He was sure there was no secret hoard, for all that Cranby was convinced. Hadn’t he been all over these hills, with everyone in town at one time or other? The tools changed, from magnetic diviners to thaumaturgical fire charms to old fashioned pick and shovel. But the results never did. Sure, some stuff came up, some cheaper gemstones and rocks that had some value in various trades — stones that could be used for polishing, mostly — but nothing that would allow anyone to quit grubbing around underground or breaking their back while they broke rocks. The longer you stayed out here, the more certain you got that the big find was within reach, but the land had no memory of what you had done before. Everyday was just like every other day. You hoped it would be different, but it never was.
If Rodrigo had been commissioned by Cranby to track down Angstrom, he would leave at first light or sooner. So he could get going early himself and tail him on his way and see if he had missed something. Or perhaps get there first and see if there was any sign of Angstrom coming back or passing along the trail. A horse that size was sure to leave marks that the smaller ponies might not. And a beast that size would need to graze, so they should have made it to some grasslands, if there were any, by nightfall.
But there were no grasslands within several days’ riding. Something didn’t add up, and it was too late to figure out what it was right now. He decided to get up and moving as early as he could and see if he could find anything out before or after Rodrigo got there. Even if he didn’t find it first, he might glean something that would keep him in the know.
He pulled a weather-stained hooded tunic out of pile of debris, and threw it over the bed-rail. He would need that and his boots, perhaps a staff and a knife or two. He rounded up these last items, then kicked off his boots, and dropped onto his bed, listening to the springs groan as he did so. The oil in the lantern was so low, it would burn itself out momentarily, so Jackson rolled to his other side and closed his eyes. The lantern guttered briefly and went out, as he did so. He slept.
* * *
Cranby lingered in the tavern a bit longer, savoring the feeling of enthusiasm in Rodrigo’s manner. He was infectiously good-humored, and while Cranby knew how poorly this was received in the work parties and camps, he found it more to his liking than the usual dour pessimism he was used to.
He had finished drinking some time ago, and was now watching the sun set. With any luck, he would have Angstrom’s secret before too many more sunsets had passed and he would be able to make good on his promise to leave this benighted place. He had wanted to leave almost as long as he had been here. But he was safe here. The patrols rarely stopped and it had been understood that this was punishment enough for non-violent types. His crimes, if he chose to think of them that way, had been against the banking system and those who made its rules. No one had been harmed, no money had disappeared, at least not permanently, but some had been inconvenienced. It had been a comparatively simple matter of pitting one bank’s claims on some cash against another’s, when all the time the actual funds, secured from a third, were in his pocket. He had been able to pull together a tidy sum and live comfortably for a time, but the remorseless law was drawing closer and closer. He had to draw down his supplies a bit to make his way out here. He knew the standard to draw the attention of the law out here was much higher. Sometimes murders were left unresolved, if the responding officer felt he needn’t look to closely at the case.
This of course added to the excitement of life in the settlements. People knew a murder might go unpunished and while some were always willing to settle the most trivial of disagreements with a fight, most were willing to work things out, to seek some agreement, no matter how uneasy a peace it might be. Cranby was aware, that while no one knew his secret, his presence here was an anomaly that had fueled many a late night bull session. Some thought he must be an Inspector, while others were sure he was a renegade on whom you dare not turn your back. Turning him would merit some reward but if you didn’t know the details of what he had done, you could hardly claim it. There were very few heads that one couldn’t imagine a price on out here, for one thing or another.
If he was an Inspector, he hadn’t interfered or had anyone arrested. And if he was a dangerous criminal, how to make a report and not let him or some of his pack of followers know about it? It was too big a risk, so Cranby was safe for now. His understanding of human nature, of greed, of fear, of ambition, had been a big part of his success, and he never approached any conversation or casual meeting without taking stock of what had been left unsaid or expressed in the body language and dress.
* * *
The morning broke clear and there was an oily smell from the scrubby bushes that covered the hills outside of town. Jackson was up with the first glimmer of sunlight over the horizon, and was outdoors within minutes. He passed through the kitchen on his way, filled his water skin, filched some bread, a pouch of cheese, and walked out as silent as a shadow.
The morning was brightening quickly as he walked quickly from the kitchen door to the street to see if Rodrigo was about. No sign of him, so Jackson spent a minute organizing his supplies. The food could go in the small pack over his pack and the water skin at his belt below. He didn’t have food for more than a day or so, but if he needed more he would find it. Rodrigo would come prepared and only one of them might be returning, if it came down to it, thought Jackson with a look of grim determination on his face.
He could see a light in the windows of Rodrigo’s rooming house, and a minute or two later, the other man stepped lightly into the street, looking around and cinching up his burden. Satisfied that no one was about, he set out at a quick trot toward the road out of town, with Jackson following in the shadow of the houses and buildings.
Rodrigo and his shadow left the town within a few minutes and Jackson found it challenging to stay close without making any telltale sounds. Where the town had afforded him a soft surface of packed dirt, the ground here was covered with small stones that rattled and rolled underfoot, and there were branches and leaves at the edges where he found the shadows easiest to hide in. He had made a few small sounds but they blended into the sounds of Rodrigo’s own passage, the occasional rustling in the scrub, the wittering or chattering or some desert creature.
They continued on, Rodrigo pausing every now and again to look behind him, or to study the hedgerow and the rock wall beyond. They would come to the place where Angstrom had disappeared within a few minutes. Did Rodrigo know where it had happened, what to look for? Had Cranby given him directions?
Jackson didn’t know yet what he would do when they found it. If Rodrigo stopped to examine the place, assuming he found it, Jackson would be unable to do anything for fear of discovery. He would have to stay hidden until . . . until what? He was unsure what he would do. If he killed Rodrigo, it would not be easy to conceal the fact. Cranby would know where he had gone and if Jackson had been seen or if his landlady were to note that he was gone before she came down — Why had he taken that food? She would notice that — it would link him to the disappearance and no one would doubt he had reason to do it. No, he would have to let him return unharmed. But how to find out what he does without being seen?
Rodrigo had slowed down and was looking carefully at the ground and the hedges. Jackson looked down and realized no directions were needed. There were hoof prints, unmistakably those of an animal galloping hard, and the size of one set were all anyone needed to see. They were half again as large as the others. Even on the rock-covered hardpan, it was easy to see where they had gone. He dropped into a crouch to watch as the other man looked over the ground, from the middle of the track to the edge. He was on his hands and knees now, measuring with his hands and looking up and down at the wall and the prints.