“I certainly wouldn’t count on it. Let’s hope we can find her before she finds the dragon.”
The men piled into Brisbee’s wagon and pulled out onto the road. Horner leaned out the side as they picked up speed. “So long, beautiful,” he called. “Steal me a good fossil if you get the chance!” He flashed a last grin and a shameless wink. Lamb cuffed him upside the back of the head, and he sat back down, laughing and rubbing the side of his head. A minute more and they were out of sight.
“Incorrigible,” I said.
“Which one?” asked Charlie.
“That’s a good point. At least they’re on their way, finally.”
“Are you two very certain you can’t be persuaded to leave as well?” Charlie asked.
Jackaby shook his head. “No more than you could be persuaded to leave the good citizens of the valley in harm’s way. We have work to do.”
Charlie nodded. “I really should be going. There are at least half a dozen homes too close to this thing for comfort. I would be remiss, as you say, if I did not warn them. Good luck, Mr. Jackaby.” He turned to me, and for a moment his chocolate-brown eyes locked tight on mine, unconcealed worry playing across his face. “Abigail,” he said quietly, and then paused. “Be careful.”
It was the first time I had ever heard him address me by my first name. I wanted to live long enough to hear him do it again.
Charlie climbed atop Maryanne, and the dappled mare raced off along the packed dirt road. I watched until he was out of sight, and all that remained was a settling cloud of dust. It was down to the two of us. Jackaby was at the trapper’s cart, rummaging through the meager assortment of weapons and equipment in the back. He came up with a slightly dull machete, which he strapped to his hip like a broadsword.
“Well, sir?” I said. “Are you ready to slay a dragon?”
He pulled the ridiculous knit cap onto his head and smiled in a way he might have thought was reassuring. “No,” he said. “No, I most decidedly am not.”
Chapter Thirty
We climbed back up the hill. I had picked out a mountain-climbing axe, and held it to my chest with both hands as I walked. The tool had a sharp, if slightly chipped, edge on one side and a curved pick on the other. At the base of the short wooden handle was another steel point. I did not know what sort of confrontation to expect, or how well I would handle myself when the time came, but I was hoping the sheer number of sharp bits I wielded would increase my chances of success.
We neared the dig site, and my employer slowed. From the far side of the sagging canvas came the sound of labored breathing. Jackaby’s hand caught me roughly by the shoulder, and I stopped midstride. He pointed downward. I was inches from planting my foot in a bear trap. A glimmer of hope played across Jackaby’s eyes.
“Hudson?” he called.
A grunt came from within the site, and we picked our way quickly but cautiously over the barrier.
Hank Hudson was seated just inside the one remaining wall of the canvas. He was slumped forward, leaning his weight on his rifle for support. I understood why Jackaby had not found any more useful weapons at the trapper’s cabin—the man had brought them all with him. A shotgun with a fat barrel lay beside him, and across his back was slung a bandolier loaded with rifle rounds and buckshot. His belt hung with glistening knives and wicked hooks, and over one shoulder was slung what looked to be a whaler’s harpoon gun. He held his left arm against his chest, buried in the folds of his leathers, and he was pale and slick with sweat as he lifted his head to look at Jackaby.
“I’m real sorry, ol’ buddy,” he grunted, his deep, booming voice reduced to a gruff whisper. “I’m a damn fool.”
“Good of you to realize it, old friend.” said Jackaby. “A bit late, though.”
“Hell of a way to go out, at least.” Hank struggled to smile, and then coughed.