Dies The Fire

Chapter Twenty-four

"L ord Jesus, Mike, these were a bad bunch did this," Will Hutton said quietly; his face was grayish.

They bore the last of the bodies out of the Clarke farmhouse wrapped in blankets. They could each carry one easily; neither corpse weighed more than fifty pounds. They'd found these in an upstairs bedroom. It looked as if they'd tried to hide under a bed, and been dragged out by the ankles-a small leg had been severed at the knee.

One still had a stuffed toy bear in a cowboy outfit in his hands when they found him; Havel had wrapped it with the body.

"Bad as I've ever seen," the Texan went on as they carried them out to where the gravediggers labored. "Bad as those crazy men north of Kooskia."

"Worse, Will," Havel said. "More of them, and better organized."

He didn't add: And dead is dead; it doesn't matter much what happens to the body. Hutton was a more conventional man than he, and Havel wouldn't willingly offend him.

And the skin between his shoulders crawled a little at the memory, anyway. It reminded him a little too much of stories he'd heard Grannie Lauder tell, stories of wendigo and mischepesu. Only those had been stories, something for a kid to shiver over while he sat on the floor in front of the fire. This had been unpleasantly real: and in the Changed world, who could tell what was real, anyway? Maybe there were man-eating spirits in the winter woods, now.

He didn't want to talk about that, either.

"Glad it's still coolish weather," he said instead.

The Clarkes had a family graveyard, in a patch bordered by pines and willows near the crest of the low hill to the west of the homestead. The first headstones marked Clarke were dated before 1914, but these would be the last of that line, he supposed.

More than twenty fresh graves doubled its size, and spadefuls of the wet black earth were still flying up; two Bearkillers helped stand guard, and another six helped Sheriff Woburn's posse dig, their armor and weapons draped across their saddles. The horses all grazed nearby, hobbled, rolling now and then. There was no point in keeping them out of the wheat.

Woburn called one of his men over, turning his back when he drew up a corner of each blanket so that only the two of them need see the faces.

"That's little Mort Williams, all right," the man said. "And Judy Clarke, old man Clarke's great-granddaughter, her parents came back from Lewiston right after the Change. Jesus wept."

"I don't doubt Mary did," Hutton said quietly, crossing himself; he'd become a Catholic to make peace with his wife's relatives, but it had taken.

"This the Devil Dogs' work, all right," Woburn said with frustrated anger leaking through the iron calm of his voice. "Worse than ever."

"Devil Dogs?" Havel said.

They stood back from the graves. He'd kept the gruesome work of wrapping the bodies for himself and Hutton while the younger Bearkillers dug. Sheriff Woburn had done the same, pitching in with the disgusting task, which put him up a notch in Havel 's view. He'd always respected an officer who was willing to share the unpleasant bits.

"Devil Dogs, the bikers," the lawman went on. "It's the gang's name. They broke away from the Hell's Angels years ago-thought the Angels had gone soft. Bunch of them were holding a meet at a motel south of Lewiston when the Change came. Iron Rod's their leader, I don't know his real name."

"Duke Iron Rod?" Havel enquired.

Woburn's face went crimson. "That's new the last little while. He's trying to extort protection money, I mean payments in food and supplies, from the ranchers and towns. Bastard's claiming to be Duke of the Camas Prairie!"

Havel's brows went up. Have to get the details on this, he thought. Doesn't sound right. Or: if it's our good friend Arminger prompting, it does sound right.

They'd seen plenty of petty theft and one-on-one violence in the first weeks after the Change, and hit-and-run banditry on an increasing scale since, plus what Ken Lars-son and Pam Arnstein and Aaron Rothman called incipient feudalism-strong-arm rule. That was mostly by local bossmen, though, and the more unscrupulous ranchers taking advantage of homeless, desperate city-dwellers and travelers as cheap labor.

This didn't quite make sense, not on a purely local basis.

