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"There's not been any trouble with Indians up that way for some time, but you
all keep your eyes open.
Return if there's any suggestion of harm."
Ryan glanced at the machines they'd be riding. McMurtry had his Harley. The
other sec-man, called
Smitty, was a long-haired, bearded man, carrying forty pounds excess around
the guts. His bike was a much-rebuilt Suzuki. Ryan had an antique English
Norton, 350 twin, its chrome winking in the patchy sunlight. Sharona Carson
had a chopped Harley, which had been converted into a trike with raked sissy
bars, and had a small, two wheeled trailer at the rear.
At that moment, the lady herself appeared and posed briefly on the shadowed
porch before striding across the patterned sand toward them.
Ryan had once been shown a page from a frail, crackling women's fashion
magazine, which had shown a skinny, elegant woman dressed in a bizarre fantasy
of how someone imagined pretty Indian girls looked.
Sharona Carson seemed to have decked herself out on the basis of something
remarkably similar.
Her hair was braided, with tiny beads and semiprecious stones knotted among
the strands so that it constantly tinkled. A pair of smoked glasses hid her
eyes; a pale lilac scarf was tied around her throat, chosen, Ryan figured, to
match her invisible eyes; her jacket of golden leather was unzipped, showing a
low-cut blouse of silver satin; the fringed skirt in light cream suede fell
just above the knee; soft boots in matching suede, low-heeled, fitted just
above the knee.
"Looks a barrel of jack," the Trader whispered in Ryan's ear.
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Deathlands - Time Nomads
"Dirty job, Trader," Ryan replied.
They set off in convoy. McMurtry was in the lead, with Sharona immediately
behind him. Ryan came third, grateful for the goggles and scarf that J.B. had
pressed on him. Smitty, his two-wheeler coughing spasmodically, brought up the
rear. The highway was straight and clear leading north, but the mountains had
disappeared behind towering chem-clouds of purple.
Chapter Twenty-Six
ALL FOUR of the bikes were fitted with heavy-duty ribbed tires for off-trail
riding. Every now and then the blacktop was in such poor condition that Ryan
was thankful that they possessed them. He enjoyed the ride, in spite of the
bouncing and jarring.
And despite having to detour around earth slips or fallen trees or washouts,
they still made excellent time.
They reached the outskirts of the abandoned, scattered village of Abbyqu in
less than two hours.
They were surrounded by outcrops of twisted rock, layered in a dazzling
variety of colors, ranging from a soft muted gray to vivid pinks and oranges.
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Millennia of wind and rain had tormented the cliffs, producing sculptured
forms that even Ryan could recognize had their own bizarre beauty.
Smitty's Suzuki began to give more trouble, its coughing growing worse.
"Mother's blowing too fucking hot!" the bearded man yelled, holding up a hand.
He pulled off to the side of the road near a clump of stunted sycamores.
The others all rolled to a halt. Sharona looked back over her shoulder. "We're
nearly at the ruins of the old ghost ranch where I want to do some painting.
Mac, you stay with Smitty and get his hog fixed up. Me and the outlander'll go
up the trail and stop there."
McMurtry wasn't all that happy about her suggestion. "Best we stick together."
"No. Time's wasting."
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Deathlands - Time Nomads
"Baron said"
"I know what he said, Mac. But we're so close now."
Ryan, standing astride the big Norton, was just glad to have the weight off
his backside for a few blissful minutes.
"Shouldn't take more than a half hour for her to cool down some," Smitty said,
getting off the two-wheel wag and kicking the stand into place.
"Come on, Mac. We all got blasters. Any sign of trouble and I'll shoot off a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]