"John Ford and Sam Peckinpah," he exclaimed. "They were showing The Wild Bunchand Ride the High Country. With She Wore a Yellow Ribbonand The Last Hurrahthe same day. That was Clint's final movie, 'fore he took up with all that politicking."

"We got bit of one left. Culpepper Cattle Company. Heard of it, wrinkly?"

Doc ignored the insulting nickname from the snow-haired lad. "Heard of it, sonny! By the three Kennedys! You'll ask me whether I've heard of... of, what's his name? Damn, it's left me."

"All else was gone. But in top shelf of closet was single round tin, and in it was piece of vid. Means a lot, Ryan."

So they sat and watched it. Doc was the only one there who knew what it was about, but his memory was sadly selective and imperfect. All he could recall, to the dumb fascination of Lauren and his gang, was that it was about a lad leaving home on a cattle drive and how he grew up and became a man. That a local land baron Ч the word aroused a mutter of hushed whispering Ч was going to drive some settlers off. There were some gunmen in it, and they finally came to the aid of the boy and the settlers.

It began with a scratching sound and much jerkiness, but it gradually improved. The volume was weak, coming through a single speaker, wired to the side of the screen. But it was enough. Ryan watched the flickering images with a naive wonderment. He was in a movie house, watching a film!

There were some wagons being dragged into a line by the gunmen. The settlers, kneeling in prayer, were singing "Amazing Grace." In the distance was the unmistakable outline of the local baron and his own team of blasters.

"Comes back to me," whispered Doc, along the row. "Names and the faces. Gary Grimes is the kid. That's Geoffrey Lewis with the kind of squint. Bo Hopkins, giggling there, with the smooth face. Man with long hair... don't know. Could have maybe been Wayne Sutherlin. He was in it. The other man's an actor called Luke Askew. One of my favorites. What happened to..."

"Shut up, Doc," hissed J.B.

"Hell of a firefight," sighed Finn. "Way to fucking go."

At first, the defenders gunned down several of the hired pistoleers. But there were too many of them, and one by one the defenders were picked off. Crimson sprayed as they died in slow-motion. Finally it was the kid and the old man who led the attack. The boy had a blaster nearly as big as he was, but he froze and was about to get himself chilled. Then the one whom Doc had said was called Luke Askew rose Ч from the dead, it seemed Ч and stabbed the attacker, the two men falling together, locked in each other's arms.

Ryan felt the short hairs rising on the back of his neck as the single, pure voice of a woman came swelling with the old hymn again. The skinny preacher with crazed cowardly eyes told the boy they wouldn't stay.

Told him that the land they'd wanted Ч which the men had died for Ч was not meant for them. It was tainted with blood, and they were moving on. In the end the kid drew on the man in black, insisting that they bury his friends before they moved on, and grudgingly the settlers agreed. At the last, with the lines of "Amazing Grace" still ringing out, the boy dropped his blaster beside the graves and rode away.

"Though we are dead, ten thousand years," sang the woman; and all around the vid-house, Lauren's gang sang. Several people were weeping at the beauty and power of the film, well over a century from the past.

Ryan felt a prickling behind his own eyes.

"Son of a fucking bitch, ain't it," said a grizzled man behind him. "Always kind of lifts me. Makes me want to get out and ice the baron on my fucking ownsome."

The lights returned, making everyone blink. Ryan glanced around him, seeing the ragged army he was about to help. And he saw why the short piece of film was so important to Jak Lauren's people.

The battle appeared hopeless, against overwhelming odds. Yet the faded images, with the crackling sound track, typified the desperate lonely, struggles that were taking place all over Deathlands. Ryan was understanding it more and more. It was a natural process. Groups arose, some promoting only themselves, others trying to clean up the world. As he saw it, it wasn't enough just to worry about your own survival. Sometimes you had to stand up and fight for things you believed in.

It was that courage that Ryan saw in the ratlike teenager and his raggled army. "Time we talked."

"Sure. You four, and me and my five top chillers. That set with you?"

"Yeah. Want to know all 'bout the Baron Tourment. His ville. Where he lives. Where he'll keep prisoners. Sec men. Blasters. All that."

"And more," said J.B. "We know all that, we can get the plans made."

Ryan stood up, stretching. "Some food and drink. Need to be ready by dark."

Jak Lauren peeled back his lips in an icy grin. "Be dark in around five hours. Time for real good plan. We were lost, now we're found."

"Mebbe," said Ryan.

Chapter Twenty

The cellar door of the Best Western Snowy Egret inched open, then stopped. It opened a finger's-breadth more, then stopped again. The two women heard the deep resonant voice of Baron Tourment laughing quietly.

"Very good. Oh, very good."

Krysty wondered for an insane moment whether she could possibly take out the chieftain of Lafayette, realizing immediately that the butchering of the two guards had left her too drained even to wrestle a kitten.

"I am impressed, ladies. Fucking impressed. Oh, yes, I am."

Inside the room, it was almost silent. Just the hypnotic buzzing of a blowfly, conjured from nowhere to feast on the banquet of blood that poured from the mouth of the one sec man, the groin of the other. The baron's voice resonated from outside the room.

"Alain and Neal. Two of the best, if that roguish Mephisto is to be believed. Are you to be believed, Mephisto? Eh?"

"They were good. You sure they're chilled?"

"Can't you taste their souls fleeing from their useless carcasses? Such a sour, yet sweet flavor. No, they are dead, are they not, sluts?"

"Come and find out, cripple," taunted Krysty.

"Good." Baron Tourment sounded as if he were genuinely amused. "Two more on the account."

At last he appeared, his head bent to avoid the low ceiling, the white-suited sec boss at his elbow. Both men were holding M-16s. The baron's weapon was plated with gold, its stock studded with semiprecious stones. Mephisto's rifle was comparatively plain and uncluttered, except for the head of a red-eyed cockerel, done in opals and rubies.

Krysty and Lori, licking their dry lips, stood beside the tables.

"How did they chill 'em?" asked Mephisto.

Tourment shook his head. "Don't matter. It's the redhead. She's got some real power. They got careless. They got dead. End of that story."

He lifted the barrel of his blaster, covering both women. His eyes searched Krysty's, until she felt he was somehow trying to suck her soul from her body.

"Go fuck a dead shark," she said, trying to provoke him again.

"Perhaps I shall allow you that pleasure, girl," he replied. "Or, perhaps a live gator. See how your power works on that. But I feel your power is exhausted."

Krysty knew she was right: the massive baron was a doomie. But he wasn't able to see what she was thinking. Her mind was locked too tight for him to penetrate. She said nothing, staring him out.

"We should find out where they are," interrupted Mephisto. "Get after 'em 'fore dark. IfТn we wait, they could be anywhere."

Tourment sighed. "Such haste, my dear sec boss. If they are in league with the snow wolf, they will have gone to his skulking place in the vid-palace."

"Said we should have blown that apart."