Hector looked up at her as this went through her mind.
“But it’s not enough,” he stated flatly. “Just not enough.”
They were words that stayed with her as she, Krysty and Doc returned to their shack.
Krysty, who knew what Mildred was thinking, was the first to verbalize what had concerned them all for some days.
“When we head off, Hector’s going to have problems coping with this on his own. It’s growing, and we’ve got to go soon.”
“By the Three Kennedy’s,” Doc said sighing, seating himself wearily. “It’s not a pleasant prospect, but something that must be done. And yet we have not talked of it yet. I fear we must go soon, or this will become an epidemic.”
“I’m not so sure that it isn’t already,” Mildred said. “So far it’s only people from Crossroads who’ve succumbed. But as soon as someone from outside starts to show symptoms…” She shrugged. “Then it gets really serious. If it travels—”
“Then there’ll be nowhere left to hide,” Krysty finished.
FATE WAS CONSPIRING to force their hand.
Ryan and J.B. were on patrol along the main drag of Crossroads, the dark night beyond banished by the glare of neon signs powered by generators, and the oil lamps from within the darkened bars and gaudies spilling out through open doorways.
It was a busy night as a new convoy had hit town, coming from the northeast and the coastal regions. It was led by a trader called Conroy, a tall, rangy man with a beard that was plaited halfway down his chest, old aviator style shades and leather pants that creaked as he walked. His sec force was hired mercies, and his staff of driver, accountant and quartermaster were regulars who had been with him for some time. He used the East Coast trade routes frequently, which brought him through the ville of Crossroads on a regular basis.
Trader Conroy was a man who worked hard and liked to play hard. He had completed a successful trip, and he was ready to enjoy himself. To this end, he had immediately hired the sluts of two houses, and paid well to take over one complete bar on the strip for himself and his men. He had also invited Ryan and J.B. in to join himself and his men.
“Buy you a drink, boys—mebbe a woman if you want one,” he told them as they entered the bar. “See, I can tell you boys are a little suspicious, and that’s fine. You ain’t been here long, and you don’t know how I operate.”
“That’s not our concern, as long as there’s no trouble,” Ryan replied in a neutral tone.
Conroy slapped his thigh and laughed heartily. “That’s a damn fine answer, but that’s it, dontcha see? My boys have worked hard and deserve some fun, and mebbe they’ll be a little high spirited. Hell, if they get too boisterous, then you crack on them. I don’t want to piss Robertson off, man, ’cause this ville is damn good to me. But—” he wagged a finger at them in a way J.B. found particularly annoying “—I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you boys. Yardie’s boys have never minded a drink or two, so why should you? After all, I give a little, you give a little…right?”
The Armorer turned to go, before he gave in to the temptation to smack the trader in the mouth, but Ryan stayed him with a hand on the arm.
“Won’t do any harm, J.B.,” he said quietly.
The Armorer shrugged. “Okay.”
The barman gave them two measures of the potent brew in which the ville specialized. J.B. took his and wandered away, leaving Ryan with the trader.
“Your friend don’t like me much,” Conroy observed, indicating the departing J.B.
Ryan shrugged. “Mebbe he’s just got things on his mind.”
Conroy screwed up his face. “Yeah, right. I heard you call him J.B.” And when Ryan assented, he added, “That would be J. B. Dix, would it?”
“That depends on who wants to know,” Ryan answered.
Conroy laughed once more. “Right. A one-eyed man and a guy with glasses called J.B. You Ryan Cawdor? You must be,” he added, answering his own question.