The man’s clothing confirmed what Gordon remembered from those blurred seconds of the attack. At least his assailants weren’t wearing army surplus camouflage… the trademark of Holn survivalists.

They must be just regular, run of the mill, may-they-please-roast-in-Hell bandits.

If so, then there was a sliver of a chance the plan glimmering in his mind just might accomplish something.

Perhaps.

The first bandit had Gordon’s all-weather jacket tied around his waist. In his right arm he cradled the pump shotgun Gordon had carried all the way from Montana. “Come on!” the bearded robber yelled back up the trail. “That’s enough gloating. Get that stuff together and move it!”

The leader, Gordon decided.

Another man, smaller and more shabby, hurried into view carrying a cloth sack and a battered rifle. “Boy, what a haul! We oughta celebrate. When we bring this stuff back, can we have all the ‘shine we want, Jas?” The small robber hopped like an excited bird. “Boy, Sheba an’ the girls’ll bust when they hear about that lil’ rabbit we drove off into the briar patch. I never seen anything run so fast!” He giggled.

Gordon frowned at the insult added to injury. It was the same nearly everywhere he had been — a postholocaust callousness to which he’d never grown accustomed, even after all this time. With only one eye peering through the scrub grass rimming his cleft, he took a deep breath and shouted.

“I wouldn’t count on getting drunk yet, Brer Bear!” Adrenaline turned his voice more shrill than he wanted, but that couldn’t be helped.

The big man dropped awkwardly to the ground, scrambling for cover behind a nearby tree. The skinny robber, though, gawked up at the hillside.