Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn

here for us and for all our world. Very great danger. Not just today, but for many years to come. So long as we do not help these peoplegain a peaceful purpose and clearer vision, we are allowing their world to remain a breeding ground for terrorists.”
    He looked through the dirty window and continued, “Some people out there seek to take advantage of this misery. They use the guise of their faith to preach of hate and pain and death. Them I oppose—with all that I have, with all that I am.”

7
    On the evening of the second day, Wade’s truck crested a rise to find several hundred campfires flickering in the distance.
    Within another hour the trucks had wound their way into an encampment filled with roaring engines, shouting men, diesel fumes, dust, the smoke of cooking meat, and the bleating of animals. Wade wrestled the oversized steering wheel with numbed hands and followed Robards to an empty space. He backed his vehicle so that the rear was close to the escarpment, facing out toward the myriad of flickering shadows.
    Robards pulled in beside Wade, drawing so close the side fenders groaned as they meshed together. Then he cut his motor and said through his open window, “This way we’ll notice if somebody decides to pay us a visit.”
    Wade translated for the old man seated beside Rogue.
    â€œTell the warrior that Chechen traders will come by with food and drink and eyes hunting the unwary. It would be best if I spoke for us.”
    â€œTime to either fish or cut bait,” Robards said when Wade had translated. “You want to trust him with our lives?”
    â€œWhy are you asking me?”
    â€œBecause it’s your show, Sport. You’re what they call the payer. But if you want the advice of your payee, I’d say let the old man handle this.”
    Wade called through the open window to where the old man sat beside Robards, “We would be grateful for your assistance, uncle.”
    Without further speech, Mikhail pulled the gun from behind his seat and slid from the truck. He walked out in front, cradled the gun across his chest, and settled into the position of one accustomed to waiting for hours. Light from neighboring fires turned the old man’s weapon the color of burnished copper.
    â€œCome on, Sport,” Rogue called, sliding from his truck. “Let’s see to the grub.”
    Following Robards’ lead, Wade set up camp in a small hollow behind the two trucks. From his kneeling position he watched under the high-riding wheels as three pairs of scruffy legs approached the old man. One of the newcomers led a bleating sheep by a rope bridle. “Visitors,” he whispered.
    â€œI hear,” Rogue replied softly from inside the back end of his truck. “Can you catch what they’re saying?”
    â€œNo.”
    The men squatted down by Mikhail, and their faces came into view beneath the truck. All of the strangers were of a type—black hair and unkempt beards and vests with bullet pockets and the knit skullcaps of the mountain Chechen. Their guns fit their hands with the ease of a lifetime’s practice. As glittering black eyes searched him out, Wade dropped his gaze to the flickering cooker. “They see me.”
    â€œGood,” Rogue said for his ears alone. “Here, take this.”
    Wade accepted their three bedrolls, set them down, then took the extras Rogue had insisted they pack in case the others became wet. “What are you doing?”
    â€œNo need for them to know how few we are,” Rogue said. “Spread the beddings out. I’ll just stay up here out of sight for a while.”
    Wade did as he was told, saw that his motions were followed by the men up front. He pretended a calm he did not feel and did his best not to look their way. He poured water from one of the drinking canisters into a pot and set it on to boil. The hollow where he worked was formed by a very large tree stump. The knee-high