eyebrows were nonexistent. She was short, her arms plump, her fingers spatulate.
She wore a drab brown-colored shift that had clearly seen better days, yet was
clean and well pressed.
Ryan said, “Miss Charlene.”
A flicker of amusement darted across the woman’s eyes.
She said, “Ryan. Always the gentleman.” The voice that emanated from that tiny
mouth was surprisingly deep. She said, “What d’you fancy?”
Ryan said, “What else but you?” He put his hands on the bar top and said, “Okay,
Charlie, now we got the civilities out of the way, how about a pitcher of wine?”
He glanced around, recognized a few faces he knew—Blue Bennett, Stax with his
pointy ears, The Lizard, Hal Prescott, Chewy the Chase, one-time ace wheelman
with a bunch of hog-riders out East and now retired since some joker had blown
both his legs off, and Ole One-Eye, grizzled veteran of the short-lived but
bloody mutie War of ’68, which had flared in what had once been Kentucky. Ryan
noted that none looked at all pleased to see him. One or two indeed looked
positively murderous. “Then you can explain what’s going on, why there were guys
spitting at us as we went past, and how come Ole One-Eye there looks like he’d
like to pluck out mine to add to his.”
Charlie drew the cork on a liter bottle of red and pushed glasses across the
bar.
“No one wants you here, Ryan. No one wants the Trader. You tell him to fuck off
outta here, get back the hell where he came from.”
Ryan poured himself a glass of wine, then shoved the bottle toward J.B. “You say
the friendliest things.” He sipped some of the liquid, rolled it around his
mouth, savored the nutty taste of it. “Tell me more.”
“You got weapons, right?”
“Sure. Some.”
“Spike ’em.”
“As bad as that?”
“The men blew two of the mines three days back.”
“They what!”
“I said, the men—”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you. Deliberate?”
Charlie’s tiny mouth closed, then opened. It was her way of smiling.
“Sure, deliberate. They’d have blown the other two, but something went wrong.
Fuses, timers—I dunno. So they barricaded themselves in down there.”
J. B. Dix’s eyelids fluttered. It was his way of expressing astonishment. He
said, “I take it you’re sure about this?”
“As I am that you’re drinking my wine and not paying for it.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ryan reached into a back pocket and pulled out some tin. He said,
“How blown?”
“Roof rockfalls. Teague’s two main sources are now blocked to hell. The other
two mines are smaller, easier to defend.”
“Defend? They have pieces?”
“They killed a whole squadron of Strasser’s sec men. Tore ’em apart barehanded.
As you’re probably aware—” the deep tones were thick with irony “—Teague’s
police are well weaponed up. Handguns, auto-rifles, MGs. And plenty of ammo.”
“Gas would clear ’em,” J.B. pointed out.
Charlie shook her head, black curls dancing.
“Miners have blocked off the entrance to both mines, and the old ventilation
system.”
“So they just die of no air?”
“Uh-uh. They’ve been drilling their own air holes. It’d take Strasser’s men
days, weeks, to find them. Months, maybe.”
“Food?”
“Sure.”
“Water?”
“Plenty. Pure, too. Can’t be got at from outside.”
“I suddenly have the feeling,” said Sam dryly, “that this one’s been a long time
in the planning.”
Charlie’s tone was equally dry. “Right.”
Ryan said, “What we have for that fat bastard won’t make a piece of spit’s worth
of difference, Charlie. One, it wasn’t a mighty load to begin with. Two, owing
to circumstances not entirely beyond our control, the load is damned near
halved, anyway.”
Charlie shrugged and said, “Makes no odds. You trading with Teague makes you the
enemy, places you on his side of the fence. Firmly, buddy. Story goes you helped
set the bastard up, anyway.”
“Shit!” exploded Ryan in exasperation. “That was twenty years ago!”
A tingle of alarm ran up his spine. There was, it occurred to him, another angle
to all this. If Teague was desperate…
He turned to Samantha. “Radio the Old Man. Tell him what’s up. Find out if the
main train’s still checking in on the hour, and tell him to switch to every