Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman by Alan Edward Nourse Page A
Authors: Alan Edward Nourse
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rat down there, she'll get it. And listen, for God's sake: don't go chasing rats with a broom anymore, okay? They can be vicious when you comer them."
11
"Who was that on the phone?" Amy Slencik said as she came into the cabin on Grizzly Creek with an armful of beets from the garden.
"That was my job foreman," Harry said sourly. "He says Ted Smith has pulled his crew off the underground wiring job."
"He's what?"
"Pulled out. Disappeared in the night. His boys came in.and hauled off their backhoes and trucks about midnight. No sign of them in town today. Said they were losin' money, so I could just go suck rocks."
"But Harry, Ted bid that trenching job! He signed a contract with you."
"So what's a contract? He's gone. Am I supposed to chase him to California? I can't even hold up his last week's payroll he's got it already."
"Well, you can sue the bastard," Amy said.
"I could if I was rich—but I haven't got time or money to sue him. What I've got to do is get those trenches dug, somehow. You can't lay underground without trenches. Goddamned has tard." Harry walked over to the cabin window. "Well, at Icasi I got your irrigation pump going again."
"I know. And just in time. What was wrong?"
"Dead pack rat in the intake pipe. Plugged it up tight. Don'i ask me how he got in there, the foot valve was just fine, but there he was, inside."
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't the whole pump," Amy said.
"That's for sure." Harry nodded. "Pack rats I can live with. People like Ted Smith are something else." He stared down the creek toward the place where old Doc Chamberlain's cabin was located, a hundred yards downstream in the cottonwoods. "I keep thinking we should just dump the construction company and retire out here full time. Show those bastards that somebody else can walk off a job too. Doc was talking about the same thing last summer, just taking up full-time residence here on the creek and let things in town go hang. Maybe we ought to talk to him again one of these days and see what he thinks right now. Maybe go down and buy him a drink tonight."
12
The house Frank Barrington was looking for was down a long canyon road outside the town of Canon City, Colorado, at the very end of a string of cheap builders' houses as alike as ugly ducklings in a row. Frank eased the little rented Ford down the steep road, watching the house numbers closely. Near the very end of the road a little yellow house had a yard sign that said comstock on a plastic board pressed to make it look like wood.
Frank turned into the driveway and snapped off the motor. The place looked deserted—no car in the drive, garage open and empty, drapes across the front windows. Well, that figures, Frank thought glumly. He had gotten a 7:00 a.m . flight from Sea-Tac to Denver, then boarded a local puddle jumper south to Colorado Springs, arriving around 2:00 p.m . Mountain Time. Four times en route he had tried the Comstock number, twice in Seattle, twice in Denver, with no response. By the time he'd rented the car and started south to Canon City to find the place itself, he was pretty sure it was going to be a big waste of time, but he had to tiy. It was the one connection with Pam that he could pin down: a name and address on a Forest Service citation.
He got out of the car, walked up on the porch and pushed the doorbell, heard the dingdong noise inside. He pushed it twice more, waiting, then banged on the door with his fist. Nothing. Finally he walked around the house, looked into a kitchen window at the back. Nothing alive in there. An open box of cake mix sitting on the counter. A mixing bowl with a beater, tipped back, the blades covered with something thick and white. Some dirty dishes in the sink, and a microwave oven, still turned on . . . somebody left in a hurry . . .
Starting back for the car, Frank saw a white-haired man standing on the neighboring porch, staring at him. "You looking for something, buddy?"
"I'm looking for Comstock," Frank said.
11
"Who was that on the phone?" Amy Slencik said as she came into the cabin on Grizzly Creek with an armful of beets from the garden.
"That was my job foreman," Harry said sourly. "He says Ted Smith has pulled his crew off the underground wiring job."
"He's what?"
"Pulled out. Disappeared in the night. His boys came in.and hauled off their backhoes and trucks about midnight. No sign of them in town today. Said they were losin' money, so I could just go suck rocks."
"But Harry, Ted bid that trenching job! He signed a contract with you."
"So what's a contract? He's gone. Am I supposed to chase him to California? I can't even hold up his last week's payroll he's got it already."
"Well, you can sue the bastard," Amy said.
"I could if I was rich—but I haven't got time or money to sue him. What I've got to do is get those trenches dug, somehow. You can't lay underground without trenches. Goddamned has tard." Harry walked over to the cabin window. "Well, at Icasi I got your irrigation pump going again."
"I know. And just in time. What was wrong?"
"Dead pack rat in the intake pipe. Plugged it up tight. Don'i ask me how he got in there, the foot valve was just fine, but there he was, inside."
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't the whole pump," Amy said.
"That's for sure." Harry nodded. "Pack rats I can live with. People like Ted Smith are something else." He stared down the creek toward the place where old Doc Chamberlain's cabin was located, a hundred yards downstream in the cottonwoods. "I keep thinking we should just dump the construction company and retire out here full time. Show those bastards that somebody else can walk off a job too. Doc was talking about the same thing last summer, just taking up full-time residence here on the creek and let things in town go hang. Maybe we ought to talk to him again one of these days and see what he thinks right now. Maybe go down and buy him a drink tonight."
12
The house Frank Barrington was looking for was down a long canyon road outside the town of Canon City, Colorado, at the very end of a string of cheap builders' houses as alike as ugly ducklings in a row. Frank eased the little rented Ford down the steep road, watching the house numbers closely. Near the very end of the road a little yellow house had a yard sign that said comstock on a plastic board pressed to make it look like wood.
Frank turned into the driveway and snapped off the motor. The place looked deserted—no car in the drive, garage open and empty, drapes across the front windows. Well, that figures, Frank thought glumly. He had gotten a 7:00 a.m . flight from Sea-Tac to Denver, then boarded a local puddle jumper south to Colorado Springs, arriving around 2:00 p.m . Mountain Time. Four times en route he had tried the Comstock number, twice in Seattle, twice in Denver, with no response. By the time he'd rented the car and started south to Canon City to find the place itself, he was pretty sure it was going to be a big waste of time, but he had to tiy. It was the one connection with Pam that he could pin down: a name and address on a Forest Service citation.
He got out of the car, walked up on the porch and pushed the doorbell, heard the dingdong noise inside. He pushed it twice more, waiting, then banged on the door with his fist. Nothing. Finally he walked around the house, looked into a kitchen window at the back. Nothing alive in there. An open box of cake mix sitting on the counter. A mixing bowl with a beater, tipped back, the blades covered with something thick and white. Some dirty dishes in the sink, and a microwave oven, still turned on . . . somebody left in a hurry . . .
Starting back for the car, Frank saw a white-haired man standing on the neighboring porch, staring at him. "You looking for something, buddy?"
"I'm looking for Comstock," Frank said.
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