James Axler - Deathlands 030 - Crossways

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/* /*]] */ Axler, James - Deathlands 30 - Crossways "Going over, Dad! Dean yelled

Ryan realized that the boy was right. The mules were off and running, but the reins had snagged, dragging

them inexorably toward the drop on the right.

They were within fifteen feet of the last mounted bandit who was swearing at his mare, urging her out of

the way of the charging mules. Ryan balanced himself against the rocking of the rig, firing once, seeing

the man go down with blood blossoming on his chest his arms flung wide.

Dad! Foot's caught!"

Then the rig began to tilt seeming to hang sickeningly on the edge of the sighing space for an eternity

before the terrified team pulled it right off the trail.

Crossways

30 in the Deathlands series

James Axler

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO NEW YORK LONDON AMSTERDAM PARIS SYDNEY HAMBURG STOCKHOLM

ATHENS TOKYO MILAN MADRID WARSAW BUDAPEST* AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was

reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received

any payment for this "stripped book."

* * * As we move together into fresh woods and pastures new, this one is for Liz. It comes with all my

love and it will always come with all my love.

* * * First edition February 1996

ISBN 0-373-62530-8

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in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,

including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is

forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road,

Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation

whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any

individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with are registered in the United States

Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

* * * Teachers are to life what morticians are to death. They rip out your guts, drain you of your vital

fluids and then turn you into what they think you should look like to face eternity. Or they just do what

they can to make life feel like eternity.

The Best Education Is No Education , by Jean-Paul Godard, Vanquer Press, Paris

* * *

Chapter One

Ryan Cawdor lay in the gateway chamber of the matter-transfer unit at the heart of Redoubt 47, in the

wilds of what had a hundred years earlier been the state of Louisiana.

"Who could?" he said slowly, his voice distorted, throbbing inside his skull.

Krysty Wroth's fingers squeezed his hand very hard, painfully. She was telling him something, shouting.

But the jump was almost under way.

Almost.

A silhouetted figure stood outside the heavy door, someone tall and skinny, wearing black.

Ryan's grip on the present had almost gone, and he clung to consciousness by a ragged fingernail. Images

floated through his whirling mind.

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The massive dark brown armaglass door to the chamber was opening, closing.

Dark figure.

White hair.

Face close against his, with eyes that leaked bright blood. A skin like paper.

Old, immeasurably old.

Hissing words. " what you did...."

As blackness finally swallowed him up and his eye closed, Ryan's last sentient thought was that his

nostrils were filled with the acrid stench of decay.

Of death.

Chapter Two

As usual, making the jump had plunged Ryan into the singeing deeps of nightmare.

He was in a frontier pesthole, standing in the scorching heat of the noon sun. It took only a moment for

him to be aware that the scent of fresh-cut lumber that flooded his nostrils came from the wooden frame

that surrounded him, a frame that was clearly a gallows.

Ryan's hands were tied tightly behind him with rawhide. The knots pulled so hard that he could feel blood

dripping from purpled nails.

He wore his usual clothes, except for the long coat and the white silk scarf with the silver dollars sewn

into each end. The holster on his right hip was empty of the SIG-Sauer, and the sheath on his left hip

lacked the weight and balance of his eighteen-inch panga.

There was a crowd building around him. The sound of music attracted him, and he glanced to his right. A

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stubby white man and a tall, elegant black man leaned against the side wall of the Golden Eagle saloon.

Both held long-necked banjos and were singing a song. The words weren't quite clear enough for Ryan to

hear.

Something about a gun quicker than lightning?

The balcony of the Two Up gaudy was already lined with whores, dressed only in cotton drawers and

chemises, with high-buttoned boots. All held parasols to shield them from the ferocity of the sun. One of

them, a skinny blonde with sleepy eyes, saw Ryan looking in their direction and touched herself between

her thighs, sucked her finger and blew him a kiss.

Ryan looked away.

There were three men on the gallows with him.

One was a stout sheriff with a polished badge who seemed to have eaten beans for his breakfast and kept

making the air noisome with his farting.

Next to him stood a priest, sweating heavily in a black suit of good broadcloth. He looked to be in his mid-

twenties, with a pale face and spectacles with gold rims that kept slipping down his beaky nose. He was

holding a prayer book in both hands, but he had to keep wiping his fingers on the side of his pants to dry

them. Ryan was irritated by the priest's nervous habit of noisily clearing his throat every few seconds.

The third figure was, Ryan guessed, the hangman.

He was immensely tall and skeletally thin, dressed from head to toe in black. On the index finger of his

right hand the man wore a silver ring, shaped like a death's head, with a fire opal set in its brow. He wore

a hood that covered his head, with slits for the eyes.

Ryan had glanced twice at the bizarre figure, blinking as he seemed to glimpse the red glow of fiery

embers behind the eye slits.

The rough hemp noose tight around Ryan's throat was prickling at his skin, and he turned his head to one

side to try to shift the discomfort of the large knot that the hangman had adjusted just below his left ear.

An urchin in the front of the swelling crowd stopped and picked up a rough pebble, hefting it at Ryan,

who swayed to one side so that it missed his head. The child's mother, a rosy-cheeked matron in a

gingham dress and poke bonnet, slapped at the boy, shrugging apologetically at Ryan.

"How long, Sheriff Nolan?" the priest asked, having cleared his throat.

The fat lawman reached into his vest pocket and plucked out a silver pocket watch, clicking it open and

peering at the face. "Be noon in about five minutes."

"Time passes so slowly when one is being amused." The voice from under the enveloping hood was a

sepulchral whisper, no louder than the rustling of paper.

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"That is true, sir," the priest agreed, nodding like a rocking doll.

"Anything you want to say, Cawdor?" the sheriff asked. "You got a couple of minutes."

"I don't know why I'm here," Ryan replied.

"How's that, son?"

"I know it sounds stupe, but I'd be grateful if you could tell me why you're planning on hanging me."

Nolan threw back his head and laughed, the priest joining in with a nervous titter. "Well, now, that's a

good one, ain't it, Reverend?"

"Indeed it is, Sheriff, indeed it is."

The noose seemed to be getting tighter around Ryan's throat, and he swallowed hard.

"You're here, Cawdor, to pay the blood price for the crime you committed."

"What crime?"

"As if you didn't know."

"I don't know. Fireblast, Sheriff! Stop this bastard game playing!"

"Now, son, you know very well that you must have committed a crime, otherwise we wouldn't be here to

give you a neck-stretching party."

"To teach you to tango on air," the hangman whispered.

"To show the good folks of the town how we settle the hash of bloody bastards like you," the priest added

quietly, clearing his throat.

"But why?" The rope was pinching harder, and Ryan found it hard to speak.

The hangman moved forward a couple of steps, to stand close to Ryan, emitting the odor of fresh-turned

earth in an ancient grave. "This gallows has only been built for you, Ryan. Once you've hung a few hours

we can take it down forever."

"What about my body?" As if that really mattered a damn, he thought.

Nolan answered him. "Cut down and dragged around town behind the lady mayor's stallion. Then

stripped naked and slung on the manure pile behind the Clanton Livery Stables, so folks can see you're

truly dead and gone."

"And then we can all sleep easy," the priest said sanctimoniously, holding his hands steepled together. "Is

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James Axler - Deathlands 030 - Crossways

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