Ryan hadn't slipped completely into the stygian depths of unconsciousness.
Despite the crushing force of the impact, he'd managed to brace himself. The straps across his chest held him tightly, making his ribs creak. He found himself dangling, upside down, with something warm and sticky running down his forehead, over his face, behind the broken glass of the goggles and into his good eye, blinding him.
His nostrils were filled with the overpowering stench of spilled gasoline, and he could feel the chill of it, soaking through his pant leg. His right ankle was twisted and held in place by some part of the plane that had been rammed backward in the crash. And he could hear someone moaning.
Apart from that sound, there was a deathly stillness. His ears had been battered and deafened by the racketing of the engine, and only now was his hearing slowly returning to normal.
He became aware of the pit-pat of dripping liquid. With an effort he lifted his right hand and pulled off the goggles, wiping cautiously at his good eye and wondering where all the blood had come from. If it was his, he wasn't surprised that he felt no pain. He knew from experience that the body had some strange and effective defense mechanisms when inflicted with a major injury.
His vision cleared. "Oil," he said quietly. Thick oil had oozed from a ruptured part of the air wag's engine.
"Time to be moving," he muttered.
Now that he could see, Ryan realized that the middle of a tangle of broken wood and varnished fabric wasn't the best place to be if the oil ignited and fired the gas that had splashed around. Even in that dire emergency, Ryan's logical fighting brain told him that there couldn't be that much fuel, since the plane had crashed because of a lack of gas.
He couldn't see anything of Layton, but he could hear the man groaning.
"I'll get you out," he called, but there was no response.
The buckle opened easily, and Ryan clung to what had been the front of he cockpit, swinging himself carefully around and down, dangling for a few moments with his feet scraping the air. The drop was only a short one and he let go, landing and rolling onto his knees. His ankle was cut just above the top of his boot, but he'd been able to pull free without difficulty.
Ryan stretched and straightened, automatically checking himself for any injury. Apart from some stiffness in his neck and a little blood from a cut lip, he'd gotten away almost scot-free.
The plane was tipped on its nose, the propeller splintered and snapped into several pieces. Strips of wire hung to the ground, black against the sun. They reminded Ryan of the clusters of crepe paper that had been pinned to so many front doors of Snakefish, to cry out the homes of the recently dead. The wings on the starboard side of the air wag had been sheared off and lay a few yards from the rest of the fuselage.
Then he saw the pilot.
Layton's immense weight had thrown him forward in the crash, snapping the seat belt like rotted canvas. He'd then pitched sideways, his hips gripped by the collapsing walls of the cockpit. He was pinned upside down, his head only a few inches from the dirt. Blood darkened the front of his flying suit and flowed over his face in a steady, gurgling trickle, crimsoning the earth beneath him.
Cautiously Ryan stepped closer, ready to throw himself clear at the first flicker of golden fire among the wreckage.
Now he could catch words, muttered in a low monotone.
"Sorry 'bout this, Dad. Going down. Hold on tight. Mom, we're going in."
Ryan reached out a hand and pulled away a jagged section of one of the wing struts. Then he could see the injury. The cockpit glass had shattered when Layton's bulk was crushed against it, and some of the shards had buried themselves deep in the rippling walls of the young man's stomach.
Ryan had seen enough abdominal injuries in his thirty-five years or so of living to be able to tell major from minor, serious from terminal.
Layton Brennan wasn't going to be seeing another sunset. Even if Ryan had been able to get him out of the wreckage without worsening the wound, it would take a skilled doctor to patch up the gashes.
Ryan looked around. They had come down in a dip in the ground, and he couldn't see how far they were from the ville, but he could hear the noise of some sort of wag and one of the Heroes' hogs moving his way. Obviously the watchers in Snakefish would have seen them losing altitude, swooping lower and never rising again. But rescue wasn't needed for him, and it would come way too late for Layton.
The muttering faded, and the baron's nephew quivered once and died. The blood continued to drip from his forehead for several more seconds and then that, too, stopped.
"Edgar's near a breakdown," Carla said angrily. "All this at once. Too much for him. You've got to do something, John!"
