The Seeds of Man

Chapter Nine

Crow claimed that the raid on the food caravan was a partial success because the gang had been able to kill half a dozen mercenaries. But, given the cost, no one believed it. And that included Crow, judging by how withdrawn he was.

For his part, Tre had given the raid quite a bit of thought and had arrived at two conclusions. The first was that an L-shaped ambush would have been more effective. Had some of the gang been positioned behind the fallen trees, firing straight into the column, they might have been able to trap the mercenaries in a killing zone.

However, according to Tre’s analysis, the mercenaries would have still been able to fight their way out of the trap, thanks to their superior firepower. That led to the second realization. If the gang wanted to defeat Voss, they would need better weapons. But how? They couldn’t steal what they wanted from Voss. They’d have to look elsewhere.

Thus began the research project that consumed all the time when Tre wasn’t assisting Knife, standing guard duty, or performing chores. That meant long hours in the so-called library. It was a joke, really, since very few of the bandits could read and the books, some of which were strewn about the floor, were an unorganized mess.

According to Bones, the books had been taken in various raids and, based on a standing order from Crow, placed in the room where Tre found them. And because most gang members couldn’t tell which books had literary merit and which didn’t, they brought everything back. That included novels, scientific references, car manuals, phone books, collections of recipes, and at least one pop-up dinosaur book, which Tre enjoyed.

But ultimately the volume of most importance was a bound journal, which according to the neat printing on the front page, was the property of Minda Marley, a woman who, in addition to being a captain in the National Guard, had been an assistant professor of history at the University of Idaho.

The first half of the journal consisted of touchingly personal writings about her feelings for her husband—and notes having to do with a paper she hoped to write once the civil war ended. One entry in particular caught Tre’s eye. “At this point both sides have racked up some impressive victories and therefore believe that the war is theirs to lose. But I fear that by the time the last shot is fired, there will be nothing left to fight for.”

As interesting as such musings were, the real jackpot was located at the end of the journal and was written in the style of a military officer rather than that of a history professor. “2014-2-12. PLACED IN COMMAND OF A PLATOON OF MP’S. ENEMY ARMOR CLOSING FROM THE SOUTHEST. RCVD. ORDERS TO TRANSPORT WEAPONS FROM NAT. GUARD ARMORY/BLACKFOOT TO MOUNTAIN HOME AFB. IT’S GOING TO BE TIGHT.”

The next entry was dated February 13th. “THE TRUCKS ARE TOO DAMNED SLOW. THEIR HUMVEES ARE CLOSING IN. THEY HOPE TO ENGAGE AND HOLD US FOR THE HEAVIES. NO CHOICE. MASSACRE ROCKS. BURY AND RUN.”

And that was all. The rest of the pages were blank. There was no way to know what happened to Marley after that—or who had the journal before it wound up in the mine. Fortunately a book on the history of Idaho was included in the newly reorganized library, so Tre was able to look up “Massacre Rocks” and learn more about the rock formation also known as the Gate of Death or the Devil’s Gate, all names that the westward-bound pioneers had given to the narrow passage fearing that the Shoshoni Indians might ambush them. And in fact there had been a fight back on August 9, 1862, east of the rocks. Ten settlers were killed.

Tre stared at the picture that accompanied the article for a long time. It showed a cluster of weather-worn rocks, one of which stood head and shoulders above the rest. Was a large cache of arms buried at the foot of it or somewhere nearby? There was reason to think so, but no way to be certain. So should he return the journal to the library or take it to Crow and make his case?

Five days had passed since the disastrous attack on the caravan, and the bandit leader was still moping around. Maybe Crow was ready to listen or maybe he was so depressed that it would be impossible to break through. But in the final analysis, Tre had nothing to lose. Crow would respond or he wouldn’t. If he failed to take the opportunity seriously, Tre planned to slip away and return to the Tangle.

So he made his way up to Crow’s quarters with Marley’s journal clutched in his hand. There was no door, so all he could do was pause outside the entrance and call out. “Crow? Have you got a minute?”

