Whatever their deficiencies in equipment, the four scouts knew their jobs. One concentrated on the trail, two a little behind him searched the terrain ahead, and the fourth stayed far back in case of trouble. One of the middle scouts didn't like the look of the hilltop, and they pulled up to a halt. Binoculars and small telescopes emerged from their patched overcoats.
One of the four Wolf horses, scenting those below, let out with a high, questioning neigh. The scouts spun their horses and plunged down the hill.
Valentine mouthed obscenities.
A good second line of defense, Valentine maintained, is running like hell. He jumped from the tree and, waving to Gonzalez, ran up toward the four horses.
"It's border trash, I think. A lot," he explained to Harper as they mounted.
Valentine led them at something less than a flat-out gallop along the ridgeline. Their horses had covered a lot of miles in the past week, but perhaps were of sterner stuff and in better health than the beasts of the ragamuffins below.
He reveled in the mad inconsequence of it all. Their pursuers might catch them; he and the two Wolves might die, and the world would change or care not a whit. But it felt glorious to pound through the woods on a running horse, his legs tight in the stirrups and hands far up the horse's neck. Clods of dirt kicked up by the horses' rhythmic gait flew up behind like birds startled at their passing.
Harper is having trouble with the spare horse, the sane part of his mind reminded him. Valentine spotted a clearing on a prominence ahead and turned his horse toward it, slowing the pace to a trot and then a walk. Reaching the bare spot, they saw a ruined house, roofless and empty.
"We covered some miles," Gonzalez gasped. "Where the hell is the road?"
"Somewhere down to the west of us," Valentine said, waving vaguely at the descending sun. Trees obscured the road's probable location. "Let's take a breather and see how our friends are doing."
The overlook gave them a good view of the hills to the south. Valentine and Harper listened to the steady drum of hooves in the distance.
"Aw, shit," Harper said. "I always figured a Reaper would get me, not some grubby thugs."
Valentine looked at the house. There were good walls there, and only two doors to cover. The horses would fit in-side. "Okay, so their horses are fresher than ours. We've still got three guns and a good spot to shoot from."
He could now see distant riders galloping along the trail. He stopped counting after estimating fifty. "Let's get inside our new home and get ready to greet our guests."
Behind the house a pump stood on a concrete patio. "Oh, pretty please with sugar on it," Harper said, working the handle. It moved a little too easily; nothing came from the rusty metal spout but noise.
The main room of the house was filled with collapsed roof, but they were able to bring the horses through the back door into a room slightly lower than the larger one. The paneless windows were set so a man at the front could cover the main door, more or less, but the western exposure of rooms off the main one would have to go unguarded. Valentine posted himself at the front window, Harper at the side, and Gonzalez at the rear door. They manhandled an empty refrigerator into the doorway to the main room.
"We ought to be able to hold out for about two minutes now," Harper said.
"There's always the chance we'll make the price too steep for them," Valentine said, filling a pocket with cartridges.
"I was sick of riding anyway," Gonzalez said.
"That's the idea," Valentine responded. "If we can get them to wait until dark, we just might be able to slip out. Head for steep hills and thick woods. Maybe all they want is the horses. I know we can outrun them on foot, even carrying the mail. Whoever they are, they're not Wolves."
Their pursuers approached their refuge with caution. A thin man with a ragged straw hat bearing a single black feather in the brim trotted up toward the house, carbine at his hip. He turned his face suspiciously, first looking at the ruined dwelling with one eye, then the other. Valentine sighted on his dirty undershirt.
"That's far enough. What's on your mind?" Valentine shouted.
The thin man's long face split into a grin. "You boys want parley?"
"We're willing to let lead fly if you want it that way. Might be better for both if we talked first."
Straw Hat turned his horse and disappeared downslope. Valentine counted the minutes; every moment toward dusk helped their cause.
He heard horses moving through the woods below the hill. The pursuers were fanning out to surround the house. It sounded like a lot of riders.
Three heavy figures on tall quarterhorses approached the house. Even beneath beard and dirt, Valentine thought he saw a family resemblance. Their scruffy beards were black as coal, save for the center rider, who had two narrow streaks of gray running down his beard. Their hats also bore black feathers tucked in the left side of the hatband like that of the point man.
"Hello, the house," center rider called. "You wanted a parley, here it is."
"May I know to whom I'm speaking?" Valentine hollered back.
The man glanced at his younger associates. "Sure, stranger. My name's Mr. Mind Your Own Damn Business. This is my son Or I'll Tear Off Your Head and my nephew And I'll Shit Down Your Throat," he yelled. "That satisfy the rules of ettycute?"