p&c.thunderhead-第76部分

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d　finally　three　of　the　pellets　in　his　palm；　pushing　them　through　the　mouthhole　of　his　mask　in　rapid　succession。　There　was　a　loud　swallowing　sound。　The　second　figure　repeated　the　action。　The　chanting　grew　faster。　
　A　tiny　twig　fire　was　built；　and　wisps　of　smoke　curled　around　the　sheltering　rock。　The　root　was　cut　lengthwise　into　thin　strips；　smoked　briefly　in　the　fire；　and　set　aside。　Feathers　were　placed　in　the　fire；　slowly　curling；　crackling；　and　melting。　Next；　several　live　iridescent　beetles　were　placed　atop　the　embers；　to　jitter；　die；　and　parch。　They　were　removed；　placed　in　the　second　skull　bowl；　crushed　into　flakes；　and　mixed　with　water　from　a　leather　bag。　
　The　bowl　was　raised　toward　the　north；　the　chanting　even　faster　now；　and　the　figures　drank　in　turn。　The　strips　of　root　were　placed　back　on　the　fire；　where　they　curled　and　turned　black；　sending　up　an　ugly　stream　of　yellow　smoke。　The　figures　bowed　their　heads　over　the　fire；　breathing　heavily；　rasping　in　the　smoke。　The　chanting　had　now　bee　a　frenzied　ditty；　a　low；　fast　quavering　sound　like　the　buzzing　of　cicadas。　
　The　new　storm　advanced　from　the　east；　drawing　a　shadow　across　the　landscape。　Reaching　once　again　into　his　matted　pelt；　the　first　skinwalker　threw　handfuls　of　creamy　datura　flowers　into　the　fire。　They　quickly　shriveled；　releasing　billows　of　smoke　into　the　darkening　air。　The　figures　bent　over　the　smoke；　inhaling　greedily。　The　air　of　the　plateau　was　suddenly　perfumed　with　the　intensely　beautiful　scent　of　morning　glories。　The　pelted　backs　began　to　quiver；　and　the　silver　conchas　clinked　violently。　
　A　hand　rose　once　again；　sprinkling　black　pollen　in　the　four　cardinal　directions：　north；　south；　east；　and　finally　west。　The　skull　bowl　was　now　empty；　all　its　shriveled　contents　ingested。　One　of　the　figures　raised　its　head　to　the　sky；　a　heavy　stream　of　mucus　running　from　beneath　the　buckskin　mask；　two　palsied　hands　raised。　The　chanting；　angry　now；　rose　in　volume　and　urgency。　
　And　then；　quite　suddenly；　silence　fell。　The　last　wisps　of　smoke　drifted　across　the　face　of　stone。　And　with　terrible　swiftness　the　figures　were　gone；　racing　like　black　shadows　across　the　landscape；　disappearing　down　the　end　of　the　Priest's　Trail　into　the　gloom　of　the　valley　of　Quivira。　
　
　
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　ROSCOE　SWIRE　SAT　ATOP　A　BROKEN　BOULDER；　turning　a　worn　headstall　around　in　his　hands；　poetry　notebook　lying　forgotten　on　the　rock　beside　him。　He　was　profoundly　agitated。　Not　far　away；　near　the　edge　of　the　rushing　water；　stood　a　large　cottonwood；　listing　and　swaying　as　the　pressure　of　the　passing　water　tore　at　its　roots。　Long；　thin　loops　of　flotsam　dangled　from　several　of　the　lower　branches。　
　Swire　knew　those　loops　for　what　they　were：　the　gray；　ropy　guts　of　a　horse。　One　of　his　horses。　And　because　of　their　well…developed　herd　attachment；　he　knew　that　if　one　were　killed；　all　must　have　been　killed。　
　The　valley　had　grown　dark；　but　the　sky　above　was　still　painfully　bright。　The　place　seemed　suspended　between　night　and　day；　caught　in　that　mysterious　stasis　that　occurred　only　in　the　deepest　canyons　of　Utah。　
