Valentine looked at the deacon. "No harm letting them think the sneak attack worked-"
The deacon's eyebrows came together; then a grin split his face. "Good Lord, yes." He turned to the walls. "Fire off a shot now and then ... like they're mopping up." A few shots cracked off into the night.
"Ghost! Ghost!" Valentine heard a female voice call from out of the mist.
Duvalier.
He ran to the front gate. His fellow Cat stood, barely visible in the mist in the light thrown by a reflector lantern.
"Can't stop for more than a moment-can you hear me?"
"I'm here," Valentine said.
She spoke quietly, but Valentine's ears picked up her words. "A Trooper and another of these Bar Seven turncoats were waiting about a couple hundred yards out."
"What did she say? Why's she so quiet?" one of the men on the wall asked.
"Anything we have to be worried about?" Valentine asked.
"No, I took care of them. One's just behind me, and the other's in the stream, if you want to get their weapons. I listened in at their camp; they're waiting for a signal. Watch your north wall, too."
"For what?"
"No idea."
"Get out of here."
"It's a good night for hunting, Ghost. You were right about the Bar Seven after all. I'm impressed. Good luck." She disappeared into the fog-weighted night.
Waldron was replacing the expended charge in the trough of the swivel gun with a new shell.
"Signal, huh?"
"Yes. I think I need to ask a few questions."
The deacon was finishing his cigar as a woman in a white calving smock tied a tourniquet around the leg of Wagonmaster Lawson. Lawson looked around at his shattered outriders, tears of pain or anguish streaming down his cheeks.
"Shot up bad," the deacon muttered.
"They made all kinds of promises," he confessed to the deacon as Valentine approached. "I thought I'd become the biggest cattle king in the history of Nebraska, able to run the Dunes as long as I didn't cause them trouble. But as soon as they got into camp, they started showing who was boss. That damn General guy, ordering us around, treating ray men like dirt. But what could I do? All the women and kids are in their hands now."
Valentine approached the pair. The medic looked up at him and gave a tiny negative shake of her head. The ground beneath Lawson was black with blood.
"Damn, that tobacco smells good, Deac," Lawson said weakly. "I haven't had a real smoke in months."
"Give him one, Deacon," Valentine said.
"Thanks," Lawson said, through a grimace of pain. He took a deep puff on the cigar and closed his eyes. For a moment Valentine thought he would die; then they opened again. "Hey, you're the one with the horses, trying to warn people. They asked me some questions about you two. I gave them a wagonload of bullshit."
Valentine whispered something into the deacon's ear. He nodded.
"Lawson, here, hold my Bible. The Good Book's about the only comfort I got for you. You don't have much more time in this here world, so maybe you want to think about the next. You can help us, tell us what you were supposed to do once you took the camp."
Lawson's breathing became labored. "Sure. In my pocket. Flare pistol. Fire when we ... got the camp."
Valentine found the wide-mouthed pistol, listening to the occasional shot or two still ringing out.
"My men .. . have pity . . . wounded . . . ain't. . ." He faded away.