by RW Krpoun
“Hopefully leaving before dawn will throw him off the scent,” Shad shrugged. “If he follows, we’ll deal with him where there’s no witnesses and less law.”
“I think we should clip him before we go,” Derek said grimly.
“I would if I knew beyond a reasonable doubt he was our killer,” the Shootist shrugged. “But I’m not up for basing a hit on what we have in terms of evidence. If there’s nothing else, I’m heading for bed. Wake-up is going to come too damned early.”
“Tomorrow, WE RIDE!” Jeff slapped the table.
“Hooahhh!” Fred grunted.
“All the way,” Shad nodded as he pulled off his boots.
“OK, so why is it cool when Jeff says it, but when I said it all I got was a ration of crap?” Derek asked.
“Stop being such a little bitch,” Jeff shook a finger at the Alienist.
“We can’t take him anywhere,” Fred sighed.
“Man, its getting nippy in the mornings,” Jeff commented as the Black Talons rode out of Bloodseep a solid hour before dawn.
“We should be at or near the first week of October, I figure,” Derek said thoughtfully, shrugging his new coat a little tighter around him.
Riding alongside Fred at the head of the little group Shad pulled his new coat closer and watched the darkness to either side. There was enough moon to make the road fairly visible, but not much more. They had been paid up for another day at the Dancing Drover so their departure should have caught Mister Samuels off-guard. It wouldn’t be enough to shake the man if he didn’t want to be shaken, but the Shootist was only concerned with avoiding an ambush as they rode out of town. Once out on the open plains the Black Talons could take care of themselves.
He had a deep-seated feeling of foreboding as they rode into the darkness, but it could just be the hour and the circumstances; Shad had never been a morning person. He tried to tell himself that they were on a course that would lead them home, but it was hard to believe in going home. It had been that way in Iraq after a while: the real world faded and all there seemed to be was dust, dirt, rundown cities, patrols, searches, and the constant threat of violence hanging over everything like stink on a monkey.
He hoped his uneasiness didn’t show, as the others would harass him for days if they caught the slightest hint.
They pushed hard for the first day, riding nearly thirty miles, although since they had left town heading south and swung wide around Bloodseep before turning north they made camp only about twenty-two miles north of the town. Fred bagged a yearling antelope as the others set up camp and soon they were sitting around a campfire watching the fresh meat sizzle and pop, Derek washing and chopping up wild lettuce and turnips.
“Fresh-killed meat, wild salad, crystal clear spring water, and a million stars overhead,” Shad said thoughtfully. “Again. I would kill for some McNuggets and a triple order of fries in a climate-controlled environment.”
“When we get back I am never going outdoors again,” Jeff nodded.
“I want a pizza so bad I could die,” Derek sighed.
“Real beer, ice cold in a can,” Fred said sadly. “Pop the top and piiissshhh, the scent hits you. Real beer, and spicy buffalo wings with ranch dressing.”
“Deep fried pickles,” Shad said wistfully. “The Long John Silvers dinner number one.”
“Wattaburger patti melt with extra fries.” Jeff’s eyes glowed at the thought.
“Shrimp scampi,” Derek flicked a bit of suspicious-looking turnip into the fire. “Macaroni and cheese. Microwave popcorn. Doctor Pepper.”
“Civilization,” Jeff leaned forward to sprinkle more salt on the grease-sweating ribs. “That’s what we’re fighting for.”
“No sign of Mister Samuels,” Fred reported as he cantered up to the other Black Talons after scouting their back trail. “Either we shook him, or he’s a really amazing scout.”
“I’m thinking he’s more of an urban type,” Jeff observed.
“Could be, Shad frowned at the plains behind them. “He was pretty damned slick in his first run on us. I’m guessing he paid Darcy to open the door, probably told her it was some variation on the badger game.”
“She seemed so nice,” Derek sighed.
“She was a whore: seeming nice is their job,” Jeff pointed out.