　Swire　glanced　toward　his　notebook；　toward　the　eulogy　to　Hurricane　Deck　he'd　been　trying；　unsuccessfully；　to　write。　He　thought　of　Hurricane　Deck：　his　three…day　chase；　the　spirit　of　that　magnificent　horse。　Arbuckles：　dim；　friendly；　capable。　He　thought　of　all　the　horses　he　had　lost　on　this　trip；　each　one　with　its　own　personality；　and　of　all　the　little　things　that　had　made　up　his　life　with　them。　The　quirks；　the　peculiar　habits；　the　trails　they　had　ridden　。　。　。　it　was　almost　more　than　he　could　bear。　
　And　then　his　thoughts　turned　to　Nora。　More　than　once；　she　had　made　him　very　angry。　But　he　had　been　forced　to　admire　her　bravery；　the　occasional　recklessness　of　her　determination。　It　was　a　terrible　way　to　die。　She　would　have　heard　her　own　death　ing；　would　have　known　exactly　what　it　meant。　
　He　glanced　around　the　valley；　a　vista　of　deepening　purples；　greens；　and　golds　beneath　a　bright　turquoise　sky。　It　was　a　beautiful　place。　And　yet　it　was　malevolent　in　its　beauty。　
　His　eyes　swivelled　up　in　the　direction　of　the　hidden　city。　To　think　those　three　were　up　there　now；　opening　the　kiva　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　They　would　get　the　glory。　And　Nora　would　get　a　memorial　plaque；　nailed　onto　some　wall　at　the　Institute。　He　spat　disgustedly；　sighed；　and　turned　to　collect　his　notebook。　
　Then　he　stopped　and　looked　around　again　at　the　darkened　canyon。　Except　for　the　rumbling　of　water　and　the　occasional　birdsong；　everything　was　quiet。　
　But　instinct　told　him　he　was　being　watched。　
　Slowly；　he　reached　over　for　the　notebook。　Turning　a　few　pages；　he　sat　back　with　an　air　of　indifference；　pretending　to　read　the　scribbled　lines。　
　The　feeling　did　not　go　away。　
　Swire's　sixth　sense　had　been　honed　over　many　hard　years　of　wrangling　horses　in　wild；　sometimes　hostile　country。　He　had　learned　to　trust　his　life　with　it。　
　His　right　hand　dropped　to　the　holster　and　rested　easily　there；　confirming　the　presence　of　the　gun。　Then　the　hand　rose　again；　this　time　to　thoughtfully　stroke　his　mustache。　The　roar　of　the　water　echoed　and　re…echoed　off　the　canyon　walls；　magnified　and　distorted。　The　edge　of　another　storm　cloud　was　moving　into　the　sky；　staining　the　turquoise　an　ugly　shade　of　gray。　
　He　casually　slipped　the　notebook　into　his　pocket。　Then；　just　as　casually；　he　slipped　the　trigger　thong　out　of　its　catch。　
　He　waited。　Nothing。　
　He　rose　to　his　feet；　using　an　extended　stretch　as　an　excuse　to　take　another　look　around。　Again；　nothing。　Yet　his　instincts　were　rarely　wrong。　Perhaps　it　was　his　imagination。　To　say　he'd　had　a　tough　afternoon　would　be　putting　it　mildly。　
　Still；　he　felt　a　presence。　More　than　that：　he　felt　stalked。　
　Swire　wondered　what　could　be　after　him。　There　had　been　no　wolves　or　mountain　lions　in　the　valley　before；　and　none　sure　as　hell　had　e　in　today。　Perhaps　it　was　human。　But　who？　Nora　and　the　others　who　had　entered　the　slot　canyon　were　dead。　And　the　rest　of　them　were　busy　with　the　kiva。　Besides；　none　of　them　would　want　to…