The reply was gruff. “Who is it?”

“Tre.”

There was a pause. “Come in.”

Tre entered to find that the room only partially lit, cluttered with partially eaten plates of food, and badly in need of cleaning. Crow sat with his back to both the lamp and the door. He made no effort to turn and look. “What do you want?”

Tre struggled with his answer. He wanted to live Crow’s fantasy. He wanted to take Star Valley away from Voss and give it to the people. But that would require a leader, someone who could emerge from the dark hole he was living in long enough to get things done. But he couldn’t say that. Not to Crow, not to anyone, because to do so would require thousands of words. So Tre said what he could. “I know where a large cache of weapons is buried.”

There was another moment of silence. The chair made a squeaking noise as Crow turned around. Tre was shocked by what he saw as the light fell on the other man’s face. There were dark circles under Crow’s eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and he looked ill. “You what?”

“I know where a large cache of weapons is buried. It’s here… in this journal.”

Crow held out a hand and Tre gave the journal over. A match flared, a second lamp was lit, and more shadows danced on the walls. “I marked the relevant pages,” Tre said helpfully.

Crow chose to ignore the comment as he opened the journal, read the first couple of pages, and began to skim. That left Tre with nothing to do but stand and wait. Finally, after what might have been five minutes, Crow looked up. “Where did you get this?”

“From the library.”

Crow frowned. “So you don’t know anything about it.”

“No.”

“But you believe the weapons are there? Buried at Massacre Rocks?”

“We know the armories were looted. But this stuff was buried. So it’s different.”

“But what’s to say that Marley didn’t come back and dig it up later?” Crow demanded.

“The journal ends.”

“So you think Marley was killed.”

“Yes.”

“And all of her troops?”

“Yes. The enemy was closing in on them. That’s why they buried the weapons.”

Crow considered that. “You read the journal, so maybe someone else did too.”

Tre shrugged. “That’s possible.”

Crow frowned. “Why? Why are you pushing for this?”

“Because I want you to do all the things you said you would do.”

Crow’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a pain in the ass. Have I mentioned that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Pass the word. We leave in the morning.”

With the possible exception of Freak, who never knew what was going on so far as Tre could tell, the rest of the gang was glad to hear the news and began to prepare. Rumors flew, and most of them were false, a fact that became painfully obvious when Hog spoke to Tre at dinner. “I heard you found a map!”

“No, it’s a journal.”

“Whatever… The main thing is that we’re going to have rocket launchers! That will even things up.”

Tre sighed. His attempts to tamp things down had met with very little success. His reputation and standing in the group were riding on what they did or didn’t find at Massacre Rocks. If they failed to find any weapons, he would take the heat instead of Crow. Having been forced to accept that, he took the plate that Hog offered him. “Yeah, rocket launchers would be nice.”

They left early the next morning, made their way to the meadow where the horses were grazing, and saddled up. Then, with Smoke and Fade leading the way, the rest of the gang followed. Crow came first, followed by Bones, Hog, Tre, Freak, and Knife. As before, Patch and Slick remained behind to guard the hideout.

A complex network of trails led them down to Highway 89, where they took a break and waited for the scouts to return. When they did, Smoke was carrying a flyer, which according to a traveler she had spoken to, was identical to others posted up and down the highway. The words “WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE” were printed across the top. Then, in smaller print, it said, “1,000 rounds of .45 ammo will be paid to the person or persons who capture, kill, or provide reliable information leading to the apprehension of the murderers depicted here.” It was signed, “Luther Voss.” There were three drawings, all of which were pretty good likenesses. Crow laughed when he saw his face and handed the sheet to Bones. “Pass it around.”

Once the sheet of paper made it to him, Tre was shocked to see his face sandwiched in between Crow’s and Knife’s. At least one of the mercs had a good memory. Suddenly, like it or not, Tre was committed in a way he hadn’t been before. Yes, he could still return to the Tangle, but it would be as a wanted man. That would make it much more difficult to survive on his own. “It looks like you,” Knife said. “Ugly as hell.”

