“Hell, he doesn’t need strong sec inside, not with that armor outside,” J.B. murmured to Mildred.
“What worries me is what it keeps in right now, not what it keeps out,” the doctor replied.
They followed Crow up a red carpeted staircase that ended in a pair of off white wooden doors. As they approached, the doors opened and a man appeared, staring down at them.
There was no doubt who he was, as he was dressed exactly as the statues had portrayed him. When he smiled, it was as icy as his eyes.
“Welcome to my home, good people. Welcome to the heart and soul of Salvation.”
Chapter Nine
Baron Silas Hunter led the companions and Crow into the sumptuously furnished room from which he had emerged. There were windows on all sides of the long, hall-like room that had a long, polished oak table as its centerpiece. There were a dozen chairs, six on each side of the table, with a large, gilt-covered throne at the head. The light from the windows, depleted as it was by the ironwork that covered the glass, was augmented by a plethora of candelabra scattered around the room, resting along the length of the table, as well as reposing on the mantel and on plinths and small tables that lined the room’s walls.
The heels of Baron Silas’s snakeskin cowboy boots click-clacked on the tiled floor as he walked easily along the table before gliding into the throne, swinging up his legs in one easy move so that his heels rested on the tabletop, feet crossed at the ankles. He pushed the Stetson hat back on his head and eyed the companions coldly, following in his wake. He gestured at them to be seated, and so they took positions, with Ryan, Krysty and Jak on one side, J.B., Mildred, Dean, and Doc on the other. Crow slipped into a position beside Jak.
They waited in an expectant silence for the baron to speak.
“So these are the hombres you spoke so highly of, Crow,” he began.
The Native American nodded.
“They don’t look that mean to me.”
“Mebbe we just don’t have to,” Ryan declared. He could see from the manner in which the baron was appraising them that the man’s intent was to spur some kind of reaction so he could judge their individual and collective character.
Ryan didn’t appreciate those type of games. He had come thus far for a reason, but he couldn’t be pushed…and wouldn’t allow his people to be pushed.
“Well,” drawled the baron, “mebbe you do and mebbe you don’t. You’ve come to Salvation, and this is my ville. I make the rules.”
“We’ve come here because we wanted to,” Ryan returned.
The baron watched the one-eyed man with glittering snake eyes and smiled a gimlet grin that contained no humor.
“Wanted to come here rather than wanted to take your chances in the desert?”
“If need be,” Ryan answered. “Let’s lay those cards on the table. We willingly gave up our blasters and worked for you in return for food, water and shelter. We agreed to come back here rather than stand and fight out there. And if you’ve taken any notice of what your man here has said,” he added with a gesture toward Crow, “you’ll know that we could have taken the blasters from your workmen and then taken your sec.”
“Easy to say,” the baron rejoined.
“Easy to do,” J.B. said softly from where he sat, opposite Ryan.
“You let your monkeys speak for you? Hell, even a benevolent son of a gaudy like me doesn’t do that,” the baron said gently, steeling this with a firm glance at Ryan that didn’t flicker toward J.B.
Krysty felt Jak stir at the insult and knew that although the albino mutie would show nothing on his scarred and impassive face, every muscle would be tensed for an angered attack. She gently moved her hand from her own lap to Jak’s arm and squeezed his wrist. She didn’t look away from the baron as she did this, but knew she had the intended effect when she felt Jak’s tension relax against her grip.
Crow had noted this group interplay and ruminatively scratched his chin. That would be something to mention to the baron later.