<strong>Havel</strong><br/><br/>"Sonuvabitch," Havel mutters when he feels the mess that ought to be Yankee's arm. He starts feeling sick down in the pit of his stomach; if he couldn't ride, Yankee was going to spend the rest of his days in Gomorrah, whether the Company stuck around or not. The best he could hope for was being a permanent contact in town, supported by the gang but no longer a true Company Man. Another problem was that it just plain felt like shotgun damage, and he hadn't seen any of the cultists packing that sort of heat. Worry about that later, first see to Yankee.<br/><br/>While he was wrapping a thick pad of clean linen from his own kit with a strip of cloth from Morgan's, he heard the approaching bikes but let it go until the bandage was knotted down tight. "That'll stop the bleedin'," he said, to himself as much as to the wounded man. Settling back on his haunches, he turned his head slowly from side to side, trying to figure out which direction the gang was coming from. If he'd been facing towards town when they'd stopped, walked forward towards the cultists... Yeah, they had to be coming from town. At least five, maybe as many as ten. That'd be the boys, at least a few, heading back to the laager. Probably to help Loper and Scribe hold down the fort; smart move.<br/><br/>Standing up as they get close, Havel waves one hand up in the air over his head to attract their attention, letting them know to slow down and stop before they started skidding and slipping all over the place.