“What is this place called?” Doc asked, trying to make conversation to fill the uncomfortable void.
“Ain’t called nothin’, neighbor. Don’t give a name to a place you eat and sleep and shit. No point.”
“No. No, I suppose there is some sort of logic behind that thinking.”
The food was excellent, better than many a meal that Ryan had eaten in some of the wealthiest and most powerful villes in Deathlands.
It was a stew that seemed to consist mainly of roasted venison, though there was also some pork in it. There were chunks of potato, carrot and turnip, all spiced and flavored with an assortment of herbs.
Everyone went back for seconds, except Jak, who went back for thirds.
Ryan checked his chron, seeing that it was closing in on two in the afternoon.
“Where’s the nearest ville to here?”
Hardly anyone had moved among the villagers. The disabled chief answered the question. “Be no ville. No baron rules hereabouts, neighbor. Nothin’ to rule, if ye see what I means. Be villes to the south and west. Old Memphis has villes.” He grinned without humor. “Not that any of us been there.”
“Nashville?” Mildred asked.
He sniffed and spit in the mud. “Wouldn’t know, girlie. Believe that Nashville was nuked out of the sight of God and man. So they says. Sodom and Gomorrah rolled together, it was. Worshipers at the shrine of Baal, they says.”
Mildred opened her eyes wide, letting the “girlie” pass unchallenged. “And the ungodly were smitten and all their clothing rent and their dwellings cast down and the lord soweth their fields with salt and left not one stone upon another.”
Her words brought an unexpected and ragged chorus of “Amens” from the watching villagers.
“What book of the Bible did that come from?” Doc whispered. “I seem to almost recognize it.”
“The First Book of Mildred,” she replied.
The old man gave a cackle of laughter and nearly choked on his last spoonful of stew. “Upon my soul, madam, but you are a character, indeed you are. I tell you now that I am a person who likes to talk to a person who likes to talk.”
Ryan pointed at him. “Can it, Doc. We’re leaving.” He kept his voice pitched low. “This is where it could get warm.”
He addressed the villagers. “Grateful for the meal, neighbors. Surely are.”
“Welcome, ye is.”
Now everyone was on their feet.
Ryan pointed toward the Tennessee River. “One more favor. Like to borrow one of your rafts. Bring it back here to you in a day or two.”
“Ye askin’ or ye telling’?”
Now the suppressed anger and hostility came seething out. Fists were shaken, daggers drawn, and fingers played with the hammers on flintlocks.
Ryan raised his voice. “You got off light and easy, neighbors. No harm done. A little food is all. You can build another raft in a day or less.”
“Build one yeself.”
Ryan smiled and the shouting quieted. “God makes sheep and He makes wolves. That’s His nature. You might not like it, specially as you’re all the sheep and we’re the wolves. But the best thing a sheep can do is keep its bastard head down and stay quiet. Wolves move on and not a hair harmed on a head. You all understand me?” Nobody spoke.
He addressed their chief. “You understand?”
“Yes.” His sullen face was tight like a mask one size too small.
“Then that’s good. J.B., you lead on and we’ll follow you. Triple-red.”
It looked as if it was going to work, but they still had to actually get away on the raft, and that would be the most vulnerable moment.
They skirted the fire, J.B. and Mildred going on ahead to check the raft and get it ready for a speedy embarkation. Ryan had the SIG-Sauer cocked in his right hand, walking slowly sideways, eyes never leaving the villagers, who had formed themselves into a half circle, moving parallel to the outlanders, toward the wide river. It was like a powder keg waiting for a spark.
“Shoot a few,” Jak hissed. “Buy us time.”
“No. Not unless we have to. They’re still terrified of us. We can get away with no blood spilled on the ground.”