By midaftemoon mother and child had been carefully laid in the ground. Bonner felt sad that the burial had to be so mean. He had nothing to use as a shroud and not being an eloquent man he could think of no meaningful words to pronounce over her grave. He had to content himself with a silent promise of vengeance—but he knew that meant nothing to the souls that had once occupied the broken bodies now resting in the cold ground. Revenge was something that only satisfied the living.

One of the Mean Brothers heard it first. Bonner was standing over the newly turned earth and the sound didn't quite register in his thoughts. One of the Means tapped him on the shoulder and Bonner tore himself from his melancholy meditations and listened.

Far off, down the road they had already traveled, came the sounds of what sounded like a huge swarm of motorized hornets. The screaming of engines split the afternoon sky—it grew louder with the passing of every second. The engines that produced the banshee wail were small and running hot. Even the kids could tell that they were not sounds produced by deep-booming Harley pan- and knuckleheads or big cylinder machines like Bonner's. The wild whine shattered the air. The kids looked bewildered and tense as if poised, ready to run. The Means looked down the road then over at Bonner. If he said "danger" they were ready to stand and fight.

A slight smile played on Bonner's face. "Don't worry kids," he said. "There's only one pack of riders that makes a racket like that. And they're on our side." Or, thought Bonner, most of the time they are.

"Who are they?" asked Emily.

"You'll see." He turned to the Mean Brothers. "We're going to have a little company." And Bonner had to admit to himself that he was glad of it. The visitors were a very tough set of bring downs, probably some of the toughest, meanest riders on the road. If they chose to come along after the slave column Bonner would be glad to have them.

One of the Mean Brothers was looking enquiringly at Bonner, as if to say "who?"

"They're called the Lash," said Bonner.

A second or two later the first bikes wailed into view. A moment later there were two dozen more. A second after that they had screeched to a halt around Bonner and his odd party. The Mean Brothers and the kids stared at their visitors and the visitors stared back. It was hard to say who was more surprised.

Not one of the two dozen riders was over four feet tall. That weird convention of bikers that had come down the road so suddenly was made up exclusively of midgets and dwarves, probably every last surviving miniature human on the continent rode with the Lash.

The bikes they rode were old scooters and boonie bikes, light, low-capacity machines that wouldn't have carried a full grown man too fast anywhere. But the light members of the Lash got hold of them and chopped them down and souped them up and made sure that they moved like mosquitoes on the highway. The Lashmen were experts with their little machines and they knew every secret for getting every ounce of power, for pulling each extra sliver of power from their hot little engines.

Every rider wore a couple of weapons. Big Browning, Winchester, and Marlin rifles, most taller than their owners, were slung over their broad, squat backs. Mammoth Smith and Wesson and Colt handguns were strapped to their thick, misshappen thighs. Bowie knives were stuck into belts and machetes trailed between their legs like tails.

They were grizzled, dirty, wrinkled, mean small men. Bonner had known some full-sized riders who had made the mistake of thinking that the Lashmen's small size meant that they were easy marks. Those guys were dead now. They died without really ever figuring out what hit them. The Lash had a motto and they stuck to it: "Fuck with us and we'll kill you." It wasn't exactly eloquent but it was true.

"I seen that big rig of yours two miles off," said the tallest of the Lash. "Knew it was you right off. And a good thing too or me and the boys would have come in blasting, Bonner."

"I'm glad of that," said Bonner. The little guy who had spoken was obviously the leader. He rode an old Vespa scooter with the wigs sheared off and with two exhaust pipes swept up behind him high above his red-fuzz-covered head. He jumped off his perch and rested two knotty fists on his hips. He looked coolly at Bonner who towered over him. There were two long barreled weapons on his back. One was some kind of over-and-under shotgun that looked like it was about two hundred years old and a nice old Winchester lever action.

"So how you doing, Floyd," asked Bonner, reaching down to take the leader's hand.

"Shit," said Floyd in his gravelly voice. He paused and hocked about half a pint of slime onto a broken roadbed. "Shit. Just shit, man. Same old shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. You know."

Bonner smiled. "Know all about it, Floyd."

"Who the fuck are the mountains?" demanded Floyd, looking at the Mean Brothers—although given the size of Floyd he could have been referring to Bobby and Emily who were tall for their age.

"Mean Brothers," said Bonner, "I want you to meet Floyd and his riders, known as the Lash of the Little People. And that's Bobby and Emily, friends of mine . . ."

"Kids? You traveling with kids? What kind of pecker-brained idea is that?"

"We're looking for their mother and father," said Bonner.

"You gettin' as soft as a fuckin' pimp." said Floyd spitting again.

Emily was beaming at the tiny men that were spread out around her. "They're so cute," she said delightedly. "I want to pick one up."

Floyd spun on his heel. The red fur on his ears and head seemed to stand up in anger. His pale blue eyes blazed. He strode over to the girl and fixed his angry glare at her.

"Okay bitch, listen up. We ain't cute, we ain't funny. We ain't no motherfuckin' elfs and we ain't no fuckin' fairies. We ain't little kids, we ain't tiny-teeny little fuckin' happy little guys who sing stupid fuckin' tittle songs. We are about the meanest fuckin' pack of riders this side of radlep territory. Got it?"

