Krysty threw the reins of one of the extra horses at Doc. “Mount up,” she said. “We’ve got some hard riding to do.”
Doc caught the reins and looked up at the red-haired woman. “I might have a lead on at least one of my descendants.”
“Here, Doc?” Krysty asked.
“I do not know. Perhaps.”
Krysty controlled her nervous mount with difficulty. The animal stamped its hooves and tried to turn in circles, its eyes rolling wide and white in fear. “We’ve worn our welcome out here. You can’t do anyone much good if you’re dead.”
“John Barrymore,” Doc said, looking at the Armorer.
“Lady called it,” J.B. replied. “That’s the ace on the line. Gehrig wasn’t going to let us take a free ride on this one anyway. And those soldiers from that unit in White Sands are here, too. I don’t get the feeling they’re here to ask a bunch of questions. Come another time, Doc, mebbe we can take another look around this ville. But not now.”
Jak put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, urging him toward the skittish horse. “Go, Doc. Long Johnson not man to hide easy. He not have all answers, either.”
Reluctantly Doc put a foot in the stirrup with the albino’s help, then pulled himself into the saddle. More gunners were pouring from the Bent Rose, taking up positions in the street.
“Ryan’s going to need help,” Krysty said to Jak. “He had this set aside for you.”
The albino caught the pouch the red-haired woman tossed him. A brief check inside showed him plas-ex charges already set up with time detonators.
“Gehrig’s wags,” Krysty said. “He’s got some out back. Ryan’s got the ones in front of the Bent Rose.”
Jak slid the pouch strap over his shoulder, then caught the reins J.B. threw to him. “Ryan?”
Before anyone could answer, Ryan came crashing through the window over the eaves of the tavern overhanging the street. Glass caught the moonlight and splintered it into bright sparks.
Jak was already in motion, grabbing the saddle pommel in one fist and yanking himself onto his mount. A second horse’s reins were looped around the pommel, and he knew the horse was intended for Ryan.
“Take care of him,” Krysty called as the four riders broke into a full gallop. “And take care of yourself.”
Jak didn’t answer. It would have been a waste of words. He yanked the reins, bringing his horse in a tight circle that the second horse had to step quickly to emulate.
Ryan was already in the street, the blaster in his hand hammering out a death song for Gehrig’s people. The one-eyed warrior stayed in motion, sliding under one of the wags in a diving lunge.
Then Jak lost him, cutting down the alley J.B. and the others had come from. He rode the horse tight, hanging on with his knees rather than depending on the stirrups to handle his weight.
Two wags were behind the tavern, both of them outfitted with the oversize tires that indicated Gehrig and his people took them on their raids into the Celtic territories on occasion. The albino reached into his pouch and grabbed up the first plas-ex charge, setting the detonator for thirty seconds. As he tossed it into the window of a truck, the mirror on the side exploded as a bullet ripped through it.
Jak’s horse shied away from the noise and the flying debris, and it took him a moment to regain control. He brought out the second explosive pack and set the timer, getting it somewhere between forty and fifty seconds before his attention was seized by the stiletto that suddenly appeared with a shiver near his crotch at the base of the pommel.
The blade sliced the thin flesh webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Blood immediately trickled down into his grip, causing him to lose control of the second explosive. It went tumbling down and dropped into the sunbaked alley a dozen yards from the second target wag.
Jak turned in the saddle, hunkering down low as he did. An irregular shadow along the eaves drew his attention. He made out the man with difficultysmall and rat faced, wearing glasses and bringing up a machine pistol. The man’s uniform gave no doubt about his connection to the military force from White Sands, New Mexico.