The Protectors war

Crusher Bailey was the last of the row, glaring, his lips moving silently as he mouthed curses. A sign hung around each bandit's neck, written in charcoal on a board: ROBBER, MURDERER. Crusher Bailey had that, with additions:

RAPIST-HORSE THIEF-HOUSE BURNER-CHILD STEALER.

The folk of the tavern watched silently. Will Hutton walked down the row, holding a coiled lariat in his left hand, the end loose in his right. Each time he flicked a beast's rump with the knotted end, the startled animal lurched forward and another figure hung swinging and kicking below.

Mike Havel looked up at Crusher Bailey when there were only three left. "Got anything to say, Crusher?" he said calmly. "I'd really like to know about your co

"Yeah, I've got something to say," Bailey said, and spat at his captor. The gobbet went splat on the ground between them. "I say you aren't any better than me, just got a bigger gang. And you ain't worth a pitcher of red piss, either! None of you are!"

Bailey clapped his heels into his horse's flanks, and the animal bounded forward. His body twitched and kicked briefly, then hung limp as it swayed gently back and forth; the outlaw's heavy frame had given him a quicker death than that of most of his followers.

A murmur of surprise came from the onlookers, and Will Hutton stopped in his progress down the line of nooses. Havel smiled a crooked smile and shrugged as he looked at the older man: "Business aside, some men it's just a pleasure to hang, Will."

"Yep, purely a joy," the Texan said.

The last outlaw looked down at them from where he sat his horse, between Crusher's body and the rest of the swinging gallows-fruit; it was Bailey's brother, the slight ferret-faced man.

"I should have gone first," he said. "I'm the eldest of the Bailey brothers. It was me got Crusher through the Dying Time, and we didn't eat nobody neither."

Hutton nodded gravely. "Sorry about that. Your brother sort of broke the flow. You ready?"

The outlaw looked up at the setting sun. "Figure so."

Will slapped the rope across the horse's haunches, then looked down the row of dangling bodies. "Dirty job, but someone's got to do it," he said.

"Bingo," Havel said. "Now people around here can sleep a little easier at night-and use this road more."

A long sigh went through the crowd as the last of the outlaws died; a cool wind from the west went through the leaves of the tree above, making a sound louder but not much different. The limb was nearly as thick through as Signe's waist, but it creaked under the burden it bore. Havel glanced around-nobody was within immediate earshot, if he spoke.

"Sorry about Reuben, Will. He was a good kid."

The older man's face grew harder still; he glanced up at the bough. "He was a good kid, once he was away from that trash father of his-even before, I reckon. And he was growin' into quite a man, too. Reminded me of my boy Luke: "

Havel nodded, hiding his surprise. He hadn't heard Hutton mention his eldest child in years; Luke Hutton had been in Italy the day of the Change, doing a hitch as a paratrooper.

"Just one more score in the bill Arminger's ru

Havel nodded. "Speaking of which." Then he turned and called: "Arvand Sarian! Front and center!"

The black-bearded i

"Signe! Get that boy out here, would you?"

His wife came forward, leading a boy of about five by the hand; he was dark-haired, and despite gauntness and haunted eyes had the strong family resemblance Havel had noticed among Sarian's kin; Signe patted his head as he looked up at her with a tentative smile.

"There's your dad, little guy," she said, turning him towards the i

The boy's eyes went wide. He ran shouting to the tavern keeper, to be swept up in a huge embrace. Havel waited until Sarian had handed the boy off to the child's mother-the decencies had to be observed. When the tavern keeper turned back, the eyes that had been coldly defiant were wet with tears. When he spoke it was in his own language; it took a moment for him to shift back into English, and the accent was stronger when he did:

"For this: this gift of my son: " He sank to his knees. "I give myself to your judgment, Lord Bear. Let me be punished, not the rest here; they only did as I told them."

Havel nodded again in approval; it was well said, although the man didn't have much choice in the matter, considering how many troops were on hand. He took off his mail-backed gauntlets and tucked them into his belt before standing with his feet planted apart and his left hand on the hilt of his backsword.

"We found your son in a cage and a good deal else in Crusher's camp, Sarian," he said. "So, you weren't feeding strangers to them because you wanted to. You still did it, and they're still dead, or worse."

Inwardly: If I'd been in Crusher's boots, I'd have made you take a share of the loot to get you in deeper. But I'm not Crusher, thank God. Aloud he went on: "You admit I've the right to hang you? It's certainly what the families of the dead would want." Sarian nodded silently, bowing his head.

"Then hear my sentence," Havel said coldly. "You settled and built this place, Arvand Sarian, but now it's mine. You'll hold it from me, and be my man in all things. You and all yours; and your heirs will do the same for mine. This is now the northern border of Bearkiller territory and you're subject to the Outfit. Understood?"

The heavy swarthy face blinked at him in astonishment, then nodded with a quick decisive movement, fighting down a grin. "Yes, Lord Bear. I hear, and I will obey."

He held out his hands, palms pressed together; that showed he had some knowledge of Bearkiller custom. Havel held up his right, palm out, for a moment.

"Just a minute, Sarian. Up until now, you haven't owed me a thing. Once you swear, you will. They say every dog gets one bite; you've already had yours. Now you'll be ru

This time Sarian smiled. "I've heard you're a bad man to cross, but also a man of your word," he said. "That seems to be true."

Havel took the other's hands between his. Sarian knew the Outfit's pledge; few who kept their ears open wouldn't, in this part of the Valley. The form for an ordinary dweller in the Outfit's territory was different from an A-lister's, although anyone who knew Astrid Larsson would have seen her fingerprints on both:

"I, Arvand Sarian, pledge obedience and loyalty to the Bear Lord. I will pay his tax and keep his peace, heed his laws and his appointed officers, follow him in war and in peace with arms and council, I and my blood after me. So I swear. So witness earth. So witness sky."

"I, Michael Havel, pledge in the name of the Bearkiller Outfit and my own honor that from me Arvand Sarian shall have fair justice and good lordship, protection and aid at need; and so long as he keeps faith with me, he shall keep holding of all that is his, no man compelling him, he and his heirs after him. So I swear. So witness earth. So witness sky."

The Bearkillers watching gave a cheer. Sarian rose, and chuckled: "So, my lord, I suspect your first command is that I feed all these," he said, waving a hand around at the gathering. "I can. We baked today, and there are the hams, we butchered a beef yesterday and I can slaughter a couple of shoats for ribs and chops, chickens: "