The Seeds of Man

Chapter Five

The sky was the color of old pewter as Luther Voss climbed the stairs that led up to the crudely made gallows and looked out over the slum called Shantytown, a tawdry settlement that abutted the southernmost portion of his land—”his land” being defined as whatever real estate Voss could take and hold. Because in post apocalyptic America there were no elected governments, legal documents, or courts to enforce them. Justice, as the dead thief had learned, was defined by the people with the most guns. The rope made a creaking sound as a cold wind pushed against the body. “Cut him down,” Voss ordered, and stood to one side.

The food lord’s second in command was a man named Hawkins. Like all the members of Voss’s private army, Hawkins was dressed cowboy-style in a long duster, jeans, and high-heeled boots. His coat was open so that he could access the weapons he wore, one of which was a very sharp knife. It made short work of the rope, and there was a thump as the body landed on the wooden platform.

With that out of the way, Voss stepped forward. A breeze caught his long, mostly brown hair and whipped it around. He could feel the wind pressing against his back and see the way it ripped and tore at the fragile shacks arrayed in front of him. Having started at the south end of the settlement, his “boys,” as Voss referred to them, had driven hundreds of squatters into the area in front of the gallows.

As Voss looked down at them, he saw haunted eyes, drawn faces, and ragged clothes. There were children too. Most were smaller than they should have been, had runny noses, or were clearly ill. Malnutrition wasn’t the only enemy in Shantytown. There hadn’t been any inoculations in more than a generation, and sanitation was next to nonexistent. That meant the maze of shacks was a breeding ground for flu, cholera, and dysentery. Voss raised a bullhorn and turned it on. “I won’t say good morning because it sure as hell isn’t.” It was a joke, but none of the squatters laughed. They stared up at Voss with hollow eyes.

“All right,” Voss said, “here’s the deal. My name is Luther Voss. I own the farms located to the north of this settlement and I need more land. That’s why you have to leave. Once you’re gone, my boys will burn these shacks to the ground. So don’t come back.”

The crowd had been silent up to that point, but now they began to react. There was a rumble of protest as a man with a full beard stepped forward. He was dressed in filthy overalls and armed with a shotgun. “He’s right where we want him!” the man exclaimed loudly. “Let’s hang the bastard.”

There was a flash of movement followed by a loud bang as Hawkins drew a pistol and shot the man in the forehead. He fell over backward and mud splashed as he hit. A woman and two children came forward to sob over the body. “Sorry about that,” Voss said mildly, “but he was stupid. Look at the wagons located to either side of the platform.”

The squatters looked. What they saw were tarps, which when whipped aside revealed crew-served machine guns—both aimed at them. “That’s right,” Voss said. “You can swarm the platform, but most of you will die. And for what? A tar-paper shack? And a muddy grave? That would be stupid. So rather than commit suicide, come to work for me.”

The crowd was silent and Voss could see the uncertainty on many of their faces. “Think about it,” Voss continued. “If you come to work for me, you will receive new clothes, a basic set of household items, and an apartment in a building that has electricity and running water. You will also receive medical care and a better life for your children.

“In return,” Voss continued, “you will help me grow food. I will sell most of it, but there will be plenty left over for you and for your families. And, as a result of your efforts, other people will have more to eat as well, something you can feel good about when you put your head down at night.”

Voss scanned the faces in front of him. He had them, or a lot of them at any rate, and it was time to close the sale. “You have thirty minutes in which to gather your belongings and leave. Those of you who want to work for me should line up on the highway for a two-mile walk to Farm 3. The rest of you can go where you will so long as it isn’t on my land. Any attempt to interfere with my employees will be met with deadly force. That will be all.”

Having finished his presentation, Voss jumped to the ground. His horse, a gigantic mount named Odin, stood patiently while Voss put a foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Then, with Hawkins and two mercenaries to guard him, Voss rode out into the slum.

The crowd had dispersed by then, and with only half an hour to work with, the residents of Shantytown were rushing to rescue their meager possessions before the entire community went up in flames. As Odin carried Voss through muddy streets, he was appalled by the squalid conditions. Most of the homes were little more than crude huts, but each had a small garden. Pitiful things, really… fenced off with whatever scraps of wood and wire the owners had been able to scavenge. Feces, offal, and garbage lay everywhere. Here, he thought, is proof of how base they are. If they had any initiative, if they were willing to work, they could live as I do. Instead they choose to dwell here like pigs in a sty.