He stood back respectfully and bowed his head with his followers when Woburn pulled a Bible from his saddlebags and began reading a service. He'd fallen away from the Lutheran faith of his ancestors himself, but he'd been raised among believers.

When the rest of Sheriff Woburn's little posse had ridden off towards their homes, Havel gave a short sharp. whistle.

The two Bearkillers who'd been riding sentry turned and moved the horses back towards the others. Those got each other into their gear-you could wiggle into a hauberk alone, but it went faster with help-saddled their mounts, and formed up in a column of twos. One at the rear led a packhorse with their picks and shovels.

"Got 'em well trained," Woburn remarked. "How many men-"

Signe Larsson looked at him in the act of putting on her helmet, then settled it and clipped on the chin cup. Gloria Stevens, the other woman present, snickered.

"-well, troopers, do you have?"

"We've got around a hundred adults now," Havel said. "Carefully picked. Not all of them have the heft or the inclination for a stand-up fight or to go along when we ride out like this, but things being the way they are, I try to give everyone some weapons training."

Including even utterly hopeless cases like Jane Waters and Rothman, he thought. But let's not talk about that now. Aloud he went on: "You may not plan on having the fight at home, but: "

Woburn nodded. "Yeah, the other guy sometimes has plans of his own, the dirty dog. I can see why you'd want all your people to know how."

"Your Kate Clarke would probably have wanted to know how, yesterday morning, for example," Signe said, then dropped back into the column.

Woburn winced a little and looked at the horses, changing the subject: "All well-mounted, too."

"We've done this and that here and there, helping people out with jobs or problems," Havel said neutrally.

And liberated some stock left wandering, or plain looted it from people who tried to attack or cheat us. Plus there's no better judge of horseflesh in the world than Will, with Angelica a close second.

"We take payment in tools, food and animals, mostly. Lucky this part of the country isn't short of livestock. And as I said, we've got a really good horse trainer."

Woburn didn't seem concerned to be alone among armed strangers; that made him stupid, suicidal or brave, and Havel thought he was probably the last. He was also keeping his eyes open.

"All this weird old-time knights-in-armor gear still looks funny to me," he said. "I mean, I have problems taking it seriously."

Havel shrugged and drew his puukko. He handed it to Woburn, who tested the edge automatically, raised his brows in respect, and handed it back. Havel pressed the blade to his mail-clad body and then ripped it down from shoulder to waist, just beside the diagonal line of the bandolier that held his quiver. The steel cut a bright line along the little interlinked rings with a rattling click.

"Point taken," Woburn said.

On a man in cloth, that would have worked like a chain saw on wood. Not for the first time, Havel thought how much of a survival advantage it was to be mentally flexible in this Changed world.

Woburn sighed. "I know up in my head that guns don't work anymore, but there are times when"-he patted the vintage saber at his saddlebow-"this doesn't seem real. Plus there's no time to learn how to use it properly. Some of our people have been sewing washers or pieces of metal on coats and dusters. Or making jackets of boiled steer-hide."

A scowl: "A lot of Iron Rod's men use scales fastened to canvas backing, too, recently."

"I've seen gear like that," Havel said. A lot of it in Portland, to be precise. "It's heavier and less flexible than chain mail, though. We can sell you some armor, and more importantly we can take some of your people through the whole process of making it."

It was past four o'clock when they passed the Bearkiller sentries; some of them were carrying lances as well as swords and bows, which impressed Woburn. Havel hid a smile as he returned their fist-to-chest salutes; so far, only the unanimous verdict of Will's cavalry manuals kept him trying with the damned bargepoles. They were as hard to manage on horseback as archery!

The Bearkillers' camp was in a clearing just back of the ridge where the lane led down to the prairie; the grassland there covered several acres, interrupted by scraggly lodge-pole pines and some aspens. The afternoon sun gilded the tall grass, and cast blue shadows towards the east. A scent of woodsmoke and cooking came from the hearths, and the cheerful sound of children playing, the tink: tink: of metal on metal, the rhythmic lock of axes splitting firewood.

