Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn Page A

one canvas-topped truck and Wade the other. The trucks were a pair of discarded army-issue troop carriers, noisy and cantankerous as old camels and much less comfortable. Wade’s seat was covered with a thin strip of padding that had long since been mashed into something resembling plastic-covered concrete. The steering wheel was a giant affair that bucked and trembled and demanded a steel grip. The gears were spaced three feet apart and ground out a wailing protest at each change. Both trucks stood high and top-heavy on bald tires and bad shocks. The windshields were cracked, the paint blistered, the bodies badly rusted. The trucks shook and rocked and creaked and chugged noisily, even when standing still.
    Wade could hardly wait to start their journey.
    The seven men guarding the compound were from the town’s Ossetian population. They were slightly fairer in complexion and lighter of eye than the Chechen, yet displayed the suspicious squint of the southern folk and the same hostility toward all but those fully accepted by the clan.
    The pair on duty barred the way with rifles raised until they spotted Wade, then opened the gate and allowed them through. As Wade stepped from the cab, there was a moment of solemn greetings, a series of nods and respectful words that raised Robards’ eyebrows. Wade answered with his customary embarrassed hesitation.
    Yet as soon as Wade and Robards made preparations to load the wares, the atmosphere turned ugly. Murmurs became angry protests as Robards slid down the loading ramp and fastened the hinges into place. When he helped Wade do thesame for the second truck, the volume rose to dangerous levels.
    â€œWhat on earth is going on here?” the parson demanded. He scuttled over from the parish office, his cassock raising fitful dust clouds. “Oh, it’s you. Back already?”
    â€œNo reason not to go ahead and get the job done,” Robards said easily, dusting his hands on the sides of his trousers and paying the angry guards no mind. “Who’s got the warehouse keys?”
    â€œIt’s the schoolhouse, actually,” Reverend Phillips said, distracted by all the angry shouts and arm waving. “Wade has the keys. What on earth are those guards saying? I can’t make it out when they talk among themselves.”
    Wade selected his words with delicacy. “They don’t like to see the medicines moved.”
    â€œStands to reason,” Robards said, giving the sky overhead a careful inspection. “They’re not going to be overjoyed to hear their jobs just took a hike.”
    â€œBut I explicitly told them when they were hired that the work was temporary,” the parson said petulantly.
    â€œHearing is one thing and letting go another,” Robards said, and pointed at the northern horizon. “I’m not too pleased with the look of those.”
    Reverend Phillips squinted, searched the heavens, said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
    Robards dropped his gaze and inspected the guards who were quieting somewhat under his studied calm. Then he pointed toward a gray-bearded elder who stood by the back wall and watched the proceedings with lively eyes. “That the head honcho over there?”
    â€œSort of,” Wade replied. “At least the others seem to listen when he speaks. His name is Mikhail.”
    â€œAsk him what those clouds mean.”
    Wade did so. The elder neither looked upward nor turned away. He replied with one croaked word, which Wade translated as, “Snow.”
    â€œHow long?” Robards demanded.
    There was another exchange, then, “Four, maybe five days.”
    Robards nodded his thanks toward the old man, then asked, “When were they last paid?”
    The parson protested, “I really don’t see—”
    â€œEnd of last week,” Wade replied.
    â€œTell them anybody who gets in the way won’t be paid for this