Moments later they were all inside, as a cascade of lead tore into the wooden walls, splintering glass and ricocheting off doors.
“Safe,” Trader said, having thrown himself flat on the floor.
Ryan shook his head. “For a while.”
Chapter Ten
The second day passed slowly for Abe. The campsite was well hidden from the nearest highway, with water and good grass for the horses. Every now and again the little gunner would patrol around the imaginary perimeter, but he didn’t see a single living soul.
In the distance he could make out the dark satanic ruins of old Seattle, with the smoke from a number of cooking fires rising slowly into the still air.
To move the tardy clock along, Abe spent some time with rags, cleaning and polishing the hearse. He washed mud off the elegant wheels, bringing the paintwork to a mirrored perfection, buffing up all the glass until he could see his own lugubrious, mustached face reflected in it.
That took him into the afternoon of the second day since his three companions had left.
He sat back, leaning against one of the wheels, munching on a sandwich of bread and cheese, with a tasty apple to follow for dessert.
Abe had been looking forward to the moment of the reunion between Trader, Ryan and J.B. ever since he first tracked down their old chief. But, as he sat there, eyes closed, relishing the warm sunlight, he was only too aware in his heart that something had gone radically wrong.
He’d had the dream of the four of them, all for one and one for all, having adventures together, just like they used to in the great days of the all-powerful war wags. They’d chill a few stickies and rescue some beautifuland painfully gratefulgaudy sluts, then sit around the fire in the evening, while the women cooked up a storm, retelling the old stories of battles fought and won and friends gone before.
But it wasn’t like that.
Abe wasn’t the most sensitive man in Deathlands, but he was painfully conscious of the edge that now lay between Trader and Ryan. And it hadn’t proved too difficult to work out just why that was.
There was a common saying that you were a baron today and worm-food tomorrow. Trader himself used to say that a war wag could have only one driver. Now their little group of four had two separate and distinct leaders. That was both a worry and a disappointment.
With that somewhat melancholy thought, Abe drifted off into sleep.
THE WHINNYING OF ONE of the packhorses woke Abe with a start, and he fumbled in near panic for the butt of his stainless-steel Colt Python. He stood, half-asleep, and nearly fell over.
The horse whickered again, stamping its hooves, head tossing. Abe moved cautiously toward it, the heavy gun cocked in his fist, eyes raking the land around for any danger.
All he could see was a tiny, bright-eyed rodent, with a long twitching tail, scampering away toward its burrow, in the line of sight of the horse. The moment the dusky brown mouse disappeared, the pack animal quietened, carrying on grazing as though nothing had happened.
“Stupe bastard,” Abe muttered, bolstering the .357 blaster again.
As he turned back toward the hearse, it struck him how long his shadow was, elongated like some spidery giant. Abe lifted a leg, waving his arms, grinning at the capering response from the shadow.
“Gettin’ dark already,” he said.
One of the team of four matched blacks for the hearse turned at his voice, ears going back. Abe walked over and patted it, feeling the silk and velvet skin soft against his hand.
“Good old fellow, aren’t you?” He looked westward, beyond Puget Sound, where the sun was hull-down on the horizon. “Said they’d be back by dusk. No sign of them yet. Knowing Ryan, Trader and J.B., I’d be surprised if they weren’t on the button. Still, I’ll go riding to the rescue if they haven’t shown by dawn. Probably having a fine old time in a drinker, with sluts draped all over them. Forgotten about poor old Abe with the animals. Lucky bastards!”
“NEAR DARK,” Ryan called from his lookout position at the top of the stairs.