Hell Road Warriors (Deathlands), page 10
Jak shook Tommy’s hand.
The crowd applauded the show of sportsmanship. J.B., Mildred and Doc pushed their way into the tent. “What’s up?” Mildred asked.
Ryan nodded as Jak folded the four corners of his blanket of winnings together to make a sack. He handed Ryan back the spare SIG. “Friendly contest. Jak cleaned up.”
A voice spoke over the hubbub of slowly dispersing sports enthusiasts and gamblers discussing the contest. “Is the bettin’ over?”
All eyes turned to a redheaded, bearded man in buckskin riding leathers. He was even shorter than Jak.
Jak flipped his sack of winnings open. “No.”
The crowd recoalesced in avid interest.
Vincent Six’s laugh was never pleasant. Now it dripped with scorn as it boomed. “Mon Dieu!” Six threw back his head and laughed. “A petit Henning!”
The man smiled and took no umbrage. “Call me Red.”
“You must be one of Mace’s bastards,” Six declared. “Though I thought they drowned runts here in Ontario.” He gave Red a scathing look. “I would have.”
A tall man in a hooded robe stepped into formation with Red. The crowd went quiet as he pushed back his hood to reveal a head studded with skin-tags the size of pencil erasers. They sucked in a breath as he opened the neck of his robe slightly to reveal a silver coin gleaming beneath his collarbone.
Everyone in the province knew what it meant.
Six’s face became deadly serious. “Tag.”
Tag ignored Six and regarded Jak with interest. “You are very skilled.”
Jak nodded at the wisdom of the statement. “Thanks.”
“A wager?” Tag suggested.
Jak toed the blaster on the blanket. “P-226 SIG, loaded.”
“I admit form follows function,” Tag remarked. “Yet, I find it crude-looking.”
Jak just waited. “And?”
Tag extended a flesh-studded finger at the satin-finished .357 Colt Python Jak wore on his belt. “That’s pretty.”
Mildred was appalled. “Jak! No!”
Jak drew his blaster.
Ryan put a hand on Jak’s shoulder. “Jak, I’m not going to tell you what to do. But he saw you throw, and still wants a piece of you. That blaster is—”
Jak dropped his cherished weapon onto the blanket.
Ryan removed his hand. “Fireblast…”
“Bet against me,” Jak reiterated.
Tag’s gleaming smile rivaled Doc’s, and it was all the more disturbing coming out of the fleshy foliage covering his face. Tag’s hands went to the engraved Browning blaster with the attached wooden holster stock that hung from the baldric over his shoulder. Jak shook his head. “No.”
Tag cocked his studded head. “No?”
“Semiautos. Not trust. Jam.”
“This blaster has never jammed.” Tag tossed a careless hand. “Nevertheless, tell me, my friend from the south, what wager would please you?”
Jak pointed at the silver voyageur coin on Tag’s chest. “Sure shiny.”
Red gripped Tag’s arm. “Tag! No!”
Jak’s red eyes locked with Tag’s startlingly pale gray gaze. Some kind of understanding bordering on respect passed between them. Tag nodded very slowly. “A gentleman’s bet, then?”
“For blades?” Jak countered.
“Done.”
Jak jerked his head at the line. “Two more yards.”
The crowd gasped once more.
“Done.” Tag nodded.
A thunderstorm of wagers broke across the tent. Ryan shoved all his tokens into Krysty’s hands, and she just dropped the pile between her feet. “Ten to one on Jak!”
“The man!” Fatty howled. “Ten to one on the man!”
Tag paced off two more yards and drew a new throwing line. “Red?”
Red went to the target. He took a deck of pasteboard cards out of the purse on his belt and shuffled out the king of hearts. Red took out a horseshoe nail and hammered the card into the middle of the bull’s-eye with the back of his tomahawk. “Tag?”
Tag nodded. “Jak?”
Jak nodded. “Three throws.”
“Of course. But I am something of a stickler for the rules. As challenger, shall I go first?”
Jak spit on his hands and rubbed them together. “Sure.”
