James Axler – Way of the Wolf

J.B. followed the old man, noting how the hump was large enough and high enough that it almost made Phillips look like he had two heads in the darkness. He heard the movement around them and knew they weren’t alone. He used his peripheral vision and noted at least three more bodies.

Phillips drew a self-light across a rough cover. Light flared to life and banished some of the shadows. He cupped the flame in his hands and moved it toward a lantern another man held out. When the wick was burning good, the man replaced the hurricane glass and adjusted the flame.

Light spread out over the room, illuminating tables and chairs and a couple sofas spread out across a generous living space. Barren walls enclosed the space, holding no windows and no decorations. Two long rectangular tables sat at one end. Four men sat around the farthest one. All of the men had handblasters on the table in front of them, close in beside the metal plates piled high with beans and meat, thick chunks of carrots and potatoes. A tray of yellow corn bread acted as a centerpiece for the table.

“Have you ate since you been in the ville?” Phillips asked.

“No.”

“You’re welcome to our table.” He gestured toward the small wood stove in the corner. Two big pots sat on the surface, steam still rising up from both. “Bread’s fresh, just out of the oven.”

J.B. noted the design with interest. He’d seen many like it, had even helped build several when he’d been a kid back in Cripple Creek. The residual heat from the wood stove was channeled up through the flue, and a baking box was built off the main pipe. But the flue on this stove didn’t run straight up as most did. Instead, it ran off to the side and disappeared through a wall.

“Got it run so it can’t get blocked off?” the Armorer asked.

“Out back of the main building,” Phillips said, nodding. “Tapped into a fireplace of the glassmaker. He runs his ovens most of the time because he’s always making glassware. Folks use it for canning what goods they raise, and for being sociable. We don’t cook unless the glassmaker is working.”

“And if he gets sick or takes a day off?” J.B. asked.

“Hardtack,” one of the men at the table said, “and cold biscuits. You think we don’t say some prayers for that old glassmaker come sick season in winter, you got yourself another think coming.” He had a full beard and a thick scar over his left eye that had blue tattooing from a gunshot fired close.

“Nobody notices you don’t have a smoke flue?” J.B. asked.

“We got one,” Phillips answered. “Even run smoke through it on occasion. But tying it into our main system here and letting Kirkland and his people have us at their mercy isn’t exactly what we’re willing to risk.”

“I’ll take a plate,” J.B. said.

Phillips reached up into a cupboard and took down a metal plate. He dipped a large portion of meat, beans and vegetables onto the plate, then took a big spoon from a glass near the sink area and passed it over with the plate.

J.B. walked to the table where the other men were and sat down. One of them shoved the bread over. “Got your own well, too?” the Armorer asked. He broke a corn bread square and swabbed it through the bean broth.

“Of course. Have to be self-sufficient for the necessities.”

J.B. bit into the corn bread, savoring the salty grease flavor of the bean broth. The taste took him back, just as the company of rough men around him, to a time long past. He understood the siege mentality, if not the why of it. As he ate, he began to get a different picture of Hazard, and he didn’t like what he was looking at.

Phillips sat across from him, getting into the chair with difficulty. “None of Kirkland’s people have been this far into my gun shop since we rebuilt it.”

“What have you got against Kirkland?” J.B. asked. He ate with both hands on the table, watching the company he was in. Anna stood against the wall to his left, deliberately on the wrong side for him to make a quick draw against, and in a position that gave her a full field of fire without endangering anyone else in the room.