Chapter Thirteen

 

 

They passed the ruined site of the township of Basalt around ten in the morning, heading steeply up an even more narrow and dangerous trail, some of the time traveling alongside what Lemuel told them was the Fryingpan River.

 

"Leads up toward Turkey Lake."

 

"You wouldn't see many turkeys at this height," Ryan said.

 

The skinner slapped his leg, roaring with laughter. "Got me there, outlander. Turkey comes from the water being a kind of a mix of blue and green. Some good reader and writer said that this was something to do with a turkey, and the name's stayed ever since the long winters."

 

"Blue and green," Ryan said, puzzled at the odd naming. "Fireblast! It was called Turquoise Lake, not Turkey. Turquoise. Mix of blue and green."

 

 

 

THEY WERE MAKING good time through the tundra. The higher they climbed, the colder it became and the more they could see the tens of thousands of acres of virgin forest stretching below them.

 

Breakfast had been just after dawn, with a pink mist hanging between the ridges of rock ahead of them. More bacon and more beans and more bread, washed down with a coffee sub that was at least hot and sweet.

 

Dean returned to the wag, scrambling over the tailgate, after hopping off the side to take a piss. "Think we're going faster than if we'd been walking, Dad?"

 

"For sure we are."

 

"You looking forward to seeing Harmony, Dad?"

 

"Krysty never talked much about it. Some about her mother, Sonja, who taught her how to use the special Earth power of Gaia. And she often mentioned her uncle, Tyas McCann. Not much else beside that."

 

Dean took a deep breath. "Air tastes good up here."

 

"Should be healthy for you. And there's not been too much predark rad sickness or bad hot spots in the high mountain country of the Rockies. Most of the nuking around here was short-term, ground-zero stuff."

 

"Look. There's a moose. Use the Steyr and kill it, Dad. Good roasting meat for tonight if we haven't reached the school. Go on, quick, before it reaches that grove of larches."

 

Ryan reached instinctively for the rifle, slung across his shoulder, then checked himself. He watched the big animal lope across the bracken, its hooves kicking up splashes of silvery water at every step. "No. We got plenty of food. Never kill for the sake of it or the fun of it."

 

 

 

BY NOON THEY'D REACHED a point where the trail had been cut across the face of a steep cliff, where the old road had been carved away by an ancient landslip.

 

They had bare rock to their left, and a drop of a couple hundred feet to a hanging valley below them on the right side of the wag.

 

"Only wide enough for one wag," the boy said, peering doubtfully over the side of the rig. "What happens we meet another wag coming down?"

 

"Just hope he's smaller than us," Lemuel replied, grinning at Dean. "No, there's a few spaces cut out of the rock, for passing. No problem."

 

"Be a good place for an ambush," Ryan said. "Get much trouble like that on this trail?"

 

"Not much. Way back in the old days there was still some mining up here and there used to be big trains with oxen or mules. They used to get whacked so often they carried up to twenty shotguns with them. That was then."

 

"And this is now," Ryan said automatically, concluding the common Deathlands tag.

 

"Yeah. This is now."

 

 

 

THE BULLET SPARKED off granite in the trail, a yard or so in front of the lead animal, making it whinny with shrill fear. It reared up, bringing the wag to an instant, jolting halt.

 

"Hands away from blasters, amigos!"

 

The voice came from their left, somewhere behind a tumbled mass of rock that broke down into loose scree.

 

Dean had drawn his blaster, regardless of the warning, looking around for a target.

 

"Kid wants to see another birthing day, he'd best holster that cannon."

 

"Put it away, like the man says, Dean," Ryan warned. "Got us coldcocked for a moment."

 

Lemuel had reined in the team, cursing under his breath in a mix of English and Spanish. He scanned the area, trying to figure out if the ambusher was alone.

 

"Let's all see if we can stretch right up and scratch them clouds, amigos."

 

Ryan had eased his position a little, giving himself easier access to his SIG-Sauer and the panga, raising his hands above his head, his face poker-still.

 

Lemuel hitched the reins around the big brake handle, spitting onto the track, then slowly put up his hands.

 

"And the kid!"

 

"Put them up, Dean," Ryan said, then, dropping his voice, added, "And keep triple-red ready."

 

The boy finally, grudgingly, lifted both his hands to shoulder height.

 

"That's good." A piercing whistle was answered from around the next bend in the road.

 

"Got company," Lemuel whispered. "Best sit quiet unless we get a chance at the fuckers."

 

Ryan agreed with him. The man who covered them with a rifle still hadn't shown himself, not taking any unnecessary risks. The clattering of hooves told of at least a couple more of the robbers.

 

Two of them appeared leading a spare horse, presumably for the rifleman.

 

Ryan studied them carefully, trying to gauge the quality of the opposition. That had been one of the first things that Trader had ever taught him.

 

One man was short, one-armed and wore a wide-brimmed sombrero trimmed with silver conches. He held a Harrington and Richardson .32-caliber revolver, with wooden grips and a blued finish, in his good right hand. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Sitting on a pinto pony, he looked relaxed and shared a joke with his swarthy companion.

 

His companion looked to be of mixed blood, wearing cotton shirt and pants like an Apache. He rode a bay mare, barebacked, and seemed of average height. Like his partner, he appeared to be in his mid to late teens. He, too, had a rifle on his back, and casually held a little vest-pocket Walther Model 9 in his left hand, the 6-round, tiny .25-caliber blaster looking like a child's toy.