So knowing that people were likely to recognize them, the gang was careful to bypass the fortified inn located in the hamlet of Freedom and rode west. As they did so, Tre was very conscious of the fact that Highway 34 was going to pass through Wayan and very close to the Tangle. Part of him regretted the decision to join the gang and wished he could return to his previously solitary life. But he had a purpose now, something worth fighting for, and knowing that made him feel better.

Having hiked the highway many times, always on the lookout for bandits, Tre enjoyed the feeling of invulnerability that went with being a bandit. Still, there was plenty to worry about because he knew that fifty mercs could be waiting around the next bend. If they were, the fight wouldn’t last very long.

The group arrived in Henry, Idaho, by nightfall. Although there was no town to speak of, they found a beautiful camping spot on the shore of what Crow’s much-abused map said was the Blackfoot Reservoir. As Tre looked out across the perfectly still water, he saw two conical mountains. They were almost entirely bare of trees and reflected in the reservoir. The sky was a deep shade of lavender and the stars were coming out. That was when Freak appeared at his side. “Balloon.”

Her hand was small and seemed to crawl into his. Tre felt an urge to put an arm around her shoulders and to kiss the lips that seemed to be waiting for that very thing. But then he remembered what Crow had told him. “Freak isn’t ready for a boy-girl relationship.” So he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and let go. “Balloon to you too,” he said, and went off to gather wood.

Tre stood sentry duty for two hours, but the night passed without incident, and they got under way the next morning. The sky was gray and it was raining, so Tre felt thankful for the flat-brimmed cowboy hat and poncho-style rain slicker that covered him and most of old Willie’s saddle. Thunder rolled as the column followed the east side of the reservoir south, and occasional sticks of lightning could be seen on the horizon. It was, as Hog put it, “a crappy day.”

The plan was to ride south to Soda Springs, follow Highway 30 west to Interstate 15, and take Interstate 86 to Massacre Rocks, what Crow hoped would be a two-day ride. After an hour or so, Tre was standing in the stirrups to relieve the pain in his knees when he saw Smoke round the gently sloping hill off to the right and gallop their way. The scouts always departed first and typically stayed well ahead of the column all day. So why was Smoke coming back?

Smoke began to shout as her horse skidded to a halt. “They got Fade! Come on… We need to save her.”

Crow reached out to grab hold of the horse’s bridle. “They? Who?“

Smoke was frantic and the words seemed to tumble out of her mouth. “There’s a civil war battlefield on the other side of the pass. Tanks, armored personnel carriers, you name it. They’re scattered all over the place. There wasn’t any activity, none that we could see, so we rode in. That was when one of the tank people popped out of an armored personnel carrier and threw himself at Fade. They hit the ground together, and I was going to help, when two of them ran out in front of me. I shot one in the face and kicked the other. By then a couple of them had hold of Fade and were taking her away. That’s why I came for help.”

“You did the right thing,” Crow assured her. “Don’t worry, we’ll get Fade back. Do you know where she is?”

“No, but they were taking her west. So it will be over that way.”

“Okay. Knife, Sticks, listen up. Here’s what I want you to do.”

As Tre listened to the plan, his heart began to beat faster. Could he do it? Crow thought so… And if Knife had doubts, he was keeping them to himself.

The key, according to Crow, was stealth. He, along with the rest of the group, would follow the highway to the edge of the battlefield, where they would try to make contact with the tank people. Meanwhile, Smoke would lead Knife and Tre over the mist-shrouded hill on the right. Once on the other side, they would be at the northern edge of the battlefield. Then, after securing their horses, they would slip into the maze of shot-up vehicles and find Fade.

Knife and Tre followed Smoke south, up onto the nearly featureless hill, and into the mist. They were traveling fast—too fast for Tre, who feared that he would fall and his break his neck. But old Willie was sure-footed if nothing else, and he survived the journey. “Remember,” Smoke said as they tied their horses to a bush. “Keep it quiet. Don’t use guns unless you have to.”

