Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War by Richard Ellis Preston Jr. Page B

world.
    Buckle wondered how far away Max was from him in that moment.
    Would she remain that way forever? He was afraid that Max would die on him, and he knew the fear was justified.
    Once, he had removed his pocket watch and edged its polished brass cover close to her lips, to reassure himself that she was still breathing, and was relieved to see traces of pulsing condensation on the cold metal.
    Enough, Buckle thought to himself. He had been sitting there, his saber resting across his knees, the blade agleam with the firelight, long enough. He shoved the pile of bloody gauze and bandages—already frozen stiff—away from the fire, and filled the little flask with water from snow he had melted in the iron pot. As he screwed on the cap of the flask, the metal squeaking with each turn of the wrist, he appraised his remaining medical supplies: there were enough gauze and bandages left for one more dressing, plus enough penicillin paste to complete that job, but that was it. He could boil more snow for water. What worried him more were the two vials of morphine: enough to keep Max drowsing through the night and into the middle of the next day, but after that, her comfort would be her own.
    He had to get her down the mountain in the morning, but how? She was far too injured to carry, or even place on a horse, if they still had one. He could not fathom leaving her alone in the cave to traverse down the mountain on foot: there would be no way, even on horseback, that he could make it back to her before nightfall. And at nightfall, the sabertooths would come again.
    Buckle rose to his feet unsteadily. His knees felt stiff and cold. He stretched to get the blood circulating again, and looked around the cave. There was not much to the long, oval space and its shallow side chambers, but he noticed that the walls were streaked with a dark corruption. Buckle stepped to the wall and ran his fingers along the stone; sure enough, the tips came away black with soot. The cavern had been used for shelter before. Itwas coated with the greasy detritus of poorly ventilated cooking fires; judging from the thickness of the stains, it had been used for an extended period of time.
    Drawing his pistol from his belt, Buckle walked to the mouth of the cavern. The outside snowdrift obscured what little view there was through the swirling snowfall, but the trail left by his last foray was nearly erased, and he was thankful for that. His vision, now that he was away from the fire, slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he noticed an irregularity at the right-hand side of the cave mouth—a thick black line. As he stepped toward it, his eyes widened. It was a pipe, a section of black stovepipe, partially sunk into the rock, and bolted to it, as well.
    Buckle blinked. The outside end of the stovepipe was covered in a weather cap. The interior pipe ran into the cavern and turned a hard left to angle high along the front wall. Buckle followed the pipe inside, where it ran into the small adjoining chamber closest to the front of the cave, one he had not considered worth investigating. Buckle snatched up the torch and relit it in the fire, hurrying forward to the little chamber as he followed the stovepipe home.
    He entered the small cave, which, deceptively shallow-looking from the main cavern, on the left turn opened into a space about as big as a cottage.
    Buckle froze. Before him, in the wavering orange light of the torch, the stovepipe disappeared into a stone wall, and in the middle of the wall stood a heavy door, sheathed in iron plates and rivets, its surface running with rivers of rust. A horizontal slot had been cut into the face of the stone just to the right of the door, and Buckle peered into it with the torch. A metal handle gleamed, sunk deep in the recess. Without hesitation, Buckle reached in and yanked it.
    The mechanism responded: somewhere inside the wall, a set of gears and cogs rolled into a distressed motion, slowly sliding the door open