Forty mounted mercenaries had gathered at the north end of the shantytown by that time. The torches they held shivered as a gust of wind attacked them, but they continued to burn and sent tendrils of smoke up into the cold air. Voss pulled Odin to a halt and took a look at his Rolex self-winding watch. Then, as the final seconds ticked away, he raised a gloved hand. As it came down, heavily burdened men and women were still scurrying for the highway with children, dogs, and farm animals in tow. Later, when they entered the induction center, their pets would be taken away to be slaughtered, and the goats, pigs, and chickens would be quarantined. Then, after being inspected for disease, they would go into the food supply. But there was no point in telling the squatters that ahead of time.

At Voss’s signal, the riders spurred their horses into the maze. As they passed each dwelling, they leaned in to touch it, like priests blessing the homes, but with fire rather than holy water. Most went up in flames.

Not all the huts surrendered so easily, however. Some were stubborn and refused to catch fire. Whenever that occurred, a mercenary would light a firebomb and toss it through an opening, resulting in a splash of fire. It rarely took two.

Confident that the reclamation project was on track, Voss led his bodyguards north past the long line of people who were about to become his responsibility. Was this the way it felt to be a nobleman back in the Middle Ages? Yes, Voss thought it was, and remembered the saying “What’s old is new again.” Not only new, but to his mind exhilarating, because while much had been lost in the wake of the war, a great deal had been gained, primary among which was personal freedom. Voss smiled, urged Odin to a gallop, and took pleasure in the feel of it. The year was 2066. But it could have been 1266. And that was fine with him.

The fortified manor house sat atop a hill and could be seen from the highway. That was no accident. Hills were easier to defend, and each passerby would not only see it, but also think of him. A twisting, turning road led up through beautifully landscaped slopes past artfully disguised machine-gun emplacements to a carefully groomed courtyard where uniformed slaves were waiting to receive him.

It was important to maintain the right mix of workers and slaves. The advantage to using hired help was that they had a reason to guard the status quo, to think of ways to improve things, and to come up with innovations. But slaves could produce food for less and, so long as they existed, gave the workers a reason to feel superior, all of which contributed to social stability and therefore to profits.

Voss slid to the ground and gave the reins to a slave boy, knowing that the horse would be well taken care of. Spurs rattled as Voss crossed the well-packed gravel to the house. It consisted of a conical watchtower sited next to a two-story house with a multiplicity of chimneys and staggered roofs. The two-foot-thick walls were made of stone. They were pierced by windows and rifle slits, which were currently plugged against the cold.

A massive metal-strapped door swung open before Voss could touch it. Once inside the huge entry hall, Voss went to sit on one of two throne-like chairs that were positioned to either side of a welcoming fireplace. A house slave hurried to remove his filthy boots while a second gave him a mug of coffee—a fantastically expensive brew derived from Mexican beans brought north by caravan. It was hot, slightly sweetened with sugar made from his own sugar beets, and diluted with a dollop of cream produced by a Voss-owned dairy farm.

No sooner was the ritual completed than a small formally dressed man appeared. He had slicked-down hair, a pair of thick glasses, and a stern demeanor. His name was Elmer Trenton and he was many things, including Voss’s personal secretary, confidant, and adviser. “There you are,” Trenton said, exhibiting none of the deference that most people did. “Charlie Winthrop is waiting in your study.”

“Excellent,” Voss replied, as a footman slid some handmade moccasins onto his feet. “It’s about time. Let’s see what the rascal has to say.”

Voss led Trenton into the wood-paneled study. One wall was taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Another was dedicated to a large fireplace, and a bay window looked southwest across tidy slopes to the highway below. Smoke could be seen in the distance as riders escorted a long line of men, women, and children north. Winthrop was seated next to the huge desk. He stood as Voss entered the room. “It’s good to see you,” Voss said as he shook the other man’s hand. “How’s Blue?”

“Ornery as ever.”

“Good. Would you like a cigar?”

