James Axler – Deathlands

“You don’t want to trade for them?”

“No. Take our own,” Ryan said.

“That’s plenty good, friend. Just so’s you don’t try to steal the ones we got. Men like us, we don’t fall out over a few slaves. I figure that’d be blasphemy, mebbe.”

Ryan smiled. “Guess that’s an ace on the line.”

Bivar looked puzzled. “Ace on line. What the fuck’s that mean? That outland talk? Where you say you come from, amigo?”

Ryan pointed vaguely toward the north.

“And where you goin’?”

This time Ryan pointed in the opposite direction.

Bivar roared with laughter again. Behind him, some of his men had gotten the slaves back on their feet, using the whips to restore a cowed order. The guard with the dogs had also kicked them into a whining submission.

“You know this place good, friend?”

Ryan shook his head. “Not that good. Heard there was a big village not too far off in that direction,” he guessed, pointing back along the trail where the slavers had come from.

“You heard good. But you best be real careful for a day or two. Like a nest of bees when the honey’s been robbed. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Help us, senor !” called one of the natives, holding out his hands helplessly toward Ryan.

The nearest guard clubbed him down with the butt of a remade percussion-cap pistol, knocking him senseless.

Bivar found it all profoundly amusing. “If God had not wanted them sheared, then he would never have created them as sheep, would he, amigo? Is that not so?”

“That’s so.”

“And he calls to you for help. Like a baby in the jaws of the lion who cries to the wolf to save him.” The sally was greeted with raucous laughter from all of his listening men.

It crossed Ryan’s mind to give the word to open fire and massacre the slavers, but he and Dean were out in the open, vulnerable.

Things could easily go wronga few lucky shots and the trade wasn’t worth it.

“Hey, outlander?”

“What is it?”

“You seen any of my friends around here?”

“No. Just a couple of natives who ran away before we could get to them.”

“Is strange. Got more of my men scouting. Should’ve met up with them by now. You see them, tell them we head for camp. Keep these sheep awhile and teach them all good manners. You tell my friends that?”

“Sure.”

“Gracias.”

Ryan nodded. “I see them, I’ll tell them. How many of them, so I recognize them?”

“You not have that problem. There’s” he looked down at his fingers, lips moving, “I don’t number so well, friend. Not so many as us. But, like you sayenough.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Now we go. Listen, I leave one or two of my men a way behind, just in case of any little misunderstanding about you following us. I do that.”

Ryan held out his hands. “I’m going the other way, Bivar. No worries.”

“Watch for them angry bees, then. Adios.”

He waved his panama hat and clambered aboard the sway-backed burro again.

His men slowly holstered their blasters and began to shepherd their reluctant flock along the trail.

Bivar turned in the saddle and gave a great flourish with his hat as he vanished around the bend. A minute or so later and they’d all gone, the noise of their passing fading away into the distance.

Ryan waited, managing a reassuring smile to his son.

“Dad, I’m real”

“Never apologize, Dean. Sign of weakness. Like Trader always used to say. I understand.”

“The ants were”

“Next time, look down a bit more carefully before you pick a hiding place.”

“All right for us to come out?” J.B. called.

“Sure. Everyone out.”

Krysty was first back onto the trail, brushing faded petals from her clothes. “That was a son-of-a-bitching encounter, lover,” she said, her face set like cold Sierra granite. “Should have done something.”

“What?” Ryan looked at her. “Way you stay alive in Deathlands is by listening to your head and ignoring your heart. Think I didn’t feel any pity for those poor, sorry wretches? Sure I did. But a wrong move, and me and Dean could easy have bought the farm. They all had blasters and looked like they knew how to use them. A good dozen of them.”