The last pin clicked into position and the lock opened. The tramping of boots overhead and the muffled gunshots made the dwarf a little hesitant, but a moment’s reflection convinced him that all the chaos would provide further distraction for his errand. He checked the narrow hallway in both directions and then slipped into the cabin. The room was dark. Jed groped at the wall and found the metal switch, but toggling it didn’t turn on any lights. Had the electricks gone out? he wondered. Maybe the Shoshone had damaged the truck somehow. No matter. Jed Coltrane was nothing if not resourceful. He crept by touch around the edges of the room, guessing that the cabins were more or less standard and he ought to find a cot against either wall, a few feet from the door. When he bumped into the first cot, he stopped moving and leaned his hip against it. Jed pulled the scarab canister from inside his coat and popped open the lid. It took an effort of will—he kept envisioning the dead Pinkerton in the squatpot stall, devoured in seconds by the beetle swarm—but he shoved his hand inside the cylinder and scooped out a clump of the brass bugs, which he scattered underneath the cot.