Knife was wearing his Samurai sword slung across his back and had half a dozen other blades stashed about his person. Tre had a couple of improvised fighting sticks that he’d been working on for the last week or so, plus a knife and the nine-shot .22 Magnum revolver that had been recovered from Brute’s body.

Smoke led the way and Tre was impressed. She was fast and graceful and seemed to flow from place to place, much like the substance she was named for. Knife came second. His movements were quick, precise, and carefully calculated.

Visibility was limited, but Tre could tell that the terrain on the south side of the hill was flat, the perfect place for armored vehicles to clash. He didn’t realize they were in among the wrecks until a rain-shrouded hulk appeared on his right. The battle tank was huge, but judging from the fire-blackened hole in its turret, something had been powerful enough to penetrate even its thick armor.

Rain rattled on metal and gravel crunched under their boots as the bandits dashed from wreck to wreck, pausing every now and then to look and listen. It was during one of those moments that two tank people rounded a truck and ran into them. There was a moment of confusion and Tre found himself face-to-face with what looked like a cave man. Except that the caves he lived in were made of steel. The tank man’s face registered surprise as Tre shoved a stick up a nostril and rammed the other rod into a mouth full of rotting teeth. He was choking on it when Smoke jerked his head back and slit his throat. “Enough screwing around. Let’s find Fade.”

Tre looked for Knife and saw him standing over a headless corpse, sword in hand. He wiped the blade clean. Then they were off again, zigzagging from one vehicle to the next, when the fake negotiations broke down and the firefight began. Neither side wanted to use any more ammo than necessary, so what Tre heard was a flurry of single shots. That was when a witchlike creature dropped off a tanker truck onto Knife’s back. She had her legs wrapped around his waist and was about to claw his eyes when Tre jerked her loose.

Water splashed as she hit a puddle, made a screeching sound, and was silenced as both sticks struck her head. “Come on!” Smoke shouted. “Follow me!“

They ran side by side toward a boxy vehicle that was fronted by a fire pit and a sitting area protected by an old tarp. Poles of various lengths had been stuck into the ground, each topped by a human skull.

Two tank men were stationed in front of a tracked command post and raised their weapons as the bandits charged them. A shot rang out, a geyser of mud shot up, and Tre threw one of the fighting sticks like a spear. It hit the rifleman in the chest but did no harm. It was enough to prevent a follow-up shot, however, and gave Tre time to close with him. They collided, and as Tre grappled with his opponent, he could smell the other man’s rank body odor.

Wiry fingers wrapped themselves around Tre’s neck and began to choke off his air supply. Tre brought both forearms straight up to break the hold, kneed the other man in the groin, and snapped his head forward. The fight was over. All the strength went out of the tank man’s knees and he collapsed.

Tre stepped back, looked to the left, and saw a body lying on the ground. A muddy head lay nearby. It was faceup, staring at the sky. Knife nodded. “Nice job, Sticks… but try some cold steel next time.”

“She’s alive!” Smoke announced as she escorted Fade out of the command vehicle. “They were planning to eat her.”

Tre was thrilled to see the scout but went for his pistol as a man appeared behind her. “Don’t shoot!” Fade said. “That’s the Deacon… He was a prisoner as well.”

Tre took his hand off the .22 as all three of them made their way down a wooden ramp. Fade was disheveled and thirsty but otherwise okay. The Deacon had stringy hair, a bald pate, and bright blue eyes. An upside-down cross had been tattooed on the center of his forehead, and when he spoke he touched the symbol as if doing so would testify to the veracity of what he said. “Thank you! Thank you, Lord!” he said fervently. “For you have delivered me from the hands of evil into the arms of the good.”

Crow arrived at that point, along with the rest of the gang. They were on horseback. A rare smile appeared on the bandit’s face when he saw Fade. “Are you okay?”

Fade nodded. “Sorry, I feel stupid.”

Crow shook his head. “It could have happened to anybody. All right, let’s collect anything worth collecting and get out of here. This place reeks.”