J.B. scratched the side of his nose. "Not that easy. Seems like the Motes have damned near the whole town on their side. We got the firepower. Sure, we could probably chill those bikers, mebbe even take over the ville. Then what?"
"We're moving on, Carla," Ryan said with a quiet finality.
"They murdered Layton and tried to kill you, as well. Nearly made it."
Ryan nodded. "I hear what you say, Carla. But you have to realize that this isn't a game. Not some idle story in an old vid. There's no half measures in real life, Carla."
"How d'you mean?"
"I mean that if I kill Mealy I have to kill Zombie. And the rest of the chapter. And the Motes. And Dern. And any of the ville's folk who back them. It'll be full-out bloody war."
The woman sat slumped in a chair in the bedroom shared by Krysty and Ryan. The others were there, except for Lori, who'd gone out an hour earlier.
"So, you're just going to walk away."
"He who doesn't fight but walks away lives to walk away another day," Doc said.
"Just like that," Carla muttered bitterly, standing up and walking to the door. She turned to look at J.B. "I was wrong, John. Wrong about you. And I'm real sorry for it."
"Yeah. Me too, Carla. But there's some things a man just has to ride around."
His last words were overlapped by the sound of the closing door.
Lori still hadn't reappeared by late afternoon. When Ruby brought up a tray of her coffee with some pecan cookies, Doc asked her if she'd seen the blond teenager.
"Mebbe I have and then again, mebbe I haven't, Doctor Tanner." There was a curl to her lips and a leer in her eyes as she spoke.
"I would be most obliged if you could see your way clear to elaborating that statement, my good woman."
"How's that?"
"I mean that I'd like you to cease your petty-minded prevarication and tell me where the girl is!" Doc roared.
"Oh, land o'reptiles! I just heard someone say how she heard someone else talking 'bout how they seen the young lady walking out with Apostle Joshua Mote, down by the temple of the Lord's own anointed ones. But it might just be..."
The words trailed away as Doc stared at her balefully. Without another word she turned and left the room. Doc took his Le Mat from the top of the dresser and spun the chamber thoughtfully. "I believe I'll take a short walk."
"Guess I'll come with you," Ryan offered. "Let's go."
"You know what we could find?" Ryan asked as they walked down Main Street.
Doc stopped midstride, digging the ferrule of his swordstick into the trampled dirt at the edge of the road. "We've known each other for some time, my dear Ryan, have we not?"
"Sure."
Doc stared into Ryan's face, the old man's eyes steady and unblinking. "There are times when I confess that my brain wanders a bit and slips a notch sideways. Or backward. But in general, would you say that you concluded that I was a cretin?"
"No."
"Then kindly give me credit for anticipating what we might find. I am not a fool, Ryan. I'm an old man in many ways. Too many ways. Lori Quint is a young and lively girl. I always knew that the day would surely come when she and I would no longer be... I think you understand me. So, if she and Joshua Mote are busily making the beast with two backs, then I believe that I shall be able to cope with it." He hesitated. "That does not mean, my dear Ryan, that I relish the idea! But I think I shall cope. However, I would rather she chose better than the vile young Master Mote." They resumed their walk.
Four of the Last Heroes lounged outside the temple, leaning on their two-wheel wags, watching as Ryan and Doc approached them.
"Going far, outlanders?" Kruger croaked, tapping on the polished gas tank of his hog with the tips of the knives in his glove.
"Just collecting a friend," Ryan replied, moving easily into the stance of a gunfighter prepared to draw.
"Straw hair?" Rat giggled. "She's sort of busy right now."
"We're going in anyway."
Riddler moved to block the entrance to the temple. "Could be better if you went back to Ma Rainer's and waited, Ryan. She'll be along later."
"No. Going in now. You and the brothers aiming to stop us?"
Riddler looked at his companions, seeing no signs of support against the ice-eyed outlander. He shook his head. "Guess not. But it's a wrong move, Ryan. Believe me."
"I believe you. Come on, Doc."
"Right with you."
They walked together up the path toward the side door of the large building. "Sure you want to do this, Doc?"
