The Valley-Westside War

“Thanks.”

They both seemed casual about death. How much of it had they seen before? How much had they dealt out? Liz 's stomach did a slow lurch as she thought about that.

And then her heart leaped into her mouth, because the soldier- Dan -was banging on the front door and yelling, “Open up! Open up in the name of King Zev!”

Four

“Open up!” Dan shouted. “Open up in the name of King Zev!”

He didn't know what he would do if the people inside didn't. He couldn't shoot through the door, not with a bow and arrows. The windows were narrow, shuttered slits. Like most modern houses, this one rejected the street. It would have a courtyard inside from which to draw light and air.

He might start a fire if the people inside proved stubborn. That would fix them. Trouble was, it might fix them too well- them and all their neighbors, and maybe the Valley soldiers, too. Starting fires was easy. Putting them out once they got going… That was a different story.

Back in the Old Time, there'd been underground pipes full of water. The pipes were still there. The water wasn't. You couldn't fight fires with buckets and cisterns, not if you expected to win. Everybody dreaded them.

And so Dan dropped any thought of arson, even if he was in the enemy's country. He banged on the door again, louder this time. “Open up!”

Sergeant Chuck had a gun. He could fire through the door if he felt like it. Would he? Dan doubted it. Why should this house be more important than any of the others around here?

Then, to Dan 's surprise, the door opened. A middle-aged man with glasses-not common these days, but not unknown- looked out at him. “Yes?” the fellow said in a mild voice. “What do you want?”

“Uh-” Dan felt foolish, which was putting it mildly. He'd been making noise and acting tough-that was all.

Chuck knew what was what. He pointed his musket at the local and growled, “Who are you? What have you got in there?”

“My name is Mendoza,” the man with the glasses answered. “I'm a trader. I'm a peaceable man. I don't want any trouble. All kinds of things are here. If you want them, take them. Things are just-things. They aren't worth getting killed over. I won't try to fight you.”

“Like you could,” Dan said scornfully.

But Sergeant Chuck was thoughtful. “He might cause trouble if he felt like it, Dan,” he said. Then he spoke straight to the trader: “You've seen the elephant once or twice, I expect.”

“Could be,” Mendoza said. “I've fought bandits. Not a lot of traders who haven't. But only a fool or a desperate man takes on soldiers.”

“Especially after they've won,” Chuck said.

“Yes, especially then,” the trader agreed. “So come in-you would anyhow.” He stepped aside. “Take what you want-you'd do that anyhow, too.”

His voice still easy and calm, the sergeant went on, “Suppose we don't just feel like plundering? Suppose we still feel like killing?” Dan didn't, and looked at Chuck in surprise. He'd had his fill of killing for a long time, maybe forever. But if the sergeant hadn't…

“I hope you won't, not in cold blood,” Mendoza replied, a certain bleak calm in his voice. “But if you do, well, if that wouldn't make me a desperate man, I don't know what would.”

How dangerous would he be in a fight? Maybe more dangerous than he seemed at first glance. He was worried, plainly. He might well be afraid. But he wasn't panicked-that seemed obvious. And anybody who could keep his head in a tight spot could cause a lot of trouble.

Was Sergeant Chuck making the same calculation? If he brought up his musket now, what would Mendoza do? What could the trader do?

Two or three more soldiers from the Valley pushed up behind Dan and Chuck. That made everybody relax. The trader might have had some chance against two men. Against so many more? Not a prayer, and he had to know it.

He did. With a sigh, he said, “Well, come on. Here's what I've got. I hope you'll leave me something when you're through.”

“You stay here, Jerry,” Chuck told one of the new arrivals. “Guard the door. Don't let anybody else in.” Jerry didn't look happy. Chuck slapped him on the back. “Don't get all bent out of shape, man. We'll share with you, and you won't get any less than these guys.” He didn't say anything about what he would get himself. He was a sergeant, so he was entitled to more. If you didn't believe it, you just had to ask him.

But his promise did make Jerry happy-or happier, anyhow. “Okay, Sarge. I guess that's fair,” he said.

The trader led the Valley soldiers from the entry hall out into the courtyard. Standing there were a woman about Mendoza 's age and another one who couldn't have been any older than Dan. “My wife and my daughter, Liz,” Mendoza said carefully. Even more carefully, he added, “They aren't loot. That's part of the deal.”

What could he do about it if Sergeant Chuck decided they were loot? He could get himself killed, that was what. But how much of a ruckus could he (and the women?-they looked uncommonly alert) stir up beforehand? Maybe Chuck decided he didn't want to find out, because he nodded and said, “Sure. Plunder's one thing, but that'd be something else.”

Dan nodded, too, toward Liz. “Hi,” he said. She might not be gorgeous, but she was a long way from ugly.

“Hello,” she said soberly.

“You're not, like, real friendly,” he said.

She shrugged. “I bet I'd like you better if you weren't robbing my house.”

She sounded polite and matter-of-fact, so he couldn't even get mad at her. She was telling the truth, too. One of the other soldiers had gone into a storeroom. He came out with a big grin on his face, a box in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. “They've got smokes, Sarge!” he exclaimed.

“Far out!” Chuck said. Tobacco was an expensive luxury. The Valley didn't grow much, because it needed land and water for crops that didn't just go up in smoke. But it traded for cigars and pipe tobacco when it could. Old people said the stuff wasn't good for you, but that didn't keep a lot of them from smoking. Dan figured other things were more likely to do him in than a cigar every once in a while.

When the other soldier gave him a handful of them, he stuck one in his mouth and the rest in a front pocket. Chuck had a flint-and-steel lighter. Dan leaned close to get his cigar started. It was a good one, the flavor fine and mild. He blew out a happy cloud of smoke. Then he offered Liz one of the other cigars.

“No, thank you,” she said, her voice still polite but now with an edge in it. “For one thing, I don't smoke. For another thing, don't you feel fu

His ears got hot. “I didn't think of it that way.”

“I guess not,” she answered. Three words, and she made him feel about three inches tall. Not even his mother could do that.

When the soldiers found bourbon and brandy, Chuck limited the plunder there to one bottle apiece. “We are not going to get too drunk to do our jobs,” he growled. “We are not-you hear me?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Dan chorused along with the rest of the men. Like most people, he drank beer or wine instead of water when he could get them. He would mix wine with water if he didn't have enough wine to drink by itself. Drinking water without something in it was asking for the runs.

But brandy and whiskey were a lot stronger than beer and wine. You had to make a pig of yourself to get drunk from beer or wine. Not with the distilled liquors. No wonder Chuck warned his men to go easy.

“What other goodies have you got?” the sergeant asked Mendoza.

With a sigh, the trader said, “I'll show you my cash box. You'd find it anyway.”

Chuck shared out the money. He took more than he gave any of the soldiers he led, but not a lot more. He eyed Mendoza. “This is all the bread you've got, right?”