to happen in McRay.
No one ever died here.
El fumbled, trying to wrench the knife out again. Another horrible guttural noise bubbled from Terry's lips, and Dawn gasped. El spun. He was an alien, with a humanoid face and giant glassine eyes.
Dawn couldn't comprehend what was happening. Couldn't figure out how to get her body to listen to her mind. Her mind kept screaming for her to run. But she couldn't move.
El struggled to his feet, leaving the giant knife pinning her mother to the floor.
He whipped the huge black Ruger out of its holster and pointed it at her.
She backed away two steps but she was still looking down the barrel of the gun that seemed large enough for her to crawl into.
She wondered if she would see the huge gray bullet coming at her eyes.
12:10
M ICKYSTOODONHER front stoop, staring at the trail that forked in her front yard. One path led directly through the woods to Cabels’ Store. The other followed the creek, from the store all the way up the valley to Aaron McRay's cabin.
Creek or woods?
She was in a hurry. Clive might be busy and she wanted to be certain he could make time to pick up the crate.
She chose the woods.
But she had hardly started down the trail when a highpitched screech stopped her. It sounded for all the world like a woman screaming. Micky listened for a moment but heard nothing more. She wrote the sound off to the crying of a jay.
Then the
pop pop
of two muted gunshots stopped her again. The shots had come from across the creek. She turned in that direction.
Either Stan or Marty had hit a find. They always fired their rifles when they did.
Their claims and Damon's ran along three hundred yards of the South Fork and they had four different sluices set up there, long washboard affairs where they had diverted part of the stream.
Damon's claim was just this side of Marty and Stan's. But it wasn't Damon shooting. He hadn't worked on his claim since the year before. And Damon hated guns. His experience with violence was mostly secondhand. But it had scared him, nonetheless.
In the four years since she'd moved to McRay, Damon had spoken less and less of the experiences that had driven him to leave his profession. But she understood the internal pressures that had forced him into the life change. And she understood why he didn't want to have anything to do with guns. Vegler had killed his victims with a.22 rifle.
Micky had spent a day with Damon and Marty and Stan the past summer. Marty tried to teach her the intricacies of placer mining. He looked like a Tolkien dwarf, with his tangled beard and bushy gray brows. His shoulders were broad from years of hard work. Stan always said that Marty should smoke a long thin pipe, like Gandalf. But Marty was strong as a horse.
“You shovel it up and you dump it in,” Marty had said, doing just that. “Why don't you show the lady?” He gave Stan a look that said maybe Stan could do more with his shovel than lean on it.
Stan stalked off toward the other sluice box.
The gravel skittered down the washboard bottom of the sluice. The heaviest rocks and debris dropped between the ridges.
“Gold is heavier than anything,” Marty told her, picking out the larger pebbles and tossing them aside. She leaned over to see. Bright specks of gold gleamed through the icy water.
Damon was across the stream, fiddling with a hose on Marty's old diesel-powered pump.
“What's he doing?” she'd asked Marty.
“We use that to wash the gravel downs off the slopes and into that sluice box over there.” Marty pointed to a spot along the stream below Damon. “But the damn pump breaks down all the time. Not worth the effort.”
“Damon will get it running.”
Marty laughed, running a hand across his bald scalp. “He would. But he don't put in the time up here he used to.”
“Why not?”
“Damon's getting the bug.”
“The bug?”
“Starting to look for
The Mine.”
“Not Aaron's mine?”
“The same.”
“Damon told me it was a
No one ever died here.
El fumbled, trying to wrench the knife out again. Another horrible guttural noise bubbled from Terry's lips, and Dawn gasped. El spun. He was an alien, with a humanoid face and giant glassine eyes.
Dawn couldn't comprehend what was happening. Couldn't figure out how to get her body to listen to her mind. Her mind kept screaming for her to run. But she couldn't move.
El struggled to his feet, leaving the giant knife pinning her mother to the floor.
He whipped the huge black Ruger out of its holster and pointed it at her.
She backed away two steps but she was still looking down the barrel of the gun that seemed large enough for her to crawl into.
She wondered if she would see the huge gray bullet coming at her eyes.
12:10
M ICKYSTOODONHER front stoop, staring at the trail that forked in her front yard. One path led directly through the woods to Cabels’ Store. The other followed the creek, from the store all the way up the valley to Aaron McRay's cabin.
Creek or woods?
She was in a hurry. Clive might be busy and she wanted to be certain he could make time to pick up the crate.
She chose the woods.
But she had hardly started down the trail when a highpitched screech stopped her. It sounded for all the world like a woman screaming. Micky listened for a moment but heard nothing more. She wrote the sound off to the crying of a jay.
Then the
pop pop
of two muted gunshots stopped her again. The shots had come from across the creek. She turned in that direction.
Either Stan or Marty had hit a find. They always fired their rifles when they did.
Their claims and Damon's ran along three hundred yards of the South Fork and they had four different sluices set up there, long washboard affairs where they had diverted part of the stream.
Damon's claim was just this side of Marty and Stan's. But it wasn't Damon shooting. He hadn't worked on his claim since the year before. And Damon hated guns. His experience with violence was mostly secondhand. But it had scared him, nonetheless.
In the four years since she'd moved to McRay, Damon had spoken less and less of the experiences that had driven him to leave his profession. But she understood the internal pressures that had forced him into the life change. And she understood why he didn't want to have anything to do with guns. Vegler had killed his victims with a.22 rifle.
Micky had spent a day with Damon and Marty and Stan the past summer. Marty tried to teach her the intricacies of placer mining. He looked like a Tolkien dwarf, with his tangled beard and bushy gray brows. His shoulders were broad from years of hard work. Stan always said that Marty should smoke a long thin pipe, like Gandalf. But Marty was strong as a horse.
“You shovel it up and you dump it in,” Marty had said, doing just that. “Why don't you show the lady?” He gave Stan a look that said maybe Stan could do more with his shovel than lean on it.
Stan stalked off toward the other sluice box.
The gravel skittered down the washboard bottom of the sluice. The heaviest rocks and debris dropped between the ridges.
“Gold is heavier than anything,” Marty told her, picking out the larger pebbles and tossing them aside. She leaned over to see. Bright specks of gold gleamed through the icy water.
Damon was across the stream, fiddling with a hose on Marty's old diesel-powered pump.
“What's he doing?” she'd asked Marty.
“We use that to wash the gravel downs off the slopes and into that sluice box over there.” Marty pointed to a spot along the stream below Damon. “But the damn pump breaks down all the time. Not worth the effort.”
“Damon will get it running.”
Marty laughed, running a hand across his bald scalp. “He would. But he don't put in the time up here he used to.”
“Why not?”
“Damon's getting the bug.”
“The bug?”
“Starting to look for
The Mine.”
“Not Aaron's mine?”
“The same.”
“Damon told me it was a
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