Chapter Seventeen
Mildred and Krysty were already under the piles of fur and rags that passed for blankets. Neither had got undressed at all.
“The others sleeping clothed?” Ryan asked as soon as he and J.B. were safely inside the tent.
Krysty nodded. There was a small tallow lamp guttering in a holder, suspended from the low roof, giving only a dim yellow light. “Yes. Jak insisted. Doc wanted to at least pull off his boots, but Jak said we might need to get out fast.”
“Straub gave us his word of honor that nobody would harm us during the night,” J.B. said.
“He tell you why he’s so interested in me and Jak?”
“He’s a trader in human hair,” Ryan replied. “Sells it to rich bitches for fancy wigs. He said he’d pay high jack for your hair and for Jak’s.”
“Smooth, bald shit,” Mildred said. “Son of a bastard probably sold his own hair.”
Krysty didn’t smile. “I tell you, friends, that there’s something specially wrong about Straub. I can’t read him at all. We’d do well to leave now.”
The Armorer was sitting on the makeshift bed beside Mildred. “They’re scared of our blasters, Krysty. I don’t think they’d dare try anything.”
“The two women who showed us to these tents and pointed out the water and relief facilitiesboth of which are the stream about fifty yards eastwere telling us about this baron, Weyman.” Mildred was unselfconsciously holding hands with J.B. “Told us that he’s a swift and evil man. That it would be better if he was to be overthrown.”
“Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?” Ryan said. “Of course, they could be telling the truth. Could be we’d do well to support them and pick up some free jack for ourselves. Yeah, could be.”
“Then again, lover,” Krysty said with a smile, “these mutie pigs might fly.”
“We’ll move on after dawn tomorrow. Freeload first food off them.” Ryan yawned. “Fireblast! Listen to that drum. Hope that doesn’t keep up all night.” The sound was steady and regular, coming from somewhere on the far side of the camp, almost like the muffled beating of a huge heart. They all listened for a few moments, but the drumming didn’t seem to be getting any louder.
“How about putting a guard on?” J.B. suggested. “Might be safer.”
Ryan yawned again. “I don’t know. Enough of us here. Enough blasters.”
“I think you’re wrong.” Krysty slapped him on the arm. “Wake up, Ryan. You’re dropping off to sleep.”
“Mildred’s already gone,” said J.B., also starting to yawn. “Feel more tired than I’d have thought. Was going to check the Uzi and the scattergun but, but I guess I’ll just leave them this once.”
The drumming was echoing around the forest clearing, seeming to come from all sides at once. Krysty crawled across the trampled dirt floor and stuck her head out of the flap, seeing no sign of life. It looked like everyone in the settlement had packed it in and gone to bed early. It had become much colder, and she could see her breath misting the darkness in front of her.
The rhythmic beat was a little softer and a little slower.
Krysty found herself yawning.
The smoke from the campfires was drifting around, carried on a light, eddying breeze. The woman sniffed at it, tasting pinon. There was also something different, a sharp and sweet scent of herbs. It reminded her of the incense that they’d burned in an ornate golden container at a Catholic church she’d once visited when she was a little girl.
She yawned again, blinking her eyes, feeling them growing heavy.
From the tent next door, Krysty caught the sonorous sound of Doc snoring. He’d been complaining that he had a badly blocked nose and hadn’t really been able to savor much of the venison at supper. The old man had insisted that Trader snored far worse than he did and had even gone to the extreme lengths of shoving bits of shredded rag into his ears to try to sleep better and cut out the noise.
“Doc’s well away,” she said, pulling the flap across the front of their tent.