Holocaust House | Page 8

shoot them dogs!"
The voice came from somewhere in back of where the yellow eyes had been. Doan dropped on one knee, leveling the revolver in that direction.
"Show a light," he ordered. "Right now."
Light splayed out from an electric lantern and revealed long legs in baggy blue denim pants and high snow-smeared boots with bulging rawhide laces. The yellow eyes were back of the legs, just out of the throw of light from the lantern, staring in savage watchfulness.
"Higher," said Doan. "Higher with the lantern."
The light went up by jerks like a sticky curtain on a stage, showing in turn a clumsy-looking sheepskin coat, a red hatchet-like face with fiercely glaring eyes, and a stained duck-hunter's cap with the ear flaps pulled down. The man stood as tall and stiff as some weird statue with his shadow stretched jagged and menacing beside him.
"I'm the station master. This here's company property. What you doin' on it?"
"Trying to get off it," said Doan.
"Where'd you come from?"
"The train, stupid. You think I'm a parachute trooper?"
"Oh," said the tall man. "Oh. Was you a passenger?"
"Well, certainly."
"Oh. I thought you were a bum or something. Nobody ever comes up here this time of year."
"I'll remember that. Come closer with the light. Keep the dogs back."
The tall man came slowly closer. Doan saw now that he had only one arm--the left--the one that was holding the lantern. His right sleeve was empty.
"Who's our friend here?" Doan asked, indicating the stiff frozen figure against the wall.
The tall man said casually: "Him? Oh, that's Boley, the regular station master. I'm his relief."
"He looks a little on the dead side to me."
The tall man had a lean gash of a mouth, and the thin lips moved now to show jagged yellow teeth. "Dead as a smoked herring."
"What happened to him?"
"Got drunk and lay out in the snow all night and froze stiff as a board."
"Planning on just leaving him here permanently?"
"I can't move him alone, mister." The tall man indicated his empty right sleeve with a jerk of his head. "I told 'em to stop and pick him up tonight, but they musta forgot to do it. I'll call 'em again. It ain't gonna hurt him to stay here. He won't spoil in this weather."
"That's a comforting thought."
"Dead ones don't hurt nobody, mister. I've piled 'em on trench parapets and shot over 'em. They're as good as sandbags for stop-pin' bullets."
"That's a nice thought too. Where's this station you're master of?"
"Right ahead a piece."
"Start heading for it. Keep the dogs away. I don't like the way they look at me."
The light lowered. The tall man sidled past Doan, and his thin legs moved shadowy and stick-like in the lantern gleam, going away.
Doan followed cautiously, carrying the grip in one hand and the cocked revolver in the other. He looked back every third step, but the yellow eyes were gone now.
The shed ended abruptly, and the station was around the curve from it, a yellow box-like structure squashed in against the bare rock of the canyon face with light coming very dimly through small, snow-smeared windows.
The tall man opened the door, and Doan followed him into a small square room lighted with one unshaded bulb hanging behind the shining grillwork of the oval ticket window. Yellow varnished benches ran along two walls, and a stove gleamed dully red in the corner between them.
Doan kicked the door shut behind him and dropped his grip on the floor. He still held his revolver casually in his right hand.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Jannen," said the tall man. He had taken off his duck-hunter's cap. He was bald, and his head was long and queerly narrow. He stood still, watching Doan, his eyes gleaming with slyly malevolent humor. "You come up here for somethin' special? There ain't no place to stay. There's a couple of hotels down-canyon, but they ain't open except for the snow sports."
Doan jerked his head to indicate the storm outside. "Isn't that snow?"
"This here is just an early storm. It'll melt off mostly on the flats. In the winter season she gets eight-ten feet deep here on the level, and they bring excursion trains up--sometimes four-five hundred people to once--and park 'em on the sidings over weekends."
There was a whine and then a scratching sound on the door behind Doan.
The tall man jerked his head. "Can I let my dogs inside, mister?"
Doan moved over and sat down on the bench. "Go ahead."
Jannen opened the door, and three shadowy gray forms slunk through it. They were enormous beasts, thick-furred, with blunt wedge-shaped heads. They circled the room and sat down in a silent motionless row against the far wall, watching Doan unblinkingly with eyes that were like yellow, cruel jewels.
"Nice friendly pets," Doan observed.
"Them's sled dogs, mister."
"What dogs?" Doan asked.
"Sled dogs--huskies. See,