Starfall

by neetha Napew

  Looking at the trading post, Ryan had to agree. Knowing that an artillery cannon was aimed at them at the moment didn't set well, either. "Built it to last, didn't they?"

  J.B. nodded.

  The trading post sat on a hill on the north side of the river, cadged together out of tree trunks that looked nearly four feet across. They stood uniform, one end buried in the ground while the other end stretched upward at least twenty feet. The main interior structure sat in the center of the posts, well below the sight line. But a second story over­looked the river, constructed of the thick tree trunks, as well.

  Ryan took out his binoculars and scanned the structure, focusing on the shiny bits atop the palisades. "Topped the timbers with glass and metal shards," he told the Armorer. "Man trying to go over's going to get cut up."

  "Slowed, too," J.B. said. "Easy target."

  The trees and brush had been cut well back of the pali­sade walls. White marks in the bark of nearby trees showed that the pruning was done on a constant basis. A narrow dirt trail led up to the front of the trading post, tucking in behind the tree line for a moment, then emerging along the edge of the overhang fronting the river. The bend there put it less than a hundred yards from the drop-off, which was sheer, falling nearly eighty feet to the river.

  Ryan sharpened the focus on the binoculars and spotted the scars in nearby rocks from cannonshot. None of them looked recent. "Got the trail positioned so the artillery can take out any wags. One shot with anything of real size and the area would be cleaned, dropping the wag off into the river."

  "Noticed that," J.B. agreed.

  At the foot of the drop-off, a small pier jutted into the river, barely above the present flood stage. It was con­structed of split logs rather than timbers, providing an un­even but serviceable surface. Rope ladders zigzagged back and forth across the drop-off, leading to the same point as the trail.

  Morse called out instructions to his boys, cutting the sail. The vessel coasted closer to the pier, coming around ex­pertly.

  Ryan put the binoculars away, impressed with the con­struction and location of the structure. He also had the dis­tinct impression someone was watching them.

  "WHO BUILT the trading post?" Ryan asked as he stepped out onto the split-timber pier. The wood rang solidly below his boots.

  "Annie did," Morse said, tying a thick hawser to one of the pier's support posts. "Came out here in a horse-drawn wag, saw the river and decided she wanted to live here. Took her a couple years to figure out how she was going to make a living. Trading came natural to her because her folks had been involved with it."

  "They didn't come with her?"

  "By then they were chilled. Never got the particulars of the tale. Some said they ran afoul of another trader—some said they sold snake oil that started a plague that damn near wiped out a ville. They got chilled. Annie survived, kept on moving."

  Ryan had unslung the Steyr, the safety off. He turned to the companions. "While we're here, we're on condition red."

  They all nodded.

  Wind trailed in off the river, bringing the scent of fish and sickness. A pair of corpses, bloated and dead for days, twisted and turned against a wooden dam built out into the water.

  "Annie's," Morse explained, nodding at the dam. "Uses it for salvage. Way the land floods around here and rivers take up new paths, she collects some good stuff every now and again that floats to the top or is carried along the bot­tom."

  "She knows we're here?" Ryan asked.

  Morse smiled. "Ain't been fired on. That's practically an engraved invitation."

  Ryan gave the man a thin smile, then turned his attention to the series of rope ladders. "Jak, you got the lead. I'll be the next man behind you."

  The albino nodded and started up the first ladder.

  "Dean," Ryan went on, "you'll follow me, with Krysty after you. Doc, you help with Krysty, in case she needs it."

  The redhead looked as though she was going to protest, then stopped, breaking her gaze away from her lover's.

  Turning to the rest of the group that accompanied the companions, he commanded, "The rest of you start along after Doc. Elmore and Morse, if you get any ideas about leaving sudden-like, I'll put you on the next train headed West myself. And you can take that as an ace on the line." Both men nodded.

  "Mildred," Ryan said, "you next. J.B., you're walking drag." Keeping the Steyr at the ready, he turned to the rope ladders and started up.

