Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn

Author:T. Davis Bunn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781441270832
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-05-29T04:00:00+00:00

They took one of the Ingush trucks so as to draw less attention in case the scarred man and his fellows still scouted the road. Rogue and Wade refused the traders’ offer of help with unloading the supplies. They used their movements as a chance to bring the hidden Russians news and food and water.

The Ingush driver of Wade’s truck remained puffed with the privilege of taking him into the village. His enthusiasm infected all the clan, even the children, and they were seen off with waves and happy chatter. Rogue watched the proceedings in brooding silence. His only comment was that if Wade wanted to spend free time driving some more, that was his choice. But it was clear he did not approve of Wade drawing unnecessary attention their way.

Wade hunched below the dash, keeping only his eyes up high enough to watch as the road narrowed and entered the hamlet. The streets were cobblestoned, constricted, and steep. Three times the Ingush stopped and asked for directions, only to be greeted with hostile suspicion. The fourth time, he explained in desperation that he bore a friend approaching death. This time he was reluctantly pointed toward the hovel that contained the village’s meager clinic.

“I would not have you lie on my behalf,” Wade chided him as they drew up and stopped before a building whose wide doors indicated previous duty as a stable.

“Do not worry yourself,” the trader replied cheerfully. “All men approach death with each breath, healer. You above others should know the truth of such words.”

They scouted the street before descending and pushing open the stubborn door. They were greeted with a scratchy female voice declaring from a second room, “Too late, too late! My hours are known by all.”

The trader began, “We do not—”

The woman remained unseen as she interrupted with, “I too must sleep and eat and breathe air not infected by the sickness of all. Come back tomorrow.”

Wade looked around what apparently served as both waiting area and examining room. As with many of the clinics he had visited in outlying Russian villages, the chamber was pitifully bare. A metal dish contained two ancient glass syringes. The sterilizing tray held perhaps half a dozen needles and a few battered instruments. The medicine shelves were almost empty.

“You must not tell me that the patient shall not last the night unless it is true. I shall not be brought out on a fool’s errand.” An overweight woman in a stained white jacket strode into the room and stopped at the alien sight of an Ingush trader alongside a foreigner. “What do you want?”

“Only to help,” Wade replied.

“You stay,” the trader told him, and headed for the door. “It is not safe for you to be seen.”

The woman showed growing confusion. “You are sick?”

Wade shook his head. “Do you need supplies?”

“Ah, another trader bearing the dregs of Russian medicine,” she muttered bitterly. Shadows of fatigue gouged deep crevices under her eyes. “Save your strength. I have no money with which to buy even aspirin.

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