Lem grinned. “Think you’re fit to lead us, stranger? Just kill off our chief and call yourself boss? That’s not our way.”
“I wasn’t thinking of taking the title,” Gar said evenly, “or the job. I only want the man to prove he deserves it, that’s all.”
“You just might get your chance.” Lem watched, grinning with anticipation. So did Farrell, and Zeke chuckled.
Gar frowned. What was he missing?
Then a woman stepped forward, handing her rifle to the man beside her and taking off her hat and jacket. “I’m Rowena, stranger, and I’m the chosen chief of this band.”
Gar stared. Admittedly, she was a big woman, both tall and stocky, her body having thickened with age. Gray streaked the long black hair that was tied in a club at the base of her neck. Surely, though, she didn’t really think she stood a chance against a man twenty years younger than she—twenty years younger, a foot and half taller, and half again as heavy!
“We choose our leader by wisdom, not fighting,” Lem explained. “You want to fight her hand to hand, you fight us all.” Gar stared at Rowena, digesting that for a minute. Then he nodded, shrugging out of his pack and taking off his hat. “That’s better odds than fighting twelve rifles. Hand to hand it is, outlaws, twelve to one or not!”
The outlaws stared, taken aback by his boldness.
“You can’t beat a hundred and more, stranger,” Rowena said. “Don’t be a fool.”
Gar grinned, lifting his fists. “This isn’t about wisdom.” Rowena’s face darkened even more. “You’d be wiser to yield your pack and go your way. I’ve no wish to have your blood on my conscience.”
“I told you she was wise,” Lem said, then called to Rowena, “He seems to be a good one, though he’s not willing to pay the toll.”
“Toll, is it?” Gar asked. “All I own? Nothing left to sell or trade?”
Lem shrugged. “You can always start over.”
“It’s worth a fight to keep it.”
“Have it as you will,” Rowena said in disgust. “Take him, people.”
The outlaws shouted and waded in, Rowena foremost. She was the first to swing at Gar, and he took the blow on his shoulder, rolling with the punch, not even trying to block. But he knocked aside the second punch and tripped her.
Farrell caught her and lifted her back onto her feet as Lem yelled and charged in from the right just as a big bearded man bellowed, shoving past Rowena and slamming a haymaker at Gar’s jaw. Gar ducked; the haymaker caught Lem and sent him flying. Then Gar hooked a fist into the bearded man’s belly. He doubled over, and Gar straightened him with an uppercut.
He saw Farrell swinging from the side and shot to his feet, blocking the punch, but Zeke darted in past Farrell, head down, butting Gar in the belly.
Gar fell backward, and boots swung at his head. He caught the first and turned, pulling it with him. The bandit woman yelped and stumbled over him, tripping and falling straight into the kicking boots of her fellows. They shouted in surprise and pulled their feet back as Gar pushed himself up.
A huge weight struck his shoulders and slammed him back to the ground. Boots swung at his head, and Gar decided it was time for telekinesis. He caught the boots with his mind and swung them high. Their startled owners brayed as they fell, but other boots were slamming into his legs, and whoever it was on his back sat up long enough to hammer a punch at the back of his head.
The world blurred, and Gar hung onto consciousness grimly, thinking of that same hammer shooting up from beneath the ape on his back. He heard a startled contralto cry and the weight lessened. He shoved himself up, jolting his rider off, and scrambled to his feet in a small clearing among the circle of boots—the outlaws had given the rider room. Now they pressed in, roaring and eager.
But only eight of them could get close enough to swing at him. They moved in, shoulder to shoulder, forming a circle, so no matter how many were waiting their turn, he only had to worry about the front rank.
Having started using telekinesis, Gar saw no reason to stop. He swung and kicked, grabbed shirts and turned, hurling their owners into their mates, then spun back to block the next punch. More than a few made it through his guard; pain burned in his side and back and flank, but he stayed on his feet and kept chopping, though his arms grew heavy as lead and weary, weary. They would wear him down, he realized with a sinking heart, then bucked his spirits up; they would know they’d been in a fight!
Finally a voice soared high over the tumult: “H-O-O-O-O-L-D!” The clansfolk slowed, then stilled, glaring at Gar with fists raised, but waiting. Gar stopped, too, fists high, chest heaving like a race horse’s at the end of a run.
The outlaws parted and Rowena strode through. “All right, you can keep your pack.” She turned to her people. “He fought well and he fought clean, and what good will it do us to kick him to bits?”
“ ‘Specially since he might kick one or two of us into the long sleep first,” the bearded man grunted.
“Could be, Clem, and I’d hate to lose you,” Rowena returned.
Somebody chuckled in the crowd.
Rowena turned and clapped Gar on the arm. “Good enough, stranger. You’re one of us, if you want to be—and if not, we’ll trade for your goods, if you like anything we’ve got.”
Gar felt the change in the emotions of the people around him, saw grins breaking out through puffy lips, and lowered his fists, though he still remained wary. “You folks keep the furs that you skin off your game, don’t you?”
“That we do, and a’many of them are pretty to behold,” Rowena confirmed, “though I don’t know if it’s worth putting off a new coat for a year, just to have something to trade for your pins and pretties.”
Gar shrugged. “You’ll have to look for yourselves.” He caught up his pack and sat on his heels, unbuckling the flap and letting it fall. Necklaces of synthetic gems gleamed in the sunlight, packets of needles and pins winked, and a breeze wafted the scent of his spice packets to the outlaws. Some exclaimed with delight, others groaned with longing, and Gar felt so sorry for the poor folk who lived so hard an existence that such simple luxuries as these could brighten their lives so much, that he felt a strong impulse to give them away. Only an impulse, and he choked it quickly; without trade goods, he’d have no excuse to wander from clan to clan with impunity. Instead he said, “Let’s take them over by your cottages and you can show me what you have to trade.”
The outlaws agreed with shouts of approval and turned away to their cottages.
Rowena stayed by Gar, grinning. “Seems they’ve taken a liking to you, stranger.”
“Gar,” he said. “Gar Pike.”
Rowena frowned. “Never heard of any Pike clan.”
“We’re from far away,” Gar said, “very far.”
“And so are your goods, belike. Well, they’d better be worth what my people bring you in trade—not gems that turn to slime in the rain, or needles that break on the first stitch.”
“Oh, my goods will last,” Gar assured her, “a very long time.” After all, he had some notion of how well Herkimer’s synthesizing machines had made them.
A voice from the roadside trees called, “Stop right there, stranger!”
Alea stopped, turning toward the sound. “I’m a peddler. Anything to trade?”
“A peddler?” The voice couldn’t hide its eagerness. Brush rustled, and two clansfolk stepped onto the road from either side, their rifles lowering. The woman said, “Not too safe traveling alone, you know.”
Alea shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not too safe traveling in company, either.” At the woman’s frown, she explained, “It depends on your companion.”
“I reckon that makes sense,” the woman said. “Why, you don’t even carry a rifle!”