by RW Krpoun
“You stay here,” he advised the Jinxman. “I’ll go help Shad.”
“Ready when you are,” Jeff shouldered his rifle.
Derek laid his reloaded carbine where Jeff could grab it if needed, and slipped off the tube-carrier; drawing his Le Mat, he jumped to his feet as Jeff opened fire and raced to a patch of cactus halfway between the mound and Buttercup. Sliding prone behind the spiked plants he caught his breath and waited until Jeff fired a single shot to indicate he had reloaded.
Jumping back to his feet he sprinted to the dead horse as the Jinxman emptied his rifle.
Catching Derek’s eye, Shad pointed inside the storehouse and shrugged, indicating he wasn’t sure how many were there. Derek nodded and plucked a hex-sheet from his bandolier; a second later the storehouse door slammed shut.
Holstering his Colt Shad drew the empty revolver and swiftly reloaded it. He gestured for the Alienist to watch the door and eased to where the dead guard was sprawled. Surveying the ground, he shot two downed Celts to ensure that they were in fact dead, and reloaded.
The remaining Celts were in between an untidy cluster of three lodges, concealed from their attackers, although Jeff was sending a bullet whipping through the canvas at regular intervals to discourage any initiative.
Glancing back at Derek the Shootist saw him tapping his own chest and making match striking motions. Nodding, Shad eased back to the storeroom door, where Derek joined him.
“I can set the tents on fire,” the Alienist gasped. “Well, the closest one, anyway. Just a regular fire-starting hex.”
“OK, knock yourself out. By the way, Mister Samuels is around here someplace. I shot him in the shoulder and he lost his sidearm, but I don’t think he’s given up for the day.”
“I really want to kill that bastard,” Derek shook his head. “OK, here I go.”
“I’ve got the storehouse.”
The Alienist trotted to the nearest tent, a hex sheet ready in his off-hand. At the canvas wall a flick of his wrist and a word set flames raging to the top of the tent as Derek ran back to the storehouse.
There were three badly wounded Celts sheltering behind the tents, and two able-bodied men. The two warriors immediately charged defiantly even as Derek opened fire. When the pair were down the Alienist reloaded and walked over to finish off the wounded.
Fred was now visible leading Durbin and the horses down the ridge as Derek rejoined Shad. “That’s it for the Celts.”
“One or two hired guns left in here,” Shad sighed. “You might as well set the thatch on fire. They can smother or come out shooting, its all up to them.”
“Hey, you’re bleeding, lower left back.”
“Yeah, I just noticed. Its not too bad, but I have no idea how or when I got hit. Signal Jeff for me, will you?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Mister Samuels got away,” Fred announced as he returned to the storehouse where Jeff and Shad were using Dancer to drag Buttercup’s body so Shad could recover his saddle and associated gear. Derek was busy stripping the dead of weapons and valuables. “He stole a boat and crossed the river.”
“Let’s go get him,” Derek dumped an armload of rifles, narrowly missing Shad’s foot.
“Hold on,” the Shootist held up a hand. “First, watch what you’re doing. Second, Fred, go kill him.”
“Why does Fred get to do that?” the Alienist demanded.
“Because the guy’s on foot on the prairie and Fred is a Scout. He can pot him safely with the Sharps from a healthy distance. Don’t forget to search his body,” Shad reminded the big man.
“The bastard deserves to see it coming,” Derek insisted.
“Don’t go all High Noon about this,” the Shootist shook his head and turned back to the business of getting the saddle off Buttercup. “A .50-90 will do the job. We have too much to do right here.”
“One of the butra came at Mister Samuels with a knife the size of a machete,” Fred observed as he swung onto Boxcar. “Big strapping young guy. Got his throat opened up for his troubles, and not a drop of blood on his blade.”
“You want to take Derek with you?”
“Nah. Just agreeing with you that this is a long-range job. I bet that bastard is carrying a hideout gun, too.” The Scout turned his horse and cantered off.