"No, Ryan. But I'll do it anyway. J.B. had it right about there being things a man can 'easy ride around.' Conversely there are also things that a man can't ride around. This is one of them."
The door was on the latch and Ryan pushed it open, his right hand dropping naturally to the butt of his SIG-Sauer. He glanced behind him to make sure that the Heroes weren't following, but all four had remained by the gate, leaning against their bikes. One or two townspeople had also appeared and were watching the temple.
As soon as they were properly inside the gloomy building, Ryan knew that his suspicions — and those of Doc — were about to be justified. He could hear the rhythmic jingling of small silver spurs, the heavy panting of a man's breath and a woman gasping and moaning.
"Lori," Ryan whispered.
They crept closer.
The soft-bodied young man lay flat on his back, in front of the snake altar, his pants hooked around his ankles. His head was turned away from them, his arms stretched out wide.
Lori was riding him, her own legs spread apart, the bells of her high red boots clicking on the polished wooden floor. Her head was thrown back and her long blond hair almost reached the thrusting cleft of her buttocks. Her hands were on Joshua Mote's chest, nails digging crimson furrows in his skin.
She was naked apart from her boots. Even in the dim light inside the temple, Ryan could clearly see that the girl's nipples were hard with her own driving passion.
"Bit longer, Josh... One time more... Don't stop now... don't... Come on, baby, come on..."
"Now," Ryan shouted his loud voice bursting into the coupling.
"Who the fuck!.." Joshua exclaimed, trying to sit up and see around the girl's body.
Lori ceased her pleasuring but didn't bother to turn around.
"Got the old dribbling fucker with you, Ryan?" she asked. "Guess you have had. Now he can see how many a real man could get on fucking. Can't you, Doc? Can't you, Doc?"
"Come with us, child," Doc urged, his voice quiet and controlled. "You deserve better than this imbecile, Lori."
Joshua pushed her off, fumbling as he tried to pull his pants up over his suddenly limp penis. His face was flushed with anger. "Who're you calling names? You're dead, old man. Dead. Nobody does this to Joshua Mote and lives."
"Shut up, boy," Ryan ordered. "Talk's cheap. Action costs. Get dressed, Lori."
"Why?"
"Just do it. I'm not here to argue. Get your clothes on, or I'll drag you naked down Main Street. Come on, girl."
There was an icy tautness in Ryan's voice that convinced Lori to do as she was told. She stood, deliberately not bothering to hide herself from either man.
"Quickly," Ryan snapped.
"I'll wait outside," Doc said quietly. "I need some fresh air. It's stuffy in here."
For a moment it seemed as though Lori were going to make some smart-ass crack at the old man, but she caught Ryan's eye and kept silent.
"I'm going to my father," Joshua spit, feeling more confident now that he had his pants on. "He'll see to you, outlander."
"I'm shaking in my boots, boy. Just go on home, now."
The door slammed and Ryan was left alone with Lori. She'd nearly finished dressing, and her mouth was set in a stubborn, angry line.
"You don't understand, Ryan." Her voice was pitched so low that it scarcely reached him.
"You're wrong, Lori. I understand. We all do. Even Doc does."
"It's just that... I don't want to be hurt him. He's being very kind to me, Ryan."
"Hell, I know that. But he's got a lot of goodness in him, Lori. He's generous and brave. Braver than you could ever know. You shouldn't have treated him like that."
"Guess not. Maybe he and me can pick some times to speak with it. After. When we leave the ville."
"You won't stay with Joshua Mote?"
She smiled, and Ryan saw how very beautiful the girl was. And how young she still seemed. "No. Double-big cock. Double-small brain."
"Often the way, so I hear," he replied as they walked out.
Joshua Mote yelled a parting shot as the three friends walked toward the Rentaroom.
"Going back to grandpa, you gaudy slut?" he bellowed. "You fucking wait! We got the power in this ville, you useless, dry bitch. We'll give you to the snakes."
"Yoursnakes!" Lori screamed, wildly provoked. "We'll chill them all like we chilled your fucking big Azrael!"
There was a brief moment of utter stillness after the revelation.