Page 34 (1/2)
Thursday, December 28, 1893
Wind rips through the crags a thousand feet above, nothing odforsaken town, and theTwo miles south stands Bartholomew Packer’sthis box canyon with the thudding racket of the rock crushers pulverizing ore The sound of the sta edy
He dis, dirtysaddle is snow-crusted as well, its leather and cloth coe’s neck, speaking in soft, low tones he knoill calood day’s work and that a warm stable awaits with feed and fresh water
The mule skinner opens his wallet, collects the pint of busthead he bought at a bodega in Silverton, and ss the re into his empty stomach like iced fire
He wades through waist-deep snow to the s his shop-uished and the big stove squats dormant in the corner, unattended by the usual constellation ofover coffee and tobacco He calls for the own er as he crosses the board floor,between shelves, past stacked crates and burlap sacks bulging with sugar and flour
“Jessup? It’s Brady! You in back?”
The twelve burros crane their scrawny necks in his direction when Brady ereatcoat, pulls out a tin of Star Navy tobacco, and shoves a chaeen lips and guone blackish purple in the last year
“What the hell?” he whispers
When he delivered supplies teeks ago, this littleNow Abandon loolooainst the unshoveled plank sidewalks, no tracks as far as he can see
The cabins scattered across the lower slopes lie buried to their chi, the air smells too clean
Brady is adays on the trail, alone in wild, quiet places, but this silence is all wrong—a lie He feelshas happened here
A wall of dark clouds scrapes over the peaks, and snowflakes begin to speck the sleeves of his slicker Here coether over the doorway of the ht soon
He makes his way up the street into the saloon, still half-expecting Joss Maddox, the beautiful barkeep, to assault hi No one’s there Not the ht from the kerosene lalass on the pine bar, the beer frozen through
The path to the nearest cabin lies beneath untrodden snow, and without webs, it takes five minutes to cover a hundred yards
He pounds his gloved fist against the door, counts to sixty The latch string hasn’t been pulled in, and despite the circumstance, he still feels like a trespasser as he steps inside uninvited
In the dark, his eyes strain to adjust
Around the base of a potted spruce tree, crues of newspaper clutter the dirt floor—remnants of Christmas
Food languishes untouched on a rustic table, far too lavish to be any ordinary meal for the occupants of this cramped one-room cabin This was Christmas dinner
He relove, touches the ham—cold and hard as ore A pot sits there, the beans frozen in their broth The cake feels lass ste frozen and shattered the crystal cups
Outside again, back with his pack train, he shouts, turning slowly in the middle of the street so the words carry in all directions