After he finished speaking, his nervous words gathering pace and tripping over one another, Ryan and J.B. were silent for fifty beats of the heart, glancing at each other.
Finally it was Ryan who broke the stillness.
“We’re flattered, aren’t we, J.B., by what you’ve said. We’ve both been around Deathlands all of our lives, and there’ve been times we’ve had some good offers. But I don’t think we’ve ever been offered everything. Not to be the barons of what seems to be a thriving, contented ville. Takes the breath away a little. But that isn’t the way.”
“We don’t want some wolf’s-head strangers coming in and snatching power,” said the oldest of the sec men, “mongrels that hear of a house empty and come crawling in to try and fill it themselves. Not that.”
J.B. eased himself up on his pillows. “Ryan’s right. We’re strangers, passing through. And that’s what we’ll be doing in a day or so.”
“Nothing magical about being a baron,” Ryan said. “Be strong and be fair. Only two rules that really signify.” He looked at the sec man. “Why not you?”
“Me.” His jaw dropped. “Me?”
“Why not, Jethro?” asked one of the others. “Compared to those dead bastards, you’re a real prince. We’ll back you, and I can’t think of a living soul in the whole ville and lands around who’d stand against you.”
Ryan could see that this was far too cataclysmic an idea for them all to get their brains around. When the five left the bedroom, it was obvious that a great deal of talking still needed to be done.
But with fundamental decency on all sides and a fair share of goodwill, there was no real reason to think that the idea might not work.
FINALLY, WITH THE THRONE still vacant, it came time for J.B., almost fully recovered, and Ryan to be on their way northward once more.
They left early in the morning, having made their farewells the previous evening. It was much colder, with a dusting of snow over the armasteel of the wag, the exhaust belching blue-gray smoke into the dawn.
Ryan drove, steering them north toward Oregon and then on to the ghost-haunted ruins of Seattle.
And Trader.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Go on ahead, my swift-footed Mercury. Leave this laggard cripple to follow at his own poor pace.”
Doc was doubled over, hands on knees, fighting for breath. A worm of white spittle dangled from his open mouth, swinging in the watery moonlight.
Dean danced from foot to foot, burning in his eagerness to return to the safety of the farmhouse and warn Krysty of the lethal treachery on the part of the Apostle Simon and his Slaves of Sin.
“We’re almost there, Doc.”
“And I am almost done, dear boy. Please, go on and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“Sure you’ll be okay, Doc?”
“Of course. I have my equalizer here.” He patted the butt of the Le Mat. “And it will support me against those evildoers that trouble me.”
Dean squatted on his heels, his face sheened with sweat. “Doc?”
The old man read the unspoken question. “Of course they’ll be all right. Now go ahead and warn Krysty. Tell her I’ll be there in two shakes of a gnat’s tail.”
The boy vanished, his dark clothing quickly merging into the desert.
Doc straightened, waiting for the tightness of the steel band around his temples to loosen its grip, trying to slow his breathing and pulse, the way Krysty had sought to teach him. But worry over Mildred and Jak swamped his mind and he found himself on the brink of tears.
He folded his gnarled hands together and peered for a moment into the star-spangled firmament above him. “Listen a moment to a silly old fool, Lord,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “I know that I’ve been things I don’t take pride in. And I don’t recall the last time I asked for help. But if you can aid me and the woman and the boy against those They take your name in vain and abuse the ideas you stand for, Lord.” His breathing was easing and he felt able to go on toward the ranch. “Anyway, just do what you can and lend a lick to what’s right, Lord.” He paused. “Amen.”