The morning passed much as had the previous one. Leggy sat back in the shaded rear of the wagon, speaking with Raina and her son Tariq, Teddy practiced with his Bedouin flute, and John tried to ignore Derek's cruelty as the boy brutally whipped at the exhausted mule, pushing the tired animal beyond its endurance, forcing it slowly closer to Moses Spring, one haggard step at a time. John felt sympathy for the animal, and winced at each crack of Derek's cactus-branch switch and each lurch of the wagon as the poor mule stumbled.

The day passed uneventfully, each took their turns beating the poor mule while the others stared at the road ahead or the road behind.

Leggy heard it first, as the sun was just beginning to set, and quickly called for the others to quiet down and for Derek to stop the caravan. The mule, thankful for the interruption, lay down and rested its bloody hooves in the dusty road. Its eyes had long since taken on a glassy, myopic stare, and its breath came in struggled gasps and heaves. Derek honestly didn't know how much more the animal would be able to endure, but he was intent on beating every last inch out of the creature's sweaty hide--every step they could get out of the mule was that much closer to Moses Spring, and that much less humiliation for Teddy, should it come to the point where he must pull the wagon--though Derek was willing to abandon the caravan and the Bedouin hanger-ons to the scavengers, before seeing his brother reduced to a beast of burden.

John removed the spyglass from his pocket once the wagon had stopped, and raised it to his eyes. By now they could all hear the sound--a low rumble like distant thunder, constant, and marked with higher-pitched whines that reminded Derek of the constantly overheating generator that had been Leggy's charge back in San Muyammo, before the fuel had run out.

"What do you see?" Leggy asked, but John only shook his head. "It's like... I can't tell," he frowned. "Horses? A caravan?" He lowered the spyglass and handed it to the old man. "Whatever it is, it's kicking up a lot of dust. What is that sound?"

They all remained silent, listening to the growing pitch of the approaching mystery. "Horses?" Derek said. "It'd take a dozen horses--two dozen--to even come close to making a racket like that."

"Not horses," said Leggy, raising the spyglass to his eye. His jaw dropped, and his face went white. "Not horses," he repeated, "Motorcycles. At least two of 'em, maybe more. Fuck!"

John looked confused. "What are--"

"Not time," snapped Leggy, "We've got to move before they spot us. If they haven't already! Damn!"

They scrambled out of the caravan and off the side of the road. Teddy pushed Leggy's chair with such speed that the two front wheels lifted from the ground and the old man's hair blew back in the breeze. The ran for a small copse of tangled Joshua tree forty yards out into the desert.

When they reached the cluster of dead trees they dropped to the ground and did their best to remain out of sight.

"What are motorcycles?" asked John, envisioning angry stampedes and herds of some bizarre Wasteland creature. "Are they dangerous?" Leggy did not answer but raised a shushing finger to his lips.

"What about the caravan?" insisted John. "They'll see it!"

"Too late for that now," hissed Leggy. "With any luck they'll just pass it by and leave it alone. Or at very least think that it's been abandoned and not bother looking for us. Now shut the fuck up!"

John lowered his head just as the motorcycles hove into view. There were two of them-Leggy's ears had been correct. John's jaw dropped didn't know what to make of them. They were like horses, only faster, and seemingly covered in armor. That made a sound like the rusted old generator that had supported San Nuyammo, and John wondered if the things might possibly be machines. If so, that were like no machines that he had ever imagined. And the riders! John could not tell where the machines ended and the riders began. They were dressed entirely in black leather, with shiny patches of metal and mesh adorning their shoulders and chests. Their faces too, were covered-black masks with thin slits for eyes. Their heads were helmeted, large round bulbs of scuffed and dented steel, coming down low over their brows and the backs of their necks. On the left shoulder, each wore the only bit of color on them-three small ribbons, one blue, one red, and one white, dangled nearly to elbow length. Holding the ribbons to the shoulder, and pointing dangerously up into the air was a long, shining metal spike. and billowed in the wind behind them as the cruised to a halt a few yards from the caravan. The mule raised its tired head and regarded the men with wild, half-crazed eyes.

They dismounted, and John was relieved to see that they were indeed men, after all. They wore high leather riding boots and--John could not believe it--each had, not one but two rifles strapped to his back, and long sheaths hanging from each hip. His heart skipped a beat as one of the men climbed into the caravan and the other shielded hi eyes to the sun and peered off into the desert, directly where the group lay huddled.

The first man emerged from the caravan shaking his head. His friend pointed to the ground, and then moved his finger up to point directly toward the hiding group. With a shock, John realized that hey had left track as they hurried off the side of the road-that the wheelchair's rusty rims had dug ruts in the earth as Teddy had forced it forward. With desperate fear, John turned to look at Leggy, and was amazed to see that the old man was smiling.

