Lord of Order Brett Riley (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📖

the dump, food and water and weapons, even a few well-stocked shelters. They needed to inspect those caches. Plus, Troubler scouts estimated the wall’s builders would meet near the dump. The territory had to be scouted, a strategy hatched, yet he did not want to leave. It was peaceful here, more than anywhere he had ever been. In a place like this, a man might repudiate the life he inherited with his office. He might wash the blood from his eyes and turn them back to the Lord.

I didn’t even realize how tired I was until I stopped movin.

Stransky was late. Perhaps she had decided to reschedule their inspection in favor of more training. The Troublers had always been guerillas, used to fighting from ambush in small pockets, and while those skills would be useful, only a larger, organized force could march on the Crusade’s positions. Troy had been instructing Troubler companies and regiments on military strategy while they glared at him or looked at him in awe, their enemy standing before them in the flesh and offering his open hand. Meanwhile, Stransky had taught him more about insurgent techniques than he had ever cared to learn.

It all seemed like a dream from which he would wake at any moment, safe in his bed.

He dozed on the porch for an hour. When he awoke, he was starving, but it was too hot to stoke the fire, and he did not want cold gumbo. Besides, from the movement down by the water, he would have little time. The gators were gone, but three canoes paddled toward the little dock. Stransky sat in the lead boat. Two people rode in each canoe, the middle one paddled by the giant Stransky called Bushrod. A hooded, bound man rode behind him.

By the time Troy limped to the dock, praying he would not slip and break his neck, Stransky and her companion—a thin, dirty woman with stringy blond hair and a faded, soiled sundress—had forced their way through the low-hanging tree limbs and thick vegetation providing the dock with natural cover. As the woman tied off Stransky’s boat, Bushrod plowed through the foliage by sheer force. He secured his boat and stepped onto the dock. Then he reached down and grabbed the hooded man by the arm, practically lifting him out with one hand. The third canoe was still docking as the rest of them climbed the hill.

What’s this all about? asked Troy.

Stransky nodded toward the prisoner. Some of my people brung him to me last night. Found him pokin around the edge of the Refuge, lookin for any Troubler he could find. She turned to the hooded man, raising her voice. And he’s goddam lucky they didn’t just blow his fuckin head off.

Troy pulled off the man’s hood. Norville Unger blinked in the sunlight, his hair askew, an old cloth shoved in his mouth. Troy would have been only a little more surprised if it had been Jonas Strickland himself. Seeing Unger in the bayou was like spotting a wild hog wearing a coat and necktie. Troy looked at Stransky and Bushrod and the others. When no one said anything, he removed Unger’s gag.

Still squinting, Unger worked his tongue around his mouth and spat out a white effluvium that was almost solid. Lord Troy, he croaked. Is it really you?

It’s me, Troy said, brushing hair from the old man’s face. What are you doin here?

Unger burst into tears. Oh, praise God. We dragged the river for three days. Everybody thought you was dead.

Troy squeezed his shoulder. Well, I ain’t. And I’m right glad to see you. He turned to Stransky. Untie him. Where would he run?

Stransky nodded at Bushrod, who removed Unger’s bonds. The sergeant fell to his knees and grasped Troy around the legs. I can’t believe it. You’re really here.

Troy grimaced as Unger jostled his bad knee. Two wiry men with bad teeth and sidearms walked off the dock, the last mariners. Troy pulled Unger to his feet. Don’t genuflect. I ain’t God. Unger hugged him so hard that Troy thought his ribs would break.

Jesus. I think that old fella’s in love, whispered one of the new arrivals.

Troy broke free of Unger and pushed through Stransky and Bushrod, ignoring the protests from his bum knee. He drew one of his pistols and struck the man across the head with the grip. The Troubler collapsed even as the other one tried to draw. Troy cocked his gun and stuck it in the man’s face, mashing his nose down like putty.

Norville Unger risked his life comin here, Troy said. Show him the respect he deserves, or I’ll make sure the gators eat good tonight.

The Troubler winced but said nothing. Stransky, her unnamed companion, and Bushrod had all drawn their weapons. Troy did not even look at them.

Lower that weapon, Stransky said. You done executed enough of us.

Troy increased the pressure on the man’s nose and spat. Fine, he said.

But then the Troubler grinned at him, showing blackened stumps of teeth, so Troy backhanded him across the nose with the pistol barrel. A sound like a thick twig snapping. The Troubler collapsed.

Bushrod jammed his pistol into Troy’s back, his voice deep and rasping. You heard what she said. Holster your weapon.

Troy gritted his teeth. Norville’s been true, and he ain’t never fired a shot at anybody. Does makin fun of an old-timer give all you big, bad outlaws a thrill?

Stransky grinned. Shit, Gabe. You’re full of kinky notions. Spend much more time out here and you’ll be talkin like me.

God forbid.

She cackled. Let’s get under that net. These skeeters are eatin me alive.

Troy holstered the gun. Bushrod holstered his. Then Troy helped the old man up the hill, both of them limping and huffing in the heat. Troy’s stomach grumbled.

As Unger eased into the good chair on the porch, Troy turned to Bushrod. I know it might be too much to ask of a man that needs to hogtie an elder just to keep him