by neetha Napew
Wolfe smiled gently. "That is not the way of Our Lord, the military fundamentalist. We have simply taken precautions. Made sure the testing will go well. And fairly."
"Fairly?" It was Ryan's turn to smile cynically. "Not a word I'd link to you, Brother Wolfe."
"Then you would be wrong, Brother Cawdor. Hopeville is built upon the strong foundation of fairness."
"Hallelujah, brothers and sisters." The cry came from the large woman, who clapped her meaty hands together with a noise like distant thunder. Krysty looked across at her, and was surprised at the glance of bitter hatred that she received in return. The woman spit in the dirt to show her contempt.
"We shall all eat at God's own table," Wolfe said, lifting his hand to silence the people around him. "A time to remember things past and to look forward to things that are soon to come. Let us go dine."
JOSIAH STEELE WAS TRYING to explain the purpose of the testing to the six outlanders. Doc was still very unwell, with a scorchingly high temperature, and Mildred had insisted that the old man had to stay warm and snug in his bed, with plenty to drink to fight off the real dangers of dehydration.
"Everyone who comes here has to prove themselves worthy of acceptance to the Children of the Rock. That's why we all have had to face the testing."
"What if a woman arrived with half a dozen little children?" Krysty asked.
Steele hesitated. "Guess that the rules can always be bent some."
"But not for us," Ryan stated, munching away at a crusty bread roll. "One child doesn't count."
"Guess not. Seems there's too many aces on the line between you and Brother Wolfe." Steele helped himself from a small iron caldron of thick pork-and-lentil soup. "Too many rivers for you both to cross."
The food was very good, satisfying to the palate and rich, well flavored, without the oppressive bitterness of the previous evening's meal. Also, Ryan had watched carefully, taking the precaution of checking that he and the others ate out of the same cooking pots that the members of the Children of the Rock had dined from.
Mildred slipped away to go back to their cabin and check on Doc's progress, returning with a worried look on her face. She squatted alongside Ryan, putting her mouth close to his ear, speaking fast and low.
"I think he's about at his worst," she said. "At least that's what I hope. Temperature's sky-high, but his heart and respiration are steady."
"Conscious?"
She pulled a doubtful face. "Sort of."
"Recognize you?"
"I think so. But he's away on the far side of knowing where he is and what's going on."
"At least they won't be making the old buzzard take part in this stupe testing."
Mildred nodded. "No, I guess not."
THE MEAL WAS SOON OVER, the dishes taken away by the women, the scraps devoured by the lean mongrels that scavenged around the ville.
"Testing time is nearly upon us, my beloved brothers and sisters." After a significant pause, the leader of Hopeville added, "And outlanders."
There was a hum of excitement around the open area that had the central fire at its heart. It seemed like the whole settlement was there, with the sec men all armed with their Hawes Montana Marshal revolvers, many of them also hefting their Winchester rifles.
Ryan suspected that the display of arms was for their benefit, not to hold off any potential attack by the Apaches who lived among the trees.
He stood and stretched, savoring the powerful scent of the surrounding pines. "We're ready as we can be, Brother Wolfe," he said. "Then let's get at it."
RYAN AND THE OTHERS stood together near the smoldering fire, feeling oddly naked without their weapons.
After the meal they'd been allowed to go back to their log cabin to clean up and get ready for the afternoon. And while there, they'd had a short but bitter conversation about what they should do.
J.B., allied to Mildred, had urged very strongly that they should cut their losses and run for it.
"Leave the blasters?" Ryan had asked in disbelief.
"Why not? Dark night, Ryan! We can always replace the weapons. Much as it hurts me. But I'm real triple unhappy about the setup here."
"I'm not delighted with it, friend. I'm not comfortable when anyone takes away my blasters. But it seems best to just go along with the flow."
"We can jump a guard or two. Grab their blasters. Try and retrieve our own weapons and blades and be out of here. All in ten minutes flat." He replaced his fedora. "Less."
Ryan shook his head against the idea. "Haven't thought it through, J.B. Close on a hundred souls here in Hopeville. All the men are bristling with blasters, thicker than fleas on the back of a hog. No chance."
