They did bring food, about an hour later. Before that, though, an army doctor showed up to examine the newly arrived “Houser.”
The doctor was young, uniformed, and seemed substantially disinterested in Kenton except as one more medical specimen. But he did a sufficiently decent job of examination, and seemed content that Kenton, a stranger to him, was headed for a fast and thorough recovery.
“A lot had it worse than you,” he said in a weary tone. “We’ve got several people with much worse burns; we’ll be moving them out by wagon later today, taking them to the Fort Brandon infirmary, where I can better treat their injuries.”
“Are any in danger of their lives?”
“Those injured that severely have already died, I’m sorry to say. I expect recovery for all who are left alive at this point.”
“Do I need to go to Fort Brandon, too?”
“Not for medical treatment. But as I understand it, all civilians are to be taken to Fort Brandon.”
“Why?”
“Look, I’m a physician. I’ve said more than I should already.”
“Can I leave here?”
“Not up to me.”
“Doctor, what caused the fire?”
“The incident is under scientific investigation. It appears at this point that the event resulted from the explosion of a man-made incendiary device, and was complicated by the resultant spread of fire through the town and the woods around. This is what Colonel Ottinger says.”
“An ‘incendiary device,’ you say. A bomb, in other words.”
“That’s right.”
“Quite a large bomb, to do what this one did.”
“I’m unqualified to comment, Mister…”
“Houser. Grant Houser.”
“Houser. All right.” The doctor closed his medical bag. “Bombs are out of my sphere. I’m merely repeating what I’ve been told.”
“By Colonel Ottinger?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Houser. I thought it was this one here who’s the nosy journalist.” He thumbed toward Callon.
“I’ve always been overly curious,” Kenton said.
Callon spoke up. “There’s a compound of former Rebels not too far from here. I know, because I’ve seen two of them with my own eyes. Is it the army’s position that these Rebels are behind this blast?”
“I’m not authorized to speak to that matter and have said too much already,” the doctor said. “Good day to you both.” He went to the door, rapped for exit, and was let out by the guard, who shut and locked the door again.
Kenton said, “You should have let me ask the questions. He’d never have answered you, knowing you’re a reporter, but he thinks of me as a private citizen. He might have told me.”
Callon answered, a bit smugly, “Yes…but you didn’t know to ask the question. I forgot to mention the old Rebel compound when I was briefing you earlier.”
“You didn’t need to. I’m fully aware of Confederate Ridge.”
Callon gritted his teeth. Blast Kenton! Was the man on top of every situation?
“Well…do you know a pair of Confederate Ridge Rebels watched Gunnison and me when we first came up to Gomorrah?”
“It’s not surprising. I’m sure they’re as curious about the destruction of the mountaintop as anyone else, especially considering they live not far away. And if they know that Ottinger is there, they have all the more cause for concern. Confederate Ridge is the home of the old renegade rider Pernell Jones, you know. He’s the man whose shotgun blast mangled Ottinger’s face.”
Callon could hardly believe it. Kenton had only regained consciousness a short while ago, and already he knew more about the situation than did Callon himself.
The young journalist, with effort, swallowed down his sizeable load of pride.
“Kenton, listen to me. I know we’re competitors, but maybe it’s time to put that aside. Together we could tell this story like neither one of us can do alone. Let’s work together. Be partners.”
“I have a partner already, Paul.”
“Yes. But he’s not here, and I am. I can join with you, help you ferret out this story—if you’ll let me. We can publish in both the Observor and the Illustrated American. Simultaneously, joint credit, everything right down the middle.”
“What makes you think I’m working on this story at all, Paul? It’s interesting, certainly, but I’ve got other, more personal concerns.”
“This Rankin fellow.”
“Yes.”
In a burst of mean-spiritedness and frustration, Callon almost threw into Kenton’s face what Gunnison had told him. But he held back, and instead asked, “What is it you want from this Rankin?”
Kenton’s eyes actually misted. “Information. Very important, and very personal.”
Callon let out a long, slow breath. “All right. I’ll ask no more. But I will make a request. If you’re not going to try to write the Gomorrah story yourself, at least can you try to help me gather some facts? They may let you leave this place. They may put you with the survivors of the firefall, maybe even take you to Fort Brandon like the doctor was talking about. Me, they’re just going to keep locked up.”
Kenton went back to the bunk he’d been lying on before. He sat down. “Patience, Paul Callon. Patience. They’ll surely not keep you locked up here forever.”
“You won’t help me?”
“If I can, I will. But you have to know that my chief interest isn’t in this story, Paul. Normally it would be, but this is not a normal situation for me. And, you must remember…you are, after all, a competitor.”
“Damn it, Kenton! I’ll not have you leave me high and dry! You will help me, or I’ll make sure myself that Ottinger knows who you really are!”
Kenton stared at Callon. “You wouldn’t do such a thing, Paul.”
“I would! I will!”
“Then you are not the man I’ve taken you to be.”
“Can’t you see how important this story is, Kenton? Can’t you see what it would do for my professional reputation? It’s obvious, yet here you sit, wrapped up in yourself, caught up in some fool’s quest for a wife who died years ago—”
Callon cut off, realizing what he’d just said.
Kenton blanched slightly. He stared numbly at Callon for several moments, silent.
“So you know,” he said, softly.
Callon slumped into the nearest chair. “Dear Lord, what a fool I am. And what foolish things I’ve been saying. I’m sorry.”
“How did you know?”
“Gunnison told me. But only after he believed you were dead.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to let you know that I knew. I understand that it’s deeply personal.”
“It is.”
For a while, neither man conversed further.
“Kenton,” Callon said after a time, “I really wouldn’t reveal you to Ottinger.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know why I said such a thing.”
“Because you were angry. Because you find me unprofessional, being distracted by a personal concern and ignoring what admittedly is a very big and unusual story. And I suppose I am being unprofessional. But this is my wife I’m hoping to find, Paul. My wife.”
Callon said, “Could she really be alive, Kenton?”
“I don’t know. I hope so…I pray so.”
“This Rankin fellow has information about her?”
“So he wrote to me. He implied that…he might even have Victoria herself.”
“Amazing…”
“Yes. And maybe nothing but a falsehood. My fear now, of course, is that he really did have her, and that both of them were here when this mysterious explosion occurred…”
“Take it one step at a time, Kenton. Right now you have no facts upon which to make judgments.”
“You’re right, of course.” Kenton lay down.
“Kenton, are you going to go to sleep on me and leave me without company again?”
“I might. I’ve been through the wringer, like you said. I need rest.”
“Rest? After how long you’ve been lying out in the woods? It’s bad enough in here even with someone to talk to. It’s worse when there’s no one. I wish you’d stay awake.”
It was no use to plead. Brady Kenton drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and within moments began the steady, slow respiration of sleep.
He didn’t sleep long. A private bearing a platter of food showed up. One plate for Callon, another for “Houser.”
Kenton awakened fast, accepted the meal gratefully and fell to at once. The private stood watching him for a few moments, saying nothing, then left.
“I don’t like the way that soldier stared at you, Kenton,” Callon said. “I think he recognized you.”
“Hmm?”
“I think he knew you.”
“Really?” Kenton said, taking another bite. “I didn’t notice.”
He spoke in an idle way, but Callon could tell Kenton was concerned.