The Keep of Fire (2 page)

For a few years prior to the gold rush of 1859, the name Mount Jeffrey had hung over the mountain, a name it had shared with a minor member of the Long Expedition of 1820—a lieutenant who one afternoon climbed to the summit with a bottle of whiskey. By the time Lieutenant Schuyler P. Jeffrey died of septicemia in a Washington, D.C., tenement five years later, his name had tumbled off the mountain. Although the empty whiskey bottle he had cast down was still there.

The Ute Indians, who from forested ridges had watched Long’s party stroll through the valley, had had their own name for the mountain: Clouded Brow, for the wreath of mist that often girded the summit. However, if the people who dwelled here before the Utes had called the crag anything, then it had passed with them. And before that … no names.

One mountain. Many names. But eventually the peak and the town had both come to wear the name of Mr. Simon Castle—who made his fortune in publishing back East and who came west with a dream of constructing a grand new kingdom. He built the Silver Palace Hotel and the Castle City Opera House, then returned to Philadelphia eight years later, after his wife perished of tuberculosis and his sandstone mansion outside of town was struck by lightning and burned to the ground.

Castle Peak. The name fit for now, at least until a new name came along. And after that, when once again there were no people here and the valley dreamed alone, then it would be simply the mountain once more.

Travis gripped the railing. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles he pressed pale eyes shut as he pictured it: high up the slope the first aspens quickening, leaves whispering silver-green secrets, then moments later the low thrumming as the canyon cleared its throat and the lodgepole pines circled in a graceful tarantella. It was coming.

On any world, Travis could always tell when the wind was about to blow.

“I knew you’d come back,” Max said that white January day when Travis stepped into the Mine Shaft, still clad in the travel-worn clothes of another world.

It had been morning, and the saloon had been quiet and empty save for the two men.

“I knew it, Travis, even though … even though
Jace said you died with Jack in the fire. I kept everything going for you—the bar, the mortgage, the books.…”

Max’s words got lost somewhere in his chest then, but that was all right.

“It looks wonderful, Max,” Travis said as he hugged his friend. “It all looks wonderful.”

And that was how Travis had come home.

The days that followed were strange and fragile. In some ways he felt as out of place as he had on Eldh, traveling in the company of Falken Blackhand. Things like indoor plumbing and electric lights and pickup trucks all had an exotic sheen. But just as he had on Eldh, he knew he would get accustomed to them. All he needed was a little time.

Unlike the inquisitive bard, no one in Castle City asked Travis for his story—where he had been for more than two months and why he had come back. Then again, people in Castle City didn’t usually ask a lot of questions. It didn’t really matter where you had been, only that you were here.

Jacine Windom came the closest to prodding Travis for information, and even the deputy’s questions, while sharp as the creases steamed into her khaki trousers, were narrowly directed.

“Were you at the Magician’s Attic the night of the fire?” Jace asked one afternoon at the saloon, straight-backed on her barstool, notepad and pencil in hand.

“I was,” Travis answered.

“Do you know what caused the fire?”

“Jack was struggling with an intruder. I was outside the antique shop—Jack told me to run. When I turned around, the place was in flames.”

“Did you get a good look at the intruder before you fled?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

It hadn’t been until later that he came face-to-face with them. In the White Tower of the Runebinders he
had looked into alien eyes and seen death. But he didn’t tell Jace that.

Travis waited for more questions, but Jace flipped her notepad shut and stood up from the barstool.

“I think that’s enough, Travis. I’ll call you if Sheriff Dominguez needs anything else.” The deputy started for the door.

“Did you find him?” Travis looked up and met Jace’s brown eyes. “Did you find Jack?”

The deputy pressed her lips shut at that, then gave one stiff nod. “There’s a stone for him in Castle Heights Cemetery.”

“I’ll go see it, Jace. Thanks.”

The deputy headed for the door, although not before glancing back at Max. The look the two of them exchanged told Travis he had been right about one thing: Jacine had roped her stallion. Max was wearing Wranglers now.

But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to remake yourself for another. Sometimes Travis thought he might like to have the chance, although he could never really picture what he’d become, or for whom he’d change. Or did it even matter? Maybe it was just the act of changing itself that was important.