"But it could be a trick."
"They had us all out cold. Drugged and helpless. All they did was take our weapons off us. It would have been child's play to butcher us there and then. One dull-edged knife and seven slit throats. If that was what they wanted to do. I don't see that as Wolfe's plan." He paused and stared at the others. "But if anyone else has a different view on this, let's hear it." He waited, but nobody spoke. "Krysty? You got any sort of a feeling about what's going down?"
"Not really, lover. Can't say I like it."
Ryan became angry. "I don't bastard like it, either. Thought I'd said that. Talking to my fucking self! But you have to look at the way the dice lie."
"The lice die," Doc muttered from his crumpled bed. "Fly like a flea or flee like a fly. If I fly like a flea, then you won't catch me." Everybody ignored him.
After a few more bitter exchanges between Ryan and J.B., they all agreed to go for the testing and give it their best shot. And then see, that evening, how things looked.
WOLFE SLAPPED his good hand against his thigh, calling out for quiet. "Now we can begin," he said, voice ringing out among the scattered buildings. "Will the outlanders all stand before us now?"
Ryan took Krysty by the hand, leading the others into the center of the ragged circle of men and women.
"Tell us all your names and where you come from," Wolfe commanded.
"Name's Ryan Cawdor. From the ville of Front Royal, up in the Shens. This is my son, Dean." Dean stepped forward.
"I'm Krysty Wroth and I come from the ville of Harmony."
"Jak Lauren. West Lowellton."
"Where's that?" someone yelled. Ryan suspected that it was the giantess.
"Near Lafayette, Louisiana."
"Swampie," shouted a man's voice, reedy and thin. "Look at his hair. Mutie and a swampie!"
Jak ignored him, though Ryan saw the teenager's knuckles whitening.
"I'm John Dix, originally from Cripple Creek. Since then I've been all over Deathlands."
"And my name is Mildred Winona Wyeth. Father was a preacher man. I was born in Lincoln, Nebraska."
"How about the old man?" Jim Owsley shouted.
"Doc's ill," he replied.
"Doesn't signify. Need to know who he is and where he comes from."
Krysty patted Ryan on the arm and replied to the questioner. "Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner. Degree in science from Harvard and in philosophy from Oxford in England. Comes from the ville of South Strafford up in the green hills of Vermont. Anything else you want to know?" she asked, challenging Owsley with her flashing, bright emerald eyes. The sec man looked down at his feet and wouldn't meet her stare.
Wolfe laughed, a natural, friendly country laugh that set Ryan's teeth on edge. "Well, I guess we know about all we need to know about these folks. Nothing out on the surface to stop them being accepted by us here in Hopeville. So, we rest things in the hands of the Blessed Lord Jesus. He can decide if they are meet to join us as Children of the Rock."
There was a moment of stillness, broken by the sound, drifting through the open door of the cabin, of Doc having one of his rending fits of coughing.
Joshua Wolfe addressed himself once more to the group of outlanders, his hand resting on the pearlized grips of the big revolver.
"The testing is carried out alone, one of
you against the best we have to offer in the ville. The choice of combat is yours. Who goes first?"
"Combat?" Ryan repeated.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Combat," Wolfe stated.
Ryan felt the short hairs prickling at his nape. Combat! Their best against the best from the Children of the Rock. "Who goes first?"
"Up to you, Brother Cawdor."
Ryan had been about to step forward himself, when he was beaten to it.
"Me," said a familiar female voice at his elbow, which brought a stir from the crowd.
Mildred smiled at J.B. and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Don't worry," she said.
"You want to go first, lady?" Wolfe asked, his face splitting into a broad smile.
"Yeah, I do."
"Very well. But what kind of weapon do you choose to use here?"
"Can I have my blaster back for the testing? Is that permitted?" Mildred asked.
"Surely. You want to shoot against our best man? Or woman?"
"Man. Who claims to be the finest sharpshooter in Hopeville?" Mildred challenged.
There was a confused hubbub, with several names being put forward. But gradually Ryan was aware that a single name was being repeated.