“OK, I’m clear, Jeff,” Shad united Jeff’s rope and tossed it to him. “Go sort out who is the head butra and organize a boat crew for us. Derek, are you done?”
“Yeah. Some guns of no great value, some money, nothing special.”
“OK, take Durbin and get an inventory of what is on the boat. I’ll lug this stuff down to you once I get organized.”
“Gotcha.” Derek paused. “Look, I’m sorry about Buttercup.”
“It was a horse,” Shad rolled his eyes. “You didn’t get teary about the HUMVEE they blew out from under you.”
“OK, OK.”
Once he had located the Colt he had dropped, inspected the gear on his saddle for damage, and reloaded all his weapons, Shad checked to ensure that the others were out of sight and earshot.
Kneeling by Buttercup he laid a hand on the horse’s still-warm neck. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go this way; this wasn’t your fight and you shouldn’t have had to pay for my mistake.” He closed Buttercup’s eyes. “Thank you for all you did for me. You always gave a hundred percent and while I know I didn’t always show it, I really appreciated you. If we had time I would bury you, but the locals would probably just dig you back up.” He stroked the horse’s neck and then stood, settling his hat low on his forehead.
“All right,” Derek consulted his notes. “We took nine useable muzzle-loading flintlock rifles, .54 caliber, off the Celts…”
“Model 1817 rifle,” Shad said absently as he transferred his belongings into a backpack and a haversack.
“Four breech-loading Martini-Henry rifles and four cap-and-ball revolvers from the hired guns, and Mister Samuel’s revolver. On the raft we have ten cases of the Model 1817 rifle, six rifles to the case, one bullet mold per case. Five hundred pounds of cartridge powder, fifty pounds of bar lead, twenty pounds of priming powder, one hundred twenty cut flints for the rifles, ten cases of hunting knives with ten knives to the case, fifty hatchets packed in wooden buckets, twenty cases of pre-made .54 paper cartridges with one thousand cartridges per case, and about four tons of trade goods. Plus eighty man-days of pretty decent trail rations and two hundred pounds of coal.”
“That was quick work.”
“I found their inventory list and spot-checked.”
“Good work. And here is Weehawk.” Shad stood and waved at eight Sivlic males who had appeared on the far bank.
All but two stacked their light packs, bow cases, and quivers and dove into the river. The six Sivlic males easily swam across the river and shook themselves dry before joining the Shootist on the bank next to the raft.
“It is good to see you again, Weehawk,” Shad sketched a salute. “We will have the horses and the mule ready shortly. This is to pay for stabling in Bloodseep for three months,” he handed Weehawk a drawstring pouch. “And here is your pay as agreed.”
The Sivlic inspected the contents of each bag and nodded shortly. “We wait.”
Shad noted that all six were armed with knives and hatchets, and wore archer’s bracers on their left arms. The Sivlic might not like violence, but thus bunch certainly wouldn’t be victimized easily.
Fred returned a few minutes later. “He had Darcy’s ear around his neck on a chain,” he observed, tossing a gunny sack to the Alienist and dismounting.
“That bastard!” Derek was livid.
“You saw her body,” Shad threw his hands out in exasperation. “She wasn’t cut up.”
“One ride and he was in love,” Fred grinned as Derek flipped them off.
“Any problems?” the Shootist asked.
“He was good,” the Scout admitted. “But I was careful. Dropped him at a hundred yards, put a second into hi
m with my Yellowboy at forty yards to be sure.”
“Why at a hundred yards?”
“Because he was that good: he knew we would be coming for him and was trying to catch out whoever we sent. I would have done it at three hundred had I a choice.”
“Ok. Get your gear switched to a pack-the Sivlic are standing by for the animals.”
“Good. Where’s Jeff?”
Shad frowned. “He should have been back by now. I’ll go see what’s taking him. Pick out the best horse from the captured animals and put my saddle on it, please.”
