Motherlode by James Axler Page B

late, as apparently did their employer.
    The only person in the barroom when Ryan led his friends down the stairs just after dawn was Mikey-Bob, both of whose heads were unusually taciturn. Without speaking a word he served them a breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, boiled beans and chunks of sourdough bread. Then he retreated into the kitchen.
    “I guess they’re not a morning person,” Mildred said.
    They lingered over mugs of what tasted surprisingly to Ryan like real coffee. That was a rare and expensive trade item. He judged the gaudy, at least, had to be doing even better than he’d initially thought.
    He drained the final drop from the fired-clay mug and set it back down on the tabletop. Then he stood, picked up his Steyr from where he had it leaned against the wall beside his chair and swung out the double doors.
    The morning sun wasn’t far up the bright sky, but its light on his face was nearly hot. It was shaping up to be a fine high desert day.
    A fair number of people were on the street when the seven companions set out. Some walked briskly on errands or pushed handcarts with goods in them. A pair of laughing children chased a small blue-dotted dog with one blue eye and one brown across the street in front of them, laughing. A medium-size guy in an apron swept off a wooden sidewalk beneath a sign that read V. W. Kennard’s Dry Goods and General Confusion. He lifted his head to leer at Krysty and Mildred as they passed without missing a beat with his broom.
    “For a fact,” Doc observed, “the people of the ville do not seem intimidated by the presence of visibly armed strangers.”
    “Mebbe that’s because a lot of them are packing heat themselves,” J.B. observed.
    Ryan had already taken that in.
    A sturdily built, handsome woman with short red hair appeared in the door of the general store, scrubbing her hands on a rag.
    “Wilson,” she commanded the sweeper, “stop pestering the pretty ladies and get your butt inside. You’ve got serious work to be done.”
    “Sure, Kris. Anything you say.”
    His apparent wife lingered a moment in the doorway, giving Ryan a far from disinterested look. He nodded politely and walked on. She laughed and vanished inside.
    “They go to pains to not show it,” Ryan remarked, “but this seems like a pretty flush place.”
    “Peculiar,” Doc said. “Inasmuch as this is not precisely prime farming land. Nor is there any other visible source of wealth, beyond the Library Lounge. The ville is not even situated on a river.”
    “I think the people probably grow gardens in their back lots,” Krysty said. She smiled at the old man. “As for where their water comes from, I suspect the name ‘Amity Springs’ may hold a clue.”
    Doc laughed. “Indeed, you are most perceptive, as usual.”
    “Still doesn’t explain where they get the jack to afford pretty decent sidearms,” Mildred said.
    The ville ended abruptly, though a busy wag yard sprawled just beyond its west end. It gave way to what the locals termed Newcombe Flats, which occupied most of the Santana Basin: land as level as advertised, furred with still-brown grass and dotted with rabbit brush, saltbush and true sagebrush scrub as far as the eye could see. A dirt road led straight on, meeting up in a mile or so, they were told, with the Río Piojo, the largish stream that ran from east to west across the basin and provided most of its water.
    They followed that for about half the distance, Jak walking point, then Ryan with Krysty by his side, and then Doc and Mildred, with Ricky and J.B. bringing up the rear deep in conversation. They passed various wags, mostly horse-drawn, headed toward the ville. The occupants watched them warily but without undue alarm as they passed.
    “Looks like they don’t get too much trouble hereabouts,” J.B. called.
    “Not before we got here,” Ricky said, and then laughed too enthusiastically to show it was a joke.
    “Yeah, well, be glad nobody’s going to take us for