The actual bodywork of the vehicle showed little signs of wear and was kept in good condition. Although it was covered in dust from the journey out, this was a surface layer and not the ingrained dirt of the other two wags. The tires also showed a degree of tread that the other two vehicles didn’t share.
“Baron Silas Hunter likes to look after his workers,” Ryan muttered to J.B.
The Armorer nodded. “Long time since I’ve seen a wag that good. These men mean a lot to him.”
“Or to be more accurate,” Doc interjected, “the work they are doing means much to him. Let us hope he sees us in the same light.”
With everyone else in place, Bronson finally turned to the companions. “Okay, let’s get ourselves loaded up.” And as the companions rose, the sec man moved a little closer and lowered his voice.
“Listen, Crow may think those guys have had enough, but I’m not so sure. I don’t give a fuck what the argument is between you. I just got my job to do so’s I can keep alive. But it’s gonna be mighty close in there, and get mighty uncomfortable. They may try and chance something. I’m gonna be the only sec man, apart from Crow hisself. See, Petey and Coburn’ll ride shotgun on the other wags.”
“You expect trouble?” J.B. queried.
Bronson shook his head. “There ain’t jackshit out here that can live apart from those buzzards and mebbe some lucky scabbies that wander too far and don’t chill themselves. But there’s a lot riding on this for Salvation—not just the baron—so he don’t like to take no chances.”
Ryan nodded. “Guess I can see the sense in that. Thanks for the warning.”
Bronson’s face twisted into something that resembled a grimace. “Hell, I ain’t helping no one but myself. That’s the way Salvation is.”
“It is the way everywhere is,” Doc countered, “but we thank you anyway.”
Bronson looked away. “Let’s cut the shit and get loaded up now,” he said simply.
The companions walked to the wag, which had a rear entry. The heavily armored doors were open, and as Ryan and his people came around to mount the back step, they were faced with eight hostile faces, staring at them.
“This is going to be fun,” Ryan heard his son mutter from behind.
FUN WAS THE LAST WORD Ryan would ever have used to describe the trip back to Salvation. The interior of the wag was laid-out bench seating along the sides, stalling at the back door and running up to where the front seats for driver and sec shotgun rider were placed. The lanky driver named Tex, who couldn’t stop talking in the lazy drawl that soon became irritating, was seated along with Crow. Bronson rode in back with the work party and with the companions.
The line of the benches was broken on each side by the mounted blasters that were aligned with the blaster ports. On first climbing into the back, J.B. had checked those visually and could see that the barrels were trapped in the ports, able to move only within the confines of these gaps, and couldn’t be used to turn inward to the wag. Given the obvious attitude of their traveling companions, he was relieved.
The work party was seated, four on each side of the wag, at the front end. That left the benches at the rear of the wag for the companions and for Bronson. It was a tight squeeze, but all eight settled themselves.
No one spoke…except Tex. As the wag rolled on through the desert, eating up the blacktop, the nasal, whining drawl became a buzzing irritant that stretched already frayed nerves. For the atmosphere in the rear of the wag was as taut as a piece of elastic stretched to breaking point, and the constant monologue from the driver was like an object that played on the elastic, twanging the stretched material until it would suddenly break.
As with all men of his type, the driver was supremely unaware of the damage he was causing to his passengers’ nerves as he kept driving and talking. Behind his back—and that of Crow—the work party kept up a silent campaign of hostile stares at the companions. Ryan and his people did their best to ignore it, but Dean’s temper was being pushed to the limit, and of all people the one who seemed to be suffering most was the sec man Bronson, who nervously fingered the trigger of his Uzi and seemed ill at ease with the atmosphere. If Crow knew what was going on—and if he was even listening to what Tex was saying—he kept his peace, his impassive and still figure seemingly unconscious of what was going on behind him.