After his conversation with Jace, the days had started to come easier. Travis’s cabin outside of town had been rented to someone else, so Travis had taken up residence in the empty space above the Mine Shaft. The old apartment was narrow and drafty, and the kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a sink, but it would do for now. Travis needed less than he used to; he had gotten used to traveling light.

Max had parked Travis’s battered green pickup truck behind the saloon, and one day Travis got brave enough to try to start it. He turned the key in the ignition, then laughed as the engine roared to life.

Since then he had lost himself in the day-to-day affairs of the Mine Shaft. Moira Larson’s book club
met at the saloon every week—stuffy novels of class oppression traded for the sharp and vital wit of Evelyn Waugh. The dude ranch cowboys had progressed from single malt scotch to martinis. And Molly Nakamura still patiently taught saloon patrons to fold crisp sheets into origami chameleons and monkeys, and still always stroked with gentle fingers their mutant paper creations.

All in all, it was good and easy to sink back into his old life. And yet …

From time to time, as he wiped down the bar, or swept the floor, or gathered up empty beer glasses, Travis would find himself gazing out the window, toward the rocky slopes of Castle Peak, and thinking of the wind that blew down from the mountain. Thinking of traveling.

That journey is over, Travis. You’re here now, where you belong
.

He opened his eyes and drew in a breath. Electric wires hissed overhead. Litter danced along the cracked surface of Elk Street, choreographed into glittering auguries. Yes, it was coming.

He turned his face to meet the approaching wind, ready to feel its crisp embrace, to sense the possibilities it bore on its wings. The witchgrass along the boardwalk trembled. Newsprint manta rays levitated off the ground. Tourists reached up to clutch brightly logoed hats—

—then lowered their hands and continued on.

A single hot gust lurched down Elk Street, then died in a limp puff. The wires ceased their music. The witchgrass fell still. The newspaper rays settled back to the pavement.

Sweat trickled down Travis’s brow, and the parched air drank it, leaving a crust of salt on his skin. There was no fresh awakening, no sense of endless possibility. Only the sun baking cement and wood and dirt until everything smelled like old, dry bones.
He didn’t remember it ever being this hot. The sky was too hard, the valley too dull.

Travis reached up and fingered the piece of polished bone that hung from a leather string around his neck. The bone’s surface was incised with three parallel lines. He traced them with a thumb. Yes, it was almost like he had never left. Except he
had
left. And nothing would ever really be the same.

Travis sighed, let go of the talisman, and walked back into the saloon.

The cool air inside the Mine Shaft was a balm to Travis’s skin. He stepped behind the bar, reached into the chiller, and brought out a bottle of root beer. He pressed it against his cheek, wincing at the frigid touch, then let out a breath and shut his eyes.

“You know, Travis, most people find it easier to drink if they take the cap off the bottle first.”

“People can be so boring sometimes.”

There was a snort of laughter. Travis opened his eyes to see Max lift a rack of glasses onto the bar.

“You’re weird, Travis.”

“That’s a relief. For a minute I thought I might be losing my touch.”

Max rolled his eyes and started unloading glasses.

Travis crossed his arms, leaned back, and watched his employee work. Max had done a good job keeping the saloon humming while Travis had been away. Better than good. And while Max clearly took pride in this fact, he had not hesitated in returning control of the operation back to Travis that wintry day in January.

Travis had been glad to take on the mantle of saloon proprietor again. Like everything about his old
life, it felt warm and comfortable. And, like everything, it seemed different since his return. For more than two months the saloon had belonged to Max, no matter what the mortgage papers said.

Travis reached into a drawer, pulled out a folded piece of paper, set it on the bar, and pushed it over the knife-scarred wood toward Max.

Max stared at the paper, then looked up. “What’s this?”

“See for yourself.”

The erstwhile accountant picked up the paper, a frown written across his face. “You haven’t been doing the saloon’s books again, have you, Travis? I finally just managed to get them in decent …” He clamped his jaw and shot Travis a hangdog look.

Travis laughed. “No, Max. I haven’t been doing the books. I haven’t even found where you’ve hidden the ledger yet. Besides, that’s your job in this partnership.”

Max blinked. “Partnership?”

“Not if you don’t sign that deed.” Travis held out a pen. “Go on.”

