Ryan shook his head, looking across the lobby at the Armorer. "Five says either go or hang on here and watch."
"What d'you say, Ryan?"
There was an edge to J.B.'s voice, and flecks of color gleamed high on his pale cheekbones. It wasn't like him to become emotionally involved in any situation.
"I say that Krysty summed it up for me."
"Yeah. She would, wouldn't she? Krysty's your woman, Ryan. Speaks like you speak."
"Watch it, J.B." Krysty warned, green eyes glowing with anger. "You just better take some care. I go with Ryan because I want to and because he wants me to. You try and make me out like some fucking echo of his and!.."
Krysty Wroth very rarely swore. The fact that she did now was proof of her rage at what J.B. had said.
"All right, all right. Blackdust!" J.B. took off his spectacles and began to polish the lenses. "I didn't mean that, Krysty. Sorry. But you feel that way, Ryan?"
"I guess so. Baron seems friendly enough. Motes don't. I say we'll stay around Snakefish for a couple more days. Watch and wait."
Supper was a subdued affair.
Rick finally went up to bed without eating. J.B. didn't speak a single word during the entire meal, concentrating on finishing fast. He left the table as soon as he'd eaten his fill, muttering that he wanted to field strip his blasters.
Lori and Doc were having one of their increasingly frequent bickering rows, the girl sniping at the old man, badgering him, trying to elicit a response. But Doc kept his cool, smiling at Lori, managing to eventually shame her into being nice. Before the coffee arrived she'd dragged him off to their room.
"Make it up for being real bitching," she told him.
The main course had been ham, smoked over a slow fire, served with fat-dipped bread and roasted beans with chilies. Ruby served them watered milk as an accompaniment. Some small, sour peaches were dessert, with a small jug of molasses to pour over them.
Jak leaned back in his chair and loosened his belt. He opened his mouth and belched loudly.
"Your manners are terrible, Jak," Krysty protested.
The boy grinned. "No. Really wanted to fart, Krysty. Should be grateful self-control."
"Get out, you red-eyed brat. When I was your age I'd have gotten sent to my room if I'd behaved like that."
"Lady," he said, rising from his seat with unusual dignity. "You nevermy age. Never. Going bed now. Tired. G'night."
Ryan and Krysty were left alone at the table, sitting with a steaming jug of the landlady's coffee in front of them.
"Want to go upstairs, lover?" she asked. "Could give you a healing massage after the fight with the stickies."
"Thanks. You know what always happens when you start those healing massages of yours."
"Sure, I know. You complaining?"
"No. But it's kind of early. How about a walk around the ville?"
"And then the massage?"
"And then the massage."
It was a warm, gentle evening.
The sun was sinking to its rest, far over the snow-tipped peaks that lined the western horizon. Stars were appearing, diamond bright, scattered across the soft velvet of the sky.
The ville was settling down for the night. Lamps glowed in downstairs windows, between undrawn draperies. Here and there they passed folks sitting on their porches. One old-timer was plucking at a banjo, quietly singing a song that neither of them recognized, words about a candy-colored clown who came and scattered sleep over everyone's eyes.
They'd only gone a hundred yards before they spotted Carla Petersen walking quickly on the other side of the street, boot heels clicking on the sidewalk. For a moment it seemed as though she were going to ignore them, but at the last second she crossed over to where they waited.
"Evening, Ryan. Krysty."
"Hi, Carla."
"Taking in the sights of Snakefish?"
"Yeah," Krysty said. "You out on pleasure or business?"
"A bit of each, I guess. Do you know if John's in the hotel?"
"J.B., you mean? Can't get used to hearing him called 'John.' Not after all the years we've ridden together. Sure. He was staying in his room, cleaning his blasters."
"Thanks, Ryan. I might just walk by and see how things are." The setting sun gave a pink glow to everything — including the woman's cheeks.
"I'm sure that he'd be real glad to see you, Carla," Krysty told her.
"Sure," Ryan agreed, the penny finally dropping as he realized what was going on, realizing at the same time how slow he'd been at picking up on the clues. It was just that he'd never, ever thought of the Armorer having any interest in ladies.
"Heard about the deaths. You and Jak weren't hurt?"
Ryan shook his head. "Could've been worse. If there'd been another four or five stickies we'd have struggled. Mote was pissed about it, losing three of his boys."
Carla Petersen looked solemn. "I heard he blamed you for it. Thought it was part of a plot. Riddler spoke for you. He said it couldn't have been arranged, that you didn't even know about the run. Mote was all for taking action."
"Action?" Krysty asked.
"Lining you up for a feeding."
Ryan nodded. "You got a good weapon, you'd be a stupe not to use it. One thing puzzles me, Carla. How did Mote get this snake cult started?"
"Nobody really knows. Or remembers. There'd always been big snakes out in the brush, toward the foothills, but nothing the size of Azrael and the rest. The Motes came out of the desert in a couple of wags. One of the wags was enormous, and some folks say it held straw and was like a kind of cage inside."
"You mean the Motes brought those rattlers with them?" Krysty's voice betrayed her shock and disbelief.
"That's what people say. But these days they say it quiet behind closed doors and shuttered windows. Edgar's brother was one who said it aloud. Never found even a bone of him."
"Nice," Ryan muttered. "Real nice."
"And they brought this worshiping and chilling with them as well?"
Carla glanced around, as though she thought she'd heard a sound in one of the dimly lit alleys behind her. "That's about the breadth of it, Krysty. Like I said before, step careful." With that advice Carla left them to visit with J.B.
The sun had vanished, and night came across the land in a shifting, sideways, skulking run, dragging its black cloak in the dust behind it.
Ryan and Krysty decided that they'd leave a recce of the Sierra Sunrise Park to some other time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
J.B. had begged some clean, dry rags from Ruby Rainer, explaining that he wanted to do some cleaning. She'd also supplied him with a white enamel bowl that was half-filled with steaming water. He'd carefully drawn the curtains shut across his second-floor back room, sliding the bolt in the center of the heavy oak door.
The Armorer always made it a policy to try to fieldstrip and clean all of his weapons at least once a day. In the Deathlands that wasn't always possible. But here in Snakefish he had everything that he needed to perform the task.
He was whistling quietly to himself as he began — an old hymn tune that dated right back to the shadowed days of his childhood. "The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended." If asked, J.B. probably wouldn't even have realized he was whistling any time at all.
This evening he decided to check out the contents of his voluminous pockets: the plas-ex, detonators and wires; the sextant and the garotte; and the grens — the scarlet-and-blue implode and the slightly smaller frag-gren with the flip-top firing.