“I still wish we could have clipped Mister Samuels,” the Alienist shook his head, his features set and hard.
The others exchanged a look: while he was most frequently the butt of their jokes and generally the group’s goat, none of the three doubted Derek’s courage or willingness to fight.
The third night out from Bloodseep the Black Talons made a cold camp in an old buffalo wallow that deep enough to hide their animals. Fred slipped out on foot and returned several hours later.
Shad was on guard when the Scout came slipping back, the big man carefully tapping a pair of stones together in Morse code for SOS to ensure there was no friendly fire.
“Well, they’re just where the Sivlic said they would be,” Fred kept his voice low. “They’re buttoned up in a building right now, and there’s a loaded river boat on the bank. I didn’t get too close because they have dogs, but there’s some Celts living in tents there as well. A night attack is out-there’s too many and the damn dogs would tip our play. There’s a good spot I could set up with the Sharps, and another spot where riflemen could work, but its going to be a complicated job taking them out.”
“What about stealing the boat?”
“We could seize it if we swam out to it, but it’s big-I don’t think you just untie it and push off. None of us know about boats without an outboard or oars.”
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Shad nodded thoughtfully. “Get some rest-we’re moving before dawn.”
“You still want to try this?”
“No, but its our only shot. We’re outnumbered at every turn, and we’ve got no allies. Either we step up or we go hunt Death Lords.”
The Scout’s teeth flashed in the weak moonlight. “Feels like old times. The Piranhas rolling out to bust some heads.”
“Yeah,” Shad grinned reflectively. “Good times.”
After Fred had rolled into his blankets Shad sat at his post, shotgun leaning against his shoulder, watching the darkness. The Army had taught him everything he knew about leadership and much of what he knew about life, and his father had hammered in the rest. You carried your load and didn’t expect anyone else to help, you kept your equipment and person serviceable, you trained for the worst, you led from the front and never asked more of others than you were able to do yourself. Never show weakness, never admit fear, and never entertain doubts about your nation, your faith, or yourself.
It had stood him well throughout his many tribulations and trials; his sleep was untroubled and he had few regrets. But sitting under a sky full of stars on another world with violence impending and the burden of self-assumed responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders he wondered if he was really up to the tasks before him.
Shad shook his head; wondering didn’t accomplish anything. The way to get through a situation was to plan your deployment of resources as well as you could, and then just put your head down and blitz through. Life was simple, really: you made it, or you died trying. There wasn’t any other acceptable options.
As the sun rose above the horizon Shad urged Buttercup forward. His plan, with amendments and additions suggested by the others, rested on several assumptions, the chief of which was that there was not a great deal of discipline in the force they were facing and that they would feel safe in familiar surroundings.
He and Fred had done some research during the down time; the butra were river rats, fishermen and cargo haulers who traded with the Celts. Their ranks were made up of renegade and disaffected Celts, and Humans from the civilized nations who were fleeing the law or simply had an interest in new lives. The Long Sun Celts were one of the tribes that were more prone to banditry and Celt-on-Celt feuding than most; the bulk of
their membership were Asian Indian or Pakistani stock, although they had few biases about recruiting competent outsiders.
The Danel River was near its headwaters at this point, a fast-running rock-studded sword-blade of water running between tall banks; confusingly to the Shootist it was running north, although Derek had been quick to point out that the Nile ran north as well.
The butra landing was on its east bank, a small collection of sod and stone houses dug into the gently rising slope so that half of each building was technically underground. The homes could not be called much more than huts but the inhabitants had used the roofs as flower gardens, and each had a pole in front with a number of brightly-colored streamers floating in the breeze. It gave the small community a colorful and happy appearance, a place that might be materially poor but was clearly loved by its inhabitants.
Drawn up on shore were a half-dozen small boats, most dugouts hacked out of entire trunks, but including two which were professionally constructed of planks. Pride of place was reserved for a great timber raft fitted with two large rudders and a planked-over area at the stern, the rest of the craft being covered with crates and barrels secured under canvas. Conspicuous on the raft were brand new chains anchored to the raft timbers and terminating in manacles: the butra crew were clearly pressganged on their own vessel.
