"I'll go on down there, just with Dean and Abe. Talk some. Let them know we got some armed forces watching. Kind of test the water."

"Careful, lover. I can't catch the feeling properly, but it's not all friendly."

DESPITE KRYSTY'S reservations, the greeting was largely hospitable.

The first warning came in a cry of "Strangers!" from one of the smallest children, which brought the men together, some with blasters cocked and ready, while the women gathered all the little ones, shepherding them into the hide tents.

Ryan introduced himself and the others, saying that they were from a group of traders who'd been sailing

up the coast. A freak storm had turned over their boat, and several of the party had been lost.

It was a useful story to account for their arrival in a place without knowing much of the vicinity, and one that Ryan had used before.

The leader was a man called Ditchdown. He was in his fifties, with dark hair that carried a slash of white. When he noticed that Dean was fascinated by it, he explained that it had been the result of a bad cut with a knife and the hair had grown back white.

He invited Ryan to call down the rest of the group, saying that they didn't have much food to spare as most of the men were out hunting. He hesitated a fraction of a second before the word "hunting," and Ryan noticed the pause.

"But you're all welcome to what we got. There's some bread just out of the ovens."

Ryan thanked him and gave the signal for the others to come down from the surrounding trees.

The people of the tented community didn't pay much attention to the outlanders, until Jak and Krysty

appeared, walking and talking together.

There was a burst of excited chattering, and Ryan heard the name of someone called Straub repeated several times among the women and children.

"Looks like you're a hot pipe here, Jak," Dean said, laughing nervously.

"Same everywhere," the albino replied, brushing his hand through the tumbling snow-white hair, getting

an even stronger reaction from the watchers.

They were offered seats around a long table, and hunks of fresh bread were placed in front of all of them,

with crocks of salted butter and earthenware dishes of jellies and preserves, and beakers of good, sweet water.

The children pressed in closer, one or two of the bolder spirits reaching out to try to touch Krysty's mane

of fiery hair, which coiled itself protectively around her nape. One of the older women saw what was

happening and scooted the little ones away.

Ditchdown sat himself at the head of the table, looking at each of the outlanders, as if he were trying to get their measure.

"Fine blasters," he said finally.

Ryan looked up, wiping crumbs off his chin. "Fine bread," he replied.

The camp leader nodded. "Good baking's important to us. We like the best when we can get it."

Krysty glanced around her at the ramshackle tents and the ragged children. "Seems like you haven't had

the best for a while."

"Right, lady. Times haven't By all the gods that ever were, but your pelt is like burning magic. I swear I never saw the like of it."

A woman, gray-haired and scrawny, had been leaning against the side of the bench beside Ditchdown, absently running her fingers back and forth along the patch of white in his scalp. "We got better times coming, don't we?" she said. "Once Schickel and the rest come back."

Ditchdown reached up a large hand and squeezed her arm, smiling up at her. "Don't flap your tongue in front of strangers, Annie, or I'll nail you to a tree by it." Her face had gone as pale as scoured ivory, and Ryan could see the way the man's knuckles had whitened with the strain.

"Sorry," she muttered. He let her go and she walked stiffly away, rubbing at her bruised arm.

"Who's Schickel?" Trader asked. "Your fight leader?"

Ditchdown sniffed, picking up a piece of bread and starting to break it apart. He rolled the crumbs into

tiny pellets, flicking them in the air and catching them in his open mouth. "Fight leader?" he repeated.

"Suppose so."

"There a baron in these parts?" J.B. asked. "Not many parts of Deathlands don't have a baron."

"Name's Weyman. Got a ville about fifteen miles inland from here."

"That where the rest of your men are?" Trader asked, speaking with his mouth so full of bread and cherry preserve that gobbets of it slithered back onto the table.

"You got a lot of questions for an old man," Ditchdown said, standing. "You pack are guests here, and it's

best you remember it."

Trader stood slowly, laying the Armalite on the scarred wood in front of him. "You want to try and see what an old man can do with you, woodlander?"

