“And this is now,” Ryan said automatically, concluding the common Deathlands tag.
“Yeah. This is now.”
THE BULLET SPARKED off granite in the trail, a yard or so in front of the lead animal, making it whinny with shrill fear. It reared up, bringing the wag to an instant, jolting halt.
“Hands away from blasters, amigos!”
The voice came from their left, somewhere behind a tumbled mass of rock that broke down into loose scree.
Dean had drawn his blaster, regardless of the warning, looking around for a target.
“Kid wants to see another birthing day, he’d best holster that cannon.”
“Put it away, like the man says, Dean,” Ryan warned. “Got us coldcocked for a moment.”
Lemuel had reined in the team, cursing under his breath in a mix of English and Spanish. He scanned the area, trying to figure out if the ambusher was alone.
“Let’s all see if we can stretch right up and scratch them clouds, amigos.”
Ryan had eased his position a little, giving himself easier access to his SIG-Sauer and the panga, raising his hands above his head, his face poker-still.
Lemuel hitched the reins around the big brake handle, spitting onto the track, then slowly put up his hands.
“And the kid!”
“Put them up, Dean,” Ryan said, then, dropping his voice, added, “And keep triple-red ready.”
The boy finally, grudgingly, lifted both his hands to shoulder height.
“That’s good.” A piercing whistle was answered from around the next bend in the road.
“Got company,” Lemuel whispered. “Best sit quiet unless we get a chance at the fuckers.”
Ryan agreed with him. The man who covered them with a rifle still hadn’t shown himself, not taking any unnecessary risks. The clattering of hooves told of at least a couple more of the robbers.
Two of them appeared leading a spare horse, presumably for the rifleman.
Ryan studied them carefully, trying to gauge the quality of the opposition. That had been one of the first things that Trader had ever taught him.
One man was short, one-armed and wore a wide-brimmed sombrero trimmed with silver conches. He held a Harrington and Richardson .32-caliber revolver, with wooden grips and a blued finish, in his good right hand. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Sitting on a pinto pony, he looked relaxed and shared a joke with his swarthy companion.
His companion looked to be of mixed blood, wearing cotton shirt and pants like an Apache. He rode a bay mare, barebacked, and seemed of average height. Like his partner, he appeared to be in his mid to late teens. He, too, had a rifle on his back, and casually held a little vest-pocket Walther Model 9 in his left hand, the 6-round, tiny .25-caliber blaster looking like a child’s toy.
“It’s okay, Joey-boy!” he shouted. “Got ’em colder than a Thanksgiving turkey. Reckon they seem like real sensible folks. Not lookin’ for trouble.”
The third man finally revealed himself, precisely where Ryan had located him. He was a good ten years older than the other two, with a stubbled beard and slitted blue eyes. He wore a checked shirt and jeans. The rifle was a Winchester bolt-action type. J.B. could probably have spotted precisely what the model was, but Ryan’s knowledge wasn’t that specialized. All he noticed was the professional, easy way the man handled the blaster.
He slid down over the scree, keeping his balance, his eyes never leaving the three people in the rig. Once he reached the trail he walked toward them, pausing when he was by the lead mule.
“You heading for Leadville, skinner?” he asked Lemuel.
“Could be.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Damnation! How long’s that coat been dead? Takes a man’s breath away.”
Lemuel didn’t say anything, his fingers opening and closing as though he were squeezing a coil of steel between them.
“What’s he carryin’, Joey?” shouted the man with the little automatic.
“Yeah, what’re you carryin’, skinner? Apart from a kid and a one-eyed crip?”
“Piano.”
“Well, now, I reckon there’s a few saloons and gaudies and drinkers within fifty miles of here that might pay a few handfuls of prime jack to have them a real predark piano. It is predark, ain’t it, skinner?”