Tag reached into his robe and pulled out his weapons. Both Ryan and Jak gave them a very hard look. They weren’t so much knives as throwing spikes. There were three of them in a leather sheath. Each was fifteen inches long and an inch thick in the middle. From there the weapons tapered down to wicked needlepoints on both ends. They looked to be about two pounds of pig iron a piece. They would sink through flesh with brutal penetrating power, and even if they failed to stick a living target point-on, they would still impact with bone-breaking, sledgehammer force. Tag stepped to the line. His weapons rang grittily as he rolled them in his hand.
Tag threw.
The throw was almost lazy. The lob sent the dark iron revolving through the air in a high arc. The spike hit the target with an impressive thud point-on and sank six inches into the wood through the king of hearts’ crotch. Despite his bet Fatty whistled. “Rad, thunder and fallout!”
Tag threw again.
It took deceptive strength to send two pounds of metal twelve yards. Ryan didn’t want to think about what would happen if Tag wound up and threw with all his might. The torpedo of iron hit at a slight angle and clanged like a horseshoe at it hit its brother.
Tag’s third throw obliterated the bottom right heart on the card.
Red walked up and yanked the iron torpedoes free with obvious effort. About two-thirds of the card came with them. Tag frowned slightly as Jak approached the line. “We know the dimensions of the card. I will accept any throw within them. Unless you demand a fresh target?”
“No.” Jak palmed a blade. “I hit paper.” Jak shrugged. “Or you win.”
Jak’s madness drew another gasp from the crowd.
Fatty was beside himself. “The man! The man!”
“Woo-hoo!” Mildred cheered.
“Get him, Jak!” Krysty cried.
“Show him what for!” Doc rallied.
Tommy True-flight agreed. “Show him!”
Tag’s voice cut through the cheering and jeering. He held one of his spikes as if he were about ready to throw. “I want absolute silence.”
Silence reigned in the tent. Jak raised his blade. Ryan leaned in. “Jak?”
“What?”
“No pressure.”
Jak’s ruby-red eyes narrowed. “Thanks.”
“But Seriah’s watching.”
Jak turned his head. The little wrench was in the crowd. Her hands clasped the front of her coverall. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed as she looked at Jak. She blew Jak a kiss, and he tilted his head so that the invisible affection would hit him on the cheek. Seriah stopped short of bursting into flames.
Jak threw his blade, and it slammed straight into the side of the king of hearts’ head.
The crowd nearly went mad.
His second throw shaved off the king’s ear.
Jak raised his third blade and took a long breath. The only sound in the tent was the crowd breathing in with him and then holding it.
Jak threw.
A single spark shot like a tiny meteor as his blade scraped between the first two. Nothing remained of the king of hearts’ head but Jak’s three-petal blossom of steel.
The crowd went berserk.
Jak’s friends thumped him roundly. Krysty and Mildred dropped a kiss on both cheeks. Tag dropped his spikes on the blanket and bowed away gracefully. Jak was pelted with a hail of wooden tokens in tribute from the crowd. Seriah ignored the flying jack and hurled herself into Jak’s arms. Maddie stood in front of him with her fists on her hips. She raised an eyebrow at Seriah. “And me?”
“Anything?” Jak inquired.
Maddie lifted her chin. “For one hour, I do anything you say, that was the deal.”
Jak shrugged. “Make Fatty happy.”
Maddie’s jaw dropped.
Fatty waved his arms and shouted to the tent top. “The man! The man!”
Jak squeezed Seriah tighter. He had what he wanted.
Krysty slid her arm around Ryan’s waist. “That was fun.”
“Yeah, fun,” Ryan said.
Mildred shook her head. “Dude, don’t you ever relax? Jak won the wager, won the contest and got the girl.”
Jak folded up his blanket of winnings and wandered off toward the docks with Seriah glued to his hip.
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed.
“Ryan?” Mildred was starting to get steamed. “We won.”
“Ryan is right,” Doc said quietly. “We were the strangers in the iron wag. The wild card. Now our numbers have been marked and noted. Jak’s skill has been measured and weighed.”
“We didn’t win.” Ryan watched Red and Tag disappear into the crowd. “We just got recced.”
Chapter Ten
The sky was purple, the Northern Lights red. Between them everything was bathed in pink light. Ryan smiled to himself. The camp had guitarists, flautists, bagpipers, drummers and even a hammered bongo player in attendance. The iron law of the First Nations camp was live and let live, or die, and with it came a relaxed sort of freedom. It had been a good night.
