"Suppose not."

"And you promise me on your father's honor that you will now go to your room and try to snatch some

sleep? And I shall do the same."

"All right."

"Promise me," Doc said. "If you please."

"I promise."

"Good lad. One last thing. Before you scud away, I would deem it an honor to shake you by the hand,

Jamie Weyman."

A small hand slipped into his, and the old man gripped it firmly. For a fraction of a second, he had a

vision of his long-lost little boy, Jolyon, wondering how his life had turned out without a father. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're most welcome."

Sitting still, he could feel the cold of the metal through his breeches, as the lithe figure of the boy

vanished toward the main house.

Doc didn't bother to go to bed, contenting himself with sitting in the deserted stable yard, alone with his thoughts and his memories.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Rainey was already there in the yard when Ryan and the others arrived at the stable. Doc was stalking around, breath feathering from his mouth in the cold, slapping his hands for warmth. The group of ten sec men stood huddled together, a few of them smoking, the glowing ends of their cigarettes like tiny beacons in the darkness.

"Horses saddled and ready," the sec boss said.

Ryan turned, counting heads, feeling a sharp twinge from the arrow wound. Everyone was there, all fully armed. J.B. had the Smith amp; Wesson scattergun over his back, the Uzi slung across his right shoulder.

Jak was limping heavily, his snow-white head bobbing up and down in the streaks of moonlight.

The Steyr across Ryan's shoulder moved as he set his foot into the stirrup and dealt him a painful blow on top of the bandaged injury. If took a great effort not to yelp at the stabbing pain. He waited a few moments, aware of a fresh warm wetness seeping through the dressing over the wound. The mission wasn't going to be easy.

Trader swung into the saddle, his shoulders braced, head held high. His voice rang around the cobbled yard. "Everyone ready to ride? Then let's do it. I want the kid up ahead with me. Rainey, bring up the rear. Rest, find your own places." He stared at the group of sec men. "Be careful with those crossbows. Get them armed when we stop and leave the horses."

Ryan fell into place beside Krysty, with Doc and J.B. just behind him. He felt strange to be riding under the orders of Trader once again. It took him back to the long years with the war wags, ravening across Deathlands. The thought of Trader assuming command of the war party had raised a few doubts in his mind, but so far the old man seemed to have it all under control.

THEY PASSED THE CANYON where they'd spotted the wild pigs, but there was no sign of the mutie creatures. Ryan figured they were probably out in the woods, scavenging for themselves. Something to look out for.

The jolting of his horse was causing him a lot of pain in that first hour's ride. He could tell from the tightness of the Armorer's face that he, too, was suffering. Jak rode third in line behind Trader and the boy, but his wounded ankle didn't seem to be giving him any trouble.

"How's it going, lover?" Krysty's voice was soft in his ear, her hand patting him on the arm.

"Gone better. Gone worse."

"Think we can bring Dean out?"

Ryan nodded, his nostrils catching the scent of pinon among the other conifers. The rain had faded away to the south, leaving a mild dampness in the air. "Don't see why not. Brushwooders don't have the firepower we do. More numbers, but not a lot more."

"They'll be expecting trouble."

"Sure. Trader plans to circle and all go in at once. That's his idea."

"How will he use the sec men?"

"Don't know. If it was me, I'd have them come in close behind us. Pick up anyone breaking through."

Krysty's hair blazed in the moonlight like living fire. "They're a real nice bunch of guys."

"Sure. Nice guys"

"Finish last." She laughed quietly. "I know that one, Ryan. Laughed my diapers off at it. Not sure if it's true. But I don't sense any steel in them."

"Agreed, lover. That's why close behind us is the safest place for them."

"Trader explained his plan to you?"

Ryan felt a large drop of water drip from an overhanging branch onto his face, trickling down his cheek

and dropping off his chin. "Not in detail."

"Did he ever?"

"No. Never."

"Worry you, lover?"

Ryan didn't answer immediately. "No. Not really."

NOBODY HAD RECKONED on the fog.

The night had grown cooler, with chill air moving in off the ocean, mixing with the humid, steamy air

over the hot springs of the scabbies' territory and swilling inland toward the brushwooders camp.

By the time it coiled in among the tall pines, it had reduced visibility to less than twenty paces.

Trader stood in the stirrups and lifted his hand to call Ryan and J.B. to join him.

"Boy reckons we're less than a mile away," he said. "Fog makes it a different sort of firefight."

"Go in close?" the Armorer suggested. "They'll likely have guards out," Ryan said. "Could be watching,

even this far from their camp."

"Brushwood bastards wouldn't come up with that," Trader said. "Too busy fucking and sleeping."

"Straub's no stupe." Ryan straightened himself, unable to restrain a sigh of pain.

"Want to go back to the ville, Ryan?" Trader asked. "We'll bring Dean out."

"Sure you will. But I sort of want to be around when you do it."

Jamie was sitting silently beside the grizzled figure of the Trader, holding the reins of his pony, listening

to the discussion of what to do.

"I say we leave the sec men here with the horses and go in on foot," Trader said.

"What?" Ryan couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You mean just the sec men? Out here on their own

in the fireblasted mist? Come on, Trader!"

"Whats your problem, Ryan? Don't like taking orders anymore? That it?"

" 'Course not. From what I've seen and heard about Straub, I reckon he's dangerous. If he's placed distant

pickets, they might already know we're here."

"All the more reason for the rest of us to go direct into the camp, blasters blazing, without wasting any more time on arguing."

This was the old Trader, from the early days when Ryan and J.B. had first joined him, stone-certain in his

thinking, inflexible, resisting any argument.

Later he'd been content to listen and take advice from them on tactical matters. Now, all of that seemed to have been thrown clean out of the door.

Ryan tried again. "Look, there's all sorts of things wrong with this."

Trader was deliberately ignoring him, shading his eyes as he stared ahead into the bank of roiling fog.

J.B. added his weight. "Jak's the best stalker we got. Ryan's second. They're both carrying injuries that would make it suicide to go creepy-crawling in. I can just about manage to shoot one-handed. Just about. Leaves Abe, Doc, Krysty and Mildred. None of them are that able in hand-to-hand chilling."

Trader turned slowly. "My memory's turning into gruel. I thought you said I was in charge here. Must be I was wrong about that."

Ryan closed his eye. He could feel the livid scar that seamed across the right side of his face beginning to throb with anger. Unless he kept his temper on the tightest of reins, he was capable of sliding helplessly into a crevasse of blind rage, where he had the potential of saying anything, doing anything.

J.B. tried once more. "Fog like this, we can't charge in. Finish up shooting each other. Go in slow and careful and clear them a tent at a time. All of us."