The big man nodded and climbed inside. Soon the engine rumbled into life and the wag started forward at a stately crawl. Walking alongside the transport, the Trader watched the machine and the waters underneath just to make sure they had cleaned off every last mutie. For a moment, she thought one had escaped detection, but it was only a hollow body, the guts blown out by a large caliber round. Good enough. As the war wag drove onto the dry sand, the woman relaxed and joined the group of soaked people panting in a huddle.
“Are you…” a man asked reverently, clutching a bundle to his chest, “are you the Trader?”
Nearby, a young woman kept a skinny arm around a small boy who alternated between looking at the bald man and the bloody woman with the blaster. There was some fear in his young face, but also a trace of defiance. These were ville people, not runaway slaves. Too bad. She always gave slaves preferential treatment.
“I’m the Trader,” Kate stated, looking over the motley group. “Where the hell are you folks from? There’s nothing closer than Rockpoint that I know about.”
“That is our ville, my lady. Or rather, it was,” the bald man said. He quickly added, “Thank you for saving us.”
Kate waved a hand to cut that short. “Just call me Trader.”
“Of course.”
“And tell me about this water,” Kate said, jerking a thumb at the muddy field. “Was there an earthquake? Some sort of river washing in from the mountains, or what?”
“No, my…Trader. There was an outlander,” the man said hurriedly, rushing the words. “A man called Ryan Cawdor. He and some coldhearts snuck into our ville and started a riot. Chilled everybody they could and stole a bunch of horses.”
According to the ancient laws of Texas, that was a hanging offense. Horses were infinitely more valuable than wags. They ate wild grass and reproduced themselves. No wag had ever learned that trick.
“Ryan Cawdor,” Roberto said in a flat, emotionless voice from the open doorway of the wag. “The name is familiar. And you say he has turned into a coldheart.”
The bald man nodded vigorously. “”Yes! He—”
“That’s a triple damn lie!” a new voice shouted angrily.
Lifting the blaster off her shoulder, Kate watched as this new person shoved his way through the other people. He was heavily muscled, missing a couple of fingers on the left hand, and his left eye was marled white, with a long scar going from his forehead, across the dead orb and down to his dimpled chin.
“No, it is not!” the bald man retorted, starting to reach under his clothing.
Moving with astonishing speed, the newcomer punched the first man straight in the face. Teeth went flying, and the bald man staggered from the blow, but came back in a crouch and whipped out a blaster. But it was aimed at Kate, not the one-eyed man!
“Look out!” the mother cried, shoving the boy behind her for safety.
That was when the sky seemed to shatter as a dozen .50-cals from the war wags and cargo vans all spoke at once, the combined rounds almost blowing the man to pieces. As he spun wildly, his blaster discharged, the slug smacking into the sand between Kate’s boots. The tattered body was shaking as the woman lowered her rapidfire and put a single round into the back of the dying man’s head. He twitched as it hit, then went still, the sands slowly turning red around his ravaged face.
“Thanks for the warning,” Kate said, cradling the smoking blaster in both hands. “You were fast. I like that. We’re shorthanded after some business down south. Want to join? We got space.”
“Really?” she asked, hope brightening her careworn face, then her features went blank again. “No, please, I don’t do that anymore.”
Kate understood, and her hatred of Gaza increased. “We got no gaudy sluts here,” the Trader stated gently. “If you ride, then you’ll work, just like everybody else. But not on your back. My word. That good enough for you?”
Hesitantly, the woman nodded in agreement.
“Can you cook?”
“Some,” she admitted. “And bake a little, too.”