Wolfe heard it, as well, keeping a thin smile pasted in place. "Sounds like Brother Carlo Caitlin. Step forward, Brother Caitlin. Will you accept this woman's challenge?"
Caitlin looked to be around thirty, with long, light brown, shoulder-length hair. Ryan noticed that both his hands lacked any fingernails, and the skin around his mouth was puckered with old scarring. He smirked as he moved forward out of the crowd with a slight swagger. A .44-caliber Winchester 94 slung over his shoulder, with a telescopic sight fixed to the barrel that Ryan didn't recognize. "Take her on anytime. Not like a real testing, Brother Wolfe. Shootin' against a woman."
Mildred addressed the leader of the ville. "I can definitely use my own blaster? Check the load myself, have a little time to go over it, sight it in? No weasel-word trickery?"
"Surely. The lord of all armaments will pronounce the verdict for us."
Caitlin was already becoming irritated. "Time's wasting, brothers and sisters. I say we set to it here and now. Why not, in the name of gentle Jesus?"
"Get her blaster, Brother Steele," Wolfe said, keeping his patient smile pasted firmly in place. "I imagine that Brother Dix might wish to go over it out with you, Sister Wyeth. You may have fifteen minutes from now."
"IT'S FINE," the Armorer said, quickly and neatly clicking the weapon back together, having given it a lightning field-strip and clean. He wiped a layer of thin gun oil off his fingers with a length of cotton rag.
Mildred took it, automatically checking the load, feeling the familiar balance as she weighed it in her right hand. "Wonder what they'll want us to shoot against."
"That man Caitlin," Krysty said, lip curling in disgust, "had a beady little red eye like a rabid ferret. Looks to me just like a classic redneck shootist. Put one through the belly and leave it to suffer."
"You happy with your blaster against his long gun?" Jak asked.
"Guess so. Unless they set up the match at a half mile or over. Then I'd struggle."
"Be little point in this testing they have if it was all a cheat," Ryan said, hearing the layer of doubt that hung there in his voice.
"STANDARD MATCH TARGET of nine inches across, graded in regular circles from ten through to one point. Shoot just four rounds at each distance, beginning at twenty-five yards, then fifty, then one hundred. Finally at two hundred paces."
"Long range for a big pistol," said a voice from the watching crowd.
Wolfe half turned. "Anyone object to it? How about you, Sister Mildred?"
The woman shrugged, the beads in her hair tinkling softly. "Doesn't matter to me," she said.
Mildred walked calmly to the mark scratched in the dirt at the end of the ville's main street. The heavy Czech revolver was at her side, her thumb already on the short-fall cocking hammer.
The targets had already been nailed to pine trees, one above the other, out at the agreed distances. Brother Wolfe called out that the outlander would aim at the higher target and Caitlin at the lower. "We'll spin a silver coin for the right to shoot first or second."
"Heads," Caitlin called as the glittering coin whirled in the air.
Wolfe neatly caught the coin, peered at it and then quickly pocketed it. "Heads it is," he called loudly.
Ryan glanced at Mildred, questioning whether she wanted to object to the blatantly unfair tossing. But she simply shook her head.
"I'll go first," Caitlin said, readying himself on the mark, slowly bringing the rifle up to his right shoulder, squinting two-eyed along the barrel.
The big .44-caliber blaster was as steady as a rock. The man licked his lips and held his breath, finger creeping onto the spur trigger.
"Open fire at will, Brother Caitlin," Wolfe said quietly. "And may Blessed Jesus the marksman guide your bullets to their target."
The crack of the Winchester was flat, the echo of the shot instantly swallowed up by the vastness of the surrounding forest.
A tall man, as skinny as a lath, stood at a safe distance from the target, holding a tiny brass folding telescope that looked like it dated back into the 1800s. He raised it to his left eye, hesitated a moment, fiddling with the delicate adjustment.
"Looks like a ten."
Caitlin fired again. Again a ten.
The third and fourth shots were also dead-center bull's-eye, bringing a round of hearty applause from the watching Children of the Rock.
"Forty from forty," Wolfe announced. "The saints be praised, Brother Caitlin. Your turn now, Sister. You may shoot at will."
