Devil Riders

Going to the apex of the ville, the skinny sec man shouted something to the people along the wall. Shortly thereafter in the second murder alley, there came the squeaking of hinges and the big door was ponderously raised. A group of armed men on horses rode through the doorway spreading out so that they wouldn’t present a group target in case of a firefight, most of them stopping about fifty feet from the low wall. Only one rider kept going past the boundary until he reined in the animal only yards away from the wag.

The engine was ticking steadily as it cooled, and the dry wind swirled the desert dust around their boots like miniature tornadoes. A dusty lizard raced by from out of nowhere and headed into the unknown.

“Who’s in charge here?” the sec man demanded. He was wide with muscle, not fat, his features oddly flat as if there were a lot of Oriental or American Indian blood in his heritage, or just a touch of mutie. His long black hair was tied off in a ponytail with a ornately decorated length of rawhide, his boots were some kind of lizard skin and a brace of pistols rode protectively behind the buckle of his gun belt, the handles turned out for a fast draw. The blue head of a scorpion tattoo peeked from under his shirt, and he had too many scars to count.

Scorpions again, Ryan noted. Had to be the crest of the local baron. Yeah, this was the sec boss without a doubt. The son of an East Coast baron himself, he could tell the difference between a hired gun and a leader.

“That’s me. The name’s Ryan Cawdor.”

“Alexander Hawk, sec chief here at Rockpoint ville,” the big man replied, openly appraising the people in the wag. There was a lot of hardware on display, pointing his way. “Those blasters work?”

“Only one way to know for sure,” Ryan stated calmly, crossing both arms across his chest. “But it’ll cost you red.”

Leaning forward in the saddle, Hawk barked a laugh. “Fair enough.” These outlanders didn’t rattle worth a damn. Good, mebbe he could hire them on as mercies. Always needed more blasters during the dry season.

Shifting his stance, Hawk addressed Ryan directly, as if the rest of the companions were no longer of any importance. “So what do ya want here?”

“Food and water,” Ryan said, indicating the wag. “Got mil fuel to trade. The good stuff.”

“Won’t buy ya a thing here. We don’t have any wags,” Hawk said, stroking the neck of the stallion. “Anything else?”

“Ammo,” J.B. said, lifting a small box of .22 cartridges and shaking it to make the rounds jingle. “You’ve got blasters, don’t you?”

The metallic sound snapped Hawk’s head around fast, and he squinted as if reevaluating the situation. “Full box of fifty?” he asked suspiciously.

“Count them if you want.”

“I will,” Hawk warned. “Better not be duds loaded with dirt.”

Krysty drew her S&W and fired a single round into the sky. The noise echoed along the plain, and in seconds a dozen more armed people were at the ville wall pointing longblasters their way. Hidden behind the canvas sheets, Mildred didn’t take the scope off the man with the 70 mm pointing at the GMC wag.

Hawk stared at the redhead for a moment, then cracked his face into a hard smile. “Fair enough. Food, rooms and water for all of you for a day in exchange for the box.”

“One day for a whole box?” Dean snorted. “That’s feeb talk!”

“A week is more like it,” Ryan countered, shifting his boots on the hot ground.

“One day,” Hawk declared, shaking his head. “This is the only water east of the glass lakes. Next spring is a week’s ride away, if you can find the spot. Take it, or leave. Your call.”

Reaching into a pocket, Ryan pulled out another box of .22 cartridges and tossed it to the sec man. “Two boxes, three days.”

Caught by surprise, Hawk gave that emotionless smile again. “Deal,” he said, tucking the ammo into his shirt. Then turning the Appaloosa stallion, he started walking the beast back toward the ville.

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