“Fuck!” cried one, nearly trampled in the rush. “See those lumps? They’re on the damn horses!”
“Could be a diversion,” said another, notching a steel arrow into his crossbow. The deadly weapon was carved from solid oak, the steel bow salvaged from a predark car chassis. His crossbow could drill a three-pound bolt through a man at two hundred paces. Silent, and reusable, it was his preferred weapon. He only wanted the blasters for what they would buy—women, more arrows and jolt. Lots of jolt.
Charging inside, the coldhearts found the stable empty. “If they’re not on the horse, or in here—” a man started to say.
A sharp whistle made them spin, and the companions cut loose from the living quarters, the barrage of rounds tearing the attackers apart, limbs flailing from the multiple impacts of hot lead.
When the smoke cleared, Ryan took the point and entered the stable, checking the bodies to make sure none were only pretending to be dead. Without remorse, he dispatched a pair who seemed remarkably undamaged. After gathering their backpacks, the companions walked from the stable and found a squad of sec men racing their way.
“Here come the Marines,” Mildred quipped, shifting the med kit over her shoulder to a more comfortable position. She knew Ryan was wounded, but there was little blood, and now wasn’t a good time for repairs.
“What the fuck is going on here?” the sec man in the front demanded, a loaded crossbow in steady hands. His head was shaved, except for a thick lock hanging from the back, and his clothes were old but clean. A quiver of arrows was draped over his shoulder, and zip gun was tucked loosely into a holster designed for a much larger pistol.
“Who are you?” Ryan demanded, the stock of his longblaster resting on a hip.
The man scowled. “I am Corporal Anson, sec chief for Baron Polk, and I ask the questions here, outlander. Now for the second and last time, what happened?”
“Dueling is forbidden, you know,” another sec man added.
“Does this look like a duel?” Dean retorted.
The second man shrugged. “Could be.”
Ignoring the fool, Ryan addressed the corporal. “We just arrived today and came here to buy horses, when a gang tried to back-shoot us. They aced Fat Tom, and we aced them. No duel, just a straight theft.”
“Ratter, you alive?” Anson called into the stables.
A pile of hay shifted, and the stable boy crawled into view. “I didn’t see nothing,” the youth said standing meekly. “I was working hard.”
“Hell boy, that’s what you always say,” the sec man grumbled.
“Can I go?” Ratter pleaded.
Anson swatted at the boy. “Git!”
Ratter dodged the blow and scampered out of sight around the stables.
Taking his time, the corporal studied the companions. “Well, your story sounds legit, but I think we’d best go talk with the baron. He doesn’t like killing in his ville.”
“Unless he authorizes it,” Ryan said.
“Is it different where you come from?” Anson asked bluntly.
“No,” Ryan admitted, slinging the blaster over his undamaged shoulder. “Lead the way. Mebbe we can talk some business with the boss.”
The corporal eased off the string on his crossbow. “It has been known to happen. That is, if he decides not to hang you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Looking to become a sec man by any chance, there’s lot of openings.”
“Not likely,” Ryan answered, then tried a shot in the dark. “We have info on Frankenstein.”
“You do?” Anson asked, excited. “What kind of information?”
Satisfied his hunch was correct, Ryan smiled and said no more.
After the people had gone, Feather snuck into the stable and found Ratter looting the kitchen of food. Tiptoeing close, she hit the boy over the head with a stone, and he dropped to the floor. Unsure of his condition, Feather hit him a few more times until the blood ran freely from his mouth and nose.
Tossing the stone away, Feather grabbed the bag and finished the job he started, then left quickly.
As she pelted down the streets, the gaudy slut chortled in her newfound wealth: a bag of food, weapons, clothes and a bullet. The old doomie in town had been right— this was her lucky day! Pity about what the mutie had foretold about the outlanders. The black-haired cyclops seemed nice. Too bad he was going to die.