More of the wagons' loads had been taken down than was usual for a one-night stopover; Havel wanted Sheriff Woburn impressed, and it had been easy enough to send orders back from the sacked farmstead.

The tents were pitched in neat rows, one per family with more for the single men, single women and outfit purposes; each had a fire in front of it and a Coleman lantern hung from the peak. A latrine trench was behind a grove of aspens, and a canvas enclosure for bathing stood beside a wheeled metal water-tank, another Ken-and-Will joint project; it was built so that a heating fire could be kindled in a hearth at one end. A woman was tossing chunks of pine into the fire, and a valve hissed on top as the water came to a boil.

"Helps avoid giardia," Havel said.

Woburn nodded; the nasty little parasites were endemic in Idaho streams, including the "purest" mountain brooks.

"Pretty piece of work," he said.

Havel nodded gravely, grinning to himself. He wasn't quite running a Potomekin village setup for the good sheriff, but he was putting the best foot forward.

"Lord Bear," one of their more recent recruits said, taking the reins as Havel and his guest swung down out of the saddle.

Havel felt his teeth gritting. Breaking people of calling him that was probably more trouble than it was worth, and most seemed to like it better than "Boss." Giving Astrid a sound spanking for coming up with the idea was almost certainly more trouble than it would be worth : but it was so tempting, sometimes!

He steered Woburn past the portable smithy-they had a real blacksmith now, freeing up a lot of Will's time-the arrow-making operation, the armor-assembly area from which Astrid and Luanne had been reprieved for awe-the-locals purposes, and on to the bowmaking benches.

Interesting, Havel thought. When he's actually working, our Bill looks almost trustworthy. The problem is you have to stand over him to keep him working.

Right now he was opening the insulated hotbox and checking a bow-limb curing there, the half-S shape secured between plywood forms with metal screw-clamps; the box reduced the time needed for the glue to set hard from a year to weeks, at the cost of a slight loss in durability. An assistant had a hardwood block clamped in a vise; he was shaping the riser into which the limbs would be pegged and glued, roughing out the shape of the pistol grip and arrow-shelf with a chisel. Shavings of pale myrtlewood curled away from the tap-tap-tap.

Havel nodded towards the pots of glue, planks of osage-orange wood, bundles of dried sinew, pieces of antler, and a box of translucent lozenges sawn from cow horns.

"We'll always have those materials."

"You've been thinking ahead," Woburn said respectfully.

They passed the school, taught open-air by Annie Sanders when there was time, with a folding blackboard and students from six to twelve. Reuben Waters, Billy's eldest, made his typical entry-Annie dragged him in by one ear, with occasional swats to his backside along the way. She thought the Waters kids were salvageable, and they did seem a bit brighter than their parents.

Astrid galloped her horse past a deer-shaped target- and the arrow flickered out to go thump behind the shoulder. Others were on foot, shooting at Frisbee-sized wooden disks rolled downhill, or at stationary man-shapes; the shooters were crouched, kneeling, walking, as well as standing in the classic archer's T.

Luanne was on horseback too, picking wooden tent pegs out of the ground with a lance as she galloped. It made a dramatic backdrop for Will's horsemanship class with its jumps and obstacles.

Hope she doesn't dig in and knock herself out of the saddle while our guest is watching, Havel thought. She's the only one we've got yet who doesn't do that all the time!

Those just starting with the sword were hacking at pells-posts set in the ground, or convenient trees-or slicing pinecones tossed at them. He didn't have anyone riding the wooden hobbyhorse just now, learning to swing a blade from the saddle without decapitating his mount-it was essential, but he had to admit it looked so:

Dorky, he thought. There's no other word that fits.

