, Chinook, Beaver, Tanana, Cree, Bannock, Crow, Shoshone, Cheyenne.
How many's that?"
"Around fifteen or so," J.B. said, grinning. "Better'n a dozen."
"If you like I could go on with another fifty, Doc. My minor was North
American
Indian Sociology, groupings and distribution."
"Humph!" Doc snorted and turned on his heel, setting off again down the trail
at a fast lick.
The trees grew thicker, filling the damp air with the scent of balsam, and the
mist became thinner. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]