Ryan and Krysty were swaddled in bear and buffalo hides on top of the big rig.
“Mmm…lover,” Krysty said.
“Yeah.” Ryan sighed.
“Jak and Seriah?”
Ryan turned his head toward the LAV. Jak and Seriah had taken a skin of maple shine, raised the ramp and not been heard from since. “They’re both short,” Ryan stated. “They got that.”
“They got more than that.”
“She makes him smile,” Ryan conceded. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”
“He makes her smile, and she’s handy with a wrench.”
“If he wants to steal her and carry her off—” Ryan stretched and yawned “—I won’t stop him.”
Krysty was quiet for long moments. “I didn’t like Red. Six insulted him ugly and he just kept smiling.”
Ryan grunted. The Henning runt was worrisome. If Red was any indication, then the big Henning was a genuine concern. “Camp law. Six tried goading him into breaking it, Red knew better.”
“And Tag…” Krysty shivered. “He’s a coldheart. Cold as ice. I could feel it.”
“Chilling cold, with both hands,” Ryan acknowledged. “Six was right. Mace doesn’t hand out those silver coins for nothing. I don’t like them being in camp. They didn’t come here to trade or throw knives.”
Krysty shook her head against Ryan’s chest. “Well, they’re under camp law. Just like us. Yoann and Six say no one dares break it.”
“Yeah, well, they’re doing it.”
“How?”
Ryan shook his head as he looked up into the kaleidoscope in the clouds. “They’re foxing us, Krysty. I don’t know how yet, but they are.”
Krysty buried her face into Ryan’s chest. “Fox them back.”
“I will. Don’t know how yet, but I will.”
Krysty sighed. “I want coffee.”
“I want some loving.”
“I want pancakes for breakfast.”
“I want you for breakfast.”
“Well…” Krysty rolled onto her back with a happy sigh and set the table. “You win.”
RYAN FOLLOWED THE SMELL of Diefenbunker coffee to the convoy mess wag. A sizable crowd had gathered at the docks. Everyone seemed eager to see what might wash up with the tide. Toulalan was positively smug. Even Six seemed abnormally satisfied with the world. “You seem happy.”
Ryan accepted a cup of coffee and sniffed the air. “Pancakes?”
“Last night I spoke long with Jon Hard-knife.” Toulalan raised his mug. “With luck, we hire scouts today.”
“With pancakes?”
“It rendered us your services, no?” Toulalan laughed. “I ask you, can a First Nations man resist them?”
Almost on cue three First Nations men approached the convoy council. Ryan recognized the man in the lead as the one who had stood next to Jon Hard-knife at the gate the day before. He stood in front of Toulalan. “My father tells me you’re looking for scouts. These men are the two best scouts in camp. They were going to go home, but my father told them you’re heading west. They have seen your convoy and are interested.” He gestured at the two men flanking him. “This is Donnie Goosekiller and Boo Blacktree.”
Donnie Goosekiller looked like a First Nations version of J. B. Dix, except that he was even shorter, even more wiry and had thicker glasses. The main difference between them besides their race was that Donnie wore a maroon tuque over his braids despite the heat and unlike J.B. he seemed to smile constantly. With its 36” barrel the bolt-action, 10-gauge scatter blaster he carried was nearly as tall as he was. He wore a bandolier of home-rolled, waxed-paper shells. Goosekiller leaned on the huge, ancient water-fowling piece like it was a spear. Ryan was pretty sure he knew how Goosekiller had earned his name.
Boo Blacktree was Donnie Goosekiller’s polar opposite. The First Nations scout was in a race with Ryan and Six for most physically imposing man in camp. Ryan was tall and rangy with cables, ropes and cords of muscle pulled across his long bones like the physique of a gladiator.
He was simply a solid block of human, tall enough to look both Ryan and Six in the eye, and he was neck and neck with Six for sternest scowl. He carried a heavy, unstrung recurved bow in a case with several dozen arrows slung at his side. He’d thrust a big-bore, single-shot, break-open handblaster through his belt and wore a brutal, paddle-shaped war-club with the handle sticking up over his shoulder.
