scaled down the ladder to the snow. The storm had passed, although snow continued to fall. In the swirling flakes, there was shouting and pointing. Then two heavily-bundled men guided the spent Blacksand personnel to a nearby shed.
Paul was the last to get indoors. His cheeks and nose were cold. When the door slammed shut, he pulled off his gloves and wiped ice from his eyebrows.
Two heaters glowed beside snowmobiles and snow-blowing equipment. Folding chairs had been set up, with narrow pallets and sleeping bags beside them. Some of the new Blacksand personnel slumped like dead men on the sleeping bags.
Paul and several others moved to one of the heaters. A folding table had been set up with candy bars and hot chocolate.
The door opened, letting snow blow inside. A short man stepped in, shutting the door, and unwound a scarf from his face. He had leathery features, wore a woolen hat, and looked like an Indian—an unsmiling warrior with the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen. He told them his name was John Red Cloud.
“You men will sleep here,” Red Cloud said. He had an odd accent that Paul couldn’t place. He guessed the Indian to be another Blacksand agent.
Red Cloud pulled back the edge of his parka sleeve and glanced at a watch. “You’re leaving in five hours. Walk around in here if you feel like stretching, eat some bars, play cards, or sleep. I suggest you sleep.”
“How about some whiskey?” Murphy asked.
Paul thought he saw a speck of barf still around Murphy’s lips.
Red Cloud solemnly shook his head. “No alcohol.”
“Where’s the nearest bar?” Murphy asked.
Red Cloud frowned. He looked like a tough man, someone you wouldn’t want to make angry. “The ride out to the rig will be rough enough without drunks puking on the plane. You walk around in here, eat some candy, or sleep. You look like you need to sleep.”
Murphy was pale and his hands still shook as if from withdrawal. He glanced at the candy and snatched a chocolate bar, grumbling to himself as he tore it open.
“Stay put,” Red Cloud said.
“Where are
“You’re in Blacksand now,” Red Cloud said, beginning to sound annoyed. “That means you obey orders. If you can’t do that, we’ll fine you and make you pay the bill for your plane ride out of here. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Murphy muttered, taking another bite of his bar.
Red Cloud studied them coolly, and then he shook his head. He wound the scarf back around his face. He hurried out, slamming the door behind him.
“Little bastard,” Murphy muttered. “All I need is a couple of shots of whiskey and I’d feel fine.”
Paul grabbed a packet of chocolate-covered peanuts. He popped them into his mouth, one at a time. After he was finished, he was thirsty for something other than melted snow.
“I need several shots,” Murphy declared.
Two men sat by a different heater, playing blackjack. The others lay on the sleeping bags, one of them already snoring.
“You feel like a shot?” Murphy asked Paul.
“I could use a beer,” Paul admitted.
“Let’s go find a bar,” Murphy said.
“Didn’t you hear the man?” asked one of the card-players.
“What?” Murphy asked. “You miss your grandma already?”
“Sure,” the card-player said. “You want to dig your own grave, there’s a bar about four hundred yards to the north.” He glanced at his companion and shook his head.
“You coming?” Murphy asked Paul.
Paul hesitated. Murphy was obviously a troublemaker, but Paul needed a beer. Did they have beer out at the oil rig? It would be a shame if they didn’t, especially if he gave up this last chance to have one here.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said.
“You’re smart guys,” the card-player said. He’d just won the round and was re-shuffling the cards. He was a big man with a crewcut and had the feel of a master sergeant.
Murphy scowled, and it looked like he wanted to start something. Paul recalled when they’d first been in the airport at Anchorage. Murphy had beeped every time through security. It turned out he had a metal plate in his head. He had been somewhere bad once and had been captured by Arabs. They’d held him for almost a year, abusing him in a cave. Maybe that’s why he was crazy.
Paul slapped Murphy on the arm and pointed at the door as he headed toward it. He began buttoning his coat.
When Paul opened the door, Murphy swore behind him. It was cold and snow fell out of the darkness. Paul saw lights to the north. Four hundred yards wasn’t that far. He’d drink his beer and hurry back. How much trouble could that cause?
After crunching over snow, they entered the Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back, and rows of the familiar bottles.
“Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”
Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people: a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.
“Who are you?” the bearded man asked.
Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.
“We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”
The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.
“Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”
The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.
Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away who is boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”
The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.
“Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.
Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.
The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”
Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”
Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.
Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”
A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.
“I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.
Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.