The next two days passed without major incident. The rain stopped by the time they passed Soda Springs, a fortified town similar to Afton. Armed riders emerged to challenge the gang and continued to dog them all the way to the Bancroft turnoff. The night was spent at the Lava Hot Springs. The resort lay in ruins, but there were still plenty of pools to choose from, and the bandits took hot baths, a truly wondrous luxury.

They passed through the bombed-out ruins of Pocatello the next day. At some point during the civil war, the once proud city had been reduced to a lunar landscape of overlapping craters, gaping basements, and rubble-filled streets. Tre wondered why but knew the people who could tell him were dead.

The scouts located Interstate 86 without too much difficulty and led the group south. There was some traffic, but not much, and what there was consisted of hikers and travelers on bicycles and in horse-drawn carts, any of which could have been theirs for the taking. But Crow insisted that they be left untouched, and that gave Tre reason to hope. Maybe, just maybe, Crow would deliver on his promises.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at what was, according to a dilapidated sign, “MASSACRE ROCKS STATE PARK.” The land was dry and arid in spite of the fact that the Snake River bordered the park. What growth there was consisted of grass, scrub, and clumps of trees. If one looked closely, it was still possible to make out the foundation of what had been the visitor center, parking lots that were drifted with windblown soil, and the well-trod path that led to the distinctive pile of rocks. “Well, there they are,” Crow said matter-of-factly as the group led their horses up to the formation. “So where do we dig?”

That, Tre realized, was a very good question. More than fifty years of weather had erased any signs that Marley and her MPs might have left. But it seemed reasonable to make certain assumptions. The soldiers had been in a hurry, so that suggested a reasonably accessible spot. And since level ground would make it easier to dig, Tre figured they could ignore any sort of slope. Finally given the time constraint the troops had been working under, it seemed safe to assume that the cache wouldn’t be more than four or five feet deep. He looked at Crow. “I’ll take a look around, mark what I think are the most likely spots, and bring you back to take a look.”

Crow nodded. “Let’s pick a site before sunset. We’ll start digging first thing in the morning.”

So while the rest of them made camp, Tre walked the ground. Even with the parameters he had set for himself, it was a daunting task. Finally, after a good deal of wandering about, Tre drove three stakes into the ground. Site one was directly below the rock formation and the point from which the photo in the history book had been taken.

Site two was a little farther away but would have been easy to reach with a vehicle. Marley had been in a hurry, so why carry heavy boxes if they didn’t have to?

Site three was flat and easy to get to, but it had another virtue as well, and that was the fact that the ground was bare of vegetation, even though grass grew all around. Was something buried just under the surface? Tre thought so. But, having probed the ground with a steel rod, he was pretty sure that the object was a large rock formation rather than a cache of weapons.

Crow took the tour just before sunset and approved Tre’s choices. Then it was time for dinner and, due to the Deacon’s presence, there was another mouth to feed. He was free to leave but didn’t want to—and no wonder. Without weapons or gear, he wouldn’t last long. So Crow had allowed the Deac to stay, with the understanding that he would have to prove himself if he wanted to join the gang.

The night passed peacefully, and by the time the sun rose, Hog had breakfast ready. Smoke, Fade, and Freak were slated to act as lookouts. The rest of them took their tools and trooped to site one. Crow insisted on taking the first swing with a pick and did so with the fury of someone attacking an enemy. He was bushed ten minutes later and happy to surrender the tool to Bones.

The medic was more methodical, and as he broke ground, Tre and Knife were there to shove the loose dirt out of the way. They were making progress, but there were lots of rocks to contend with, and Tre was frustrated by how long the process took.

Finally, with Hog on the pick and Deacon wielding a shovel, they had a four-foot-deep hole and nothing to show for it. “We’ll dig side trenches,” Crow said bleakly. “There and there.”

Three hours of backbreaking work followed and the results were no better. All of them felt disappointed as they made their way back to camp, but Tre most of all. The whole exercise seemed stupid now, and he wanted to break it off. But they had come a long way and he was determined to see the process through.

