Chapter Fourteen

 

 

 

They were on the move again before dawn.

 

Breakfast was a hasty few mouthfuls of jerky and bread, washed down with plain water. They were all agreed that a fire wouldn't be a good idea. It would take too much time and announce their presence to anyone within fifty miles.

 

While they ate, there was a brief combat meeting. Despite the invaluable information from Michael, their knowledge was extremely limited. The enemy was a couple dozen well-armed and well-trained men and women in two armored war wags, led by someone who called himself the General. It could be that they had their origins close to the old Grandee border with Mexico. Or below it.

 

There was also a number of mounted Native Americans, quite probably Navaho, following the pair of wags southward for their own reasons.

 

"Likely they've got the same motives for pursuing this General as we do," J.B. said, his sallow face a pale blur in the predawn gloom.

 

Ryan nodded. "Agreed. What we know points to raiding on pueblos and isolated communities and homesteads. Steer away from the big villes and the powerful barons with their sec armies. If he hit a village in the last week, seems likely there could be a hunting party out after him."

 

Jak's hair blazed like a beacon in the darkness. "Been good friends with Indians around here. We get together and have more chance."

 

Doc had been suffering from the jolting gait of his roan gelding. He lay flat out while he nibbled on the last of Krysty's fresh-baked bread. "How far do you think we'll need to ride to catch these runagates?"

 

"To the big river," J.B. suggested.

 

"Through jaws of hell," Jak vowed.

 

 

 

NONE OF THEM KNEW the region of what was once southern New Mexico all that well. Ryan and J.B. had ridden that way with the Trader a few times, but neither had particularly clear memories of those occasions.

 

"There are some big caves," Ryan said, as they moved their horses along at a brisk walk.

 

"Right. Millions of bats. Trader was triple worried about rabies. We had to keep the wags locked down sec tight. Nearly suffocated." The Armorer took off his glasses and squinted at the midmorning sun through them, wiping away a smear on the sleeve of his coat.

 

"Yeah. It was Abe, wasn't it?"

 

"Went out for a shit. Found himself smack in the middle of a bat storm."

 

"And fell down that hole. Turned out to be the remains of someone's liquor cellar."

 

J.B. grinned. "Ace on the memory line, Ryan. Trader wouldn't let anyone go out after him for nearly an hour. Thought that it might be an Apache trap. And when we found him he'd gotten pissed out of his skull on two quarts of ancient Thunderbird."

 

"Are there any villes toward the Grandee?" Krysty asked, heeling her Appaloosa forward to join the two men. "Could the General be heading for one?"

 

Ryan shook his head. "Doubt that, lover. Word seems to be he keeps off the red trails. Sticks to the blue back roads. More likely got a base down south."

 

"There's El Paso and Juarez across the bridge." J.B. looked behind. "Doc's falling off the pace some. Want me to go hurry him up?"

 

"No. Not yet. I'll ride back with him and sort of ease him along. Old man's got pride. You mentioned Juarez, the Mex ville. Remember that Easter?"

 

"Sure. Cohn was duty nav. Had us a thunderstorm. Rain so thick you could've cut it with a knife. Just on the edge of Juarez and he got us lost."

 

"Took us right through the middle of an Apache camp. Rain was so heavy that they never saw us and we never saw them. Not until we were driving slowly out the other side. Nobody ever let Cohn forget it."

 

Krysty looked ahead of them, where Jak was sticking out at point. "Is the kid all right?"

 

Ryan smiled. "Sure. Best way of coping with grief is figuring on paying the person gave you that grief."

 

 

 

THE DAY PASSED without any sort of incident.

 

Jak set the pace, though Ryan twice warned him against tiring the horses.

 

"Better to take a half day longer to get there than not get there at all," he pointed out.

 

The morning had broken with a beautiful sunrise. The sky shaded from pale gold in the far west to a deep orange in the east, around the rising sun. Off to the northwest there was a tall bank of clouds, their flanks tinted by the brilliant dawn light.

 

"Beautiful," said Doc, leaning back in the saddle to appreciate the enchanted vista.

 

"Storms." J.B. delivered the single word with a terse flatness.

 

"Is that your opinion, John Barrymore? A scene that would have brought tears to the eyes of Tiepolo or Turner and you simply say it means there will be a storm."

 

The Armorer looked puzzled. "Don't catch your drift, Doc. You saying you think it won't storm?"

 

"Course it will," Ryan added. "Be a serious chem storm. That's what those clouds mean."

 

"But the beauty of them, gentlemen! Do none of you have eyes for that?"

 

"Rain, lightning, flash floods. That's all." Jak heeled his horse on ahead.

 

Doc turned toward Mildred and sighed. "Sadly, my dear, we are surrounded by true Renaissance princes, are we not?"

 

"Frankly, Doc, I don't give a damn."

 

 

 

THE STORM SKIRTED AROUND to the west, never approaching within twenty miles of them, though that was still close enough for them to appreciate its grandeur.

 

The skies darkened and huge banks of purple-black clouds rose into space. Every now and again there would be dazzling flashes of chem lightning, the deep thunder rolling across the vastness of the surrounding deserts.

 

Later in the afternoon the clouds lifted, revealing a pale strip of blue beneath them. But that was frequently darkened by a gray misty curtain of falling rain.

 

"You mentioned flash floods, Jak," Dean said. "What's that mean?"

 

The albino glanced sideways at the boy. "Means shit-lot rain in shit-short time."

