Culquhoun bound a towel to his rifle barrel and waved it through the front door. After what seemed like a long time, a voice outside said: "Okay, if yuh wanna talk, go ahead."
"Cover me," murmured Culquhoun, stepping onto the porch. Looking around his shoulder, Arch made out three of the invaders, with their troop standing in tired, slumped attitudes some yards behind. They didn't look fiendish, merely worn and hungry.
"Okay, pal," said the leader. "This is O'Farrell's bunch, and we're after food and shelter. What can yuh do for us?"
"Food and shelter?" Culquhoun glanced at the trucks. "You seem to've been helping yourselves pretty generously already."
O'Farrell's face darkened. "What'd yuh have us do? Starve?"
"You're from the Boston area, I suppose. You could have stayed there."
"And been blown off the map!"
"It hasn't happened yet," said Culquhoun mildly. "It's not likely to happen, either. They have organized relief back there, you didn't have to starve. But no, you panicked and then you turned mean."
"It's easy enough for yuh to say so. Yuh're safe. We're here after our proper share, that's all."
"Your proper share is waiting in Boston," said Culquhoun with a sudden chill. "Now, if you want to proceed through our town, we'll let you; but we don't want you to stay. Not after what you've been doing lately."