The makeshift camp was like hundreds of others he'd seen over the years. He knew that in the predark days the people who chose to live this way had been called travelers. It was a term that was still used, but now the word had a darker connotation.

Camps like this were often used as hideouts by wolf's-heads, men and women who lived outside the law, often running with a blood price on their heads.

It had been no surprise to learn that Schickel and his people were planning to usurp power from Baron Weyman. It was a common enough tale, told around a thousand campfires.

"The baron's weak."

"His ville's vulnerable to a few brave men."

"We can sit where he sits. Rule where he rules. Become powerful as he was powerful."

The number of times that Ryan had heard of gangs of brushwood people succeeding in toppling a baron in the past twenty years could be counted on the fingers of both hands.

But it did happened.

Could happen.

It depended on what kind of man Weyman was and how he'd organized his sec force. Trader had a saying

about a baron being as good as his sec boss, and it was true.

Ryan recalled the infamous ville of Mocsin, the baron, Jordan Teague, who'd once held Doc Tanner prisoner, and his notorious sec boss, Cort Strasser.

There was something about the man Straub that reminded Ryan of Cort Strasser, a chilling coldness and

more than a hint of a bitterly ruthless streak, lying buried in a shallow grave beneath the quiet self-

possessed exterior.

Schickel had been talking about the deer that had been caught and killed, within the bounds of the domain of Baron Weyman." 'Baron Half-a-man' is what I call him."

The words were greeted by general laughter and applause.

"And our good comrade Straub. He has also done a little more work toward our big plan. We'll talk more about that tomorrow. Meeting of all fighting men an hour after first food."

It was obvious that the evening was breaking up. Ryan welcomed the chance to get an early night in their

own tent and stood. "Thanks for your hospitality," he said.

Schickel looked surprised, leaning down as Straub tugged at his sleeve. He listened to a few hasty, whispered words, then straightened again. "Not quite yet, Ryan Cawdor."

"No?"

Schickel shook his head. "We would like a few more minutes of your time. Just Straub and myself. Just

you, and perhaps one of your friends." It was a barely veiled command. There were times when Ryan would have felt it necessary to make a point by ignoring the "request" and doing the opposite. But there seemed no danger here in the camp, so he was content to go along with what Schickel wantedthough it seemed likely that it was rather more what Straub wanted.

"Sure. J.B., hang around. Rest of you go to the tents. Be careful."

Krysty squeezed his arm as she stood and eased herself past him, whispering in his ear, "Don't turn your back on Straub, lover. Not for a second." The shaved head was tilted toward Krysty as she walked out of the circle of firelight, Jak close behind her, the two heads of miraculous hair in stark contrast, the fire ruby and the moonstone. "Wonderful." Straub sighed, his gold tooth gleaming in the dark cavern of his smiling mouth.

"What?" the Armorer asked.

"The hair, my friend. The hair."

"Just what's your interest in hair?" Ryan asked. "Keeps coming up."

Straub's long pale fingersof what Trader might well have called "strangler's hands"were toying with the

chunky necklace of turquoise.

"I have many 'interests,' outlander Cawdor. I travel here and there and do not stay overlong in any place.

That is my way. But there are things I do to keep myself in eating jack. Oh, so many different things do I do."

"Yeah?" Ryan waited for the answer to his question.

"I trade in hair," Straub said eventually, after a long, overlong pause.

"Human hair?" J.B. probed.

"Ace on the line, Dix. The hair of humans."

"What do you do with it?"

Straub smiled and stared at Ryan, who found himself consciously avoiding the dark silver eyes. "It is one

of the immutable truths in this blighted world of Deathlands, outlander Cawdor, that there is always a

market for everything."

"Sure. That's what our friend, Trader, always says. All you need to do is bring buyer and seller together.

The result is happiness and mutual profit."

Straub laughed out loud, nudging Schickel in the ribs. "I like these outlanders and their sayings."

"And their blasters," the chief muttered, rubbing the spot where Straub had poked him. "Don't forget you also like their blasters!"

"You got another name, Straub?" J.B. asked curiously.

"No. I came grinning, with a fine full set of sharp teeth, from my mother's womb, damn the foul-living

slut! Called Straub. No first name. Or should that be no second name? Who knows? What's first is last

and sometimes the last shall be first. So it says in the Good Book."

"Who do you sell all of this hair to, Straub?" Ryan was insistent, sensing that the man's interest in Krysty and Jak could mean menace.

"Not all that much hair. I sell only the finest and rarest to the old wives of rich barons who have it spun into wigs that chase away the years for them. It is costly." He sighed, rubbing his hands together like a preacher bemoaning a poor collection. "But these people can well afford the cost."

"There is a market for hair? Then who sells it to you, Straub?" This time it was J.B. who was unable to bide his disbelief and revulsion.

"The poor, of course. Oh, don't misunderstand. I pay a fair price to them. But I only want, as I said, the best. Most poor folk have dull, lifeless ordinary hair."

"And that's why you're fascinated with Krysty's and Jak's hair?" Ryan laid both hands flat on the table, exercising careful control. "Just what do you want with them? You want to buy their hair?"

Straub licked his lips, showing the first real emotion that Ryan had detected. "I would pay any price for their tresses. I am jack-wealthy, and I know that I could obtain anything I wanted for a wig of fire or a wig of snow."

Ryan stood up from the table, followed instantly by J.B. "Waste of both our times. There's no way this would ever happen. Never."

"Never say 'never,' outlander Cawdor," Straub said, remaining seated.

"You try to take hair from anyone, and you'll find yourself knee-deep in your own blood."

Now Schickel was also on his feet, pointing angrily at the two outlanders. "You threaten me, here in my own camp, with three dozen armed men just a shout away?" He was hissing the words, like an enraged cottonmouth.

Ryan shook his head, fighting for his own self-control, feeling the crimson mist clouding his vision and his mind. He struggled against it, knowing that anger was weakness.

"No, Schickel. The threat comes from you. From Straub."

"What threat?" The pale hands spread, the picture of injured innocence. "I said that I would pay a fair price in jack or trade if I could purchase the hair of two of your company. You have made it clear this can't happen. How can there be any threat from us, Cawdor?"

J.B. was about to speak when Ryan placed a hand on his forearm, quieting him.

"No," he said, almost to himself. "No, this is pointless. Nobody wants blood." He looked across the table at Schickel. "We are grateful for your hospitality and the food and the beds for the night."

"All right." The war chief made no attempt to brighten his surly scowl. "All right."

Straub finally got to his feet, brushing some imaginary specks of dust from his black shirt. "One more

small thing."

"What?"

"Baron Weyman. Schickel here's told you about our plans to take over the ville."

"Yeah, he told us."

"You've eaten our food and taken our hospitality. In return we'd like you to help us. You're well armed,

and it's kind of obvious you all know how to use your blasters. Use them for us, and you'll not be sorry."

"Meaning we'll be sorry if we don't help?" J.B. asked, easing the sling on the big Smith amp; Wesson scattergun across his shoulders.

"For us or against us?" Schickle queried. "No road runs down the middle."

Ryan glanced at J.B., but it was impossible to judge the Armorer's reaction. His eyes were invisible

behind the dark lenses of his spectacles.

"Well?" Straub prompted, tapping one finger gently on the scarred wood of the table. "Our plans are not quite ready for us to move against Weyman. But it won't be long."