Except for Astrid and a few other fast-growing teenagers, all those at weapons practice were working in chain mail, to get used to the weight and constriction and sweat-sodden heat of it. That was only marginally more popular than the regular exercise sessions wearing the stuff, jumping and running and tumbling and climbing ladders.

My sympathy is underwhelming, you poor little darlings, Havel thought. Try humping an eighty-pound pack through fucking Iraq.

Pam Arnstein had one of her fencing classes going for the better students, with Signe as her assistant.

"The targe"-she insisted on using the fancy term for small round shield -"is not there for you to wave in the air! Keep it in front of you. Remember it's a weapon like your sword-weapons are kept face to the enemy. Pivot the rear foot as you move-heel down, Johnson! Passing thrust-passing thrust-cut-cut-forehand-backhand- at the man, not at the shield! Stay in line, in line!"

Impatiently, she called Josh Sanders out from the double line of pupils. Havel watched with interest as she drove the brawny young man down the field in a clatter and bang of mock combat.

"Right, try it again: better. Now free-form! I deflect your cut with my blade sloped behind my back, and make a crossing attack, stepping forward to cut in turn to the hamstring: so."

"Ouch!" He stumbled and recovered.

"I knock your shield out of line: so. The body follows the sword, remember. Swords first, foot just a fraction of a second behind. Then I thrust to the face: cut to the neck-no, don't block with the edge of your targe, you'll get it sliced off. With the surface-that's why it's covered in rawhide. Good parry, now I'm vulnerable, hit me with it-"

Crack! as leather met leather.

"Sorry!" he blurted, as he knocked her off her feet and onto her back.

The sixteenth-century European blade styles featured a lot of bodychecking, throws, kicks and short punching blows with the pommel of the sword or the edge of the shield, too. The brutal whatever-works pragmatism was precisely to Havel's taste.

"That's the first completely correct move you've made today," Pamela said as she rolled erect again. "You've got the advantage of weight-so use it. There aren't any bronze or silver medals in this sort of fencing. Win or die!"

Havel inclined his helmeted head towards the practice field. "Like you said, Sheriff, it's not just finding or making the weapons, it's learning how to use them."

"Doesn't look like what I remember of fencing," he said, shading his eyes. "Watched the Olympics once."

Havel nodded. The motions were much broader and fuller, with all the body's coordinated strength and weight behind them. He went on aloud: "One of these cut-and-thrust swords will blast right through an epee parry and skewer you front to back, or gut you like a trout. We were real lucky to find Pam Arnstein-that's our instructor there."

Ken Larsson was working on a drawing pinned to a folding draughtsman's table nearby, looking up occasionally at the sword practice; Aaron Rothman rested his peg leg in a canvas recliner nearby.

Havel introduced them, and the elder Larsson went on: "Pam was a stroke of luck. She's our vet too, and doubled as our medico until we found Aaron here."

He grinned and jerked a thumb at the doctor, who was starting to look just skinny again.

"Lord Bear's Luck, some call it," Rothman said. "And believe me, I was glad to get a share of it!"

I really wish people wouldn't say that, Havel thought. The dice have no memory. You've got to earn your luck again every morning.

Four Bearkillers were passing by with a quartered beef carcass in wheelbarrows, heading for the cooking fires and the chuck wagon. Arnstein looked at Havel, who nodded. She halted them, and had the hindquarters hung on hooks hoof-up beneath a tree while she laid down the practice lath, unhooked the wire-mesh screen from the front of her helmet and took up her battle sword.

A whistle brought the novices' practice to a halt; Signe flashed Havel a smile as she helped chivvy them into place, sheepdog style.

"This part's popular, for some reason," Havel said, as they walked over; Sheriff Woburn was looking puzzled. "But it has to wait for a butchering day. I've got to admit, it's sort of cool to do."

He raised his voice. "Gather 'round, those who haven't seen this demonstration. And those who want to see it again."

A few of the neophytes looked as puzzled as Woburn. The rest grinned and nudged each other as they shoved the others closer to the hanging meat.