Max hesitated, then accepted the pen. He unfolded the deed like it was an old treasure map, then set the paper on the bar and in a deliberate hand committed his name to the bottom, alongside Travis’s. He folded the deed and held it out.

“Thank you.”

Travis took the paper and slipped it into the drawer, then regarded Max with a solemn expression. “You deserve it, Max. The Mine Shaft is yours as much as mine.”

Max nodded, then a smile split his face. “So does this mean some of the phone calls to the saloon will be for
me
now?”

Travis rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you’re excited, Max, but try not to be goofy.”

Before Max could reply, Travis headed for the back
room, whistling a cheerful tune. Just because Max was his partner now didn’t mean Travis had to stop tormenting him.

That afternoon, Travis left the Mine Shaft and headed to McKay’s General Store to pick up a pair of hinges for the saloon’s squeaky rear door. On his way back he stopped by the Mosquito Café—where one quick coffee turned into three leisurely cappuccinos as various locals wandered in and bought Travis a cup.

As soon as he left the air-conditioned sanctuary of the café, Travis wished he had ordered those cappuccinos on ice. The sun sank toward the rampart of Castle Peak, ruddy and bloated, as if too heavy to hang in the sky a moment more. Heat rose in sheets from Elk Street, bright and jittery as Travis’s caffeine-enhanced nerves. He mopped the sweat from his forehead with a stiff handkerchief.

When Travis reached the Mine Shaft, he noticed a Harley-Davidson parked next to Max’s rusting Volvo. A Celtic cross was painted on the side of the bike’s jet-black gas tank, and a bunch of wind-worn feathers and carved bone beads dangled from one of the handle grips. The motorcycle seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place where or when he had seen it. Travis pushed through the front door into the welcome dimness of the saloon.

The place had started to fill up while he was gone. The Daughters of the Frontier had shown up for their biweekly meeting, clad in their usual red-fringed jumpsuits, their blue cotton-candy hair melting from the heat. Two of them played pool against a pair of handsome, clean-shaven young men—from Denver by their Doc Martens, casual shirts, and the astonished looks on their faces. That was what they got for challenging the Daughters of the Frontier. No one in Castle City was foolish enough to shoot stick with those sharks.

Over by the jukebox, Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor two-stepped to the tragic croonings of Patsy Cline. As always, the two men were clad in matching geometric cowboy shirts and spotless Wranglers. At least once a week the pair drove in from their ranch south of Castle City for a night on the town. They moved with the brisk, effortless unison that had won them back-to-back two-step championships in San Francisco a dozen years ago, their wind-worn faces as rugged and serene as the high-country plain.

Travis paused on his way to the bar, watching the two men dance, and a sigh escaped him. He had moved through life mostly alone. Would he ever be that in-step with another person? He didn’t know. Sometimes he hoped so. Then again, when it came to dancing, Travis had always had two left feet.

A yelp tore his attention away from the men. He glanced up, then winced. Max was trying to shake up a round of martinis for the dude ranch cowboys. One of them frowned behind his well-groomed mustache as a renegade pearl onion catapulted off an olive spear and bounced around the rim of his freshly steamed black Stetson. Travis moved to rescue Max.

Minutes later the cowboys had their drinks and were off to their table to play dominoes.

Max slung a bar towel over his shoulder. “Thanks, Travis. I owe you one.”

“I know.” Travis reached under the bar, pulled out the martini recipe book, and handed it to Max. “And you can start paying me back by reading—”

Travis froze as a knight, a lady, and a wildman stepped through the door of the Mine Shaft Saloon.

“Travis?”

Max’s voice seemed to come from down a long tunnel. Travis could only watch as the trio threaded its way among the tables.

This can’t be happening. They can’t be here
.

The lady walked with chin high, clad despite the
heat in a confining gown of green velvet. The gown’s bodice cinched her breasts up into a horizontal shelf, and the two orbs of flesh were pink from too much sun. The knight was short but powerful-looking. Sweat sheened his somber face, and Travis was certain that, if touched, the man’s chain-mail shirt would be hot against his fingers. The wildman scuttled behind the knight and lady, his hunched form draped in rank furs and his hair caked with blue mud. The trio headed directly for Travis. Did they know, then?