The timbers would come from the coastal rainforest, where various butra groups traded the goods of the plains for the fruits of the sea and coastal areas.
The landing was in the lee of a low ridge which Shad was now riding down, heading for a flat-roofed river stone building that looked like a small barn or a large storehouse on the north edge of the landing. Its roof was thatched, and a guard armed with a rifle leaned against its north-east corner watching the Shootist approach. A half-dozen canvas tents had been erected to the east of the building, no doubt housing a war band of Long Sun warriors; since setting up lodges was women’s work and no plains Celt would use canvas over bison hide, only a mercenary war band would shelter in such fashion.
A man stepped out of the storehouse in his stocking feet and stood watching as Shad rode up, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair tousled. He had a gun belt slung over his shoulder, the holstered revolver close to hand. Both the guard and the new arrival were in their twenties with the mark of hard living and harder deeds stamped on their features; the guard was white while the new arrival was black, but Shad saw little else to distinguish them from each other. They were the sort of men Shad was familiar with in his many trips to the county jail and the prison system while serving court papers: hard types who could be counted upon to follow any order if the price was right, or simply because they felt like it; brutes without any redeeming qualities save courage.
Cecil’s hired guns, the Shootist reflected as he reined in Buttercup. He wondered if they knew they were really working for the Death Lords, and if they did know, would they care?
A line of four young women emerged, two from the building and two from the tents, clutching blankets about their shoulders, heads lowered and their eyes upon the ground as they scurried towards the village. Hostages and entertainment, Shad realized. Insurance against trouble from the rest of the locals.
“You need to move on,” the guard said without much interest.
“I’ve got twenty pack mules loaded with goods bound for the coast an hour behind me,” Shad jerked his thumb in the direction he had come. “I need boat space.”
“No space to be had,” the black man waved towards the raft. “That one’s full, due to leave tomorrow.”
The Shootist stood in his stirrups and studied the craft. “Look, I’ve got a little more than a ton and a half to move plus a couple agents. That won’t tax a raft that big, even with its current load.”
“Don’t matter about the raft, your goods ain’t going by water,” the newcomer shrugged. “That’s that.”
“You don’t look like butra,” Shad said accusingly. “And I’ve met the lead boatman of this place. This isn’t how we’ve done business before.”
“Shipping on the Danel is under new management,” the guard grinned sleepily. “I expect you’ll have to ride to the coast.”
Shad stuck a match between his teeth and worked it back and forth. “If this isn’t just the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard. You have to be joking.”
“Nope,” the guard shook his head.
“Well, shit.” Shad started to turn Buttercup, then drew a saddle Colt and shot the smiling guard in the forehead and the black man twice in the chest, the impact of the heavy bullets sending the latter sprawling. Holstering the Colt he popped the match held in his teeth with his thumb, lighting it. Titling his head to keep the flame away from his nose he grabbed a pint whiskey bottle filled with kerosene from his saddle bag, lit the strip of cloth jutting from its neck from the match in his teeth, and dashed it onto the ground at the entrance of the nearest tent, repeating the process with a second bottle at the next tent in line before gratefully spitting the lit match away.
His half hour of practice this morning had paid off (and explained a blistered left nostril): the guard was still toppling to the ground as the match spun away from him in a flaming parabolic curve. Burning kerosene had splashed onto the canvas of the two tents and in half a heartbeat flames had raced to envelop the structures.
He heard Fred’s Sharp’s hollow bark on the military crest of the ridge but stayed focused on his own problems. He was drawing his other saddle Colt and turning to cover the storehouse door just as Mister Samuels stepped out. The two stared at each other for a frozen second, both recognizing the other and thoroughly startled to be meeting. Mister Samuels was just as neatly dressed as he had been the last time they had seen each other and other than the surprise at seeing Shad did not seem unduly stressed.