Mildred stood sideways on, her whole body relaxed. Ryan knew that the woman's skill with her revolver was unparalleled. It was the sort of skill that had died out after the long winters. He had no doubt that she could outshoot anyone he'd ever seen in all Deathlands.
Caitlin was better than adequate with his rifle, but so he should be at only twenty-five paces.
Mildred aimed and fired quickly, all four shots seeming to run into one another, giving an odd quadruple echo that quickly faded into silence.
The elder with the scope took some time. "Looks like all four through the same hole," he called, bringing a buzz of excitement from the spectators.
"Good shooting, Mildred," Dean shouted, clapping his hands and jumping up and down excitedly.
"Fish in a barrel," she snorted.
Both of them scored maximums at fifty yards.
Attention shifted to the hundred-yard target, a tiny square of white pinned to a ponderosa.
Caitlin hawked and gobbed, the greenish lump of spittle striking a stunted larch to his right, dangling there, catching the sunlight.
"Me first, I reckon," he muttered. Ryan had always been a keen student of body language, and he noticed that something of the spring had gone from the shootist's step. He moved a little more slowly, as if his confidence had been eroded by Mildred's performance so far.
He was firing more slowly at each distance, taking around fifteen seconds at the hundred-yard marker, giving the skinny man time to check each shot.
"Ten."
Applause.
"Ten again, Brother Caitlin."
More applause from the Children of the Rock. Mildred watched impassively.
There was a long delay. "Nine."
"What?"
"Sorry, Brother. Clipped the line between eight and nine, but I call it a clear nine."
The last shot hit the bull's-eye again, giving him 119 out of a possible 120. It was pretty fair shooting, though Ryan reckoned that he could have probably matched it himself.
Mildred stepped up, quickly and easily scoring bull's-eyes with her four shots.
"On to the last set of markers," Wolfe announced, pointing into the distance, at two hundred paces, where the target seemed almost invisible.
"Sweating," Jak whispered to Ryan. Th
e teenager was right. A thin sheen of perspiration lined Caitlin's forehead, trickling down the side of his nose onto the stubbled chin.
"When you're ready, Brother," Wolfe said, holding up his good hand for quiet.
"I'm ready."
"Nine."
A hum of excitement ran through the crowd.
"Take your time," Wolfe urged, biting his lip anxiously. "Just take all the time you need."
"Puts more pressure on the son of a bitch," J.B. said quietly.
They heard the crack of the rifle, and the faint hum of the .44 round as it sliced through the pine-scented sunlight between the tall trees.
Another long pause.
"Eight."
Caitlin muttered a colorful curse under his breath. He walked around his mark in a small circle, kicking his heels into the damp ground.
"Two more shots left," Wolfe said encouragingly. "Make them count, Brother."
The barrel of the rifle was visibly trembling as the man took aim for the penultimate time. With an effort he lowered it, wiping sweat from his forehead. He sighted again, squeezing the trigger, the Winchester 94 kicking against his shoulder.
"Four."
"You sure about that, Brother?" Wolfe shouted, his voice rising above the gasp of dismay.
"Fear so. Aye, fear so. Just a four. One round remaining. Brother Caitlin's score stands at…"
There was a moment's hesitation for the mathematics. "From one hundred and fifty, his score is 144."
"One hundred and forty," the Armorer called without a moment's pause.
"No." Wolfe stared at the man with the telescope. "Check your numbering, Brother."
"It's 140," Krysty agreed. "Missed one point up to this last round of shots. And he scored a nine and an eight and the last four. That's nine. Plus one makes ten. One hundred and forty even."
Nobody argued.
"Woman won't hit fuck-all at this range with her toy!" yelled a man from the back of the crowd. "Nothing to worry about, Carlo."
He scored a seven with his last round, making 147 out of 160.
Mildred hadn't missed a single shot yet, putting them all into the center of her target with a monotonous regularity. Now she stood there on the mark, calm and unflurried, the light wind tugging at her beaded hair, the long-barreled Czech revolver seeming an extension of her body. "Ten."