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"Be a good place for an ambush," Ryan said. "Get much trouble like that on this trail?"
"Not much. Way back in the old days there was still some mining up here and there used to be big trains
with oxen or mules. They used to get whacked so often they carried up to twenty shotguns with them.
That was then."
"And this is now," Ryan said automatically, concluding the common Deathlands tag.
"Yeah. This is now."
THE BULLET SPARKED off granite in the trail, a yard or so in front of the lead animal, making it
whinny with shrill fear. It reared up, bringing the wag to an instant, jolting halt.
"Hands away from blasters, amigos!"
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The voice came from their left, somewhere behind a tumbled mass of rock that broke down into loose
scree.
Dean had drawn his blaster, regardless of the warning, looking around for a target.
"Kid wants to see another birthing day, he'd best holster that cannon."
"Put it away, like the man says, Dean," Ryan warned. "Got us coldcocked for a moment."
Lemuel had reined in the team, cursing under his breath in a mix of English and Spanish. He scanned the
area, trying to figure out if the ambusher was alone.
"Let's all see if we can stretch right up and scratch them clouds, amigos."
Ryan had eased his position a little, giving himself easier access to his SIG-Sauer and the panga, raising
his hands above his head, his face poker-still.
Lemuel hitched the reins around the big brake handle, spitting onto the track, then slowly put up his
hands.
"And the kid!"
"Put them up, Dean," Ryan said, then, dropping his voice, added, "And keep triple-red ready."
The boy finally, grudgingly, lifted both his hands to shoulder height.
"That's good." A piercing whistle was answered from around the next bend in the road.
"Got company," Lemuel whispered. "Best sit quiet unless we get a chance at the fuckers."
Ryan agreed with him. The man who covered them with a rifle still hadn't shown himself, not taking any
unnecessary risks. The clattering of hooves told of at least a couple more of the robbers.
Two of them appeared leading a spare horse, presumably for the rifleman.
Ryan studied them carefully, trying to gauge the quality of the opposition. That had been one of the first
things that Trader had ever taught him.
One man was short, one-armed and wore a wide-brimmed sombrero trimmed with silver conches. He held
a Harrington and Richardson .32-caliber revolver, with wooden grips and a blued finish, in his good right
hand. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Sitting on a pinto pony, he looked relaxed and
shared a joke with his swarthy companion.
His companion looked to be of mixed blood, wearing cotton shirt and pants like an Apache. He rode a bay
mare, barebacked, and seemed of average height. Like his partner, he appeared to be in his mid to late
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teens. He, too, had a rifle on his back, and casually held a little vest-pocket Walther Model 9 in his left
hand, the 6-round, tiny .25-caliber blaster looking like a child's toy.
"It's okay, Joey-boy!" he shouted. "Got 'em colder than a Thanksgiving turkey. Reckon they seem like
real sensible folks. Not lookin' for trouble."
The third man finally revealed himself, precisely where Ryan had located him. He was a good ten years
older than the other two, with a stubbled beard and slitted blue eyes. He wore a checked shirt and jeans.
The rifle was a Winchester bolt-action type. J.B. could probably have spotted precisely what the model
was, but Ryan's knowledge wasn't that specialized. All he noticed was the professional, easy way the man
handled the blaster.
He slid down over the scree, keeping his balance, his eyes never leaving the three people in the rig. Once
he reached the trail he walked toward them, pausing when he was by the lead mule.
"You heading for Leadville, skinner?" he asked Lemuel.
"Could be."
He wrinkled his nose. "Damnation! How long's that coat been dead? Takes a man's breath away."
Lemuel didn't say anything, his fingers opening and closing as though he were squeezing a coil of steel
between them.
"What's he carryin', Joey?" shouted the man with the little automatic.
"Yeah, what're you carryin', skinner? Apart from a kid and a one-eyed crip?"
"Piano."
"Well, now, I reckon there's a few saloons and gaudies and drinkers within fifty miles of here that might
pay a few handfuls of prime jack to have them a real predark piano. It is predark, ain't it, skinner?"
"Can I put my hands down? I got bad cramps in my shoulders from the cold. You got three blasters on
us."
"Sure, skinner."
He spoke to Ryan and Dean. "You two can relax some. No harm's comin' to any of you, if you don't get
triple stupe. But we'll likely take the rig, skinner."
Ryan lowered his hands, letting them settle comfortably in his lap, inches away from the butt of the SIG-
Sauer. Dean did the same. The sides of the wag were high enough for Ryan to feel fairly sure that they
hadn't seen his own handblaster, but assumed he just carried the Steyr.
"Do I get the wag back when you're finished with it?" Lemuel asked, his right hand fondling the stock of
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