Chapter Thirty-Eight

 

 

 

The journey back north was surprisingly free from any major incident, with one notable exception.

 

After some discussion outside the Visitors' Center, it was agreed that all of the animals should simply be let loose.

 

"Navaho's pinto ponies'll probably run free and wild," J.B. said.

 

"My horses should find way home." Jak looked at the line of animals. "Mebbe ride them as string myself."

 

"Let them go, Jak," Ryan urged. "Too many two-legged wolves between here and your ranch."

 

The teenager nodded, smiling. "Guess that's right."

 

Doc cleared his throat. "Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I do have a small problem with this decision. Worthy and wise though it probably is."

 

"You want to shoot Judas yourself before we go." Mildred grinned.

 

"Quite the reverse."

 

"Hot pipe, Doc!" Dean exclaimed. "Why not ride the booger all the way home again?"

 

The old man smiled, a little thinly. "I fear that my altered attitude toward the beast doesn't quite extend to enduring physical suffering, dear boy."

 

"You want Judas to ride along on the wag with the rest of us, Doc?" Ryan laughed, feeling the release of the tension of the past few days. "Crowded enough as it is."

 

"No." Doc turned to the albino. "Jak, do you think the wretched beast will be able to find its own way home again, without harm or hindrance?"

 

Jak thought about it for a moment. "Doc, know any living thing stop Judas doing what wants?"

 

"No, I believe not."

 

"So, he'll make it."

 

 

 

THE SUN SHONE as they rattled northward, out of the hills by the Grandee, into the New Mexico desert.

 

Once again the engine overheated, and they had to stop for a couple of hours to allow it to cool down again. But the trip was easy and relatively pleasant.

 

When they were about forty miles away from Jak's spread, J.B. called from the driver's console that the engine was playing up again.

 

"Could do with water," he said.

 

"Small ville dozen miles east," Jak shouted from his perch astride the long barrel of the 25 mm Bushmaster cannon.

 

"Water there?"

 

"Yeah. Called Patriarch. Friendly."

 

 

 

THE TOWNSHIP of Patriarch was a dozen houses with the clapboard ruin of a church and a single store. The arrival of the clattering wag brought out the whole population, which seemed to consist of an immensely tall and powerful black man and his white wife, along with what looked like two or three dozen children of varying ages.

 

"See why the place is called Patriarch," Krysty shouted in Ryan's ear. "Looks like they're trying to repopulate the entire southern plains on their own."

 

"Haven't had so many strangers in many a long week," called the man, whose name was Fred Zero. "Got a packman from up north staying the night is all."

 

"Enough beds for us?" Ryan asked, looking down at his absurdly elongated shadow. Another half hour and it was going to be night.

 

"Sure. Sure."

 

 

 

THEIR BED WAS MADE from hollow tubes of old brass, and it tinkled and chimed every time either Ryan or Krysty made the slightest move.

 

"Sorry, lover," Ryan said. "Just can't concentrate with all this fireblasted noise going on. Wait until tomorrow when we get back to Jak's. Then we can bounce each other's bones without the musical accompaniment."

 

She kissed him gently on the cheek. "Be nice to have some quiet time together. And I don't just mean for making some good, slow loving. Rest up at the spread. No need to make any fast decisions that we might regret later. I'm really looking forward to it, lover. Really."

 

Her hand had been lying across his chest, but it started to feather its way a little lower.

 

Lower.

 

In the end, the noisy bed didn't matter that much.

 

 

 

RYAN ROSE EARLY and walked down to find Fred Zero's pretty wife, Penny, preparing breakfast in a huge iron skillet.

 

"Hash browns, eggs over easy and some home-cured ham? How's that sound?"

 

He grinned at her. "Sounds like I've died and gone straight to heaven. Thanks."

 

"Go on through. Packman's just finishing and getting ready to hit the highway."

 

The trader was sitting at a small table, smoking a noxious cigar. As Ryan came in he looked up. "Sorry about the smoke, friend. I'll put her right out so you can enjoy the fine food that the lady of the house provides."

 

"Thanks," Ryan replied.

 

"Name's Kenny Friedman, and I cover the whole of Deathlands and I offer a range of Hey, just wait a goshdarned moment there, my friend."

 

He was a typical packman, effusive and eager to prove he was the nicest guy who ever drew breath. But now his jaw had dropped, and he was fumbling in the breast pocket of his tweed suit.

 

"Something wrong?" Ryan asked.

 

"I don't Your name wouldn't be Ryan Cawdor, would it, friend?"

 

"Could be."

 

"Traveling with a redhead and a kid and an old man and Hallelujah, but I bit the paydirt."

 

"How come you know me?"

 

"I got a note for you."

 

"From?"

 

"Couple of really mean But, I guess I might be wrong, Mr. Cawdor, seeing as how they're likely friends. One was small and skinny with a long mustache. Other was older and sort of scary."

 

Ryan nodded, his mind flooded with the news. Abe had done it. He'd damned well done it.

 

The piece of paper was crumpled and stained, but still totally legible.

 

"Success. Will stay around Seattle for three months. Come quick. Abe."

 

"How long ago were you given this?" Ryan asked.

 

Friedman wrinkled his face, counting back on his fingers. "Great Lakes was Missoula Billings Butte then I stayed a coupla days with Right, I got it. Give or take a day or so. Must have been up in the Northwest, by the sea. About six weeks ago from now."

 

"Six weeks," Ryan said. "Leaves us another six weeks. Thanks, friend. Thanks."