Winthrop eyed the box greedily. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Take a fistful,” Voss said. “They’re from an island called Cuba. Each one of them is worth a box of .45s.”

Winthrop hurried to accept the invitation, and after sticking four cigars in an inside pocket, bit the end off a fifth and spit it onto the floor. Voss smiled indulgently as he leaned forward to provide Winthrop with a light. Once the cigar was drawing properly, Voss smiled. “So, Charlie, what have you got for me?“

“Well,” Charlie began, “I went down past Kemmerer just like you told me to. The good news is that outside of the usual patrols, I didn’t see anything that could be described as a major troop movement.”

Voss made a steeple with his fingers. “And the bad news?”

Charlie released a stream of pungent blue-black smoke. “The bad news is that there’s a lot of territory I didn’t see. Couldn’t see without getting my ass shot off. Hashi has established a number of no-go zones since the last time I was down that way. And the locals tell me that her people don’t take prisoners.”

Voss considered that. Haya Hashi was a tech lord by virtue of the fact that she controlled the wind turbines located outside Evanston, Wyoming. And since Voss’s solar farms weren’t able to produce enough electricity to meet his needs, he was forced to buy power from Hashi—and it was expensive. Up to twenty percent of the nonperishable food Voss Enterprises produced was shipped south each month, and the bandits knew that. So although his mercenaries were able to protect most of the caravans most of the time, there were losses—losses he had to make up.

That was bad enough, but six days earlier, an emissary had arrived carrying a letter from Hashi. It was replete with all sorts of flowery crap, but the so-what was clear. The bitch was raising her prices again. That left Voss with two choices. Pay, or invade Hashi’s wind-generated empire and take over. He preferred the second alternative and had prepared for it. But what if the price increase was part of an elaborate plan to lure him out of the Star Valley? What if Hashi wanted war—and wanted to fight it on her ground? Such was the dilemma that faced him. “Okay,” Voss said, “there were places you couldn’t go—and things you couldn’t see. But what’s your guess? Is Hashi preparing for war?”

Charlie took in some smoke, held it for a second or two, and blew a perfect ring. The halo lost its shape before it could reach Voss. “I’d rather not guess. But if I have to, I’d say it’s business as usual down in Hashi-land. Rumor has it that she’s butt deep in an effort to construct more wind machines.”

“That could explain why she raised her prices,” Trenton said, speaking for the first time. He was standing in front of the fireplace with both hands behind his back.

Voss nodded. Hashi would need gold for something like that—gold she could bring in by selling some of the food he sent her. “Thank you, Charlie. Stay in touch. Trenton will take care of your pay.”

Winthrop had been dismissed and knew it. He rose and said, “Thank you, Mr. Voss,” and Trenton led him out into the hall. A cloud of smoke remained behind as the door closed after them. Snow had begun to fall beyond the window. An omen, perhaps? And, if so, what did it mean? There was one person who might know, but she hated him. Voss smiled. Dinner would be interesting.

Voss had a lot to do, not the least of which was to make sure that his mercenaries were ready to leave on six hours’ notice. And that was a complicated matter because they were mercenaries—and mercenaries couldn’t be trusted. Making the situation even more complex was the fact that the mercenaries were paid with the very thing required to fight, and that was ammunition. Give them too little and a critical battle could be lost. Issue too much and they would take their riches and run. But by insisting that that his soldiers take wives, he could hold their families hostage. It was an effective policy for the most part, but only if he enforced the rules.

So, having lost a “runner” the week before, he was forced to visit the merc compound located north of his home, wait for the troops to be assembled, and watch while the deserter’s family was put to death. Not a pleasant way to spend the afternoon and one that put him in a foul mood.

It was getting dark and the snow was falling more thickly by the time Voss and his bodyguards returned to the manor. Once Odin had been taken away, Voss entered the house and went up to his quarters. The hot shower felt wonderful and went a long way toward restoring his spirits. After donning a white shirt, black trousers, and a matching jacket, he went down to dinner.

The door to the wood-paneled dining room was open, candles glowed, and the twelve-person table was set for two. Sara Silverton was already there. She had shoulder-length brown hair, large luminous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. The dress she wore was decorated with hundreds of hand-sewn beads and glittered as she stood, a sign of respect she was reluctant to give but Voss insisted on. He smiled. “Good evening, Sara. You look beautiful.”

