Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) by Michael Lane Page B

rhythm.
    “The
Valley’s going to see raiders this summer. I ran across their scouts last fall.
I need a few good guns that can go south with me in a month or so and convince
them to go somewhere else.”
    That
got a faint smile from Georgia.
    “You
make it sound so simple.”
    “Well,
the goal is simple. Getting it done may require more work.”
    “What’s
it paying?”
    “An
ounce of silver a week from the Port, and loot, I suppose. You can keep a share
of whatever we come across while we’re working them. I expect those that return
will have a lot more guns, if nothing else. I don’t get the feeling this is
about money for you. Am I wrong?”
    Georgia
didn’t react. Her face indicated almost nothing of her thoughts. After a while,
she spoke, her voice musing.
    “I
have a ranch now. I have cattle, horses and three hands to run them. People in
the Dell ask my advice and listen to it. They remember the early days and what
we did to make this place.”
    “Well,
Josie just thought you’d be interested, but I can understand if you don’t want
to involve yourself in our troubles,” Grey said.
    “No.
I’ll come,” Georgia said. “I was just thinking I’d be a fool to do it.”
    Grey
glanced at her and then went back to watching the blacksmith work.
    “So
why do it?” he asked as the smith stopped his hammering to fuel his forge.
    “Why
do you do it?” Georgia asked.
    She
waited, but Grey couldn’t find an answer.
     
    Georgia
invited him to her place for supper. Grey refused once for the sake of
politeness and then accepted. Her ranch was four or five miles north, and Grey
walked while she rode a surefooted little fjord pony.
    Georgia’s
ranch house was a survivor from before the Fall, with polished hardwood floors
and thick walls of mortared stone. The windows were glazed and several
fireplaces kept the rooms comfortably warm. The furnishings were simple but
tasteful, and made by a local carpenter, she said.
    Dinner
was beef stewed until it was as tender as butter, with flour gravy and
potatoes. There was salted butter, too, and wine from an earthenware bottle.
What little talk there was centered on Josie and how she was doing in her job
at the Longliner. After the wine was finished, Georgia moved to the living room
and asked to see Grey’s guns. He fetched his rifle from the entryway where he’d
left it, and took a revolver from his belt. He didn’t present the little
automatic that rode tucked in his boot top.
    Georgia
looked them over, nodded.
    “The
pistol is in good shape; that .270 as well.” She picked up the rifle and
examined it more closely. “That’s an interesting barrel. Extended by what, six
inches? It must be good for distance work.” She lay the rifle down again and
sat back. “I just wanted to see if you took care of your gear.”
    “It’s
important,” Grey said.
    She
rose and opened a cabinet built into the wall beside the living room fireplace
and withdrew a battered black plastic rifle case nearly at tall as she was. She
sat it on the floor and unlatched it.
    “I
don’t carry this around here. No need to,” she said, opening it and taking an
evil-looking black rifle from the eggshell foam that lined the case. It had a
massive telescopic sight and a long box magazine. Every inch was black metal or
matte synthetic and it had a built-in bipod folded against the forestock.
    “I’ve
never seen one of those,” Grey said. “It’s an ugly piece of work. What is it?”
    “It’s
German; an MSG90. I came across it almost twenty years ago. It holds twenty
rounds in that clip and I have a couple of spares. I imagine it’s the only one
in western Canada in this condition.” She pulled the slide back, checked the
chamber and handed it to Grey, who shouldered it briefly and then sat it back
on its foam.
    “It’s
heavy, isn’t it? You any good with it?”
    “Very,”
Georgia said, looking at the rifle without emotion.
    “What’s
it shoot?”
    “Seven-six-two
NATO. I have