Ryan and his companions used the gateway chambers to make mat-trans jumps. Though gateways were hidden in subterranean redoubts all over the continent, the vast majority were concentrated in the Southwest. There was always an element of danger when using the gateways, since the destinations were random. As Doc had frequently pointed out, it was like deliberately jumping from a warm yet familiar frying pan into a potentially raging fire of unknown temperature.
The last jump had deposited them in a redoubt on a Montana mountain plateau. It was, ironically enough, the first of the subterranean installations they had ever found. The century-old garish painting of Cerberus, the three-headed black hound, was still on the wall, though faded and peeling.
Doc was adamant about not making another jump so soon, so the band of travelers decided to strike out overland to explore the area. Though the last time they had visited the region they had been pursued by a warlike band of Sioux, they saw no trace of any tribesmen.
They reached a small settlement nestled in the foothills of the mountain and, after staying there a day and a night, they purchased mounts and provisions and rode off cross-country. It wasn’t as dangerous an undertaking as it seemed, since both J.B. and Ryan had skirted the fringes of the region years before with the Trader. Recalling rumors of a “free ville” near Yellowstone, Ryan had made that their destination.
At the base of the hill, the six companions quietly engaged in a war conference. Ryan quickly outlined the situation to his friends.
“We’ve got nine blasters between us,” he said. “As far as I could tell, they’ve only got two.”
Mildred shifted uneasily. “You want to stage an ambush?”
“Welcome to the Deathlands,” J.B. drawled, checking out the firing mechanism of his Uzi.
Mildred cast him an irritated glance. “I don’t need to be reminded of where I am, John.”
Walking over to his horse, a big-chested sorrel, Ryan withdrew his Steyr SSG-70 rifle from its saddle scabbard.
Doc spoke for the first time, his tone flat yet touched by anxiety. “You have a plan in mind, my dear Ryan?”
Ryan nodded, carefully cycling a 7.62 mm round into the chamber. “Mildred, you’re our best shot. Climb to the top of the hill and choose a target with this. When you pick it off, I’ll ride out and engage them.”
“Why just you?” Jak asked.
“I’m the best horseman, and this maneuver will call for some fast and fancy riding.”
Krysty fastened her eyes onto Ryan’s face. “You may be the best horseman, but I’m the best horsewoman. I’m going with you.”
Ryan didn’t object. “Fine. Shoot to kill.”
“What about rest of us?” Jak asked.
“Mop-up,” Ryan answered. “Move in on foot after our charge.” He handed the rifle to Mildred and swung into the saddle.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,'” Doc muttered. No one bothered to ask him the meaning of his recitation. One of his most endearingand sometimes most annoyinghabits was his fondness for quoting predark poetry and proverbs.
Krysty mounted her bay as Mildred, with the rifle cradled in her arms, scaled the hillside. Seating her denim-encased buttocks firmly in the saddle, she drew her .38-caliber Smith amp; Wesson 640 revolver. Glancing over at Ryan, she saw that he had already pulled his SIG-Sauer P-226 blaster from his holster. He directed his horse to the right-hand foot of the bluff, and Krysty cantered over to the left-hand side.
She sat immobile in the saddle, holding the pistol skyward in her right hand, reins held loosely in her left. She waited. The sound of the rifle shot was an unbelievably loud crack. The vibration knocked against Krysty’s eardrums.
Almost without conscious thought, Krysty dug her boot heels into her mount’s flanks, and the horse lunged forward. Hoofbeats hammered in a thundering rhythm, and she saw Ryan galloping furiously toward the wind wag. He had a good hundred-foot lead on her.
The pirates didn’t freeze. One of their number lay facedown in the dust, the earthenware jug still gripped in his hand. Thick red fluid leaking from a bullet-blasted skull mingled with the liquor dripping from the jug. The other three men scrambled for their lives, and Krysty tried to track them with her Smith amp; Wesson. The range was still too great for accurate shooting with a handblaster, but she squeezed the trigger anyway.