arrow strapped to his back and a flintlock pistol tucked into his rope belt.
“Who the fuck are you, boy?” Mitchum growled, the gaping maw of the .75 black powder weapon never wavering from the stranger’s stomach. He normally went for a chest shot, but in his weakened condition, Mitchum wasn’t sure he could ride the recoil of the hog-leg enough to keep the miniball on target. Best to aim for the belt buckle and let the lead hit the other man in the face. Anything above the waist was a clean hit. Afterwards he could cut the kid’s throat and steal his ammo.
The youth started to answer when the sound of engines filled the air and Mitchum dropped the long-blaster to painfully draw and cock the other flintlock pistol. Adrenaline pounded in his veins, giving the exhausted sec man the needed strength to stand and watch the convoy of Hummers appear around a curve in the road. The wags were badly dented and streaked with dirt, the grilles filled with clumps of vegetation. But long .30-cal machine guns rested on fancy supports, the back seats filled with armed sec men. And more importantly, Captain Glassman was in the front wag, his hands on the windshield to keep standing. His light brown hair was pushed off his grim face, exposing the flares of gray at his temples. Liver spots dotted his hands, and he was unshaved.
“Full stop,” Henry Glassman yelled, and the convoy braked to a ragged halt.
The thin commander of the lord baron’s navy was dressed in loose gray clothing and sandals, the standard wide leather belt around his middle serving as a tool belt and holster for his flintlock and an even bigger predark revolver. A machete hung handle down in a shoulder holster. The navvies, as his sec men liked to be called, were heavily tattooed, displaying their ranks on their faces, and dressed in a similar way, making them easy to spot among the others in the wags. Old and young men, their crude homemade uniforms were identical to that worn by the man in the bushes.
As the engines were turned off to save juice, Captain Glassman looked over Mitchum and could readily tell the bad news. The big sec man was battered and bruised, his crew of twenty armed riders nowhere in sight. Glassman could guess what happened; Ryan and the others had ambushed the patrol and aced the riders with only Mitchum surviving—probably from sheer stubbornness. The sec man was stronger than an armored tank, nearly unkillable. Everybody in his ville was terrified of the man, and most considered him a mutie of some sort. But nobody had ever dared to say that aloud.
“This idiot yours?” Mitchum sneered, gesturing at the youngster still standing in the bushes.
“A scout,” Glassman answered. “We sent out a dozen. Private, get your ass in the wags. Campbell!”
“Yes, sir?” the sergeant rumbled from behind the wheel of the first wag. Campbell had a smiling face and laughing eyes. He always seemed amused, even as he sliced off a tongue or testicle. His face was a mask of tattoos, showing his rise, fall and subsequent rise again in the navy of Lord Baron Kinnison, ruler of the Thousand Islands. Unlike any of the others, Campbell was armed with a sleek bolt-action long-blaster, and a bandolier of long brass shells was slung across his chest. He was both the top kick for the captain and his executioner should the officer fail to recover the outlanders.
“When we get back, give this feeb ten lashes with the whip for this failure,” Glassman ordered, climbing from the Hummer.
“Done,” Campbell said and smiled pleasantly.
“B-but, sir!” the private said, fighting his way out of the thorny plants to stand on the roadway. “I was sent to find Colonel Mitchum, and I did!”
Checking his blaster, Glassman snorted in disdain. “Seems more like he found you. And now it’s ten lashes with a whip soaked in salt water. Any more objections, and I’ll make it twenty.”
Silently, the sec man stumbled toward the rear of the convoy to be as far away from the sergeant as possible.
Leaving the rest of the troops behind, Glassman walked over to Mitchum and softly said, “Okay, tell me.”
“They live,” the man replied simply, easing down the hammers of both his blasters. “Caught us in a boobie and fried my men alive.”
Glassman scowled. Alive was all he cared about. Kinnison was going to exchange his family for the outlanders, but only if they were still breathing. Briefly, he considered chilling Mitchum right there, then realized that was stupe.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find them,” the captain said, patting the man on his good shoulder. “Do you have anything that was worn by one of the outlanders, or better, has their blood on it?”
“You got dogs?” Mitchum asked suspiciously, glancing at the wags.
“Something close enough.”
There was only one other possibility. “Hunters!” the sec chief gasped, backing away a step. “Are you mad?”
“No Hunters,” Glassman snapped. “The local baron had one that he claimed was tame as a gaudy slut. Even did tricks, and such. Shot it dead in its cage. There is no such thing as a tame Hunter. They just act whipped until that door is open, and then rip off your head.”
“Smart move,” Mitchum said, sagging a little as his thigh trembled with weakness. For a moment, he gazed at the wags longingly, then stood tall once more.
The captain tucked his thumbs into his wide belt. “We’ve got a dozen hunting dogs trained to track escaped slaves. You give us anything with their smell, and those beasts will track them through fire and water.”
“Lots of bloody clothing at the wreckage,” Mitch-um said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Most of it is burned, but mebbe something is still usable.”
“Good,” the captain said, turning to the wags. “Corporal Yantar! Take a squad and check over the wreckage of a wag down the road. I want anything stained with human blood. Anything at all. If these dogs are any damn good, they should be able to track the scents of a dozen slaves with no trouble.”
The corporal grinned, displaying badly stained teeth. “We’ll have those outies in chains by nightfall! I’d bet my life on it!”
“Accepted,” Mitchum grunted. “Find them by darkness, or we leave you staked out for muties.”
Going pale, Yantar scrambled from the Hummer to join the sec men walking past the officers and headed for the wreckage.
“Better get in a wag, Mitchum,” Glassman ordered. “Have the healer check those wounds. Should put some shine on them, and a little in you to ease the pain.”
“I’ll walk,” Mitchum replied stiffly. “Can’t show weakness in front of my men.”
“They aren’t your sec men,” Glassman stated coldly. “All of your troops are chilled. These are my navvies, and some of the local baron’s grunts. They obey only me. Now, get in the bastard wag. You’re the only person alive who has seen the faces of the outlanders, and I may need that in case they try to slip through us to steal a boat. I’m gonna keep you alive at any cost, so get in or get dragged in like a chained slave. I don’t care. Your choice.”
“How about we try this instead, ya skinny fuck. Tell them I’m your new chief,” Mitchum growled softly, “or I blow you in half.”
There was a jab into his gut, and Glassman looked down to see a blaster pressed against his stomach, the hammer pulled back and ready to fire. The barrel was warm, but it sent a chill down his back.