It seemed as if every muscle in Tre’s body was sore when he got up to stand guard duty in the middle of the night and when he rose the following morning. And judging from the way other people moved, they felt the same way.

In marked contrast to the day before, most of the bandits were silent as they trudged to site number two and began to dig. And dig and dig. But just as Tre was beginning to think that site two was going to be just like site one, the Deacon made an interesting observation. “No rocks today,” he said as he wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead. “Thank the Lord.”

Tre heard the words, realized what they might mean, and went over to inspect the pile of excavated dirt. That was when he realized that the Deacon was right. There were lots of small stones, but there were none of the larger rocks they had been dealing with the day before. Was that a matter of chance? Or had someone dug there before and heaved the big stuff off to one side? There were some sizable rocks lying around on the surface. “Let’s keep digging,” Tre said. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

About twenty minutes later the pick struck half-rotten wood and broke through. “We found it!” Bones enthused. “Come on… Let’s dig it out.”

There was a flurry of activity as everyone tried to help, got in one another’s way, and eventually sorted themselves out. As Tre watched, he felt a pleasant tightness in his chest. He’d been right! The trip was a success. But what sort of weapons did they have? And how about ammo? He could hardly wait to find out.

Wood splintered and nails screeched as they were removed. As the lid came off people crowded in to see. Bones was the first person to react. “What the hell?”

Tre was rendered speechless as he looked down at the skeleton. There were some scraps of leathery skin, but the rest of the person’s flesh had rotted away, leaving nothing but white bone. A few remnants of a uniform were visible, but most of that was gone too. “Somebody shot him in the head,” Crow observed dispassionately. “Dead center.”

“May God have mercy on his soul,” the Deacon said as he touched the cross on his forehead.

“It was an execution,” Knife said. “That’s my theory.”

“Could be,” Crow agreed. “What if they captured one of Marley’s men and he led them here?”

“Not that it matters,” Hog put in. “He’s dead and the weapons are gone.”

Tre surprised all of them by jumping down into the grave. Then, having straddled the skeleton, he drew his knife. A bit of poking around turned up part of a collar with a silver bar on it, a belt buckle, and a few coins.

But then, as Tre sought to reposition himself, he felt something give. Further investigation revealed a camo-covered military knapsack, which he tossed up to Knife. After climbing out of the hole, he went over to watch as Crow removed the contents. There was a laptop computer, a binder full of plastic-covered sheets of paper, and a handful of personal items. “This stuff is worthless,” Crow said disgustedly as he opened the computer and tapped on the keyboard. “We’ll leave in the morning.” Then, having left everything on a slab of rock, he walked away.

The rest of them followed. And even though they didn’t say anything, Tre knew they blamed him. Was that fair? No, of course not. But that was how things were.

“Lieutenant Greg Nulty.” That was, according to the name on the binder, the dead man’s name. And since no one else was going to do it, Tre assigned himself the job of refilling the grave. It was the least he could do.

Once that task was complete, Tre sat down to look at the contents of the three-ring binder. He could see why the people who shot Nulty had thrown it away. The operations manual was thick, filled with jargon, and the definition of boring.

So he turned his attention to the computer. Predictably enough, it was dead. But the Samsung NC215S was equipped with a solar panel, so there was a chance that Tre could bring it back to life later on. And, even if he couldn’t, the machine was packed with valuable parts.

The pack wasn’t worth keeping, so Tre left that and took the rest back to a very subdued encampment. Crow was off by himself somewhere, and the rest of them were taking care of chores, napping, or playing cards. So with nothing else to do, Tre sat down and began to page through the binder. The contents were boring, and Tre was about to put the notebook down, when he came across a section titled “SUPPLY CHAIN CONTINGENCY PLANNING: PRE-POSITIONED SUPPLY MODULES.”

