Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) by Dale B. Mattheis Page B

you…” Carl stopped and decided to let it go. The ammunition was not a
critical issue.
    Continuing
to sort equipment as if nothing had happened, Jeff looked at Carl with a
hopeful expression.
    “Going
to join me for a few days later on?”
    “I’ll
try. Let’s set a meeting time and place. How about west of Hoodo Pass four days
before the end of your trip? If I don’t show, you’ll know I couldn’t cut free
of my project.”
    “Sounds
good. I’ll make a smoke above the treeline so you’ll have a marker.”
    Carl
left and Jeff spent the rest of the evening packing. Ready for bed, he happened
to glance at the backpack. Perched on top was his saber. Muttering to himself,
he padded over to the sword.
    “I
know I didn’t put it there. If I didn’t, then who did?” The sword’s position
clearly indicated careful placement. “Maybe Carl was fooling with it.”
    Jeff
knew Carl had not touched the sword. He reached down to pick it up. The instant
his hand brushed the scabbard, Jeff knew that if he did not take the sword it
would mean his life.
    It
might have been ten or fifteen minutes. Jeff would never be sure how long he
stood there. Every resource was focused on that decision, about that sword,
concerning his life. He had never experienced any feeling that even came close
to the awful sense of conviction that prevented him from touching the sword.
    Slowly
pulling his hand back, Jeff continued to stare at the saber which silently,
patiently sat there. An instrument of death, it seemed at that moment to
symbolize life itself. Jeff collected himself with a shudder and slipped under
the covers.
    “I
will take that sword and the weight be damned, even if I have to leave
something else behind.”
    Sunshine
flooded the apartment when he awoke. Sitting up with a start, Jeff looked at
the bedside alarm clock and saw it was already ten o’clock. He looked over at
the camping gear.
    Perched
on top of the pile, the sword was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Morning
traffic outside posed a sharp contrast to a quiet watchfulness that permeated
the apartment.
    “Okay,
okay, I said I’m taking you!”
    Throwing
on clothes, he hurried out to the ancient Dodge pickup that served as transportation
and coaxed it to life. He didn’t want to take time to eat, so Jeff grabbed some
cheese and apples on his way out the door with the backpack. The Dodge promptly
died when he let out the clutch.
    “Oh
no you don’t, you old bastard,” Jeff chortled. He had learned its every dirty
trick years ago and teased it back to life. “And away we go!”
    They
were well north on I-5 and settled in for the haul before the Dodge was
convinced that everything was going to be all right. Lulled by the sonorous
thunder of the truck’s exhaust system, Jeff slipped on sunglasses and bit into
the apple. With each mile that passed, Jeff felt tension and resentment fade.
    "Damn,
it’s good to be out of Seattle. What a relief!”
    They
rolled through the Methow Valley over packed snow with the transmission in
four-high. The roads were nearly empty, the sun was bright—it was a perfect day
to drive on and on. Later, they were well up Gold Creek on a gravel road when
Jeff snapped on the headlights.
    “Must
be two feet of snow,” he worried out loud. “C’mon, baby, get me there one more
time.”
    The
headlights picked out the campground entrance near the tail end of dusk. “Thank
God!” Jeff broke into a grin.
    Slapping
the gearshift lever into second, he locked up the drive train and tramped down
on the accelerator. Engine screaming its thrilling song, exhaust pipes
bellowing, the Dodge bucked around the off-season barrier, four wheels spraying
rooster tails of snow and dirt.
    “Yee-ha!
Sock it to ‘em, you old bastard!”
    The
truck had a fight on its hands, but the engine held on to the fat part of the
power curve. When the Dodge made it back onto the road in a flying leap, Jeff
was laughing so hard he had to ease his foot onto the brake