The fleeting moment passed and both men fired, Shad thumbing off two quick shots, one catching the dapper killer in the shoulder, the other missing to glance off the stone of the wall behind Mister Samuels. Samuel only got one shot off with his Smith and Wesson Russian, but the round struck Buttercup in the left front shin, smashing the bone.
The mare screamed, rearing back almost to the tipping over point and Shad lost his Colt in the struggle to stay in the saddle; finally the horse dropped back down, holding its injured leg free of the ground. Swinging down from the saddle, dragging his shotgun free of its scabbard as he went, Shad cursed his luck. Clinging to the saddle horn with his left hand, the Shootist looked around as Buttercup crabbed sideways on three legs, wailing in pain. Mister Samuels was gone, although his revolver was on the doorstep along with a blood trail. To his left Celts were spilling from the tents and being engaged by Jeff and Derek who had low-crawled under the cover of darkness to a point about fifty yards away. They hadn’t noticed Shad yet but that wasn’t going to last.
“I’m sorry,” the Shootist gasped. “The plan is turning to shit and its not your fault.” Jamming the muzzle of the shotgun under the hinge of Buttercup’s jaw with the barrel angled sharply up, he squeezed the trigger. The mare stiffened as the load of buckshot punched into her brain, every joint locking, and then slowly topped into her right side, her legs still feebly twitching.
Dropping behind the horse’s body Shad shot a pit bull coming at the charge around the storehouse’s corner and then fired at and missed a man who leaned out of the storehouse to fire a wild shot before ducking back.
Checking to his left as he levered a fresh shell into his weapon he saw a bare-chested Celt discard his still smoking muzzle-loader and charge the Shootist, drawing a knife as he came. He dropped the charger with a shot to the chest, hit another Celt who had ducked behind an intact tent to reload, then had to drop flat as the shooter in the storehouse put two bullets into Buttercup’s still-twitching corpse.
Popping back up he fired a round through the open door, missed a shot at a Celt who had fired at him and likewise missed (either Jeff or Derek promptly shot the Celt), and discarded the shotgun with a bitter oath as he realized hi
s bandolier of shotgun shells was in the saddlebag under Buttercup.
Drawing a Colt he shot another pit pull charging him, having to put two bullets into the ninety-pound dog before it would stay down. A Celt put a bullet into Buttercup’s abused remains, prompting the Shootist to drop prone; cursing, he leapt to his feet and raced to the storehouse.
Pressing himself against the stone he thrust his hand around the jamb and fired four rounds into the building rapid-fire. Shoving the empty weapon into its holster he drew the other Colt and paused to catch a breath. From the sound of the gunfire Fred, Jeff, and Derek were gaining fire superiority, but that didn’t mean a great deal in his present situation. His plan had been to start the fires and then gallop like hell away to a flanking position at a safe distance, but that wasn’t panning out. He had to get to a position of cover before some bastard potted him.
Pulling the revolver from the black man’s gun belt, he emptied it firing blindly around the jamb into the storehouse and then discarded the weapon. Mister Samuel’s weapon was in plain view of those inside, so he left it be.
Derek slid a full tube into the stock of his carbine and levered in a fresh round. Cocking the big hammer, he brought the weapon to bear as Jeff dropped another pit bull.
“That should be the last dog,” the Jinxman observed, sliding fresh rounds into the Winchester’s loading gate. Between Fred on the ridge with his Sharps and their position they had the Long Sun Celts fairly well boxed in, although the prairie-dwellers were going down fighting.
“I’m going to move up to that mound,” Derek pointed towards a slight bulge in the soil twenty-five feet away. “Cover me.”
“On three…one…two...three,” Jeff opened fire as Derek raced across the dewy grass and flung himself behind the low mound as a muzzle-loader belched smoke and fire from the Celt tents. He gave a low ten count and then opened fire, emptying his weapon as Jeff raced to join him.
