Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,53
Eric Brandon rented stood atop a low bluff about half a mile up a dirt road from the Warner farmhouse. Dell had made a show of putting the century-old log structure into such state of repair that he might rent it out to an occasional venturesome tourist. The foot-thick poplar logs that made its rough-hewn walls were as solid as the day some antebellum Warner had levered them into place. The grey walls showed rusty streaks where Dell had replaced the mud chinks with mortar, made from river sand hauled up from the Pigeon as it rushed past below the bluff. The massive river rock fireplace displayed fresh mortar as well, and the roof was bright with new galvanized sheet metal. Inside was one large puncheon-floored room, with a low loft overhead making a second half-storey. There were no windows, but a back door opened onto a roofed porch overlooking the river below.
Dell had brought in a power line for lighting, stove and refrigerator. There was cold water from a line to the spring on the ridge above, and an outhouse farther down the slope. The cabin was solid, comfortable—but a bit too rustic for most tourists. Occasionally someone less interested in heated pools and color television found out about the place, and the chance rent helped supplement the farm’s meager income. Brandon, however, had found the cabin available each of the half-dozen times over the past couple years when he had desired its use.
While the archeologist splashed icy water into the sink at the cabin’s kitchen end, Brandon removed a pair of fired cartridges from the pocket of his denim jacket. He inspected the finger-sized casings carefully for evidence of flowing, then dropped them into a box of fired brass destined for reloading.
Toweling off, Kenlaw watched him sourly. “Ever worry about ricochets, shooting around all this rock like you do?”
“No danger,” Brandon returned, cracking an ice tray briskly. “Bullet’s moving too fast—disintegrates on impact. One of the nice things about the .220 Swift. Rum and Coke okay?” He didn’t care to lavish his special Planter’s Punch on the older man.
Moving to the porch, Kenlaw took a big mouthful from the tall glass and dropped onto a ladderback chair. The Jamaican rum seemed to agree with him; his scowl eased into a contemplative frown.
“Guess I was a little short with Warner,” he volunteered.
When Brandon did not contradict him, he went on. “Frustrating business, though, this trying to sort the thread of truth out of a snarl of superstition and hearsay. But I guess I’m not telling you anything new.”
The woven white-oak splits of the chair bottom creaked as Kenlaw shifted his ponderous bulk. The Pigeon River, no more than a creek this far upstream, purled a cool, soothing rush below. Downstream the Canton papermills would transform its icy freshness into black and foaming poison.
Brandon considered his guest. The archeologist had a sleek roundness to his frame that reminded Brandon of young Charles Laughton in Island of Lost Souls. There was muscle beneath the pudginess, judging by the energy with which he moved. His black hair was unnaturally sleek, like a cheap toupee, and his bristly mustache looked glued on. His face was round and innocent; his eyes, behind round glasses, round and wet. Without the glasses, Brandon thought they seemed tight and shrewd; perhaps this was a squint.
Dr Morris Kenlaw had announced himself the day before with a peremptory rap at Brandon’s cabin door. He had started at Brandon’s voice behind him—the other man had been watching from the ridge above as Kenlaw’s dusty Plymouth drove up. His round eyes had grown rounder at the thick-barrelled rifle in Brandon’s hands.
Dr Kenlaw, it seemed, was head of the Department of Anthropology at some Southern college, and perhaps Brandon was familiar with his work. No? Well, they had told him in Waynesville that the young man staying at the Warner’s cabin was studying folklore and Indian legends and such things. It seemed Mr Brandon might have had cause to read this or that article by Dr Kenlaw... No? Well, he’d have to send him a few reprints, then, that might be of interest.
The archeologist had appropriated Brandon’s favorite seat and drunk a pint of his rum before he finally asked about the lost mines of the ancients. And Brandon, who had been given little chance before to interrupt his visitor’s rambling discourse, abruptly found the other’s flat stare fixed attentively on him.