  They swayed and shook under his weight, but they held. The ropes looked in good condition, showing places where they'd been rebraided with new sections and repaired. The planks were handmade, cut from rough timber. Most of them were worn smooth because of heavy traffic, but a few—like the rope—showed where replacements had been made.

  Halfway to the top, Ryan was covered in perspiration despite the wind blowing around them. The humidity that settled in over the area promised more rain to come, as well as hot temperatures.

  As soon as Jak gained the top of the drop-off, he dis­appeared.

  Ryan went up next, alert to the slightest sound or move­ment. He crested the top, his eye darting around the cleared space and the wag trail just beyond.

  Jak stood at the trail's edge and stared at the trading post. The albino looked as tense as a bowstring. "Don't like staying open. Too easy get shot."

  Ryan silently agreed, but knew there'd been no choice. The companions had to have supplies if they were going on. And there was no question about that, either.

  "We'll try our luck at the trading post," he said.

  A HANDMADE SIGN hung over the double doors cut into the palisade walls. Annie's Green Springs, it stated, crafted in bottle-green letters that had faded over the years. A brass bell hung beside the right door, screwed in tight to the tree trunk.

  Ryan swung the chain attached to the clapper. The bell rang loudly, echoing out over the open space behind them. Standing this close to the trading post, he spotted the numerous bullet scars in the tree trunks. A history of violence clung to the trading post.

  "Three people hold this place?" he asked Morse again.

  "On a regular basis," the man replied. "Course, you gotta remember what I said about Annie having company. She usually does."

  "People have tried to break in before."

  "Sure. Even had a couple get through. Annie's got a lock-down inside the trading post. Hiding place nobody can dig her out of. Self-heats, source of fresh water. She wants, she can stay under for months. She's done it a couple times in the past."

  "Did she lose much?" Doc asked.

  "Salvaged stuff, but not her life. Annie always figures she can make a living if she just keeps on living. Dying's kind of hard on the profits. It would be hard to carry off all that she's accumulated over the years. The coldhearts who didn't get their asses shot off either coming or going didn't get away with much. And in most cases, they didn't get away at all. People who trade with Annie, they kind of take it personal when somebody jeopardizes the business. They've tracked coldhearts down, brought the stuff back they took. For a bounty, and Annie don't make no bones about paying it."

  "Don't have many other places to go and trade around here, do they?" Ryan said, understanding at once.

  "Mister, you got the right of it. Fella finds something worth trading, he might have to lug it around for months till he can find the person who can afford it or wants it. Annie opens him up an account here at the trading post, lets him get what he needs."

  "And she takes a piece of the profits."

  "Yeah."

  Ryan reached for the bell and rang it again, louder and longer this time.

  "Heard you the first time you rang that bastard bell," a woman's voice said. It was pitched low, sounding raspy. "What do you want?"

  "To trade." Ryan glanced along the topmost section of the palisade, finally spotting the peephole created at the top of the tree trunks thirty feet to his left.

  "Mebbe you want to, but I'm not sure I want to," the woman said
.

  "Are you Annie?"

  "Been called that. Been called other things, too, but as long as I got my hand on this trigger, I don't have to put up with a lot of shit I don't want to."

  "We're in a desperate way," Ryan said. "We've been run down and hunted. Short on supplies. Going back is out of the question, and pressing on isn't going to mean much unless we're better outfitted."

  "You going to keep Morse's boat?"

  "Hiring him on," Ryan said. "He's been paid." And it was true enough considering the blasters that J.B. had re­paired to pay their way.

  "He doesn't look too happy about it."

  "If we'd had a boat, or didn't have a need for one," Ryan said, "we'd all have been happy. But we do, and I haven't chilled him yet."

  "True enough," the old woman called back out. "But that's Morse's lookout. Don't owe him nothing, and he don't owe me enough to make it worth my while to take a hand in what you're prepared to deal out."

