Pale Rider by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

Won’t take long. Just make yourself at home.”
    There was more he wanted to say, much more he wanted to tell his new companion. It would have to wait. Ordinarily Hull Barret wasn’t much of a talker, but since this stranger was proving to be such a good listener he felt the words flowing freely. There was something about the tall rider that inspired confidence, and it was more than just his recently demonstrated physical prowess.
    He didn’t get the chance in any case, because they were confronted by an older man leading a heavily laden mule downstream. He was half blond and half gray, and he looked older than his years. He met Barret’s inquisitive stare unashamedly.
    “So long, Hull.”
    “Where you going, Ulrik?” Hull frowned, glanced skyward. “Kind of late to be going into town.”
    “I bane not goin’ into that damned town. I yust goin’. Gettin’ out while I still can.”
    Hull pulled back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. The old Swede led his mule around the obstacle. “Gettin’ out?” Hull repeated. “Where the hell to?”
    “Don’t matter. Someplace where I bane not goin’ get ruined day after day. Some place where I can sleep nights. Can’t fight no more, Hull. I bane not the only one, neither.”
    Hull had to turn to look back at the departing miner. “Aw, Ulrik. You know what they say. ‘It’s bound to get better ’cause it can’t get any worse.’ ”
    The old man nodded knowingly. “Man that said that hain’t been livin’ in Carbon Canyon. Goodbye and good luck, Hull Barret. You’ll quit too, if you’re smart.”
    Hull watched until man and mule had passed beyond earshot. Shaking his head in silent disappointment, he turned forward again and urged the mare onward.
    “What was that all about?” the stranger inquired mildly.
    The other man’s expression was set, his voice low. “Remember that feud I told you about? Ulrik’s leavin’ has to do with it. I’ll explain later. Doesn’t concern you in any case.” So saying, he risked a quick glance in the stranger’s direction. If he was expecting a follow-up query or an expression of more than casual interest, he was disappointed. The tall rider was staring straight ahead, apparently having accepted Hull’s declaration at face value.
    Hull shrugged. He had supplies to distribute and he wanted to be done with that before dark.
    The stranger surveyed the cabin. Two separate rooms, as its owner had claimed. Facilities out back. But it was clean and neat and in much better condition than the average miner’s abode. This was no knocked-together lean-to meant to be abandoned each winter. It was a permanent, year-round dwelling, put together with care and expertise and not a few hard-won dollars. There was glass in the windows and linen on the beds. Hull Barret took pride in his little cabin, and it showed.
    Just as it showed in the man, the stranger mused to himself.
    He moved into the back room and set out his kit, paid a quick visit to the one-holer out back, then returned and considered what to do next. Hull was right about him having ridden a long ways, and he was more than a little tired, but there were going to be ladies at supper. He rubbed at the thick stubble that covered his face. Proper thing to do was to clean up some.
    In the front room he found a big washbasin full of water that had been allowed to sit in a south-facing window all day. As a result, the water in both the basin and its accompanying pitcher was almost hot. A brief search turned up soap and a razor. The soap was not homemade lye, as he expected. It was bar soap and it smelled of lilac. Imported by someone like Blankenship all the way from San Francisco, no doubt. He eyed the precious bar approvingly. Blankenship wouldn’t sell luxury goods on credit. There had to be some gold in this canyon, then.
    He stripped off his mackinaw and shirt, then pulled the undershirt over his head and laid it out neatly on the nearby cot. There were no