Sara made a face. “I wish it were otherwise. Then someone else could decorate your dining room.”

“Ah, but I value more than your looks.”

A slave held the chair positioned at the head of the table and Voss sat on it. That was the cue for a second slave to seat Sara—and there was no mistaking the rattle of chains as he did so. The shackles had been added in the wake of her latest escape attempt. “So,” Voss said as the wine was poured. “How was your day?”

“Like every other day. Boring.”

Voss shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You could swear your allegiance to me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you would believe that?”

Sara never told Voss what he wanted to hear, and that was part of the attraction. He took a sip of wine. “No, of course not.”

“So we’re back to where we started.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Voss broke the ensuing silence. “A man came to visit me today.”

“So?”

“So he says that Hashi is building more wind turbines—and that’s why she raised her prices.”

Sara’s eyes flashed. “He’s wrong.”

“In what way?”

“She wants everything you have.”

Voss eyed his prisoner from the other end of the table. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I’m all for it. Maybe she will free me.”

Voss considered that. “I don’t think so. Hashi would use you as I do.”

Sara shrugged. “Perhaps… The outcome is unclear.”

“And if I invade her territory? What then?”

Sara’s eyes took on the faraway look he’d seen many times before. Sara was a psychic, or claimed to be, although he wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. But whatever the source, the advice she gave him was right more often than it was wrong. And that gave him an edge—a small edge, but an edge nevertheless. “If you invade you’ll be sorry,” Sara said. “I see bodies, hundreds of them, all killed by Hashi.”

“Is my corpse among them?”

“No,” Sara said and smiled.

Was she telling the truth? Or lying in hopes that he would be killed? That was part of the game they played. “I should shoot you.”

“I would welcome that.”

“Then I won’t.”

“I know.”

Voss laughed, and as he looked the length of the table at Sara, he saw what might have been the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. The salad arrived and they ate in silence. It was better than dining alone.

The mercenaries departed at dawn. There were a thousand of them, all riding horses, and all dressed cowboy-style. There were ten companies of one hundred men, each having a boss and a flag to rally to. They rode in a column of twos with dusters over multiple layers of clothing and hats pulled low. The snow had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and the entire formation was enveloped by a fog of lung-warmed air. The wagons came next. There were ten of them, all heavily loaded with tents, tools, food, ammo, medical supplies, and slaves. It took a lot of resources to start a war. They rattled, creaked, and squealed.

Voss and his bodyguards rode at the front. That was something Voss insisted on because he knew the mercs were more likely to put their hearts into a fight if they could see that he was taking the same chances they did.

But appearances were deceiving. In spite of Voss’s determination to look brave, he was terrified, not because of the possibility that he would be killed—he couldn’t conceive of that—but because he might fail. Just like Sara said he would. But, Voss reminded himself, remember what Charlie said. He thinks Hashi is busy building wind turbines.

The thought made him feel better, as did the news a scout radioed back half an hour later. The way was clear. There were no tracks in the snow, no unusual radio traffic, and no suspicious riders in the distance. Nor should there be that close to Afton. But Kemmerer, which lay a hundred miles to the south, was at the northern boundary of what Hashi considered to be her territory. So Voss expected to make contact by the time he and his mercenaries arrived there.

Except for a brief appearance shortly after noon, the sun was hidden behind the clouds for the rest of the day. And by the time the column pulled into a hamlet called Border Junction, Voss was exhausted. But rather than let that show, he forced himself to make the rounds and even went so far as to help erect a tent, disperse dollops of whiskey from the flasks he kept in his pockets, and chat with the mercs he knew. Small things, really… but moments that would be magnified in the telling and would help to keep spirits up.

Then, dead tired, Voss retreated to the tent that slaves had set up for him. Unlike all the rest, it was equipped with a small wood-burning stove, carpets, and camp furniture. Voss ate a bowl of piping-hot stew as Hawkins delivered a report. He struggled to say all the right things in response, then went to bed a few minutes later. The interior of his sleeping bag was already warm thanks to a couple of hot water bottles, and it wasn’t long before sleep carried him away.