 

"What sort of floods?"

 

"Big. Camp in steep-sided canyon. Storm higher up. Bad. Foot of rain in couple hours. Wake up and twenty-foot wave on top of you. Can happen."

 

"Wow. Hot pipe!"

 

"No. Cold pipe."

 

 

 

THE ONLY MINOR DRAMA came in the late evening, when they'd finally stopped to camp.

 

Jak had taken them to a small water hole, that turned into a shallow, snaking stream, under the looming bulk of a shattered highway bridge.

 

"Getting to edge of places I know," he said. "Take all water we can."

 

The horses were quickly unsaddled and Dean led them to the muddy pool, watching them carefully to make sure they didn't gorge themselves.

 

Doc undertook the job of filling all of the bottles and skins for the group, going to remove some of them from the packs carried by Judas, the mule.

 

"Come on, boy," he said, sidling up nervously to the animal.

 

Judas turned its long, demonic skull in the direction of the old man, one bloodshot eye rolling in its deep socket. A pendulous lip curled back off ferocious teeth, and it suddenly snapped out at Doc.

 

There was the ripping of material and Doc showed remarkable reflexes in hopping out of the way of the savage bite. A shred of broadcloth, torn from the shoulder of his frock coat, dangled from the mule's jaws.

 

"By the Three Kennedys!" He looked around in the dusk, seeing that everyone else in the party had observed the incident. Most were laughing. "It is not a matter for humor," he snorted. "The brute needs a lesson."

 

"Punch it, Doc," Jak called, his teeth white in a broad grin. "Good left hook."

 

"I shall not demean myself to sink to the level of this vicious and cunning animal," Doc replied, struggling to repair his tattered dignity.

 

"Try befriending it," Mildred suggested, trying and failing to check her own amusement. "Sure you two must have a lot in common you could talk about."

 

"Were I not a gentleman and you most certainly no lady, then I would be delighted to call you out, madam."

 

The black woman threw back her head and hooted with merriment. "Pistols for two at dawn and breakfast for one. You silly old fool, Doc. I could put a bullet through your third waistcoat button and still have time to take a leak."

 

"Not if Doc used the Le Mat," Ryan said, busily unrolling his blanket for the night. "The scattergun barrel would make a mess of the best shootist in Deathlands."

 

Mildred nodded. Doc carried on trying to remove the water bags from the mule, and the camp was established.

 

 

 

"THERE ANY HUNTING farther south?" J.B. asked, picking at his teeth with a saguaro spine, trying to get rid of a stubborn shred of gristle lodged between two of his front teeth. "This jerky won't last forever."

 

"Come to some low hills soon." Jak was already wrapped in his bedroll, eager to get to sleep in order to make an even earlier start the next morning.

 

"I seem to recall that there was a biggish forest in these parts. When we passed through here with Trader." Ryan looked toward the darker shape in the night that he knew was J.B. "You remember it?"

 

"Can't be certain. Fact is, the older I get, the more one tree starts to look just like the one before it. And like all the other trees."

 

"Yeah. Trees. Came out week's hunting. Before Jenny was birthed. Lotsa deer. Mainly pines. Scrub oaks. Long ridge, with Grandee other side."

 

"Think we're closing in on them, lover?" Krysty was also inside her bedroll, just alongside Ryan.

 

"Tracks show it. I figure that we're probably traveling for a lot longer hours. The wags'll have the edge over the horsemen, providing they got plenty of gas."

 

"Reckon they'll know that they're being followed, Dad? By the Indians?"

 

"Likely. From what Michael told us, it seems certain that they took off from the homestead as soon as they saw riders' dust coming their way. So the Navaho'll be pushing them as hard as they can, without blowing their ponies. And the General's trying to keep a distance and still save fuel."

 

"Just like Trader would've done," J.B. added.

 

Ryan nodded. "Yeah."

 

Doc yawned, very audibly. "I confess that this outdoor life might well be manna for the poor soul, but I have aches where I didn't even know I had muscles to ache. I shall be retiring now and bid a fond farewell to all my friends. And goodnight to Mrs. Calabash, wherever she may be."

 

 

 

RYAN WOKE INSTANTLY, his hand going for the butt of the SIG-Sauer under his rolled-up jacket. He was immediately aware that J.B. was also awake.

 

"What is it?" he whispered.

 

"Gunfire," the Armorer replied. "There's some handmades and some semiauto."

 

The rest of the group slept on, undisturbed by the faint crackle of shooting, far, far off in the arid wasteland to the south of their camp.

 

The noise was barely audible, muted and muffled by distance, but it had been sufficient to jerk both men from sleep.

 

There came a booming sound, louder than the others. Krysty stirred and muttered something, but didn't wake.

 

"Mortar," Ryan said quietly. "Has to be the General and his men."

 

"Attacking or being attacked?" J.B. considered his own question. "Probably being attacked. Navaho could mebbe have come up on them in the darkness."

 

"Worth us going to take a look?"

 

His eye had become accustomed to the night, and Ryan could actually see his oldest friend, sitting straight up, his glasses glinting in the sliver of moonlight that lurked behind some high cloud.

 

"No. Must be fifteen or so miles away. Wind's from the south. Firefight could be even farther off. Make a good start in the morning. Should find out what's going on in the first couple of hours. Around full dawn." As was generally the case when it came to anything to do with blasters, J.B. had an ace on the line.