James Axler – Way of the Wolf

“Yes. Doc Kirkland.”

“How’s he fixed for medicines?”

“Most of what he uses are herbs that we grow around the ville,” Albert replied. “The stuff you had to offer Liberty, the anesthetic and such, he’ll be interested in.”

“Figuring on doing some trading?” J.B. asked.

“Gives us as likely an excuse as any,” Ryan said. “We show up at the ville, people are going to be talking. When you go see the gunsmith, make sure you keep those reloads out of sight. Man will probably know his own work and wonder how we came by those shells.”

“Already figured it.”

Ryan put his field glasses away. There wasn’t anything else to do but the doing of it. “Let’s move out.”

Chapter Four

“You folks want to hold up there for a minute?”

Ryan stared at the lean, hard man that stepped off the porch near the laundry. He held up a hand and stopped the companions. The six members of his group, Dean included, spread out into a skirmish line.

“Something wrong?” Ryan challenged, shifting his grip on the Steyr. But he watched the way a handful of men spread out across both sides of the street behind the man that braced them.

“Just want to ask you a few questions is all,” the man said. He was dressed in denim jeans and a green shirt that somebody had minded with care so that the fit was like a glove. Salt-and-pepper hair lay down neat and proper under a faded baseball cap advertising something called NASCAR. A hammered copper star on his chest read Sheriff.

“Sure,” Ryan responded. “Day’s not been so busy that I can’t answer a question or two.”

The man stopped ten feet in front of Ryan, his right hand on his hip just above the Colt .45 automatic on his hip. The restraining thong had already been slipped, hanging like a silent warning, from the holster. “Name’s Dodge,” the man said. “I’m sheriff of this ville.” He gave an easy, affable smile.

Ryan waited, not making it easy for the man. Dusk was starting to settle around the ville, drawing long shadows through the streets. A number of people in houses on either side of the street peered through their windows. “Okay.”

“I need to ask you what you’re doing here, son.”

“Came to do some trading,” Ryan answered. The sheriff shook his head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you probably come to the wrong place. Hazard’s got most everything it needs. We try to be a self-sufficient community.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s what we heard when we started out this way. We didn’t come with empty hands, Sheriff Dodge.” He beckoned Mildred forward.

Mildred drew a lot of attention from the ville. Ryan had noticed only a handful of black people during his earlier observation, and none of them sported the colored beaded plaits woven into her hair.

She opened her pack under the sheriffs supervision, bringing out ajar of the topical anesthesia. The soft blue of the jellylike substance looked clear and clean against the glass walls of the jar.

“What’s that?” Dodge asked.

“Topical anesthesia,” Mildred answered. “If you got a healer in the ville, you can bet your ass that he’ll be interested in this.”

“If that’s not enough,” Ryan added, “we’ve got some jack to spend, too. Hazard may have all it needs, but we’re running low on some staples.”

“We don’t run a charity here, mister,” Dodge said flatly. “Nor do we cotton much to outlanders. We got our lives pretty much set, and don’t like folks butting in.”

“That’s what we heard,” Ryan agreed. He kept the edge of anger out of his voice with effort. “But we’ve been scavenging, came up with this topical anesthesia and thought mebbe a place getting as civilized as Hazard would want something this good.”

“Do you know what a topical anesthetic is?” Mildred demanded.

“No.”

“I do.” The voice belonged to a man in a white blazer and wire-rimmed glasses. He had a bull’s neck and his body was big to match. He stepped out of a small building called the Bottlefly Emporium, leaving the bat-wing doors swinging behind him. “I am Dr. Neil Kirkland, healer in these parts.”