  "We're going to have to trade," Ryan said, "one way or another." He let that sink in. "We don't have a choice about pressing on."

  "Mister," the woman said after a brief pause, "words like that could get you chilled in your boots, standing right there where you are."

  "There's been some who tried," Ryan said agreeably. "Figure if you knew you had that locked down, you'd have already tried it."

  "You're a confident man."

  "Have to be. Otherwise, I'd have never climbed up this hill and rang that bastard bell." Ryan mopped a layer of perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  "What have you got to trade?"

  "Handblasters," Ryan answered. "Four of them."

  "In good shape?"

  "They are now. I've got a friend out here who can fix damn near any long gun or handblaster."

  "Talented man to have around," Annie stated.

  Ryan didn't say anything; the old woman was just taking time now to decide if she was going to buy into the situ­ation.

  "Is what this man's saying true, Morse?" she asked.

  "It's the truth," Morse answered. "I got some handblasters out of the deal myself."

  "Mil-spec?"

  "Yeah."

  "No long guns?"

  "No."

  "Mister," Annie called out to Ryan, "assuming I let you inside, what are you going to want for those blasters?"

  "Ammo," Ryan answered. "Mebbe some self-heats, ring-pulls."

  "Got it all inside the post," she told him. "We're only talking four handblasters, though, so you're going to have to come up with something else to even things out."

  "We ran into a sec team put out by a local baron," Ryan said. "They had a few handblasters, but primarily they were outfitted with long guns. Handblasters are easy to carry out of sight. I don't think you'll have a hard time selling them. For what we're planning to trade for, your price will be covered."

  "Seem awful sure about yourself."

  "I am," Ryan replied. "I'm no stranger to trading my­self."

  "What kind of handblasters?" Annie asked.

  "Two 9 mm semiautos," Ryan called back. "Two wheelguns."

  "How do I know they shoot true?"

  "Test them yourself. If they don't, you don't have to make a deal."

  "By then, you might be inside."

  "It'd be hard for either one of us to get what we want if that doesn't happen." Ryan waited, letting the silence fill in the distance between them.

  "I don't know that I want what you have to offer," Annie said. "You have a lean and hungry look about you."

  Crimson misted Ryan's vision as the anger took him. He struggled for self-control as Doc stepped forward.

  The old man struck an imposing stance and addressed the owner of the trading post. "Madam, I should wonder if you pass that quote in telling jest, and not some happy chance of twisted words about you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do. The passage actually goes thusly, a scene from the first act of Julius Caesar by the immortal bard himself." Doc cleared his throat.

  "Let me have men about me that are fat;/ Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights./ Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look;/ He thinks too much: such men are dangerous."

  The old man's words rolled over the area, sounding pow­erful and resonant.

  "Who are you?" Annie demanded.

  Doc tucked his cane under his arm as he bowed with a flourish. "Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner at your service, madam." His wide smile showed his impossibly white teeth.

  "You're a good-looking enough man to look at, Doc Tanner," Annie called back, "and you talk flowery."

  "Why, thank you kindly."

  "Pretty words and a nice smile don't mean you're going to get inside, though."

  "Madam, let me assure you, we're here neither to harm nor rob you. Only to trade fairly and for things that we desperately need."

  "I'm not known for giving out charity."

  "Madam, I am reminded of some great words handed down by Sir Winston Churchill, who was also a hard man to deal with," Doc stated.

  "You will make all kinds of mistakes, but as long as you are generous and true, and also fierce, you cannot hurt the world or even seriously distress her."

  "You're an interesting man, Doc Tanner."

  "Your generous nature is already showing, madam."

  "I would like to talk to you at length, given the oppor­tunity."

  Ryan started to speak up, shifting to address the woman again. Krysty's hand came down on his arm. "Ease off, lover," she said softly. "Doc's making headway, and she's not going to be convinced by anyone else here."

