Latitude Zero Laurence James(1)

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"Six of us. Name's Ryan Cawdor. Got three men and two women. We were
heading for the Grandee when the flash flood took our horses and the pack mule
after noon today."
"You lost everything?"
"Kept our clothes. Most of the blasters. Not a lot beside."
"We're good Christian folks here, Mr. Cawdor. If you and your friends would like
to come in you're right welcome to share any vittles we got. Stand slow and easy
and walk in the same way. Best you keep your hands out where the boys can see
'em. You'll have likely noticed some of them are real edgy."
"Real poor shots, Major. Wouldn't back them to hit the door on a shithouse if they
were sitting there on the hot seat."
He was rewarded with a cackle of laughter.
"Guess you got it right, son." They heard someone else's voice, but they couldn't
catch the words. Major Ward continued. "Oh, yeah. Fella here says how we know
you aren't with this Skullface and his chillers? What do you say, son?"
Ryan put an edge to his voice. "I say that's real stupid. I say we're tired and hungry
and I'm not going to wait much longer. If we come in without your say, there'll be
blood, Major."
"Guess if you was Skullface you wouldn't tell us." The invisible wagon master
laughed.
Cautiously, keeping his arms out from his body, Ryan stood and took a few steps
toward the circle of wagons. The others stayed hidden where they were, ready to
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give covering fire at the first sign of trouble.
"We see you, Mr. Cawdor! Don't see your friends yet."
"I come in and you see me. When I think it's safe I'll call them in."
So it was.
Major Seth Ward Ryan never learned where he claimed the military title
from was in his early fifties, a grizzled man with a weather-beaten face and a
neat silver mustache. He dressed like an old-fashioned cowboy with a pair of
nearly matching Colt Peacemakers cross-strapped on his hip.
His wag train had started off from an area north of N'Orleans, a nuke-ravaged
wasteland, rife with mutie diseases and infested with gangs of roving chillers.
Nearly a hundred folk, half of them children under the age of fifteen, had met
together and agreed to move west.
"Green grass, fresh water and a safe home" was how Major Ward put it.
They'd heard from traders of Ward and had sent word to him to help put together a
train of fifteen ox wagons and lead them into their Promised Land.
Ryan had encountered such parties before, and Krysty herself had actually
traveled on one. As was often the case, there was a strong if
primitive religious feel to the group. Out of twenty-four men over the age of
fifteen, no less than eight claimed to be self-ordained preachers.
They'd been readying themselves for the evening meal before the arrival of the six
outlanders. Now, once the credentials of Ryan and his friends had been offered
and accepted, the women went back to their preparing and serving of the food.
It was a stew of dried beef with small, bulletlike potatoes and good bread. From
the scent in the air it was obvious that the settlers had brought their own oven with
them. There were a half dozen milch cows with the group, but the milk was
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reserved for the younger children. Everyone else made do with warm, slightly
brackish water.
The stew was ladled onto smooth wooden dishes and passed around, but before
anyone lifted a morsel toward their lips, Major Ward rapped on the side of a
wagon with the butt of one of his pistols. "Quiet for the Reverend!" he shouted.
A tall, frail man with a wispy white beard stood and pressed the palms of his
hands together, closing his eyes and gazing heavenward with an expression of
extraordinary beatitude. Ryan watched him through lowered lid, the thought
crossing his mind that the preacher clearly considered that he was demeaning
himself in speaking to the Almighty. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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