"Now, watch closely. And keep in mind that this"- Havel drew his sword, and tapped one of the hanging quarters lightly-"is the ass-end of a nice big cow. Range heifer, about seven hundred pounds. Bone and muscle and tendon, just like us, except thicker and more of it. Pam, do the honors on Cheek Number One."

Pamela poised motionless, then attacked with a running thrust, right foot skimming forward and knee bending into a long lunge. The point of her saber hardly appeared to move; it was presented at the beginning of the motion, and then six inches of it were out the other side of the haunch of beef. She withdrew, twisting the blade.

"Examine that, please," she said.

The novices did, one of them gulping audibly as he put a finger in the long tunnel-like wound. The tall wiry woman grinned as she went on:

"While not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, it's more than sufficient to let out a lot of blood. And now if you'll back off slightly-"

She reversed to her original left-foot-forward stance, poised for a second with targe and point advanced, then attacked again; this time she cut backhand with a high wordless shout, foot and edge slamming down together as if connected by invisible rods and hips twisting to put a whipping snap into the strike.

The blade slanted into the meat with a wet thwack! and a great slab of flesh slumped down; they could all see where her saber had cut a deep pinkish-white nick into the surface of the butchered steer's legbone. Flecks of meat spattered into the faces of the closest onlookers.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, could be you," she said, panting slightly. "Which is why there's no prize for second place." There were a few more shocked faces among the grins.

Pamela went on: "Lord Bear will now demonstrate what happens when someone hits you hard with a backsword, instead of a light cut like that."

Havel slipped the shield off his back and onto his arm, standing with left foot and arm advanced. Then he screamed and pounced and struck in the same motion, steel whirling in a blur of speed, long blade at the end of a long arm in a looping overarm cut.

"Haakkaa paalle!"

A wet cleaving sound sounded under the shout, and a crackling beneath that. When the beef haunch swayed back, they could all see that the steel had sliced through eight inches of hide and meat to make a canyon gape several feet long, and split the heavy legbone beneath- lengthwise. Chips and dust lay in the marrow at the bottom of the cut, shattered out of the bone by the violence of the impact.

A chorus of whistles and murmurs went through the ranks of the novices, along with a dabbing at faces.

Havel spoke: "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we don't bitch and moan about how hot and heavy and uncomfortable the armor is."

I may have to grind away to get good at archery, but it seems I've got a natural talent for this.

"Supper's at seven," Havel said; Woburn was looking suitably impressed. "Why don't you look around for a little while? Ken can answer any questions you have. I've got to get out of this ironmongery and there's some business to attend to."

As he turned away, a thought struck him: If this Duke Iron Rod really is in with Arminger, how many other people are fighting the Protector right now?

Angelica Hutton was just putting a Dutch oven full of biscuits into the embers in one of the fires behind the chuck wagon when Havel arrived, his hair still damp from the bath. There were a dozen working there, amid a cheerful clatter and chatter that didn't disguise the size of the task or the efficiency with which it got done.

"Jane, remember to get the tortillas into that warmer the minute they're done," she said, her voice friendly but a little loud and slow; then she wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her Levi's and shirt.

The smile died as she and the Bearkiller leader walked aside: "Mike, that woman!" she continued; speaking under her breath, but clenching her fists beneath her chin and making a throttled sound of wordless exasperation.

"Specific problem?" he said.

"She is: no, she is good-hearted, and not even lazy if you tell her everything she is to do, but I have met mesquite stumps with more brains! She speaks of nothing but TV shows and the days when she was a cheerleader."

You could believe that more easily these days; Jane Waters didn't look shapeless anymore-she was even pretty, in a blowsy, faded-rose way.

"And she is a natural: what is the old English word. I saw it in a schoolbook of Luanne's. no, not slut, that means puta, right?"