The Shootist found Jeff in the center of an excited group of butra with much loud discussion and arm-waving going on.
“This is Sammi, the lead boatman and overall boss,” the Jinxman shouted into Shad’s ear. He indicated a sun-weathered man of indeterminate years who was missing half his teeth and the last two fingers of his left hand. Sammi was either a light-skinned black man or an olive-skinned white man, or more likely a mixture of several races, a common trait amongst the group that surrounded them. “He is thankful that we rescued them, but he has no intention of letting us borrow the raft.”
“Did you explain that it was important, and that they can keep the dead men’s horses?”
“As best I could. They’re long on excitement and reporting the terrible things that were done by the dearly departed, and not much on listening.”
Shaking his head, the Shootist stepped up to Sammi, drew a Colt, placed the muzzle against the man’s cheekbone to the left of his nose and deliberately cocked the weapon.
The lead boatman froze and the hubbub around them died away.
When it was completely silent Shad looked Sammi square in the eye. “You are going to steer our raft and you will bring a crew to help you. The rest of your people will bury the dead; they may keep whatever loot we have left behind, as well as the horses that belonged to the dead men. We are leaving right now. I am going to ask you if you understand, and if your answer is anything but ‘yes’ there will be a new lead boatman. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Sammi said.
“Good. You’ll get your raft and freedom in a few days. Unless you or any of your boatman desert us, in which case we will come back here and make you wish the other men were still alive and in charge. If you deal fairly with us, you will never see us again after we part ways. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Point out the crew you will need. When you and your crew are on the raft with whatever you need for the trip, these people may go to their homes; until then they stay put with me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Choose your men and prepare.”
Jeff and the Shootist moved a short distance away while Sammi calmed his people and chose a crew.
“If you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow,” the Jinxman observed. “Good thing he didn’t call your bluff.”
“It would take a very confident man to call that one,” Shad shrugged. “Besides, all he knows about us is that we killed a much larger band of men. He has no reason to think we won’t follow through on every threat I just made.”
“Well, being nice wasn’t getting me anywhere. They were grateful or the rescue, but not grateful enough to help us.”
“I imagine their lives have sucked pretty hard lately. By the way, Fred bagged Mister Samuels.”
“Good. I’ll sleep better knowing he’s feeding the vultures. He must have made a beeline for here when he found out we had left.”
Shad nodded. “I thought he would try to follow us. At least he was surprised to see us. I figure he was either going to Cecil or sending Cecil a message we were on our way. We dodged a bullet on this one.”
Sammi reported to the raft with his crew, which consisted of four burly polemen. Going downstream the polemen’s jobs were limited to lookouts and guiding the raft away from rocks, while returning upstream they would ‘walk’ the raft by jamming a pole into the river bed at the bow and walking towards the stern, propelling the boat forwards. A well-trained pole crew could make fifteen miles a day going upstream.
Once the horses and Durbin had been turned over to the Sivlic the raft departed without fanfare, the current moving the heavily-laden craft without much difficulty. The Black Talons lounged on the small planked ‘deck’ area, enjoying the day.
“Nice to travel without being on a horse,” Jeff mused. “What kind of time can we make?”
“The limit is the amount of daytime you have to work with,” Shad shrugged. “You can hoist a lantern and try to travel by night, but its risky. Sammi says that by eating a cold lunch we can make thirty miles a day easily.”
“Say six or seven days to the mountain pass,” Fred nodded, examining the maps. “There we’ll contact the Celts and see what we have to work with.”
“The part that is going to suck is when we have to walk back,” Derek sighed.
“There will be horses where we’re going, or another boat,” Shad waved it off. “Walking is the last option. And we’ve walked before. The big issue is to get all this done before the snow flies.”
“It would be nice if we could bag a Death Lord or two in the process,” Jeff said thoughtfully. “Two birds with one stone.”
“That would be good,” the Shootist agreed. “But unless we really get lucky it looks like we’ll be wintering in Bloodseep. By the way, did you find anything interesting in Mister Samuel’s gear, Derek?”
