Spiritwalk by Charles De Lint Page A

ahead, leaving them all behind.
    4
    Weasel laid his head back against the steps of the farmhouse, grinning as he watched Shotgun and Ruthie getting ready to go at it. He looked like his namesake, lean and dangerous, with a knife-hilt protruding above the top of either boot, thin brown hair and a long scar that ran down the side of his left cheek.
    Man, those girls were like a pair of cats, he thought. Always at each other’s throats. Shotgun was a big blonde, jeans fitting like a second skin, her large breasts jostling in a torn T-shirt that was a couple of sizes too big. Ruthie was small and dark-haired, built almost like a boy, but who cared, the way she’d go down on a guy—any guy, so long as he had the Dragon colors on the back of his vest.
    “Two-to-one Shotgun gets creamed,” Beard said from behind him. He was like a Tennessee mountain man, a wild thatch of dirty blond hair sprouting everywhere. Even his arms and shoulders were covered with a pelt of hairy growth.
    “Come on,” Weasel said. “All she’s got to do is smother Ruthie with her tits.”
    “You been counting how much brew Shotgun’s been putting back today?”
    Before Weasel could respond, they all heard the roar of engines coming up the road. The two women looked away from each other.
    “Guess the boys are...” Beard’s voice trailed off as a string of motorcycles turned into the yard. Not one of the riders was wearing colors.
    Weasel stared, jaw hanging slack. He lost count of how many bikes there were after the first fifteen or so. There had to be twice that number. And then three pickup trucks pulled up in the rear.
    “What the fuck?” he muttered, standing up.
    Shotgun and Ruthie drifted toward the porch, their fight forgotten. Beard stood up and was joined by the rest of the Dragons inside the farmhouse.
    We are in deep shit, Weasel thought as he did a quick calculation as to how many bodies they could field against this invasion. The roar of bikes was like thunder in the farmyard. Then, one by one, the riders shut their machines down. In the forefront, a woman in black leather revealed a frizz of blond hair as she took off her helmet. With the helmet off, Weasel had no trouble recognizing her.
    “You tired of living, Judy?” he asked.
    Recovering from his surprise, he swaggered over to where she straddled her bike. She gave him a cold stare back, then jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
    “It took me an hour to get this crew together,” she said. “Give me a little more time and I can put together three times this many.”
    “You got some kind of a problem?” Weasel asked.
    Beard was standing beside him now, the other Dragons spreading out across the yard, but Christ, there were only twelve of them here, including the women. Course they had the guns, if some of these dumbfucks were smart enough to bring ’em out. He shot a quick glance to either side and was happy to see that at least Danny and Stern had used their heads. Danny was carrying a repeat shotgun, Stern a hunting rifle. He could see that Judy hadn’t missed the weapons either.
    “Let’s keep this real simple,” she said. “Eddie Chance and Joey Martin snatched Blue’s girl. We want her back.”
    Weasel started to laugh, but she cut him off.
    “Think about it, asshole,” she said. “You want the city closed off to you?”
    “Somebody been feeding you happy pills?” Weasel asked. “Fer-crissakes, you’d think—”
    “No garage or shop’ll deal with you. No bar’ll serve you.
    Every time you set up a deal, the man’ll be breathing up your ass. Are you starting to get the picture?”
    “Listen, bitch. You try to pull any of that shit and you’re dead meat.”
    Judy put her bike up on its kickstand, and got off. Tossing her helmet onto the ground, she walked right up to Weasel.
    “Come on,” she said, a feral look in her eyes. “Let’s you and me get it on, Weasel.”
    She stood in front of him, relaxed, ready. Her face told him she didn’t give a