Tre had never been in the military and found it difficult to wade through some of the mumbo jumbo, but he stuck to it and was eventually glad that he had. It seemed that back in 2014 there had been plans to drop special operations teams into wilderness areas. Once in place, they were to launch hit-and-run attacks against Republican targets. But first, before the teams went in, each “operating area” was to be presupplied with a so-called Wolverine Package, meaning everything the group would need for ninety days.

All of which was interesting. But the real so-what was on a much-folded road map that had been inserted into the binder. Once Tre spread it out, he saw that the letters “WPs” had been added to top of the page. “WP” as in “Wolverine Package”? He thought so. And there were five dots on the map with coordinates scrawled next to them. As Tre eyed the map, he saw that the closest supply module was located in a blank spot near Pauline, Idaho, a community located southeast of Massacre Rocks.

Tre felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. Had the supply modules been delivered and used? Or were they still there waiting for special ops troops who never arrived? If so, even one Wolverine Package could yield enough supplies to keep the gang going for months. But how likely was that? The odds against finding such a package were exceedingly long. So what to do? Take the information to Crow or save himself further embarrassment?

Tre thought about it for a long time before closing the binder and getting to his feet. He found Crow sitting on the ground leaning against a boulder. He was cleaning a pistol. He looked up. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been going through the binder,” Tre replied, “and I found something.”

Crow frowned. “What is it this time? A rainbow and a pot of gold?”

“No. A container filled with military supplies.”

Crow sighed. “Look, Sticks, I know you mean well, but we’re up against some hard realities. Hog says we’re running out of food. And not just here. Back at the mine too. That’s our first priority… finding food. We can’t afford to chase possibilities.”

“These aren’t possibilities,” Tre insisted stubbornly. “They’re real.”

“Okay,” Crow said wearily, “make your pitch.”

So Tre did, being careful to go over all the documentation, including the map. “The odds suck,” Crow said once the presentation was over. “You know that.”

“Yes. But have you got a better plan?”

The direct challenge came as a surprise to both of them. Anger flared in Crow’s eyes. “Watch your mouth, boy… and don’t give me that ‘I’m twenty years old’ crap. This conversation is over.”

Tre turned and was about leave when Crow spoke. “Leave the notebook.”

So Tre placed the binder on the ground and left.

After a meager dinner, Tre hit the sack. He wasn’t slated for guard duty that night but slept poorly and awoke tired. Breakfast consisted of herbal tea and a small serving of oatmeal. Crow took a moment to address the bandits once they were on their horses. “We’re headed for a town called Pauline. Then it’s on to Soda Springs, Wayan, and back home. Keep your eyes peeled. We could use some grub.”

So in spite of his comments the day before, Crow had chosen to swing through Pauline. But there was no mention of the military supply container that might or might not be there. Was that a strategy calculated to prevent morale from slipping further? Tre thought so but kept his thoughts to himself as they rode north, turned onto a secondary road, and followed it south.

They saw one inn and some fortified farmhouses, but most people lived well back from the road with only the occasional wisp of smoke to indicate that they were there. All the bandits had permission to forage, but the need to keep going made that difficult. Still, the scouts came up with a couple of free-range chickens, and Bones scored a hatful of apples by riding through an ancient orchard.

As evening approached, Crow began to busy himself with a compass. Tre figured he was working with the coordinates Nulty had written on the map. And that was how they wound up on an overgrown farm a short distance from Bannock Creek.

It consisted of a half-burned house, a dilapidated barn, and a pond out front. As they set up camp and Hog went to work plucking the chickens, Crow roamed the farm, seemingly at random. Except Tre knew what the other man was looking for and knew it wasn’t there. How could it be? According to the information contained in the binder, the plan was to drop Wolverine Packages into wilderness areas. And the farm didn’t qualify.

Tre felt his already low spirits descend even further as he took a couple of horses down to the pond. He was riding Willie and leading a horse named Betty. As Willie put his head down, Tre found himself looking down into the murky water. That was when he saw the shadow. A rock? No, rocks didn’t have corners.

Tre felt a sudden surge of excitement, urged Willie forward, and felt the cold water rise. Then they were there, circling what was clearly a large container of some kind. “Crow!” Tre shouted. “Over here!”

