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The biker answered a hoot from one of the wreckers with a wave of his leather cap, and turned his bike back for the road.
Somehow the Jaguar rose again, a thin spear lodged in a grooved thrower. Valentine brought up the Steyr and sighted on the dark blotch of armpit hair under the Jaguar's raised right arm. The gun boomed, startling more crows.
Valentine didn't watch the effect of his shot. Instead he scanned for more threats.
Valentine watched the misthrown spear change trajectory, from straight up to straight down. The biker glanced over his shoulder, turned his bike again, and made for the spot where the Jaguar fell. He raised himself in the saddle and bumped over the body in a figure-eight pattern, making sure this time. Valentine scanned the countryside, wondering if the wounded warrior had been sacrificed to draw the biker into a trap, but no other threats emerged from the brush and cacti.
With the killing that couldn't quite be labeled a skirmish over, Valentine waved the Rover forward, and Salsa gave the okay for the wreckers to come up.
Valentine grabbed a bungee cord and a shovel off a bracket on the back hatch of the Rover. Using the bungee around the ankles, he pulled the bodies one by one off the road, lining them up in the median. When the corpses were lined up, he loosened some soil with the
pick end of his worm hook and threw loose dirt over the butchered collection.
Swell rinsed his mouth out with a canteen and spit onto the front windscreen. Zuniga activated the wipers. "You don't mean to bury all those bodies?"
"I do", Valentine said.
The bikers roared up, curious. "Hell, man, the birds and coyotes will take care of them with a lot less sweat", the fat one with the beard said.
Valentine ignored him.
The one who had chased after the Jaguar, a lean, greasy-haired man who looked as though he'd crossed New Mexico dragged by the bike rather than in the saddle, put his bike on its stand. "Coot, be a mensch for once", he growled. "Have a little respect".
The biker slid into the median and took up the pick. "Name's Loring", he said. "Zeb Loring".
"Max Argent", Valentine said. "Mucho gusto".
"Aye-yup", Loring said.
"Never met a Zeb before", Valentine said. "That short for Zebulon?"
Loring had his share of scars. His leathers were carefully stitched up, his face much less so. "My father never made it much past Genesis in the Bible. Mom was a rabbi outta New York. It was a compromise".
They moved on to another body. Valentine rolled a rock using his shovel as a lever. "You're a long way from the East".
"Aye-yup. You too, looks like. Those are Kentucky legworm leathers".
"That they are".
"Always thought those beasties were grand. You don't have to feed them gas and oil".
"Ever rode one?" Valentine asked.
"Naw. Too slow. I like to be on something that can outrun those damn golems".
Valentine grunted agreement. "Hey, lookit that", Loring said. He leaned the pickax against his knee and pointed up.
Valentine saw aircraft, in three groups, flying high toward the southwest.
"I bet Denver got hit again. That's the Flying Circus. They range all over the Southwest, set up temporary airfields on old roads".
"Pyp's Flying Circus?" Valentine asked, shading his eyes to take a look at the craft. He guessed they were at above ten thousand feet.
"That's what they're called. I saw a couple of them in their fancy leathers in a bar in Nogales once. Aye-yup. They're not ones for staying put either".
"What are you going to do when we hit LA?" Valentine asked.
"Celebrate. Then we might head up the valley to wine country. They do a few runs a year over the mountains to the Missouri and Arkansas riverheads. Good money guarding wine, and a flask out of the supply cask really makes dinner an experience". He mumbled a few words as Valentine covered a corpse with a thin layer of dirt. Valentine stood silent.
