The Turning

By Wayne S. Polls

In a bleak, not-too-distant future, a marshal tracks four strangers through the snowy mountains of California. He aims to run the strangers out of the territory or bring them to justice. But he discovers that nothing is as it seems, for the strangers have their own agenda, one that becomes a dangerous burden for the marshal, a burden that threatens his sanity and the lives of everyone around him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne S. Polls
• Release date: Jun 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301275915

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The Turning

By Wayne S. Polls

Copyright 2013 Wayne S. Polls

Cover by Graham Murray

Smashwords Edition

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I see you out there, the old woman hollered out the cabin door. Come any closer, I’ll shoot you.

The woman was known in the territory as Granny Edna. Wade hadn’t seen her since last spring, almost a year now the last time he’d been up this way.

He ducked behind a thick pine, his backpack against the trunk, and hollered back, It’s Marshal Wade, Granny. Don’t shoot, his breath going up into the trees.

That really you, Wade?

Yes, Granny. Can I come in?

Step out with your hands high and let me get a look.

Holding his .30-30 Winchester rifle over his head in gloved hands, he went out from behind the tree, back onto the path that led to the cabin, the snow almost to the top of his boots. The cabin door was open a crack, twin shotgun barrels pointed at him.

You normal? she called.

As much as I ever been.

Well, come on inside. I got soup.

He trudged out from what little shelter the pines provided and crossed the small clearing that surrounded Granny’s cabin, light snowflakes falling, the afternoon sun up there somewhere but hidden behind gray clouds. Ribbons of wood smoke rose from the chimney. Wade’s boots made the only footprints in the clearing; no one had walked out here in at least a day.

He was about ten feet from the porch when the door opened.

Stop! Granny yelled. Then she lowered her voice. Now take two steps to your right and come on up.

Wade did and made his way up the steps, snow crunching under his boots.

Got me a bear trap under the snow, she said.

Thanks for the warning.

She moved aside to let him in.

* * *

It felt good to have his parka off. It was hanging on a peg on the wall, near the fireplace, drying out, his backpack beside it on the floor. His Winchester was lying on Granny’s cot. His revolver was in its holster, belted at his hip.

Granny put him at her table and set a bowl of potato-and-onion soup in front of him, gave him a large spoon and told him to dig in. She brought a plate of sugar cookies and sliced homemade bread, apologizing for not having any butter.

She was a wisp of a woman, not more than five feet tall, hunched