  Ryan studied the trading post, wondering how many blasters were inside. He caught J.B.'s eye, knowing the Armorer was contemplating the same thing. No matter how Doc's discourse with the woman turned out, they weren't moving on without supplies. However they had to get them.

  "By all means," Doc said, "I should be enchanted to enjoy your company. All that requires is your invitation."

  "I'd extend it to yourself," Annie called back.

  "Then," Doc replied, "I must regretfully forego the pleasure, as enticing as it sounds, for I shall not feel wel­come where my companions are not."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes, madam. Never more certain of anything in my life."

  "What about you?" the woman called out. "The one-eyed, scruffy wolf."

  "What?" Ryan growled.

  "Would you send your man in if it might get you the provisions you wanted? At a fair price?"

  "I don't know you at all," Ryan replied, "except from what Morse has said. For all I know, you'll take Doc inside, then ransom him back to us for what we brought to trade and more."

  There was silence for a moment, then the woman's laughter pealed over them. "Morse, do you vouch for these people?"

  "As much as I can," the sailor answered. "We've been kind of forced together."

  "Have you suffered at their hands?"

  "Not yet. But there's been some threats made."

  "And our one-eyed wolf looks like just the sort of man who'd carry those threats out. Are you going to be willing to trade the blasters these men have repaired for you?"

  "I've got a balance I already owe you," Morse grunted. "I don't see how you're going to let me take on the pro­visions we're going to need without trading."

  "So you'll have eight handblasters," Ryan pointed out.

  "What's your name, wolf?"

  "Ryan. Ryan Cawdor."

  "I've heard of you. For a time you traveled with the Trader. But I thought you were dead."

  "Not hardly."

  "I don't suppose you'd agree to laying down your weap­ons before you enter the trading post."

  "No."

  "Then come ahead, Mr. Cawdor, and be on your best behavior. Because if you aren't, we'll bury you, and you can believe that."

  Ryan kept the Steyr at the ready as the huge twin doors opened in the palisade wall. Four armed men stood on the other side
of the doors, weapons in their hands. All of them looked rough and showed the wear and tear of harsh ex­perience lived on the land.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Inside the palisade walls, the wag trail followed the natural incline of the land up to the main house. It was large and compact at the same time, full of rooms and each positioned carefully in the building. The natural finish of the wood had been left, and it had turned weathered and gray from exposure. Ryan also noted the way the main house cut into the earth, realizing there was at least one other floor beneath the ground level.

  The interior of the trading camp was kept clean. No brush or trees grew up from the hard-packed ground. A large vegetable garden occupied the northwest corner of the trading post's interior area. Plants thrust up toward the af­ternoon sun, and strawberry bushes burgeoned with ripen­ing fruit.

  "Mr. Cawdor," the woman's smoky voice called out.

  Ryan turned, tracking the voice up the ladder to the right. A catwalk jutted out from the inside walls. Three more men stood guard there, all watching the new arrivals. Two girls that didn't look to be out of their teens stood on the catwalk to the left of them, giving them a position to manage a cross fire. Both of the females dressed in revealing clothing.

  Annie was a fit-looking woman in her late fifties or early sixties, Ryan judged, though she could have passed for ten or fifteen years younger. With her gray-and-black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, her body tight from hard living and a complexion the color of a fawn's coat, she was a handsome enough woman. The skin tone spoke of several possible heritages, or a mixture of them. She wore dunga­rees and a rawhide vest that clung to her ample bosom.

  "By the Three Kennedys," Doc exclaimed in a low voice, "now, there walks a handsome woman."

  "Put a lid on it, you randy old goat," Mildred snapped.

  Doc shot Mildred a glower, but didn't say anything.

  Annie approached Ryan without hesitation. She carried a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun in the crook of her left arm, her right hand fisting the triggers. Both the hammers were eared back. "First sign of trouble from you," she told Ryan, "and I'll put you in the compost heap. That's a promise."

  Ryan nodded. "We'll get our trading done, then be on our way."