by neetha Napew
"Come on, it makes sense."
J.B. bit his pale lips. "Never reckoned to hear you say anything like that, old friend. Times to walk away and times to stand. Trader used to say that. And you know what, he was right as ever."
"Tomorrow at noon they'll find a legal way of butchering Doc in front of our faces." Ryan sighed. "And there's nothing we can do to save him. Then there'll be some pretext for chilling you and me, J.B., then the others. Knife in the back? Poison in the cup? We don't all have to die."
"Together," Jak said very quietly, with a calm finality. "What goes down, goes down together."
JIM OWSLEY HAD LOOKED in just after dark, lighting the oil lamps for them.
The sec man was hardly able to restrain his delight at their hopeless predicament.
"Always said that nobody likes a smart-ass. Specially not mutie, black smart-asses. All that winnin', just so you can end up losin'."
Ryan casually rested his hand on the man's scrawny shoulder, letting finger and thumb bite together. He clipped the nerve ends of the muscle, making Owsley whimper with the sudden electric pain, making him drop to his knees on the chipped planks of the floor.
"Hey, you son of a bitch! Didn't have to do that to me."
"Get out." The voice of the one-eyed man was icy with anger and contempt.
"Just come to bring you light."
"You did that. Now get the hell out of here."
The sec man paused in the doorway. "You should try and reckon on winning some friends, outlander. By the saints of night and fog, but you'll be needing them."
He went out and slammed the door shut behind him, making the whole cabin shake.
"Mean little redneck peckerwood," Mildred spit. "Wish I'd got my blaster with me now."
"Wish we'd got a single blaster between us," J.B. replied. "One'd be a start."
Ryan sat down and picked up Krysty's limp hand. "Talk's cheap, friends, and action costs. And time is passing us by. We got the rest of the dark hours. Then it's done."
Doc coughed in his sleep.
THE CONVERSATION kept following the same circle. There was no hope of Krysty being well enough to make a nocturnal run for it, so they all had to stay. But Doc was irrevocably doomed if he was still in Hopeville at noon tomorrow. Mildred had awakened him around nine, feeding him some oatmeal gruel that she'd gone and begged from one of the older women. She chafed his cold hands and legs, making him stand and move around, despite all of his protestations, keeping him walking around and around.
"By the Three Kennedys, madam!" he moaned. "To so torture a wretched, dying old man. You must certainly be kin to Tomas de Torquemada, accursed head of the hateful, hated Spanish Inquisition. Give me peace."
Josiah Steele had returned the ebony cane to the sick man that evening, not realizing that it concealed a lethal blade of Toledo steel. Now Doc used the swordstick, leaning heavily on the silver lion's-head handle as he built up his strength, the ferrule clicking on the floorboards.
Ryan bit his lip. Though the old man was much better than earlier, he still had the uncontrollable cough, and he was desperately frail.
"Doc?"
"Dear boy?"
"Let's go through the plan one more time."
Chapter Thirty
Ryan opened the door a crack, peering out into the first dim glow of the false dawn. A huddle of sec men stood by the dying embers of the main camp fire, while half a dozen others were patrolling the perimeter of the ville. A thin coil of gray white smoke rose lazily up between the branches of the enormous pines that lined Hopeville.
"Shit's going to be hitting the fan any minute now," he said. "Best all get up and ready."
Dean yawned and sat up. Like the others, he'd remained fully dressed. "How's Krysty, Dad?"
"No change. Slept quiet."
She hadn't yet recovered consciousness, though Mildred had kept checking her vital signs, finding both respiration and pulse were improving.
J.B. checked his wrist chron. "Doc's been gone for just on eight hours. Should be time enough for him to hole up someplace. Fingers crossed."
Three times during the night, Owsley had peeked in, checking that everyone was still there. Doc's bed was farthest from the door, and they'd made up a realistic mount of blankets. Each time the sec man had left, convinced they were all there.