It took two hours to break camp in the morning and it was all Voss could do to remain aloof. He was, as always, filled with a seething impatience. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the column set off.

Now, conscious of the fact that Hashi’s territory lay only fifty miles to the south, Voss sent half a company of horsemen ahead to scout the way. Voss didn’t expect to make contact with the enemy so soon but knew such a thing was possible.

But beyond routine encounters with a few startled travelers, the scouts found nothing other than vast tracts of untouched snow, the bite of the relentless wind, and an empty horizon. Surely they would make contact soon. The suspense was nerve-wracking, but comforting too, because with each passing mile Voss became increasingly convinced that Charlie was right. Hashi’s attention was focused elsewhere.

That thought helped Voss endure the next eight hours as the column passed through Cokeville and turned east at the hamlet of Sage. It was flat country interrupted by low-lying ridges, perfect for cavalry. But it was a cold, heartless place, and Voss felt lost in it.

Finally, as the sky began to darken, they arrived in what was once the town of Kemmerer. It had been home to a couple thousand people sixty years earlier. But that was back before the nuclear exchange, sudden climate change, and the second civil war. There had been significant quantities of fuel back then, and a tank battle had been fought in Kemmerer. The hulks of burned-out machines stood as mute testimonials to a period when various states and combinations of states battled one another and ultimately reduced the United States of America to rubble. And now, more than fifty years later, people were fighting over the rubble.

As the animals were cared for and the tents went up, Voss made the rounds. The mercs weren’t likely to complain to his face, but Voss could tell that morale was still high, and he did what he could to keep it that way. Then he called the bosses into his tent, where he served up cigars and whiskey before getting down to business. A map had been spread out on a sheet of wood supported by two sawhorses. A cloud of blue-black smoke floated above their heads as Voss tapped the name Kemmerer with a grubby index finger. “We’re here, and Hashi’s headquarters are down here, in Evanston. So here’s the plan. Hawkins will take most of our men down Highway 189. At some point Hashi will be forced to respond. That’s when we kick her butt or, failing that, keep most of her people busy while I lead a company of men around to attack her left flank. If we can break through, we’ll turn in on her and attack from behind. Then, having hung her from one of her own windmills, we’ll take control of the power distribution grid. With that in our hands, it will be easy to capture individual wind turbines. If you have questions, speak up.”

The bosses had questions, but they were tactical rather than strategic. None of them were going to say something like, “Hey, Mr. Voss, why start a war?” Not while he could kill their families.

Once all the issues had been resolved and the mercenaries were gone, Voss could hit the sack. His bed was warm, but it was hard to fall asleep. Part of that was due to the aches and pains resulting from a long ride, but most if it had to do with a stomach-churning sense of dread. Was he right? Was he wrong? Nothing was certain. And the doubts followed Voss into dreams where armies clashed, men died, and blood stained the snow.

The mercs were up and working two hours before dawn in keeping with orders from Voss. That meant they were ready to ride at first light. After giving Hawkins some final orders, Voss led a hundred men west. It was cold but clear, conditions that Voss chose to perceive as a good omen. With scouts ranging ahead, the column snaked between snow-clad hills and eventually turned south.

When midmorning arrived, Voss hadn’t heard anything from Hawkins but hadn’t expected to. The radios they had weren’t much good beyond a few miles. So with a blue sky, and no news from the east, the sound of thunder took Voss by surprise. He turned to look at Boss Jones, a man with dark skin, high cheekbones, and a reputation for being tough. “What the hell was that?“

Jones frowned. “I don’t know, but it ain’t good. That’s for sure.”

The sound lasted for half a minute and stopped. Now Voss felt an emptiness where the pit of his stomach was supposed to be. But all he could do was keep going, execute his part of the plan, and trust that Hawkins would do likewise. Hopefully, no matter what had taken place on Highway 189, the sudden attack on Hashi’s flank would take her by surprise.

