“That’s not very difficult,” Ryan said. “I bear a strong resemblance to my father.”
“Well, they don’t know me!” Dean countered, resolute.
“However, if some pretender is claiming to be my son,” Ryan stated, filling a coffeepot with well water, “then my real son will be the first person he’d want chilled, or in chains.”
He placed the pot near the flames to start the water boiling and opened the rusty predark can of U.S. Navy coffee. The corrosion on the exterior hadn’t reached the inside of the metal container, and the grounds were clumped together into hard lumps, but it was actual coffee. The cannies had to have been saving it for a special occasion, and what could possibly be more special than their complete eradication?
No, he mentally corrected, that wasn’t true. Scarface had escaped, and they would have to watch for his revenge for quite a while.
“Dad, what if he is my brother?” Dean asked quietly, leaning forward, hands clasped together. Conflicting emotions filled Ryan, and he said nothing as he looked in the direction of the departing caravan. Daffer would be dropped off close to Front Royal, so as not to stir suspicions. Armed with a new longblaster and wheelgun from the cannies’ armory, he also had Clem’s musket and a bag of some strange 7.62 mm bullets that J.B. thought were Chinese, but wasn’t sure. Still, it was more than enough ammo to pay for whatever he might need.
However, the recce of the ville would be done by Mildred and Clem, as they hadn’t been to the ville before. And there were so many questions to answer. Who was this Overton? Why was Nathan going along with the liar? Or did the baron believe the stranger was truly Ryan’s son?
The water started to boil. Ryan poured a handful of lumpy black grounds into the big pot, and instantly the mix started to smell like coffee brewing.
“What if Overton is my brother?” the boy repeated.
Thoughtfully, Ryan stirred the bubbling brew with a green stick, his face a mask of consternation.
“Dad?”
“I’m still considering that possibility,” he stated, for some reason feeling very much alone even though surrounded by family and close friends.
DOWNSHIFTING, Mildred steered the battered truck past a washed-out section of the roadway. The asphalt had completely crumbled over the ages, and the winter rains undercut the soft dirt beneath until the entire side of the road had slid into the mists to their left.
Colorful birds skimmed along the tops of the swirling clouds, and there seemed to be treetops just out of sight below, so Mildred put a touch more pressure on the gas pedal to hurry them along. She didn’t want to think about how high they were.
The front seat of the truck was an awkward fit with the three of them jammed in tight. But Clem was riding shotgun, and Mildred had no intention of letting Stephen alone until absolutely necessary.
“Remember our deal,” Clem said, resting an elbow out the window, thankful for the few extra inches of space it afforded. A cool breeze rich with the smell of pine trees ruffled his fur coat and long hair. “You don’t talk to nobody about Ryan and the others. Right?”
“Hey, I always keep my word!” Stephen stated, managing to sound offended. “I’m an honest man!”
Clem scowled in response. Anybody who called himself honest almost invariably wasn’t.
“We keep our word, too,” Mildred said. “You best remember that.”
Stephen forced a smile.
The miles passed quietly, the silence broken only by the rattle of the engine and the throb of the off-balance wheels. There were many things Mildred wanted to discuss with Clem about their recce mission, but with Stephen sitting between them it wasn’t deemed a safe topic of conversation.
“Daffer going to be okay?” Clem asked across the plump obstruction in the cab. With so much starvation these days, he really didn’t trust anybody with fat on their bones.
“He’ll live,” Mildred replied, paying close attention to the serpentine road. “But that’s about all I can promise. What I wouldn’t give for a full field-surgery kit Even a first-aid pack would do fine.”