Not only was he smiling, but his strong arms were actually maneuvering his chair out of the rut he'd been hiding in and out into open sight.

"Hey there!" he called, cupping his hands to his mouth when he was up on level grounds. He raised his arms into the air when the men looked over, and he called to them--"Ukmuk, Uk-hey!" Leggy began waving his arms side to side, like to trees swaying in the breeze--John was certain that the old man had gone made, or suffered a heatstroke. "Ugloooooo… Mooka-mooka, deeeeka, moooka!"

"Nick?" the man still held his arm out in front of him pointing. "Nickodemus? Holy Christ on a half-shell, is that you? We thought you was, we thought…" The man stopped hollering and instead began running toward Leggy, sprinting over the baked ground at great speed. He was surprisingly fast for all of the armor and leather he was swathed in, and did not appear even to break a sweat. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the biggest man (other than Teddy, but Teddy's mutation was unique John thought) that John had ever seen. Muscles rippled beneath leather, and his strong legs, as big around as logs, propelled him forward in leaps and bounds.

The man reached Leggy and stopped, while his friend remained back by the caravan watching. He'd placed his hands on his hips and had moved from action-ready awareness to a more relaxed posture, though John thought that he could still have his rifles out in the blink of an eye, if the need arose.

The man stopped short in front of Leggy's char, and his jaw dropped. His eyes fixed upon the empty seat where the old man's legs would have rested, and his face grew pale. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Ten he shook his head, breaking the spell-the look of shock left his face and he scooped Leggy up out of the chair, embraced him in a bear hug and began spinning around and around in circles. We thought you was… we thought we lost you, old man!"

"Easy there, Silas, easy," Leggy patted the huge man on the back. "Now you put me down and introduce me to your friends."

Silas gripped the old man in one more bear hug and held him for a moment before placing him carefully back into his chair. The he began to wheel him back towards the caravan. Leggy turned back and regarded Derek and John. "You boys stay put." Something in the old man's voice intoned that this order was not to be argued. Leggy's gaze moved over Teddy and Tariq, finally settling on Raina, who was crouched behind John. "Ma'am," he nodded. Then he turned and Silas wheeled him back toward the caravan.

Leggy spoke with the two men for nearly an hour, laughing and hooting and hollering. Eventually, one of the en began to untie the mule, while the other fixed the caravan's reigns to the motorcycles. Leggy waved for the group to come join them. As they approached the caravan, Silas looked over at them. "You're mighty lucky to have Nickodemus for a leader," he stated, matter-of-factly.

Leader? Derek opened his mouth to correct him, but was cut off by Leggy-the old man spoke in a commanding tone that Derek would not have thought him capable of. "Don't speak to them," he said. "Get in the wagon."

Silas grinned at Derek and winked. 'I don't mind if you talk to me,' that wink indicated, 'but he's the boss… He's the boss and you'd better listen up, 'cause he just might save your asses,' the wink said. Derek bit his tongue and climbed into the wagon.

Silas's friend, who had not introduced himself, shooed the mule off the side of the road, and tossed a bacon rind into the desert after letting the animal sniff it. After a moment, the tired, stubborn animal got the idea and followed. Then the two climbed onto their motorcycles, started them up, and they were off.

At first the sound of the motorcycles was deafening, but once they began to move and the reign shad stretched out giving them some distance, they were able to speak.

Leggy spoke first, cutting off the questions that rose to everyone's lips. "They're friends of mine," he said "at least Silas is. Never met Corrin, but he seems able-bodied. Theyre good people, friends, but they're serious and don't take kindly to tribals. You boys would do well to keep outta their way."

"Tribals!?" Derek rebelled at the derogatory label, "Who the hell do they think--"

"I'm not joking," Leggy grinned. "You got a beef about it, go ahead, take issue with them. See if I didn't warn you…" Derek shut his mouth. He'd just as soon climb naked into a bug hole than start a fight with two men who rode motorcycles and carried multiple rifles on the their backs.

"But who are they?" asked John in a somber tone.

"And how the hell do you know them?" Derek added, bitterly.

"Well, used to be they called themselves Paladins. But that was a long time ago. I didn't think they were around any more these days, and I'd be surprised if they still called themselves that. They were heading out his way to take care of that bug nest, Seems folks in Moses Spring already knew about it and was concerned."

"But how do they know you?" John pressed.

"It's getting late," Leggy said quietly, and yawned. We'll talk more about it tomorrow." The other protested, but the old man would divulge no more on the topic. "Tomorrow," he said and closed his eyes, "I've gotta think this thing through."

As John began to drift off to sleep, a million questions floated through his mind. And in the last moments before consciousness eased itself comfortably away for the night, he realized that the motorcycle-men--the Paladins--were not stopping to sleep.

They rode all night, pulling the caravan behind them, and didn't stop until the sun peeked above the eastern hills.

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