Circle Thrice

“Way out of range,” J.B. said. “Still, just a slight chance getting a hit from a spent ball. Best get out of sight of the sons of bitches.”

Doc favored the friends with a wide grin. “That puts me in mind of the famous last words ofI disremember, but I believe he was a ranking officer in the Civil War.”

“Make it fast, Doc,” Ryan urged as they saw another mute burst of fire from the men on the far bank, none of the balls coming anywhere near them.

“His last recorded words were, ‘Stand fast, my gallant lads. They could not hit an elephant at this range. Aaaargh!'” Doc clutched melodramatically at his breast.

They all laughedall except Mildred. She glowered across the steady current of the river at the small group of men still firing at them. Finally she drew her Czech target revolver.

“No way, Millie,” J.B. said, shaking his head at the ZKR 551. “Not even you.”

“Want a bet, love?”

“No. Man bets against you over a shooting stands to lose his jack.”

“That’s a good range, even for you and even for that blaster,” Ryan said doubtfully.

“Go for it,” Krysty urged. “Teach that murdering scum a sharp lesson.”

Another cloud of powder smoke rose into the air from the far side of the river and, just as J.B. had predicted, one of the spent balls ricocheted off the water, like a wrist-skimmed stone in a child’s game of ducks and drakes, and thudded into the sodden timbers of their raft.

Mildred immediately took up the classic shooter’s standing pose, feet slightly apart, right arm holding the blaster outstretched, left arm at her side. She looked along the sighted barrel with both eyes wide open, slowing her breathing. “Trick’s to squeeze the trigger real gentle between beats of your heart,” she said softly.

It was a goodish range for a hunting rifle, but for a handblaster it would be a phenomenal shot.

The men opposite saw what she was doing, and their dancing and jeering intensified, rising this time above the ageless whispering of the Tennessee.

There was a long pause, and Ryan found that he was holding his breath along with Mildred, peering out through the haze at their would-be killers.

“Fireblast!” Ryan whispered, awed beyond belief as he saw one of the capering rednecks throw up his arms, then fall motionless to the dirt, life quitting him on the instant, leaving him a bundle of sprawled flesh and rags alongside the silent-flowing river. His comrades immediately fell silent, one stooping over the corpse.

“Best move,” J.B. said. “Get them fired up, and they might find a way across and come after us. Leave while we’re ahead of the game.”

“Amazing shot,” Jak said. “Good as any I ever seen you do.”

“Didn’t allow enough for windage and thermal off the water,” the woman said, calmly reloading the spent round. “Aimed at his chest and took him through the mouth.”

Ryan was grinning as he limped toward the west, ignoring the impotent spluttering of muskets from the far side of the Tennessee.

THEY MADE STEADY PROGRESS through a roasting afternoon, finding the ruler-straight remnants of an old farm road that ran from horizon to horizon across the baked land. It had obviously once been good wheat country, but it had long reverted to nature, with patches of dense scrub and mesquite and occasional stands of oaks and beeches and the shadowy deeps of a large forest hovering at the northern horizon.

Jak found a pile of tangled string and amused himself by making a slingshot, picking up small rounded pebbles and winging them at old rusted cans and rotted tree stumps.

To nobody’s surprise, the albino teenager immediately showed phenomenal skill with his new weapon, eventually bringing down a rabbit on the full run at all of fifty yards, the stone cracking its fragile skull open just behind the limp, trembling ears, bowling it over in a dusty flurry of kicking paws.

“Supper,” Jak said, consistent in his habit of using the absolute minimum of words.

“OUGHT TO HAVE KEPT that sling,” Ryan said as they sat around a small, bright, smokeless fire that evening, savoring the rabbit on spits of green wood over the dry branches of apple from an ancient predark orchard. “You had a real skill with it.”