　With　a　flash；　he　realized　who　it　must　be。　He　was　confused；　in　shock　from　the　day's　events；　or　he　would　have　realized　it　before。　They　were　the　ones　who　had　killed　his　horses。　The　bastards　who　had　gutted　his　animals。　
　And　now　they　were　ing　for　him。　
　A　surge　of　anger　pushed　away　his　rising　apprehension。　He　couldn't　roll　back　time；　he　couldn't　save　his　horses；　or　prevent　Nora　from　entering　the　canyon。　But　he　could　sure　as　hell　do　something　about　this。　
　The　rock　was　not　a　good　place　to　be。　Lightly；　he　hopped　off　and　strolled　out　into　the　open；　glancing　around；　looking　for　a　place　from　which　to　defend　himself。　On　the　surface　the　valley　looked　unchanged；　but　here；　in　the　open；　he　could　feel　the　presence　more　strongly。　
　His　eyes　moved　toward　a　small　grove　of　gambel　oaks　near　the　far　end　of　the　valley。　Twelve　hours　before；　the　trees　had　been　fifty　feet　from　the　water。　Now；　they　were　at　its　edge。　
　He　nodded　slowly　to　himself。　From　there；　the　water　would　be　advantageously　at　his　back。　And　the　oaks　would　hide　him　from　view。　They　wouldn't　know　where　he　was　among　the　trees。　But　he　would　have　a　view　out　across　the　benchland。　It　would　give　him　time　for　several　clear　shots。　
　He　began　strolling　down　toward　the　river；　his　shoulder　blades　crawling　with　the　sense　of　hidden　eyes。　When　he　was　halfway　to　the　grove；　he　stopped；　spat　out　his　tobacco；　and　hiked　up　his　pants；　in　the　process　loosening　the　gun　in　its　holster。　It　was　only　a　。22　magnum　long　barrel；　but　it　had　the　advantage　of　high　accuracy　in　repeated　shots。　A　good　gun　for　the　kind　of　work　he　had　in　mind。　
　He　paused　in　the　gathering　gloom。　This　would　be　his　last　chance　for　a　good　look　at　the　valley　before　entering　the　trees；　and　he　wanted　to　sense　which　direction　his　stalkers　might　e　from。　By　daylight；　there　were　few　hiding　places　in　the　valley。　But　as　night　neared；　the　number　grew：　stands　of　cottonwoods　and　chamisa；　areas　in　dark　shadow。　And　yet；　he　saw　no　unusual　movement；　nothing　out　of　place。　
　Once　again；　he　questioned　his　instincts。　They　were　still　screaming：　Run；　hide！　A　few　raindrops　began　to　fall；　splattering　heavily　in　the　sand。　His　heart　beat　faster　as　his　apprehension　grew。　He　was　not　a　man　to　walk　away　from　a　fight。　But　it　was　hard；　not　knowing　who　you　were　fighting；　or　from　where　they　would　e；　or　if　in　the　end　they　were　just　your　imagination；　after　all。　He　tried　to　remind　himself　that　these　were　the　bastards　that　had　killed　his　horses。　But　as　his　thoughts　returned　to　the　horses；　he　saw　them　again　in　his　mind's　eye：　ritually　sliced；　feathers　protruding　from　the　glazed　dead　eyes；　the　grayish…blue　guts　wound　in　spirals。　What　kind　of　monsters　could　do　that　。　。　。　
　He　started　forward　again；　quickening　his　pace　toward　the　copse。　Once　he　almost　turned　around；　heart　beating　fast；　but　he　checked　himself　in　time：　he　must　not　show　that　he　knew　they　were　there。　
　A　few　more　steps　brought　him　into　the　stand　of　the　oaks。　Moving　quickly　to　the　far　side；　he　crouched；　then　swivelled　around；　putting　his　back　to　the　water。　It　was　dark　beneath　the　hanging　limbs；　and　water　dripped　onto　his　head　and　back。　The　sound　of　the　flood　seemed　magnified　in　the　close　space：　it　bore　down　on　him　confusingly；　ing　in　from　all　sides。　He　shoo