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"Serves me right for taking the wheel. I never was much of a driver."
Stuck spoke up. "Drake here is on her ladyship's-Well, we call them the ranch's sheriff's deputies. He keeps law and order among the hands and their families."
"Not popular work, sir, but it pays well," Drake said.
"Quite a dog you have there," Valentine said, looking at the beast's scarred muscle. "Can I pet it?"
"You can, sir, but I wouldn't advise it. I don't even pet him."
"How's she drive, Drake?" Valentine asked.
"Like steering a pig with handlebars shoved up its ass, but it'll get there and back," Drake said.
"Riot control platform, isn't it? I've seen these in Illinois."
"That it is, sir."
Stuck opened the small access hatch in the larger back door. "We've got it rigged out to carry injured in comfort."
The tunnellike inside was full of twelve folding bunks attached to the walls of the vehicle, as well as seats along the walls: cushioned lockers. The bunks blocked some of the firing slits but not the cupola.
The machine guns looked more frightening from the outside, thanks to the big barrels. Inside, they were revealed to be assault rifles rigged out with box magazines. Still, firepower is firepower.
"What's up top? A broomstick?" Valentine asked.
"Oh, the gun's real enough," Drake said. "Twenty millimeters of lead that'll turn any breathing target into dog meat, from a Reaper to a legworm."
"Dogs know better than to eat off a dead Reaper," Stuck said.
Next in line was the Chuckwagon. It was a standard military truck with an armored-up cabin, a mounted machine gun at the back, and a twin-tank trailer dragging behind. The paint job and new tires made Javelin's venerable and road-worn Comanche look like the tired old army mule she was. The Chuckwagon towed a trailer with two big black tanks on it.
The hood was up on this one, and a plump behind wiggled as a woman in overalls inspected the engine.
"Ma," Stuck shouted. "There's someone needs meeting."
"Busy here."
"You're never that busy. Come out of there."
A plump, graying woman hopped down from the front bumper. She wiped her hands and gave a wave Valentine decided to interpret as friendly gesture instead of sloppy contempt.
"This is Ma, one of the ranch's roving cooks. Ex-Southern Command and ex-Logistics Commando, she's our expert on Tennessee and Kentucky."
"Really only know it to the Tennessee River, but from the Goat Shack to Church Dump, I've been up and down her. My specialty was likker, of course, but I traded in parts and guns too."
Valentine nodded. "I'll put you to work on this trip. We need medical supplies and-"
" 'Scuse me, sir, but I don't know medicinals; never had much of a mind for 'em. Too easy to get stock-shuffled or wheezed or lose it all in the old Bayou flush. Easier to spot a true rifle barrel or bourbon from busthead."
Finally, there was the Boneyard, a military ambulance truck. It had the same basic frame as the Rover, with a longer back end and higher payload bay. A bright red cross against a white background decorated its hood and flanks.
"Doc and the nurse are helping out in your hospital," Stuck said. "The driver's name is Big Gustauf, old Missouri German. My guess is he's eating. Never was a Bear as far as I know, but he's got the appetite of one."
Valentine paced back up the column and found the matriarch who'd assembled all this to bring her boy home. "I'd like to congratulate you on your column, Mrs. O'Coombe."
She offered a friendly tip of the head in return for the compliment. "When we were young my husband and I ranched right into Nomansland," she said. "Hard years. Dangerous years. I knew what to bring on such an expedition."
"I hope your care obtains results."