Mildred was busily washing her hands and face in a large blue-and-white china bowl, using a large tablet of dark brown soap. "Cold," she said. "Went to take a leak—must have been around three—and there was a biting frost. It's not going to help Doc with his cough and all."
"Cough could be the least of his problems," Ryan said. "Uh-oh. Here comes Wolfe and his sec men, taking their early-morning check."
Mildred held up her fingers, crossed. "Good luck, Doc," she said.
THE TRUSTY BLUE swallow's-eye kerchief had been lifesavingly useful.
Doc's mind was never one hundred percent sharp. Mildred, Ryan and J.B. had all tried to explain to him what was happening, what had happened and what was going to happen. But he'd ended up more confused than when they started talking at him.
There was to be a testing. He'd clued in to that. But he still didn't quite understand what it would have involved and why his presence in the ville would be seriously bad news.
And Krysty was ill. She'd had some kind of a fight and she had won it. Doc understood that much. But it had made her very sick so she couldn't travel.
What he had to do was get out of the ville without being seen or heard, make his way through the cloudy darkness and try to keep back along the trail to hide in the burned-out eatery, where the rest of them would join him when they could.
When he'd sneaked out of the back window of the shared log cabin, it had been full dark, with only a sliver of moon visible through some drifting clouds. Ryan had used some fragments of charcoal from the old fireplace to draw a rough map onto a torn linen rag, showing Doc where he thought the guards might be encountered. He showed him the route back in the general direction of the redoubt, to the ruined restaurant, warning him to look out for the giant mutie rats.
"And the Apaches," he'd reminded Doc.
"No problema, mi amigo!" had been the reply. Doc had to remind Ryan that he'd once spent time with a tribe of Mescalero Apaches and spoke a little of their language.
Doc felt another cough prickling deep in his chest, and he took out the trusty kerchief again.
He'd still been well within the settlement, only a scant thirty yards or so from their hut, when he'd been seized by a racking paroxysm.
He'd hastily pulled out the swallow's-eye kerchief and crumpled it into his open mouth, muffling and cutting off the noise of his helpless coughing.
He crouched, feeling the damp of the sodden pine needles through the thin material of his ancient breeches, squinting to try to spot the sentries that Ryan had told him would be patrolling.
Doc moved on when he'd regained some measure of control, having to stop twice more before he was clear of the perimeter of Hopeville and out onto the winding trail.
"NONE OF YOU HEARD him go?" Disbelief rode high in the angry voice of Joshua Wolfe. Ryan answered for them all. "Nope. Reckon we were all totally bushed after the testing and all. Thought Doc was real sick, but the old coot sure fooled us."
Owsley leaned close to the leader of the Children of the Rock and whispered something in his ear.
Wolfe listened intently, nodding a couple of times. Then he shook his head. "No. Not yet. Means a sort of delay in the plans. Best is to go after the old goat and bring him back here. Then things'll be back on course."
"But we—"
"No." Wolfe held up his unmutilated hand as a warning to the sec man. "You heard me, Brother Jim. We play this one like I said. Understood?"
"If you say so."
"I do. I say it with the backing of the Blessed Lord Jesus, Savior of the gun and the blade."
"Amen, Brother Wolfe."
Wolfe managed to claw a smile back into place. "Small
and temporary victory, outlander." He pointed at Ryan. "Trader used to say that he who shoots last shoots finest, didn't he? Think about that, One-Eye."
"We getting after the old man now, Brother Wolfe?" Jim Owsley asked.
"Right now. Double the watch on the rest of them." He stared intently at Krysty. "But she doesn't look like she'll be going anywhere. Not for a while."
DOC HAD TO KEEP reminding himself that he was supposed to be traveling light-footed. The temptation to use his ebony swordstick as a walking cane was very strong, but he realized immediately that the metallic tapping sound would carry a long way at night in the deeps of the forest, and bring any potential pursuers after him at a flat run.
He would have been a whole lot happier if he'd had his beloved Le Mat in the fancy hand-tooled Mexican rig on his hip.
