I Travel by Night

Author:Robert McCammon & Michael Whelan
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Vampires, Horror, vampire, Fantasy, supernatural, adventure, Historical, Robert McCammon, western
ISBN: 9781596065376
Publisher: Subterranean
Published: 2013-05-01T07:00:00+00:00

Seven.

He heard the boat coming long before it reached him. He heard the slide of the oars and the movement of the green water. He waited, wrapped up in his black shrouds in the shadows of the cypress trees, as the boat neared. In another moment he smelled above the foulness of the swamp the aromas of lavender, leather, lemon soap and hot blood. He knew then who had been watching him last night, and now following him. He waited, one hand on the Colt with the rosewood grip, for her to bring her skiff nearly alongside. Then all was silent except for the gurgle of gas bubbles rising from the bottom and the croaking of hundreds of frogs in their slimy soup. He knew she was sitting there looking at him, trying to make heads-or-tails of this. He tensed only a little bit, when he heard her slide her six from her holster and cock it, but she noted the movement.

“Come out of there,” she commanded.

He yawned under his veil.

“Did you hear me? Come out!”

“It’ll take me a minute or two,” Lawson answered. “You won’t let that shooter go off, will you?”

“Just do what I say.”

“Yes, ma’am. Forgive me if I’m a little cranky. This is not my best time of the—”

She fired a shot into the air that made birds shriek in the trees and for a few seconds silenced the frogs.

“Day,” Lawson finished. He released the Colt’s grip, winnowed his hands out and began to unwrap himself. Though he was covered by deep shadow, the glare of sun off the water was painful to him. It was, at best, a needles-and-pins sensation that grew more painful by the minute and at worst was the sensation that his flesh was being burned off his bones. He moved slowly and carefully to free himself, as his joints were sore. His temples throbbed and his teeth ached. When his head—minus his Stetson—emerged from the shroud, he saw the young woman draw back through the dark-tinted goggles that gave a measure of protection to his eyes. Even with the dark lenses, he had to narrow his eyes against the glare; they felt dried-out and tormented by small pieces of grit.

Lawson got his shoulders and the rest of his arms free. He sat up in his boat, which was roped to the nearest cypress. The pistol in the girl’s hand was aimed at his chest. She had on the same clothes and dark green jockey’s cap she’d been wearing in the Swamp Root, except now they were wet with sweat. The eyes in her otherwise attractive face were the same hard bits of coal. She was wearing her pair of black leather gloves to guard her hands against the rough wood of the oars. She was the type of woman, he mused, who came prepared. “Well,” Lawson said, his vision filmy in the glare. He worked up a smile from the tight muscles of his pallid face. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“That’s

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