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He turned his senses to the camp, trying to get a sense of the rhythms of the headhunters.
They were singing. Three of the men were passing a bottle, falling out and joining in the tune between swigs, taking turns improvising rhyming lyrics in old-style rap.
The sentry sat in a tree overlooking the bowl-shaped field and soggy patch, within hallooing distance of the camp.
The safety went back on the little .22, for now. Valentine guessed why they put the youth on watch. Young men had good eyesight, especially at twilight. He'd probably be relieved by a veteran for the late shift. The boy was alternately yawning and chewing on bits of long grass root, glancing back toward the camp for signs of his relief.
Valentine balanced the chances of the young man doing something stupid against the possibility of using the kid to get into camp armed with some bargaining power. If Valentine just approached the poachers, they'd have him facedown in the dirt until they secured his weapons, at the very least.
Valentine wormed his way up to the trunk from downwind, using a mixture of crawling and scuttling during the sentry's frequent glances back to look for his relief.
The relief sentry started his walk uphill to the lookout tree, holding a heavy, swaddled canteen by its strap.
Valentine loosened his sword and pocketed the automatic, grateful that he hadn't had to use it. He shifted to his submachine gun, double-checking the safety.
The boy, anticipating his relief, clambered down from the scrub oak. Valentine slipped up behind.
Valentine moved quickly, clapping a strong left hand over the kid's mouth and elevating the kid's wrist to his shoulder blade with the right.
"Don't crap yourself, kid. I'm not a Reaper. But I could have been. I want you to remember that when we get back to your campfire sing-along. I could have been. What's your name?"
"Trent. Sunday Trent," the boy sqeaked.
"Sunday? Like after Saturday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Knock off the 'sir,' boy. I'm not some local trooper you have to polish. They call me the Last Chance."
Valentine couldn't say why he picked the name. One of the Moondaggers had called himself that. An emissary sent to deliver threats and ultimatums, he hadn't intimidated the Southern Command's troops-the quickest way to get their backs up was to start making demands and informing them they were beat.
Valentine thought of tying the kid's hands-he had spare rawhide twine in a pocket, as it had lots of uses around camp-but settled for looping his legworm pick in the back of the boy's pants and prodding him along with the haft. Less aggressive that way and it kept Valentine out of elbowing distance in case the boy made a gesture born more of desperation than inexperience.
Being careful about others' actions as much as your own was how you stayed alive on Vampire Earth.
"Sunday, I need to talk to the boss of-What do you call yourselves, a gang?"
"Easy Crew, sir. Blitty Easy's Crew."
"Which one's Blitty Easy?"
"The one with the tall hat, sir."
Valentine thought of giving the kid a poke the next time he said sir.
"Call me Chance, Sunday."
"The one with the hat, Chance bo-Chance."
The use of names was relaxing the kid a little.
They met the relief sentry on the way, a man with no less than nine Old World jujus around his neck, a mixture of car manufacturer iconography and bandless watch faces. Valentine recognized a Rolex and Bulova dangling from gold chains. Valentine remembered some of the decorations as Gulf Coast Reaper wards.
"Keep your mouth shut, Sunday," Valentine said.
"That watch post has blind spots right and left," Valentine called. He kept Sunday Trent between himself and the sentry as they passed.
The relief looked distinctly unrelieved at the news.