Jak had offered to lend him one of his remaining concealed throwing knives, but Doc had turned down the offer. "Such a weapon would be as much use to me as a chocolate chamber pot, dear boy."
The forest was showing the first signs of the false dawn. The sky above had become fractionally brighter, throwing Doc's shadow on the winding trail. Twice he'd been stopped in his tracks, aware of something moving, ponderously, in the dark depths of the pines. But nothing had come near him, and he hadn't actually seen anything.
He carried a gold half-hunter watch on a fob and he tugged it out, angling the face to try to catch enough light to read it. But it wasn't yet possible.
By his own rough calculation he'd been traveling for five or six hours and was well over halfway toward his destination. The one thing that Doc couldn't know was at what point his escape had been noticed. If luck was with him, he'd still have something of a clear run. If not, then the pursuers could already be closing in on his track.
"I said that the hounds of spring were in winter's traces," he muttered. "But let it pass, yes, let it pass."
There was a whisper of movement, and he turned toward the sound, seeing something white floating toward him, showing a hideous, ghostly face. Great golden eyes seemed to bore into him, and he noted a wing spread of six feet or more and a cruelly hooked yellow beak.
"A wise old owl, swirling," he said, ducking as the apparition swooped low over his head, the beat of the bird's passing disturbing his silvery hair.
Doc was beginning to feel close to exhaustion. The attack of influenza, or whatever it had been, had taken even more out of him than he'd guessed. It was an effort to lift each foot and place it in front of the other. But he knew that if he stopped, he might likely fall asleep and not carry on at all.
He tried to swing into a regular march, whispering the beat to himself. "Left, right, left, right. Left… Left, I had a good job and I left."
On into the early morning.
JOSIAH STEELE TOOK charge of the serving of breakfast brought by two women, each carrying a groaning tray of food, with mugs of buttermilk to wash it down.
Ryan noticed immediately that they had been given only old plastic spoons to help themselves. No forks or knives. Brother Joshua wasn't taking any chances on an armed rebellion from his remaining prisoners.
"Buckwheat toast with jellies and honey," Steele said. "And oatmeal gruel. There'll be some steaming acorn coffee for those who want it, in a while. At least it'll be hot." He hesitated in the doorway. "How's the woman?"
"Sleeping," Ryan replied.
"Hope she… Well." He paused as though considering saying something else. "You did the right thing getting the old man away. He'd have been cold giblets by noon. Shame you couldn't get away yourselves."
"We could still mebbe manage it if we had our weapons back again," J.B. said quietly.
Steele sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and looked outside the hut. "Sure, you could, outlander. But the cold fact is, I don't aim to slit my own throat. Nor put a ball through my own temple. Not just yet."
"Where are our blasters and knives?" Ryan asked, seeing the doubt in the man's eyes. "Suppose I just said that I thought that they were likely in Wolfe's own house. You can just choose to say nothing. You don't have to tell us they aren't there. Just say nothing."
Steele half smiled. "Guess I'd best say nothing, Brother Cawdor. Not a word."
Ryan grinned across at him. "Thanks," he said. "Yeah, thanks a lot."
"FRIED BACON, please, Emily." Doc jerked awake. "Upon my soul! What am I saying? What am I doing? Where am I and where am I going? Have I been… I suspect that I might have taken a small rest and closed my eyes for a moment. Most unwise, my dear Theo. Oh, dear, so careless."
He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, using the trunk of one of the smaller pines to help. He took several deep breaths of the cool morning air, looking around in the half light of the early dawn.
"What is the time, I ask myself?" He checked the half-hunter watch. "And I answer myself that it is closing in on six o'clock. No pursuit yet."
His voice disturbed a pair of pigeons that fluttered noisily away from the lower branches of a nearby larch. They circled once before heading north, still protesting at the intruder in their domain.
He lowered his tone. "What would dear Ryan and the other companions think of me? To be so rash and foolish, falling asleep within a couple of paces of the track through the woods. Though the road through the woods has been undone by the wind and the rain. And there is no road…" He slapped himself hard across the forehead. "Enough, Dr. Tanner. Enough. Set your face toward the path to the redoubt."