Six looked the two scouts up and down and seemed not to totally disapprove of what he saw. “You have been to Manitoba?”
Donnie Goosekiller’s smile went up a few watts. “Oh, yeah! Me and Boo been all the way ’cross to the Porcupine Hills in Saskatchewan, and all the way up Lake Winnipeg to the Ross Island trading camp.” Goosekiller’s smile turned shy. “Not like the back of our hands you know, but we can get you ’cross it. Heck, Boo made it all the way up to Hudson Bay once, in winter.”
Blacktree grunted once in affirmation. “Yup.”
Toulalan turned to Six and nodded. Six opened the bed of one of the wags and unfolded two blankets full of Diefenbunker trade goods. “For each of you, a sleeping bag, ground cloth, pad and two blankets each, predark. Two C-7 blasters, with mag, six spare mags, all loaded, cleaning kits, plus web gear, bayonet and canteen. Poncho-shelter half. You want to sleep indoors, you sleep in the med wag, unless someone wounded is in it. You eat at our table, our food, with us.”
Ryan smiled. The mess wag had prepped for this interview. They were cooking Diefenbunker pancakes and the scent mixed with real coffee. The two scouts sniffed the air.
“Two more longblasters and accessories each,” Six concluded, “if we come back alive.”
Toulalan held up his wampum belt. “Whatever happens, you will be rewarded.”
Ryan watched the two First Nations scouts fondle the merchandise. It represented a tidy fortune. The fresh out-of-the-box blasters alone would trade for enough to live like kings for a year. Goosekiller touched each trade item individually. He liked what he saw. He turned to Toulalan. He was still smiling, but his small dark eyes were hard behind the thick glasses. “Heard you got Mace Henning after you.”
“I do.”
Goosekiller eyed Ryan. “He isn’t one of you. Who is he?”
“A friend, like you, who we met on the path.”
Goosekiller tilted his head back to look Ryan in the eye. “He looks like a good friend to have if Mace Henning is after you.”
“He is. Are you with us?”
Goosekiller turned to Blacktree. “Boo?”
The archer looked up from fondling the digital, camo-pattern Canadian armed forces poncho in the truck and nodded once in affirmation. “Yup.”
“We’re in!” Goosekiller grinned. “My name’s Goosekiller, but you can call me Goose. Boo’s name is Boo, but you best call him Blacktree until he tells you different.” Goosekiller’s nonstop smile grew even bigger. “He won’t.”
Toulalan made an expansive, French gesture. “Please, join us for breakfast.”
Blacktree beelined for the pancakes. Ryan called to his diminutive partner. “Donnie Goosekiller. That’s a good name.”
Goosekiller waved a dismissive hand. “Aw, gee, no one calls me the whole thing unless it’s a lodge meeting. We’re in the same convoy. Call me Goose.”
“The First People in the Deathlands call me One-Eye Chills.”
Goose regarded Ryan soberly. “That’s a good name, too.”
Ryan stuck out his hand. “You call me Ryan.”
“Aw, gee!” Goose blushed. “Good to meet you, Ryan.”
“Good to meet you, Goose. I’ve been on a couple of convoys and caravans in my time. Led them, sec’ed them and scouted for them.” Ryan allowed himself a small smile. “You’ve got to stay on the good side of your scouts.”
Goose wagged a finger in agreement. “Now that’s true. You look like a scout. And I heard the Deathlands are wicked rough.”
“Tell you the truth, Goose. Canada seemed all gaudy soft at first,” Ryan countered. “Then I met some pigs that were all wormy, and met Mace Henning and his boys. Taught me different.”
Goose nodded sagely. He dropped to his heels and began drawing a remarkable map of Ontario with a twig. He tapped the Lakes and the peninsula they bordered. “The big peninsula between the lakes, that’s worm country. It’s like what you might call a local phenomenon. Once we’re off the Bruce, we leave the worms behind.” Goose scratched his head and readjusted his tuque. “Baron Henning’s like a nonlocal phenomenon, and sounds like he’s on us like winter.”
Ryan liked the way the little scout was already saying “us.” Jon Hard-knife had sent them good men. “You were right. Me and my friends aren’t part of the convoy. But we’re with them for the duration. But just between you and me, you watch our asses and we’ll watch yours.”
