IT WAS EASIER than Ryan had feared.
For starters, the gang of killers didn’t seem to have any worry of being attacked, either from within the ville or from outside. There were no sentries posted, and they had mostly congregated in the ville’s one saloon, the Pot O’Gold.
Ryan was able to crawl close to the back of the place, lurking invisibly in the shadows near the outhouses, watching and listening to the singing, the shouting and the breaking of glass.
Most of the norms in the gang seemed content to stagger off to bed around eleven, though the stickies remained longer at their funning.
But there was time enough to pinpoint where all of them were sleeping. It was noticeable that norms and muties kept apart when it came to living quarters, which wasn’t surprising when you considered the vile habits of the stickies.
The local folk of Harmony were keeping very much to themselves. Apart from those working in the Pot O’Gold and in a couple of cheap-jack diners, the streets were deserted by nine.
Krysty waited with Carl while Doc joined Ryan on a recce along the backs of the houses, marking them carefully for their attack the following morning.
Despite his clumsiness and cracking knee joints, the old man did his best, working hard at establishing a mental plot of where the various gang members were stayingand which ones had local women entertaining them.
“I fear there could be the blood of innocents spilled on the morrow,” he whispered hoarsely.
Ryan nodded. It was getting colder, and he had tucked the weighted ends of his silk scarf around his throat. “Could be, Doc. Wasn’t there some old pie-dark saying about having to break some eggs before you could cook an omelet?”
“Something like that, Ryan. Will we succeed?”
“Sure.”
“Your confidence is powerfully uplifting, Ryan. Back in my days you could have wowed them as a river-crossing preacher offering redemption and salvation from hellfire. A positive Elmer Gantry, my dear friend.”
RYAN LED DOC BACK along a narrow alley, his SIG-Sauer ready. He nearly shot off a round as a large black cat seemed to erupt from the ground under his feet, clawing at his legs before darting away into an overgrown orchard.
“Supposed to be good luck,” he muttered.
He’d left Krysty with Carl, figuring that they might appreciate the chance to talk over some of the old times that they shared.
When he drew near where he and Doc had left them, Ryan was surprised to hear raised voices.
“That was then and then was a long ways ago.”
“I always hoped you’d come back.”
“Get your hands off of me, Carl. It was a good moment, and you’re just souring up the memory.”
“Only want a quick”
“Quick what, Carl?” Ryan asked quietly, finding the heavily built man was gripping Krysty by the shoulders, shaking her, his drink-dulled face swollen with anger, inches from hers. Spittle was hanging from his puffy lips.
At the return of Ryan and Doc, Carl let Krysty go and spun, his fingers clenched. “Nothing to do with you, Cawdor. This is personal for me and Krysty. You don’t have what we got.”
Ryan took a half step in. “That right, Krysty?” he asked. “Carl got an ace on the line, does he?”
She pulled away, brushing at her clothes, as though something unpleasant had been smeared on her. “It’s all right, lover. Just that good old Carl kind of forgot where he was and when he was. It’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” Ryan said, staring grimly at the man.
“Easy to talk big with a cannon in your hand, ain’t it, outlander?”
Ryan never hesitated. He holstered the big automatic with his right hand, then stepped in close to Carl, slapping him hard with the left hand, palm open, the sound cracking in the quiet, sending the bigger man staggering back several paces.
“Son of”
Ryan punched him once with the right hand, deliberately pulling the blow so that it only landed with a fraction of the force that he could have used. It hit Carl in the midriff, just below the rib cage, driving the air from his lungs. He tumbled to his hands and knees, fighting for breath, making strangled, puking noises.