 

"It's okay, Joey-boy!" he shouted. "Got 'em colder than a Thanksgiving turkey. Reckon they seem like real sensible folks. Not lookin' for trouble."

 

The third man finally revealed himself, precisely where Ryan had located him. He was a good ten years older than the other two, with a stubbled beard and slitted blue eyes. He wore a checked shirt and jeans. The rifle was a Winchester bolt-action type. J.B. could probably have spotted precisely what the model was, but Ryan's knowledge wasn't that specialized. All he noticed was the professional, easy way the man handled the blaster.

 

He slid down over the scree, keeping his balance, his eyes never leaving the three people in the rig. Once he reached the trail he walked toward them, pausing when he was by the lead mule.

 

"You heading for Leadville, skinner?" he asked Lemuel.

 

"Could be."

 

He wrinkled his nose. "Damnation! How long's that coat been dead? Takes a man's breath away."

 

Lemuel didn't say anything, his fingers opening and closing as though he were squeezing a coil of steel between them.

 

"What's he carryin', Joey?" shouted the man with the little automatic.

 

"Yeah, what're you carryin', skinner? Apart from a kid and a one-eyed crip?"

 

"Piano."

 

"Well, now, I reckon there's a few saloons and gaudies and drinkers within fifty miles of here that might pay a few handfuls of prime jack to have them a real predark piano. It is predark, ain't it, skinner?"

 

"Can I put my hands down? I got bad cramps in my shoulders from the cold. You got three blasters on us."

 

"Sure, skinner."

 

He spoke to Ryan and Dean. "You two can relax some. No harm's comin' to any of you, if you don't get triple stupe. But we'll likely take the rig, skinner."

 

Ryan lowered his hands, letting them settle comfortably in his lap, inches away from the butt of the SIG-Sauer. Dean did the same. The sides of the wag were high enough for Ryan to feel fairly sure that they hadn't seen his own handblaster, but assumed he just carried the Steyr.

 

"Do I get the wag back when you're finished with it?" Lemuel asked, his right hand fondling the stock of the long whip.

 

"Sure you do," Joey said reassuringly. "We'll arrange that in a while. Now, you'd best get down off the wag."

 

Every one of the six people on the trail knew that the bandit was lying. Ryan had seen the half turn of the head and the nod to his companions, the nod returned from both of them. life for the trio of prisoners was now something to be measured in minutes.

 

Maybe in seconds.

 

The bandits would open up as soon as the three of them were clear of the rig, so that the shooting wouldn't harm the valuable piano.

 

"Ready," Ryan whispered to Dean.

 

"Mebbe those fellers might say something about losing their piano," Lemuel said, pointing with his left hand farther up the trail, past the three robbers.

 

It was the oldest trick in the book.

 

All of them turned to look, taking their attention away for a vital half second.

 

The wag driver was fastest, with Ryan a nanosecond behind him, followed by Dean.

 

The whip cracked out with uncanny accuracy. Lemuel had picked Joey, with the rifle, as the danger man, and had gone for him. The steel tip of the lash caught him a fraction below the right eye, slicing open a fold of his cheek as neat and deep as a straightedge razor.

 

The man screamed in pain, dropping his rifle. He fell to the ground as both hands darted up to try to stem the flood of hot crimson from his gashed face.

 

The noise startled the horses, as well as the mule team, making them all buck and rear.

 

The result was total chaos.

 

Ryan had drawn his SIG-Sauer, leveling it at the bandit with the Harrington and Richardson, reasoning that the bigger blaster was the bigger threat. At less than forty feet, it was a safe enough shot.

 

But at the very moment that Ryan squeezed the trigger, the mules jerked the rig forward. The reins had fallen to the dirt, and the wag began to slew toward the sheer drop into the canyon on the right.

 

Ryan's shot caught the pinto pony through the top of its head, above the eyes, so that the skull exploded into the man's face, splattering him with blood, brains and splinters of bone. His shrill scream matched the dying animal's, and he went down with it, trapped by its legs.

 

The third of the robbers fought for control over his horse, snapping off four popping shots with the little automatic. It was extreme range for shooting, and from the back of a rearing animal a hit was a thousand to one.

 

But Lemuel's luck was out and the long shot came in. One of the .25-caliber Walther rounds hit him through the throat, above the collar of his coat, knocking him back on the seat. He'd just dropped his lethal whip and was fumbling under the layers of clothing for a hidden blaster.

 

Lemuel tried to shout, but blood flooded his lungs, choking him. He coughed, dowsing the rear pair of mules with a fine scarlet spray.

 

The smell of the raw blood spooked them even more, and they bolted. One of the leaders caught Joey with its shoulder and he went down, the front wheels of the loaded wag rolling over his stomach and thighs.

 

"Going over, Dad!" Dean yelled, his voice cracking as he fired twice at the man on the bay mare, missing both times.

 

Ryan realized that the boy was right. The mules were off and running, but the reins had snagged, dragging them inexorably toward the drop on the right.

 

They were within fifteen feet of the last upright bandit, who was now swearing at his mare, urging her out of the way of the charging mules. Ryan balanced himself against the rocking of the rig, firing once, seeing the man go down with blood blossoming from his chest, his arms flung wide.

 

"Dad! Foot's caught!"

 

Then the rig began to tilt, seeming to hang sickeningly on the edge of the sighing space for an eternity before the terrified team pulled it right off the trail.