Havel nodded, and the Tejano woman went on: "Slattern, that is the word. She cannot even cook; not at all, I do not mean fancy things. Before the Change her children ate from McDonald's and Taco Bell every day! Or from cans and frozen pizza."

"Not everyone can meet your high standards, Angelica," Havel said, grinning. And oh, for the days when even poor people could get too much of the wrong sort of food! "I wanted to check on supplies."

"Y bien," she said, pulling a list out of a pocket. "We've got enough meat, I ordered a steer butchered this afternoon-it arrived a little worn, no?"

He smiled and made a placating gesture.

"If we stop anytime soon, I want to try to make dried and smoked sausage; there is plenty of jerky, but it is boring even in a stew. So we must have spices-sage, garlic. For the rest, we need some sacks of salt, badly. We are short of flour, and potatoes, and down to the last of our beans, rice, and oatmeal. We need vegetables very badly, dried or canned, also fruit-it is not healthy, to live so much on meat and bread, even with the vitamin pills. Shortly we will need clothing, particularly boots and shoes, and especially for the little ones: "

Angelica went through her list; then she darted back to make sure her assistants weren't spoiling anything.

After a quick check she began beating on a triangle. Everyone gathered 'round their mess hearths by squads and families, as youngsters carried the food around; tables were too much of a bother to drag along on the move, but they had good groundsheets so you could sit down dry and reasonably comfortable around a fire-most were leaning against their saddles, cowboy fashion. Shadows closed in around the fires and the first stars appeared in the east.

Woburn bit into his burrito, then looked down at it with surprised pleasure as the tangy carne asada hit his palate, cooled with sour cream.

"All right," he said to the Bearkillers' leader. "You've got a real slick operation here, Mr. Havel. Now, you were hinting that you could do something about the Devil Dogs."

"That depends," he said. "They've got some sort of base, right? A hideout you can't come at, or more likely they've forted up someplace you can't take."

"They're at St. Hilda's," Woburn said, respect in his voice.

Havel's ears perked up at that; he saw that Ken Lars-son's did, too. It was one of the big Idaho tourist attractions; you couldn't live in the state and not know about it.

He held up a hand for a moment, and turned his head to Will Hutton; the various bosses-of-sections were eating around Havel's fire tonight, as usual when there was serious business to discuss.

"Will, St. Hilda's is a Benedictine abbey over by that butte. Near the top of it, in fact."

He pointed southwest. A wide cone with gentle slopes dominated the rolling plain, visible many miles away; right now it was silhouetted against the westering sun as the long July evening drew to a close.

"Built like a fort," he added. "I saw it a couple of times before the Change."

"Me too," Ken said. "Literally like a fort, Romanesque Revival. Nineteen-twenties construction; ashlar stone blocks, a hard blue porphyry, and walls over three feet thick at the base. Four stories in a block around a courtyard, with two towers on the front-both nearly a hundred feet high. Interior water source, too. Not surprised some bandits took it over. It's the closest thing to a castle in the state, after the old penitentiary in Boise."

Woburn nodded. "When the Change hit, the Devil Dogs stole real bikes, mountain bikes, and then horses, and looted a bunch of wilderness outfitters; after that they started raiding for supplies. That was bad enough. Then in May, they changed their operations. Got a lot of good weapons from somewhere, and then they hit St. Hilda's."

"What happened to the Sisters?" Hutton said, concern in his voice.

"They killed some of them and threw out most of the rest; Mother Superior Gertrude is staying with me. And since then they've been using it as a base. They've been giving us hell-well, you saw it."

Havel looked at Signe, and she opened a plastic Office Max filing box. It was filled with neatly labeled maps in hanging files; she pulled out the west-central Idaho one, tacked it to a corkboard, and propped it up where the command staff could see it.

"How many?" Havel said. "Organization? Leaders? What's Iron Rod like? What weapons, and what's their objective, if it isn't just loot?"

Woburn looked at the map. "There were about fifty to start with," he said. "Twice that now-they've been recruiting from the-no offense-road people."

