The Blizzard

  ***

  NEVER had so few words been worth so much to Alex Malloch. The carriage driver and his casual complaint, would earn a small fortune for the informant by the end of the night.

  Of course, no-one thought much about it as the red-faced cabbie railed against the couple from the railstation. How, despite their flimsy clothing and clear ignorance of the conditions, they were determined to scale the mountain. As he pulled away, even the horses had looked on in despair. The driver had seen it a dozen times before – city people returned to safety, draped in blankets, sheepish looking and the stern words of rescuers ringing in their ears.

  Logs crackled on the open fire, helping those inside forget the fierce downpour which lashed against the tiny glass windows. Beer and music kept the drinkers’ attentions inside.

  But one man had taken an interest. He had listened sympathetically, gently teasing out further details about this eccentric pair. Where had they travelled from? What were they wearing? Why had they travelled so far? After judging that he had got as much useful information as could be got, the man was seen slipping out of the bar, paying the tab for the driver’s drink.

  The woman, the boy. Both had come, just as had been predicted. They could not have gone too far. The red-faced man would be well paid for his information. Reaching the post office, he woke the town’s weary wep operator and dictated a message. HEISHERE/STOP/COME.