There had been a disturbing bad dream, but the shock of being jerked from sleep had driven the details away from her mind. Krysty folded her arms across the thin cotton shirt that she had been wearing to bed.
They were still there. She could see the ruby-gold flicker of their camp fires, less than a half mile away.
This was the second night they’d been there.
The first warning of their arrival had come from Doc, heeling the recalcitrant Judas onward, his feet sticking out either side of the rangy mule as he careered erratically toward the spread.
He’d reported seeing movement of a group of people, out across the dusty gray wilderness toward the north. But he hadn’t been able to give any details or approximate numbers. Jak’s immediate response had been to wonder whether the LAV-25 might have broken down and this could be Ryan and J.B. plodding their way homeward.
But it wasn’t.
They’d stayed out in the desert for that night. Dean had wanted to go out and spy on them, find out how many there were and who they were. But the grownups had all agreed that the game wasn’t worth it. If they had evil motives and captured the boy, then the result would be catastrophic.
“If mean harm know soon,” Jak said. “If not come in morning. See then.”
But he also insisted that they work a shift system of sentries for the night. Two at a time, four hours on, one inside the house and the other one outside, but moving no more than a dozen feet from the walls.
Nothing had happened.
And in the morning, the group of travelers had approached the ranch, right out in the open, hands showing, without a blaster in sight.
Jak had everyone organized to greet them.
Dean watched the rear of the building from an attic window, with a Remington 580 hunting rifle that fired a .22-caliber round. The boy was under orders to also move at random intervals to the two flanks and make sure that no intruder tried to creep around on the blind side.
“Don’t play games, kid,” Jak said.
“I really do wish you’d stop calling me that,” Dean replied wearily.
The albino ignored the boy’s complaint. “If you think only small risk, put bullet in dirt two feet in front. If big, then chill them.”
Krysty and Doc were positioned out of sight behind the lace curtains over the windows to either side of the main door of the house. The sliding casements were open about six inches. Doc had his Le Mat, in the event they tried to charge the place. Krysty relied on her double-action Smith amp; Wesson 640, chambered for five .38 rounds.
Jak had quickly become aware that Mildred was much the best shot of them all. It wasn’t altogether fanciful to claim that the stocky black woman might very well be the finest shot in the whole of Deathlands.
She sat on the bench on the veranda, beside the swing seat, with a piece of embroidery on her lap. Her Czech target revolver, the ZKR 551, was hidden beneath it.
The front door had been kept open in case anyone had to get inside or out in a hurry.
Jak stood at the front of the porch, his left hand leaning against the sun-wanned wood. The right rested easily on the butt of the .357 Colt Python with the big six-inch barrel. The jagged scar on the teenager’s left cheek tugged up the corner of his mouth in what might have been a smile of welcome. But wasn’t.
The strangers were all male. Fourteen of them were grouped together, except for one who was some distance behind, dragging along an enormous wooden cross, large enough to hang a man on.
The leader was extremely tall and thin, naked above the waist, his body darkened and seamed like a storm-blasted poplar. As they came closer, Jak blinked his pink eyes into the sunlight, trying to make out more details.
There was no sign of any weapons, though most of the group carried short whips, their tips caked and clotted with dried blood. Jak also noticed that most of the men had been cruelly beaten, their flesh embossed with scars and cicatrices, a few of them so fresh that they were leaking watery blood over the cotton pants.