Havel smiled thinly; road people was what settled folk around here had taken to calling the wanderers, those stranded on highways by the Change and others who scoured about looking for food. They were a natural breeding-ground for brigandage, not to mention for transmitting disease, and neither well-regarded nor very welcome.

"None taken. We're going somewhere, not just wandering around aimlessly looking for a handout or what we can steal."

"I can see that," Woburn said, looking at the map, and then the purposeful activity about him.

He tapped his finger on the map: "Anyway, there's near a hundred fighting men, plus. well, they had some women with them to start with. There are more now- some kidnapped. Some men they've taken and are using as slave labor, too."

Havel nodded; he'd seen similar things in embryo elsewhere, but not on this scale: yet.

"I presume you've tried smoking them out," Havel said. It wasn't a question.

Woburn flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah. You understand, things were total chaos right after the Change, and then we were all working as hard as we could to salvage bits and pieces. People around here are real spread out, and without trucks or phones it took us weeks to get any organization going at all. First we knew was when they started hitting farms-or hitting them up for tribute and ransom."

"Then you got a big posse together, and they handed you your heads," Havel guesstimated.

Woburn looked aside a bit. "Yeah. Two hundred men, and we had an I-beam for a battering ram, and some extension ladders."

Havel winced slightly, picturing how he'd have managed the defense.

Woburn nodded: "Thing is, they've made the place into a real fort. They filled all the windows on the lower two stories with rebar grates and then bolted steel plates over the inside and outside and filled the holes with concrete-the Sisters were doing a construction project and there was plenty of material. Steel shutters with arrow-slits in the upper windows. They'd cut down all the trees around, so there wasn't any cover for us, and they poured boiling canola oil down on us from the top: we lost twenty dead, and six times that number injured, a lot of them real bad."

"And that was the last time you could get that many together," Havel said.

"Well: yeah."

This time Woburn's look had an element of a glare in it. Havel looked at Ken Larsson, and the older man spoke thoughtfully, tugging at his short silvery beard.

"Either they've got someone very shrewd in charge, or they have an implausible number of construction workers in their ranks. Something odd there. Starving them out, perhaps? Or catching parties of them on the move?"

Woburn snorted. "There's no communications! What men I can scrape together end up running from one place that's been raided to another. If we get a big bunch together, they just retreat into the fort and laugh at us until we go away-we can't keep up a siege, everyone's needed on the farms. That place is stuffed with stolen food."

Havel nodded. "And they can see you coming, since they hold the high ground. And they probably hit the farms of your supporters, and probably some farmers and ranchers are already paying them off or slipping them information and don't get attacked."

"I don't blame them," Ken Larsson said, wincing at the memory of what he'd helped bury.

"I do!" Woburn said; his face flushed with anger. "The Devil Dog honcho, Iron Rod-he's started calling himself Duke of the Camas Prairie, the bastard! You saw what his scum did!"

Havel nodded politely. Behind the mask of his face he thought: And they're getting stronger, while you get weaker. If things go on the way they are, you'll all be on your knees to Duke Iron Rod by this time next year. Or on your backs, depending on your gender and his tastes.

"I suppose you tried to get some help from Boise," Havel said.

He didn't bother making it a question. Woburn spat into the fire.

"There's plague in Boise, too. Really bad, and typhus; we haven't had but one outbreak here, thank God. That was in Grangeville, and we managed to damp it down quick with quarantine. Iron Rod's been careful not to attack the Nez Perce: yet. He'll be their business if he finishes us off!"

"That's too bad about Boise," Havel said. "There's a lot of good land west of the city with gravity-flow irrigation; they might have made it."

And I've got friends there, he thought. I hope Eileen's OK, even if she did dump me, and the folks at Steelhead.

The thought was oddly abstract. Things had closed in since the Change; people and places beyond a day's ride were: remote. The world felt a whole lot bigger.