But fifteen minutes later Voss heard a high-pitched mosquito-like whine and looked up to see something in the sky. Although Voss had never seen an actual airplane, he had seen pictures of them and realized he was looking at a toy. No, not a toy, but a miniature plane. Why bother? Unless it could take pictures of his mercs! How many such devices did Hashi have? A dozen? No wonder her scouts had never been sighted… They could fly! A fact that had escaped Charlie. Or had she bought the traveling medicine man off? Voss felt a rising sense of anger but forced himself to push the thought off. Focus, he told himself. Focus on the situation at hand. “Shoot it down,” he ordered, and the mercs tried. A volley of shots rang out, but the drone was a moving target, none of the mercs were armed with machine guns, and the sun was in their eyes.

So the tiny aircraft completed a circle unscathed, waggled its wings as if to taunt him, and banked toward the south. At that point Voss faced a real dilemma. The element of surprise had been lost. Should he keep going or turn back? Much as it galled Voss to do so, the obvious choice was to go back, because if he continued, Hashi’s forces would be waiting to crush him. It was humiliating, but Voss had no choice. He looked at Jones. “Turn the column around. We’re going back.”

Jones shouted orders, the back of the column became the front, and the detachment was soon headed east. They rode hard, so that clods of snow flew away from the horses’ hooves, and jets of what looked like steam shot out of their nostrils. As they ran, Voss was gripped by a sense of dread. The thunder… What had caused the thunder?

It took a full hour of hard riding to learn the answer. As Voss and his men rounded a hill, he could see his riders—hundreds of them—and that made him feel better. Then, as a section of Highway 189 came into view, a scene of incredible carnage was revealed. Dozens of craters could be seen, along with patches of blood-soaked snow and large chunks of raw meat. Horses? Yes, but as Voss drew closer, he saw that human body parts lay about as well. Boss Howard galloped out to meet him. Both men pulled back on the reins. Voss spoke first. “Hawkins?”

“Dead.”

“What the hell happened?”

“The road was mined. There must have been fifty or sixty of them. We lost all of Company A and half of B. More than a hundred and fifty men altogether. There are wounded too. Some won’t make it.”

Voss felt light-headed. Sara had been right. Damn, damn, damn. “But how?” Voss demanded. “Surely we weren’t the first people to use the highway since the mines were planted.”

“They were command detonated,” Howard replied grimly. “Munitions like that were widely available back during the second civil war—and it looks like Hashi found a supply.”

No wonder the bitch felt free to raise her prices, Voss thought. She was ready for war. “Okay, so she had someone stationed here. Did we get him?”

Howard said, “Nope,” and pointed upward. And there, flying lazy circles in the sky, was a miniature plane. Having spotted the column, all Hashi had to do was push a button.

Voss swore. “We ran into one of those as well. That’s why we turned back.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard acknowledged, “and I’m glad you did. Truth is I wasn’t sure what to do. Who knows? Maybe there are more mines up ahead. We could ride parallel to the highway, but Hashi would be able to see that and respond.”

“There isn’t much we can do other than bury the dead and get the wounded back to Afton,” Voss said. “Then, next time we come down here, we’ll make Hashi pay.”

That was what Howard wanted. Clarity, confidence, and orders to follow. Voss eyed the man as he rode away. If only there had been someone to tell him what to do. But there wasn’t, so all he could do was watch as the graves were dug and say some awkward words as the bodies were lowered into them. It took a long time to bury that many people, so it was midafternoon by the time the column rode north.

Voss was lost in thought as Odin carried him north. What would Hashi do? Send drones to track him? No, they didn’t have enough range. Had it been otherwise, the miniature planes would have been spotted up in the Star Valley.

His thoughts circled back. What would Hashi do? What would he do? After giving the matter some thought, Voss came up with what he hoped was the correct answer. Hashi would send scouts to make sure that the column was no longer in her territory. That suggested an opportunity of sorts, a chance to gain something and to salve his wounded pride as well.

So Voss brought the column to a halt, told Howard what he had in mind, and went looking for Boss Jones. The merc was about halfway back and busy examining his mount’s right rear hoof when Voss arrived. Jones looked up as Voss spoke. “I need you, plus twenty-five men, and enough supplies for seven days.”

Jones touched the brim of his hat, swung up into the saddle, and began to bawl orders. It took fifteen minutes to get ready. Then, as the column pulled away, Voss spoke to Jones. “I figure Hashi will send scouts to make sure we’re gone. If we could capture them we would learn a lot. The kind of stuff that would help us even the score.”