Crow came, as did the rest of them, and Tre took the measurements. That meant going neck deep in the water, but he didn’t care. Not if the container was what he hoped it was. And the results were promising. The box was ten feet long, eight feet wide, and something like eight feet high. It was hard to tell because the object was sitting on a bed of soft mud. The dimensions were consistent with what the military called a bicon. But what was it doing there? Tre had a theory. The farm was only miles from the Bannock mountain range. Perhaps that was where the package was supposed to go, only something had gone wrong and the helicopter had been forced to drop the bicon into the pond. Maybe they planned to come back for it… or maybe anything. There was no way to be certain.

“This could be what we’ve been looking for,” Crow said cautiously. “But don’t get excited. There may or may not be supplies inside. And who knows… maybe it’s full of water.” Tre hadn’t thought of that and felt his hopes plummet.

“That raises another problem,” Bones put in. “We can’t open it. Not underwater.”

“How ‘bout we drain the pond?” Smoke suggested. “All we have to do is block the inflow from the creek.”

“More digging,” the Deacon said sourly.

Tre had started to shiver. Freak threw a horse blanket over his shoulders. “The sun won’t set for an hour yet. Let’s get started.”

The rest of them looked at Crow. He nodded. “You heard the man… Let’s get started.”

Tre heard the word “man” and looked at Crow. Their eyes met and Crow gave an infinitesimal nod. Tre felt a sudden sense of warmth. Regardless of what was or wasn’t in the container, something important had been won.

Tre thought two or three hours’ worth of hard work would be sufficient to block the inflow. He was wrong. Each time the bandits built a dam, the combined forces of erosion and water pressure caused a break. By the time the task was completed, a day and a half had been spent on it. And with food running out, time was critical.

Then they were on day two of the effort, watching the water level drop, waiting to find out what, if anything, they had. The draining process took two hours, and once it was over, more than a foot of water still remained in the pond. In addition to the bicon, other objects had been revealed as well, including a rusty bedspring, a couple of tires, and a golf club.

Because of the water and the mud below it, a causeway had been constructed. It was made out of boards and nails salvaged from the barn. The bandits pushed the construct up into the air and dropped it into position. There was a tremendous splash, and water flew in every direction.

Then a two-man team comprised of Tre and Knife went to work on the container. Doors were located at one end of the bicon, but they were locked and blocked by at least a foot of mud. Besides, even if it had been possible to open the box, the last thing they wanted to do was let water get inside—assuming it wasn’t there already.

So Tre and Knife had to make a new opening by drilling four widely spaced holes on top of the metal-clad container and sawing holes between them. It was very difficult since all they had to work with was a fistful of hacksaw blades. The sun was low in the western sky by the time the final cut was completed.

Tre was ashore by then, nursing a sore hand, and held his breath as Hog lifted the two-by-two-foot square of metal and Crow aimed a flashlight into the hole. That was followed by what seemed like an interminable wait before he stood and a big grin appeared on his face. “It’s dry! And it’s full. Let’s see what we have.”

Once they’d started, none of them wanted to quit, so they worked into the night. And as case after case came ashore, Tre was astonished and thrilled by what he saw. Machine guns, assault rifles, grenade launchers, and a fortune in ammo. But that wasn’t all… There were medical supplies, MREs, radios, and crates of explosives. Stuff none of them knew how to use but were eager to figure out.

Finally, after the last box had been carried to the barn, those who weren’t on guard duty celebrated by opening two boxes of MREs. After tossing the stuff that looked iffy, they had a feast. A small fire was burning at the center of the dirt floor and lit their faces from below. Crow looked around. His voice was serious. “The good news is stacked over there… But there’s some bad news too.”

Tre knew what Crow was going to say, or thought he did, but chose to remain silent. Fade took the bait. “What’s that?”

“We’ve got what?” Crow demanded. “Maybe eight tons’ worth of stuff? How are we going to get it home?” That was a very good question—and none of them had an answer.