“Some notes to himself. He was trying to find a group to ambush us, but apparently our rep prevented anybody of quality from being interested.”
“We’re world-famous in Bloodseep,” Fred grinned.
“I’m for a nap,” Shad decided. “One person on guard throughout the day.”
“I’ll stand watch,” Derek offered. “I’m not tired.”
“Wake me if you get sleepy,” Jeff offered.
It was quickly apparent that the barge was a vast improvement over their earlier travels; they drifted north with the daylight hours and tied up at night, cooking dinner and breakfast on shore. With nine appetites to feed Fred shot a young buffalo cow the first evening and they smoked most of the meat. Jeff built a shelter on the deck out of saplings and a spare tarp, and Derek cut fishing poles for all four and caught a bucket full of crayfish to use as bait.
They still posted a guard on the raft during the hours of darkness, but since they could doze in the shade during the day it was no hardship. Besides general security the guard was necessary as Sammi and his crew were markedly sullen about having to make the trip, although they caused no overt problems.
The river banks slowly grew lower as they headed north and the river broadened, although the current didn’t slow by much.
“That’s the hills where we fought the Elves,” Fred jerked his chin towards a line of rises fading to blue in the distance. “The east end of them, anyway. The Agram Hills.”
“That was a bad fight,” Shad said from where he was lying with his hat over his eyes, an unholstered Colt resting under his hand on his chest. “Maybe the worst we’ve had in this dump.”
“Hah!” Derek held up a thrashing fish that looked to be a trout. “That’s the biggest one so far.”
“No doubt,” Jeff agreed, watching his line. “We’re eating good tonight.”
“Keep catching them,” Fred nodded. “The buffalo seem to be heading south.”
“I’m getting tired of buffalo, anyway,” Shad observed. “I wouldn’t mind bagging an elk in the mountains. That’s good eating.”
“Will we have time?” Jeff asked.
“I don’t see why not-Derek said Cecil’s window of opportunity wasn’t for forty days, and that was only ten days ago.”
“Cool.”
“Is there any way to speed up the arrival of the window of opportunity?” Fred asked.
“I don’t think so,” Derek said as he threw his line back into the water.
“You’re not sure?”
>
“No. But if they could, it would take a lot of power.”
“Isn’t the pyramid full of power?”
“Yeah, but they need that to open the temporary road to the Isle.”
“So its possible but real unlikely?” Fred frowned at the horizon.
“Yeah.”
“I think we’ll hunt elk on the way back,” Shad decided.
“Why are they shipping more rifles?” Jeff suddenly asked later that afternoon. “Ammo and trade goods I can see, but shouldn’t they have already armed their guard force?”
“Installment plan,” Fred said from where he was carving his initials into one of the raft’s logs. “Keeps the help honest. If they gave the Celts the full payment up front the Long Sun would likely just fade away. I expect every boat carries sixty rifles. You gotta give mercs incentives to stick around”
“Makes sense,” Derek inserted a book marker and closed his book with a sigh. “So how are we going to give our hirelings incentive?”
“We promise them the loot they take from the Long Sun,” Shad said from where he had been napping. “They receive payment at both ends of the deal, plus a chance to bloody a traditional enemy.”
“That works.”
Late in the morning of the Black Talon’s third day of river travel, with the Eldiston Mountains becoming a hazy uneven line on the horizon, Jeff whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Company, east bank.”
“Act normal,” Shad hissed, scooping up his shotgun. “Hats low. If it’s Cecil’s boys they will expect to see armed guards.”
“They’re Undead,” Derek muttered, fingers crawling across his spell bandolier.
“A lot of Undead,” Fred agreed.
As they drew closer they saw a hollow phalanx of skeletal warriors standing as motionless as statues, with a tent pitched in their midst and a small cart parked to one side.
“What do you bet there’s a free tattoo removal sleeping in that tent?” Jeff grinned.