Jones nodded. “Sounds good. What’s the plan?”

“We look for the right spot, set up a round-the-clock watch, and grab the bastards.”

Jones looked thoughtful. “There isn’t much cover out here. Remember the last bridge? The one over the dry riverbed? We could hide the horses and the wagon underneath it.”

Voss nodded. “Good idea… Let’s get to work.”

It was dark by the time they returned to the bridge, found a path down to the riverbed, and began the process of establishing a camp. Voss toyed with the idea of setting up a roadblock on the chance that Hashi’s scouts would travel at night but decided against it. It would be difficult to see who they were dealing with, for one thing, plus his men were exhausted and likely to make mistakes. So he had Jones post guards, gave orders for them to be relieved every two hours, and volunteered to take part in the rotation.

Since a fire couldn’t be seen from anyplace but down in the riverbed, Voss allowed the mercs to build one, knowing it would provide warmth and help lift their spirits. Then he stood two hours of guard duty before slipping into his sleeping bag and falling asleep.

Dawn came quickly and with it the need to establish lookouts. Once the men had some breakfast in their bellies, Voss detailed seven of them to go south and establish hides on the north side of the first rise they came to. “Don’t break the skyline, and leave those hats here,” Voss instructed as the party got ready to depart. “Wear knit caps if you have them—or wrap strips of cloth around your heads. They’ll spot you if you don’t.”

Having shed their hats in favor of other coverings, the squad left. They had strict instructions to stay on the highway, where their boot prints would be lost among the tracks the column had left the day before.

With that accomplished, all Voss could do was wait. The fire had been extinguished so that the smoke wouldn’t give their presence away. All the mercs could do was tend to their horses and work on their gear as time dragged by.

Finally, after a couple of hours had passed, the radio Voss was carrying burped static. “Laraby here… Two people are coming our way.”

Voss frowned. Two didn’t sound right. He was expecting four or five. “Are they on horses?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, keep an eye on them and give me another report when they get closer.”

The better part of fifteen minutes passed before Laraby called again. “They’re pretty close now. A man and a woman. Both armed.”

The couple sounded like everyday travelers to Voss. He could be wrong, though. Either way it would be a good idea to talk to them. “Wait until they pass over the rise and can’t be seen from the south. Then reveal yourself, tell them I’d like to speak to them, and will pay to do so.”

“And if they refuse?”

Voss thought about that. Gunshots could be heard a long way off, and if Hashi’s scouts were close enough to hear, that could ruin the plan. “If they refuse to speak with me, let them go,” Voss said. “I don’t want any gunfire.”

Fifteen minutes later Laraby and two others brought the couple down into the riverbed. Hot water was available thanks to a can of Sterno, so Voss was able to offer both visitors a mug of tea. They were understandably cautious at first but began to loosen up after a while as Voss encouraged them to talk. The man’s name was Joe, his wife’s name was Clair, and they were on their way to Afton. They didn’t say why and Voss didn’t ask.

Could they be spies sent by Hashi? Yes, but Voss didn’t think so. Still, it would pay to take whatever they said with a grain of salt, and he did. When asked to describe conditions to the southwest, they said that the only people who had electricity were the mercenaries that Hashi called the Ronin. And they could be vicious. On the other hand, Joe said that while food was in short supply, rumor had it that shipments of produce were arriving from the south, so maybe things would improve.

That bit of news was of particular interest to Voss since it meant that Hashi had secured a secondary source of food prior to raising prices on him—a wise move and one that would force him to compete or try to market his food elsewhere.

Voss sent the couple north with six rounds of .45 ammo to speed them on their way. Then the waiting began anew. Voss figured the Ronin would come that day or not at all, and he was right. The lookouts had been rotated numerous times by the time the radio call came in from a merc named Obey. “There’s five riders coming our way, Mr. Voss, and they look like Ronin.”

Voss had been eating his lunch, but he put the plate aside to grab his rifle. “I’m on the way.”

After telling Jones to stand by, Voss scrambled up onto the road and began to run. He was out of breath by the time he plopped down next to Obey. The merc handed him a pair of glasses. “They’re straight ahead,” the merc said. “You can’t miss ‘em.” And he was right.