He picked up his cane and took a last quick look around the clearing.
"By the…!"
The pair of Mescalero warriors seemed to have literally appeared from nowhere, sprung from the heart of the forest. They stood silently a few yards away from him, leaning against the massive trunk of one of the largest of the sequoias. They were both in their midtwenties, both holding strung bows with a quiver of arrows across a shoulder.
One of them said something in the Apache tongue. Doc dredged at his memory for his scant vocabulary. The nearest translation that he could come up with was, "Greetings, walking man who is already with the spirits."
"Bother," Doc said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bear Cub Running and Fast Silver Hand were two of the boldest young warriors of the Mescalero band. Their hostility against the numerically stronger Children of the Rock was deep-rooted, going back a number of years. They knew nothing of the rad hot spot, but it was common knowledge that the white Bible carriers had few if any children among their numbers, and those that were born were sickly and rarely lived long.
Which was why the renegade Anglos had so often tried to steal the little ones from the Apaches.
Which was why any white person walking along through the tall pines was fair game.
The old man with snowy hair and pale eyes didn't seem to be carrying any kind of blaster. The two braves had been watching him carefully for over half an hour, at first suspecting a trap. But they had just decided that the old man was truly alone.
Fast Silver Hand had whispered that it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
"Truly. Should we take him back to camp for the women to show us their skills with knife and fire?"
Then Doc woke up.
Seeing his imminent danger, he fumbled in his faltering memory for the few ragged Mescalero phrases that remained in the dusty back rooms.
"Greetings, brothers. It is a good day."
"A good day to die, old man," Bear Cub Running replied, sneering. "For you."
Slowly he reached around for an arrow to notch on the string of his bow. His young companion matched him, move for move, very cautiously.
"I have no wish to harm you," Doc said, his arms spread, gripping the silver hilt of his sword-stick. "Let me pass through the hunting lands of the Mescalero."
Fast Silver Hand laughed at the clumsy attempt to speak their language. "He is like a coyote who has drunk too much of the winter wine," he muttered so as Doc couldn't hear him. "He will give good sport."
> "Perhaps he is mad," the other warrior said doubtfully. "Mad, bad and dangerous to know."
"No. Just triple stupe. As are all whites. See how he stands feeble like a blind baby."
Doc couldn't hear what they were saying, but he was awake enough to know that their body language was a long way short of friendly.
He struggled to remember things that Ryan had tried to teach him over the years. Watch their eyes. Watch their hands. Watch their feet. If you have to strike, then do it hard and fast. Don't wait to admire your handiwork. Watch their mouths. Try to take out the leader first.
"Which one is the leader?" he asked.
But the two young men just nudged each other and laughed. They both had arrows notched, bowstrings taut, but the bows were still held loosely down at their sides, not yet threatening Doc.
"Get close," Doc mumbled. That was one of the most important things to remember in combat.
He took three hesitant steps toward the Apaches, halving the distance between them.
Another step. He felt sweat on his palms, cold against the metal of the lion's-head hilt. He lifted the shaft of the stick, so casually, now holding it in both hands.
Doc was still a little too far away, but he could see the glimmering of doubt in their eyes, suspicion that perhaps the old cougar still had claws.
"Yes," he said, nodding wisely and reassuringly. "It is truly a good day to die." He took the last step that brought him close enough to risk his move.
His gnarled right hand twisted the grip and pulled, his left sliding the ebony sheath off the polished Toledo steel of the rapier's blade.
A half turn to the left gave Doc the necessary room for the first, devastating sideways cut, followed by the lunge and withdrawal.
The early-morning sunshine glinted like watered silk off the honed metal, giving the two young men a frozen splinter of time to realize the terrible threat they faced from the helpless old-timer. Too little.
Too late.
His aim was true.
The cutting blow slashed through the two bowstrings, severing them both at once, the arrows falling limply to the forest floor, the bows left useless in the shocked hands of the Mescalero warriors.