The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,6

Burns. “You’re kidding, right?”

Burns shrugged. “I know I wouldn’t touch that razor if my life depended on it. Anyway, this is your first crossing, innit?”

“Yeah,” said Dawson. With another double-take on Burns, he added, “Yes, Corporal.”

Burns chuckled again. He stepped back to look Dawson up and down, shaking his head.

Dawson said, “Why didn’t we send over the warjacks in their wagons?”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

“I said it was my first crossing, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” said Burns. He inclined his head toward the approaching ferry. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. All right, let’s get to it. You stand over there.”

Dawson moved to the spot Burns indicated, about ten feet to the side of the point where the Ferry docked with the riverbank.

“No,” said Burns. “A little to the right.”

Dawson took a few steps closer to the water’s edge.

On the path leading to the dock, Sam guided Gulliver toward the ferry. With every step of the heavy warjack, the earth shuddered. It left a trail of hound-sized divots in its wake. “A little to the left,” she said. “All right, crouch low. Step forward, careful.”

As Gully settled his full weight on the deck, the ferry tipped to the side, splashing the ferryman. He snatched the sopping-wet cap from his head and wrung it out.

“Gully, step on,” said Sam.

Gully moved his other foot onto the ferry. The sudden motion threw an ogrun-sized wave right where Dawson stood, drenching him from head to toe.

After Sam finished guiding Gully into a sitting position on the ferry, she shook her head at Burns, who lay on the ground holding his sides to keep them from splitting from laughter. “I told you to leave the hazing in town, Burns.”

“Yes’m,” gasped the big man. “I just couldn’t resist. This pup is too perfect!”

Sam turned to Dawson. “Don’t let Burns get to you,” she said. “Despite all appearances, he’s a good man in the field. Just think twice before letting him talk you into anything.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Dawson. He pulled off a boot and poured out a pint of river water. “Thank you, Captain.”

Sam nodded at him. “But seriously, don’t touch Lucille. If you do, even I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Only Sam and the boatmen traveled across with Gully. Even so, waves lapped up on deck, washing over their boots. As Dawson saw how heavily a single warjack weighed upon the ferry, understanding dawned on his face. “Ah!”

“Yeah,” said Burns. “You need a bigger boat to take the ’jack with the wagon. Now come on, kid.” Burns boarded one of the skiffs. Wary of another prank, Dawson followed. They and the remaining Devil Dogs reached the far side long before Sam reached the bank with Gully.

The rest was common labor, provided by soldiers, mechaniks, engineers, and drivers working side by side. The boys worked with the men until both ’jacks were secured in their wagons for transport. Four draft horses drew the supply cart, six drew Foyle’s, and eight drew Gully’s. Two riding horses followed the supply wagon, one saddled, one bareback. Dawson watched, brow furrowed, as the drivers removed the saddle from one and brushed him down while saddling the other.

Sam caught him watching. “Sometimes we need to send word in a hurry.”

“But we don’t have any reinforcements,” said Dawson.

“No. But there’s always the chance we’ll end up in a fight we can’t win,” said Sam. “When that day comes, I want people to know that the Dogs faced it with courage.”

Dawson looked at her, but her face betrayed no sign of mirth.

Except for the mechaniks, who rode with their warjacks, those who weren’t driving walked before, beside, or behind the wagon train. Even Sam, Lister, and Crawley went on foot.

The soldiers looped their chains around cleats on the wagon sides, their pick axes hanging beneath, leaving both weapons accessible in case of sudden action. They carried their rucksacks on their backs, slug guns cradled in their arms.

Dawson began walking beside Burns. After they crested a gentle hill, he turned to say something only to see Smooth standing in his place. Burns had jogged over to a stand of bushes to lighten his load.

Smooth ran his straight razor up his throat, angling it with care across the ridge of his jaw. He wiped the blade against his leather bracer and smiled at Dawson’s wet clothes. “I see you’ve been anointed.”

Dawson offered a game smile in return. He squinted, seeing hardly any stubble on Smooth’s neck. Still, the big man continued to shave. Dawson finally asked, “Aren’t