"Sorry," said Emily and giggled behind her hand.

"Don't be tough on the kids," said Bonner.

"Good fucking thing they're with you or I would have blasted her in half."

"They don't mean no harm," said Bonner.  

"Piss me off," said Floyd.

The Lashmen had all dismounted. Some were stretching after their long ride, others had wandered off the road to relieve themselves. A few clustered around the Mean Brothers and were looking up at them as if the Brothers were two great, tall trees.

One of the Lashmen looked deep into the Mean Brother eyes and then announced with a sneer:

"You're not so fucking tough," then he spat at the Mean Brothers.

The Mean regarded him for a moment then reached down to grab the little guy's shirtfront. Out of the comer of his eye Bonner saw the Mean stoop to snatch up the midget.

"Hold it," shouted Bonner. The Mean froze midway towards the little man. Bonner knew the way of the Lash very well. They didn't like to be picked up and thrown around like dolls. They saw that kind of behavior as an attack—and an attack on one of the Lash was construed as an attack on all. The Mean Brother, of course, could have minced the midget in his hairy hands but he wouldn't have been able to withstand the concentrated firepower of two-dozen-odd guns fired all at once.

Bonner knew that the Mean had no intention of hurting the small man but the other Lashmembers didn't know that.

"These are friends," explained Bonner. "They don't mean no trouble."

The Mean Brother shrugged, as if to say, "I didn't mean no trouble."

"Fuck you," screamed the dwarf who had challenged, the Mean, "I don't need your help, Bonner."

"Shut your fucking yap," rapped Floyd. It seemed that Floyd alone could keep the little dervishes in hand.

A crook-backed midget, perhaps the ugliest of the bunch, although he did have considerable competition, crab-walked up to Emily. He tried to arrange his squashed features into something approaching an ingratiating smile. He succeeded only in displaying a not very appetizing collection of very black teeth.

"Hi," said the tiny man.

"Hi," said Emily, looking down as if from a great height.

"You can pick me up if ya wanna," he said.

"No, the other man said ..."

"Pay no attention to Floyd. He's just a dick. You are one pretty little doll."

He was Emily's first suitor and she blushed. She stiffened when he placed a callused hand on her soft pink knee.

"Don't," she said.

"C'mon girlie, lets just the two of us go for a little walk. 1 could really go for you ..."

"Rufus," barked Floyd.

Rufus withdrew his hand from Emily's knee as if her leg had suddenly turned red-hot.

"What?"

"Don't fuck with the little pussy."

Rufus slunk off, casting, as he went, lust-filled glances in Emily's direction.

"That little fuck is a cunt hound," said Floyd to Bonner.

"I'll leave it to you to keep him away from her." It was always wise to let the Lashmen police each other. "But I tell you, if he bothers her ..."

"Calm down, Bonner. I'll see that Rufus don't bother your little puppy. I can't stand the shit . . . Besides, what makes you think that were gonna be around that long?"

"Thought there might be a chance that we would ride together."

"You got a target in mind?"

"You heard of Almost Normal?"

"Heard of it," said Floyd, "never been there."

"And you never will," said Bonner flatly. "It's gone. A bunch of slavers took it down a couple of days ago."

"What kinda slavers."

"I figure Devils. They took just about everybody in the town. They took the kids' mother and father . . . Friends of mine."

"So they fucked with your friends and you are going to fuck with them, right?"

"Something like that."

"What's in it for us?"

"You heard of Farkas?"

"Yep."

"Anything you can find on his farm, it's yours."

"You mean you want to attack Farkas' slave farm?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I want to do. Unless I can get to the column before they are inside it."

"What makes you think Farkas is behind the raid on the Normal place?"

"They were Devils. They ran in a big force. They're headed south. It all adds up to Farkas. ..."

"Farkas got some tough shit Devils around his place."

Bonner knew when it was time to launch a compliment and he tempered this one with a heavy dose of greed. "Tougher than the Lash? And if he has a lot of guns around, it stands to reason that he's got a lot to protect. Farkas is one of the richest guys around. I'm willing to give you anything he has," Bonner added with a grin.

"Still pretty tough," said Floyd.

"Maybe not." Bonner stirred the dust at his feet.

"You got a plan?"

"Not a plan exactly, an idea."

"What kind of idea."

"You ever heard of Farkas being hit?"

"Nope."

"Then he's probably not expecting it, is he?"

"Pra'bly not."

"The Lash might be able to give him a little trouble then, wouldn't you say?"

Floyd laughed. "Bonner, trouble is our business."

"So we ride together?"

"I'll ask the boys. They always have a say, you know?"

"Yeah," said, "I know." He also knew that the Lash would do anything Floyd told them to.

"What happens if we catch your friends in the column before they get to Farkas' place?"

"Then you have your choice," said Bonner.

"Choice of what?"

"We can hit Farkas' anyway. The deal stands. I'll help but the stuff is yours. Or . . ."

"Or . . ."

"Or I'll owe you one."

Floyd was impressed. Bonner never owed a man anything. But if he said he'd be there sometime in the future when the Lash needed him, Floyd knew that he meant it. It was common knowledge amongst the riders that Bonner always kept his word.

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