Ditchdown hesitated, then forced a laugh. "We're simple people here, Trader. I know a horse and a dog

and a woman. Plain and straightforward."

"Then tell us straightforward what the rest of your men are doing." Trader stared at Ditchdown until the larger man lowered his eyes.

"We have to live," he muttered. "They said when we were on the road that Weyman's a blown fruit, ready for the plucking." He recovered a little of his aggression. "What's it to you? You baron's men?"

"We're our own men," Ryan replied. "The way you live is the way you live. Not our business. We thank

you for the bread, and we'll be on our way."

"Day's wore on," Ditchdown said. "Welcome to stay the night with us. We lost three in the last couple

days to the fucking pigs in the forest, so there's spare room. Give you two tents to yourselves for a night, if you wanted them."

"Pigs?" Mildred said. "Is that slang for sec men?"

The man looked at her in bewilderment. "Don't take your meaning, lady."

"What are pigs?"

"Pigs is pigs," he replied.

"Oh, you mean real pigs? Like fat and snorting with lots of little piglets, waddling around ready for bacon time?" Mildred laughed, then saw that the man's face was set like stone. "That what you mean?"

"I mean mutie beasts that come in close to a thousand pounds and can rip a man from throat to groin with one hook of their bloody tusks."

The woman looked away from him. "I didn't know," she said quietly.

"Not uncommon." J.B. was sitting next to her, and he patted her on the arm. "You weren't to know."

"I guess I've seen a fair range of mutated flora and fauna since arriving in Deathlands," she said. "So murderous porkers shouldn't surprise me."

Ryan looked at Ditchdown. "Can you give us a few minutes to talk in private? Whether to take you up on your offer and stay the night or not?"

" 'Course. Like I said. Woods are dark and deep around here. Baron's men might not take to strangers. Safer to stay here with us. When Schickel gets back he'd like to talk. Be impressed with your blasters. Mebbe ask you to come join us." He stood and walked away. Ryan looked around the table. "Anyone got anything to say on this?"

Trader spoke first. "Raggedy load of bare-assed bastards like this won't cause much trouble to any well-armed baron. Nor to us. If they want us to stay the night and eat their food, no questions asked and no debts owed, then I don't see why not."

"Fair enough. Krysty?"

She was busily licking plum preserve off her fingers. "There's a lot of tension and excitement here. Part of it's waiting for this man Schickel and the rest of the hunting party. But there's something about me and Jak that I don't get. Somehow linked to Straub, whoever he is."

J.B. lifted a hand. "They aren't just out hunting. Obvious. Seems no doubt they plan to try and take this Baron Weyman for what they can. I agree with Trader. From what we've seen they won't be too much of a threat."

"Unless baron isn't strong," Jak interrupted. "Straw house blows down easy."

Ryan rapped on the table with his fist. "Main point is whether we are likely to be in any danger. Be good to have somewhere to sleep. Long as we post a watch."

"Few smoothbores and a Kalashnikov or two won't present much of a threat," J.B. said.

"I see no real threat."

Doc coughed. "If I may interject? I understand that they are inviting us to share both their beds and their board. It would be churlish to reject such kind hospitality. Particularly if the supper is in the same league as their bread and confitures."

"All right then." Ryan looked around once more. "We reckon that it's worth the small risk to stay a night. Then move on in the morning. And we all keep a good watch."

Chapter Fifteen.

Ryan and the rest of the group had been shown to their tents. Both were made from a mixture of crudely woven wool and animal hides, which, from their acrid smell, had never been properly cured. There were piles of furs and old blankets in each tent. Ryan and Krysty took the smaller of them with Mildred and J.B., leaving the other, larger one to be shared between Doc, Trader, Abe, Dean and Jak.

Ditchdown had come around to see if they were settling in. "Good to have outlanders with us," he said. "Schickel's sure goin' to be impressed with those blasters." Then he'd nodded to himself and moved on.

THE FIRST WARNING of the hunters returning was when all the dogs in the camp started to bark. The children and women came out of their primitive huts and tents, setting up an ululating cry that rang around the forest.