The column of slavers and their victims had almost gone, moving safely along toward the east, passing unsuspectingly by Ryan and the others.
Ryan relaxed his grip on the blaster, ready to ease down the hammer, when Dean leapt from the undergrowth immediately opposite him, yelling at the top of his voice.
Chapter Eight
Ironically it was only the total chaos that prevented a bloody firefight.
Dean’s totally unexpected appearance took everyone by surprise, including Ryan and the other companions.
The slavers swung around, and blasters were drawn and leveled. But the dogs had gone crazy, pulling the guard off his feet, knocking over his companion. Also, at least half of the natives fell down in screaming panic, pulling one another to the ground, making it impossible for anyone to hope for a clear shot at anyone else.
It was a hair-trigger moment.
Ryan took a chance and stood, holding his automatic in his outstretched hand, pointing it toward the tops of the trees, shouting as loudly as he could.
“Don’t shoot! Nobody start shooting or there’ll be a load of dying.”
To his relief, J.B., Krysty and the others all stayed hidden and silent in the undergrowth, meaning that they didn’t tip his hand, didn’t show that they were outnumbered almost two to one by the slavers.
Dean was rolling on the track, beating at his body with flailing hands. From where he stood, Ryan could see the problem, the same problem that Doc had so narrowly avoided.
Ants.
Dean had inadvertently chosen a nest of fiery red ants for his hiding place, staying still and quiet for as long as he could, stoically enduring the repeated bites until they became unendurable.
“Sorry, Dad, sorry,” he kept repeating, weeping bitter tears with the acidic agony of dozens of bites, all over the most tender parts of his body.
Ryan ignored his son, focusing his attention on the slavers, particularly on the man in the panama at the head of the raggedy procession, who had slipped agilely from the saddle of the burro, dropping to a kneeling position behind the skittish animal. He held a battered Armalite that looked the identical twin to the blaster that the Trader always carried.
“Who the fuck’re you, mister?” he shouted. “Best you tell me pretty quick.”
“Name’s Ryan Cawdor. No call for anyone to get slippery-fingered and start shooting. No need!”
“I am Rodrigo Bivar. I like to hear you say this. How many blasters you got, amigo?”
“Enough.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, showing that he had more precious metal in his teeth than the lost Dutchman Mine. “Enough. That’s a big joke, friend. You better tell me or mebbe we start to do some shooting.”
“First man squeezes a trigger means you get your head blown away.”
“You got people with blasters.”
“I promise you we have.”
“Promises!” The slaver roared with laughter.
Ryan looked at the gang, seeing the edginess and tension, knowing that one wrong step and there’d be a lot of blood spilled on the bright green turf.
“See that white flower,” he said, “halfway up that tree there, in among the creepers?”
Heads turned and Bivar nodded. “Sure I see it. What about it, Cawdor?”
“Look at it.” He turned to the bushes. “Mildred?”
“Yeah?”
“Hey, you got ladies there, friend? They pretty ladies? We sure like pretty ladies, amigo.”
“Our pretty ladies got stings. Mildred. That flower. Take it out for me.”
“Sure.”
There was a short pause, then the familiar light crack of the ZKR 551 revolver. And the flower, fully thirty yards off, disappeared in a pulp of watery spray.
The slavers chattered among themselves until Bivar barked something at them in a language that Ryan didn’t recognize. The slaver chief stood and removed his stained panama. “Hey, lady, I take my hat off to you. That real pretty shooting you done there.”
He turned to Ryan. “How many’s enough, friend?”
“Enough.”
The man cautiously emerged from behind his burro. “I get it now. You in the same business as us?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Could be. Same sort of line. You got a good crop there.”
The slavers were still nervous, though some of the tension had seeped out of the atmosphere. Bivar slung his Armalite ostentatiously across his shoulder, though Ryan would have bet his life that the man had at least one other concealed blaster.