“I got eyes, man. How about the blasters?”
“Quite a selection here.” Thomas lifted a handful of sticky weapons. “Autos, wheelguns and a grenade.”
“A what?” Monty strode toward the man in his curious gait, reminding Ryan of a sailor on a ship at sea. “A gren. Well, I’ll be damned. And the pin hasn’t been pulled. Wonder why.”
The small chief stared directly at Ryan. “They hid behind a table, and you flushed them out with a dud,” he announced. “Pretty clever. Any chance you folks planning on staying in town for a while? I could use some more sec men. Winter is coming, and that means coldhearts will be hitting us for supplies soon.”
“Just passing through,” Krysty replied, her hair flowing as though still being stirred by mountain winds.
If Monty noticed anything, he made no comment. “Yeah, expected as much. North or south?”
“We haven’t decided yet,” Ryan answered quickly.
Monty scowled. “Right.”
“Chief, about my place” Cord started.
The leader of the sec man raised a hand. “Way ahead of you. The ville gets the usual half, and I’m sure these fine folks who don’t shoot first in a fight will be happy to give you the rest to pay for the damage to your home. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Ryan agreed.
Wearily rubbing the back of his neck, Cord beamed a smile. “Thanks. That will help.”
“And don’t wait so long calling for help. That’s why I’m here.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Ah, any chance you might consider using one of the blasters on that so-called cook of yours?” Monty asked.
“Tried it,” Cord said deadpan. “Shooting only makes her mad and cook worse.”
Monty cracked a smile. “Well, it was worth asking.”
Slinging the Uzi, J.B. said,’ “The bar gets half of their property? Odd policy.”
“That it is,” the sec man agreed, loudly cracking his knuckles. “But I find it holds down trouble when folks know their blasters and clothes get divided afterward.”
Just then a fat man pushed his way into the bar through the crowd of sec men. The newcomer was wearing an Aussie digger hat with a feathered plume, creased gray pants tucked loosely into polished boots and a heavy trench coat with natty embroidery on the sleeves and collar. There was no sign of a blaster or any other weapon.
After staring in horror at the bodies, the fancy-dressed man headed straight toward Monty and nearly fell as his shiny boots slipped in a slick puddle of congealing blood.
“Hello, Stephen,” Cord said as if a vomiting dog had walked into his establishment.
“How many dead?” Stephen demanded, yanking off his hat and clutching it in his smooth hands. “Six? Eight?”
“Eleven,” Monty answered without interest. “And one in the hole.”
Stephen went pale. “Black dust, that’s the lot of them. What am I going to do now?”
“Not my problem,” Monty said, pouring himself a shot of ‘shine from a jug on a table. He took a sip and sighed all the way down to his boots. “God, it’s a cold night.”
“Monty, you have to help me,” Stephen pleaded, wringing the hat as if it were wet laundry. “Phillipe and his crew were my blasters for the journey north. Without them, I can’t go.”
“So?”
“So I should get all of their blasters as partial payment.”
The sec chief of the ville rubbed his chin, the only visibly large thing about the tiny man. “Stephen, you’re always bitching and whining, constantly trying to get more than your fair share of everything, and I’m more than sick of your endless crap. If it wasn’t for the local folks traveling north with you tomorrow, I’d toss you and the whole damn caravan into the quarry with the rest of the night soil. I’m not short-changing Cord because you chose coldhearts for protection.”
“But without them, I’m out of biz!”
“Tough.”
“Damnation, where am I going to get more troops now?” Stephen raged, shaking a fist. “We have to leave at dawn if we’re going to make Front Royal by end week.”
The companions paused in their reloading.
“Where was that?” J.B. asked in surprise. “Where you going tomorrow?”
Monty pricked his ears at the reaction, but said nothing.