It was a useful story to account for their arrival in a place without knowing much of the vicinity, and one that Ryan had used before.
The leader was a man called Ditchdown. He was in his fifties, with dark hair that carried a slash of white. When he noticed that Dean was fascinated by it, he explained that it had been the result of a bad cut with a knife and the hair had grown back white.
He invited Ryan to call down the rest of the group, saying that they didn’t have much food to spare as most of the men were out hunting. He hesitated a fraction of a second before the word “hunting,” and Ryan noticed the pause.
“But you’re all welcome to what we got. There’s some bread just out of the ovens.”
Ryan thanked him and gave the signal for the others to come down from the surrounding trees.
The people of the tented community didn’t pay much attention to the outlanders, until Jak and Krysty appeared, walking and talking together.
There was a burst of excited chattering, and Ryan heard the name of someone called Straub repeated several times among the women and children.
“Looks like you’re a hot pipe here, Jak,” Dean said, laughing nervously.
“Same everywhere,” the albino replied, brushing his hand through the tumbling snow-white hair, getting an even stronger reaction from the watchers.
They were offered seats around a long table, and hunks of fresh bread were placed in front of all of them, with crocks of salted butter and earthenware dishes of jellies and preserves, and beakers of good, sweet water.
The children pressed in closer, one or two of the bolder spirits reaching out to try to touch Krysty’s mane of fiery hair, which coiled itself protectively around her nape. One of the older women saw what was happening and scooted the little ones away.
Ditchdown sat himself at the head of the table, looking at each of the outlanders, as if he were trying to get their measure.
“Fine blasters,” he said finally.
Ryan looked up, wiping crumbs off his chin. “Fine bread,” he replied.
The camp leader nodded. “Good baking’s important to us. We like the best when we can get it.”
Krysty glanced around her at the ramshackle tents and the ragged children. “Seems like you haven’t had the best for a while.”
“Right, lady. Times haven’t By all the gods that ever were, but your pelt is like burning magic. I swear I never saw the like of it.”
A woman, gray-haired and scrawny, had been leaning against the side of the bench beside Ditchdown, absently running her fingers back and forth along the patch of white in his scalp. “We got better times coming, don’t we?” she said. “Once Schickel and the rest come back.”
Ditchdown reached up a large hand and squeezed her arm, smiling up at her. “Don’t flap your tongue in front of strangers, Annie, or I’ll nail you to a tree by it.” Her face had gone as pale as scoured ivory, and Ryan could see the way the man’s knuckles had whitened with the strain.
“Sorry,” she muttered. He let her go and she walked stiffly away, rubbing at her bruised arm.
“Who’s Schickel?” Trader asked. “Your fight leader?”
Ditchdown sniffed, picking up a piece of bread and starting to break it apart. He rolled the crumbs into tiny pellets, flicking them in the air and catching them in his open mouth. “Fight leader?” he repeated. “Suppose so.”
“There a baron in these parts?” J.B. asked. “Not many parts of Deathlands don’t have a baron.”
“Name’s Weyman. Got a ville about fifteen miles inland from here.”
“That where the rest of your men are?” Trader asked, speaking with his mouth so full of bread and cherry preserve that gobbets of it slithered back onto the table.
“You got a lot of questions for an old man,” Ditchdown said, standing. “You pack are guests here, and it’s best you remember it.”
Trader stood slowly, laying the Armalite on the scarred wood in front of him. “You want to try and see what an old man can do with you, woodlander?”