The Ronin were wearing armor that looked similar to what Voss had seen in history books. It was uniformly black and consisted of a fierce-looking helmet, armor that flapped slightly as the mercs rode, and bulky boots. He could see what looked like rifles stored in western-style scabbards, and swords as well, all slung across their backs. Would the armor stop bullets? No, of course it wouldn’t. It was for show, a uniform of sorts that was meant to instill fear. Voss’s thoughts were interrupted as Obey spoke. “Uh-oh… they brought some friends.”

Voss raised the binoculars slightly and felt something akin to ice water trickle into his veins. There, galloping along behind the scouts, were more Ronin, all riding hell-for-leather. Voss brought the radio to his lips. “Jones… bring everyone forward. And hurry.”

“Okay,” Voss said to the men on either side of him, “get ready. And remember… shoot the horses first. Don’t even think about potting a Ronin until all the mounts are down. We don’t want any of them running home to momma.”

That got a laugh, as it was meant to. “One more thing,” Voss said as he slid his weapon forward. “I need prisoners. Don’t fire until I do.”

Voss owned automatic weapons, including some heavy machine guns, but couldn’t afford to fire them in anything less than dire circumstances. One of his long-term goals was to construct an arms factory, but that was a long way off. In the meantime he had armed his mercs with Model 70 bolt-action Winchesters. The 70 had long been a favorite among prewar deer hunters because it was sturdy, reliable, and accurate.

Some of the mercs preferred lever-action .30-30s for use on horseback, but Voss had chosen bolt-action rifles because of the kind of situation that he and his men faced now. It was damned near impossible to use a lever-action rifle in the prone position without rising, taking your weapon off target, or both. His Winchester was equipped with a scope, and the Ronin seemed to leap forward as the crosshairs settled on them.

In keeping with his own orders, Voss tilted the Winchester down until the scope’s reticule was centered on the lead horse. He squeezed the trigger, heard a loud report, and felt the recoil. The bullet hit the animal dead center and it went down as if poleaxed. The rider was thrown clear, but Voss ignored him as the others fired. “Switch to those in the rear!” Voss bellowed as a second horse tripped on the first and went down in a sprawl of kicking hooves. “Hit them before they can run!”

The order came just in time, as the mob of Ronin located behind the scouts tried to turn. Voss’s rifle seemed to reload itself as another cartridge slid into the waiting chamber. He fired and fired again. Then, worried that a drone might appear, Voss scanned the sky. Nothing. Maybe the little planes couldn’t fly that far, or maybe Hashi figured there were enough Ronin to handle Voss’s rearguard. Jones and the rest of the mercs had arrived on top of the rise by then, and Voss waved them forward. “Hunt them down! And remember, I need prisoners!”

As the reinforcements swept forward, Voss hollered fresh orders to the men around him. “Watch for friendlies! Shoot horses… nothing else.”

A couple of animals were still on their feet but quickly went down in the carefully aimed fire. Then Voss led his group forward and was pleased to see that Jones had taken three prisoners. They were seated on the ground with their hands locked behind their necks.

There were more Ronin up ahead, however, some of whom were determined to fight to the death rather than suffer whatever fate might await in captivity. They fought desperately, ran out of ammo, and left cover with their swords drawn. They fell to a quick volley of shots, and the battle was over. Thirty-six Ronin had been killed, seven had been taken prisoner, and none had escaped. Two of Voss’s men had been killed, and three were wounded, but none seriously. So it was a victory, although a Pyrrhic one, given the losses suffered earlier.

Rather than leave the dead Ronin where they were, Voss ordered his men to drag all the bodies to a ravine and cover them with loose rocks. The sky was dark. Hopefully it would snow. If it did, all the signs of battle would be obliterated. Then it would seem as if the Ronin had disappeared into thin air. Except that Hashi would know better and think twice before sending more of her men north. Or so he hoped. He had no use for the prisoners so their bodies joined the rest.

As Voss led his people north, the first flakes came twirling down. Gradually, as the snowfall intensified, the flakes combined to form a shroud of white. Blood had been shed, lives had been lost, and the land was unchanged.