"Could be worse," Signe said unexpectedly. "It could be like the coast: or like St. Louis."

Everyone shivered slightly. A spray of bicycle-borne fugitives had made it from the big cities of the Midwest, and from the Pacific coast. A lot of people didn't believe the stories. Nobody wanted to believe them.

"OK," Havel said. "Here's your problem. They've got an impregnable base. You've got more men"-although not a lot more; there were probably only about five thousand people left within three or four days travel-"but yours have to stay split up most of the time, and his are concentrated. He can strike any ranch or farm with superior numbers, then retreat behind his walls if you get together. And he doesn't have to worry about getting a crop in. It'll be worse at harvest time, which is soon. It's always easier to stop other people doing something than it is to do it. The grain'll be dry enough to burn then, too. If you don't get rid of them in the next month or so, they'll wreck you. You'll have to surrender, or move far enough away he can't reach you."

"The filth destroy what they can't steal," Woburn said bitterly. "We can't farm if we have to stand guard twenty-four hours a day! But if we leave, get out of range, we're homeless, we're road people ourselves."

Ken Larsson nodded. "You're spread out too much," he said. "Even resettling townsfolk on the farms, the properties are too big and too widely scattered, which means every household's on its own and impossibly far away from help. What you should do is group together, village-style, with settlements of: oh, say fifty to a hundred people, minimum, in places with good water and land. Then they could defend themselves-run up earth walls and palisades, too, maybe. And have specialists where they need them. We're all going to run out of pre-Change tools and clothing eventually."

"I can't make people give up their land!" Woburn said, scandalized.

Ken shrugged. "They don't need most of it," he pointed out. "This area"-his hand took in the Camas Prairie- "produced wheat and canola and beef for hundreds of thousands of people. Now it only has to feed the few thousand people who live on it; and that's going to take only a fraction of the area, which is lucky since you won't have the labor to work more anyway. What would be the point in growing more when you can't ship it out? To watch it rot?"

Woburn looked sandbagged. "Hadn't thought about it in quite that way," he said. "Haven't had time, I suppose."

Havel cut in: "Essentially, what Iron Rod's trying to do is charge you rent for living here, by making life impossible for people who won't knuckle under. You have to winkle him out of his fort. And you also need a standing force; full-time fighters, well equipped and trained."

Woburn's eyes narrowed. "You asking for the job?" he said softly.

The obvious drawback was that a standing force would be functionally equivalent to Iron Rod and his merry band, and might well end up with similar ambitions.

Havel laughed and shook his head. "Emphatically, no!" he said. "We've got a destination further west. But you ought to think about raising some rangers or soldiers or whatever you want to call them. And if you can't afford it: well, think about whether you can afford Duke Iron Rod."

Woburn took a deep breath; he looked relieved. "Thing is, Mr. Havel, I was wondering-"

"Whether we could get rid of Iron Rod for you," Havel said. He looked at Ken Larsson, who nodded imperceptibly.

"I'd heard that you did some work like that elsewhere," Woburn said.

"Not on this scale, we didn't. I've got forty people I'd be willing to put into a fight," Havel said. "Forty-five if I stretch it and include some damned young teenagers. Getting into a stand-up toe-to-toe slugging match with the Devil Dogs by ourselves isn't on. I'd like to see the people who did that"-he pointed towards the sacked farmstead, invisible in the gathering dusk-"in hell where they belong, but I'm not going to get half my people killed to do it. And frankly, Sheriff, this is your fight and not ours."

Woburn's face dropped. Larsson went on: "There are things we could do, though, as: ah, contractors."

Condottieri, Havel thought silently. Which means, literally, "contractors."

He nodded, as if reluctant. Ken Larsson took up the thread smoothly: "When I was studying engineering, back in the 1960s, I had a professor who taught us the history of the field. And until a couple of hundred years ago, what engineers mainly did was build forts and engines to knock 'em down. Now: "