 
##### The Shadow of Armageddon

By Jim LeMay

Book cover design by Judy Bullard

www.customebookcovers.com

Copyright 2014 Jim LeMay

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. It may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its original form. If you enjoyed this book please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

ISBN: 978-0-615-94918-5

#### For Nyla, of course

This is as much her book as mine. She gave me encouragement, lent a tough critical eye to the manuscript in progress, and did the myriad other things necessary to bring the work to a successful conclusion.

What readers are saying about _The Shadow of Armageddon_

"The characters, story, and writing were good enough that I... promptly bought the sequel. A super-bacteria is the culprit - Viruses get all the attention these days but drug resistant bacteria are a "real world" threat. The author obviously did his research.... I actually didn't mind the few times the author decided to veer away from the story and delve into the science or history of a relevant topic. ... I enjoyed this book and recommend it to anyone interested in post-apocalyptic stories with an intellectual twist."

"I enjoyed this story immensely. Jim had a well thought out idea for a story, and brought the story and characters to life. You really find yourself caring for John, Matt and the others.... I really enjoyed this work by Mr. LeMay, and will be purchasing the next book in the series very soon. Keep up the great work!

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Also published by this author at Smashwords:

A Shadow over the Afterworld

Shadow Jack

Shadowspawn

#### Table of Contents

Author's Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Sample Chapters from A Shadow Over the Afterworld

About the Author

#### Author's Note

My concern about the rise of antibiotic resistant bacteria inspired this novel. I first became aware of it some time in the mid-'90s when I read a newspaper article about a teenager in Mozambique with bubonic plague who, fortunately, recovered. I thought that disease had been wiped out by antibiotics decades before. But perhaps it appeared in third world countries due to inadequate medical care or unhygienic conditions. The article made me curious enough to watch for related ones. By the turn of the new century I saw that the rise of antibiotic resistant bacteria, even in developed countries, especially in American hospitals, could no longer be denied. According to the US  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), at least 2 million Americans become infected with antibiotic resistant bacteria every year and at least 23,000 of them die. Many others die of conditions complicated by these infections.

If this continues, bacteria's victory over antibiotics seems inevitable. Yet, if a worldwide pandemic results, it need not prove disastrous in the long run. We will most likely return to the way we lived in the pre-antibiotic times of less than a hundred years ago. That will seem horrific enough for a generation or two. The mortality rate among mothers giving birth will rise. Few people will choose to have elective surgery because of the danger of infection. But we'll adapt. After all, we lived that way for our first couple hundred thousand years as Homo sapiens.

Yet, I couldn't help wondering, if a superbug did emerge which killed 80% to 90% of mankind, what kind of world would result. How would the survivors live with their sense of loss and despair? Only by writing The Shadow of Armageddon, could I find out. It is a work of science fiction and, though driven more by character than by science, I thoroughly researched the medical information related to the pandemic to ensure its accuracy. It can also be considered future history – the story is set in 2072 – because the culture is based on trends I see in current American society: the increasing disparity between rich and poor, the growing distrust of science, etc. Though the book's theme sounds rather grim I hope the reader finds it not without a measure of humor.

# Chapter One

Matt crouched at the edge of the copse of saplings, surrounded by the night. Light from the ceiling of stars compensated somewhat for the sliver of moon's anemic gleam. He couldn't hear Leighton, silent as a shadow behind him, but did Lou Travis. Faintly for sure, but sometimes faintly got you killed. No need to fear that now – their enemies wouldn't know their whereabouts yet – but soon would. He shivered slightly, despite the early August morning's heat. He had stopped before crossing the ridge. To search the star-studded darkness above the ridgeline for a silhouette that shouldn't be there. To look for anything unusual on the slope before him. And to catch his breath; the long hike and the stress preceding it had taken its toll.

A faint, almost unnoticeable, lightening diluted the darkness – the first hint of dawn. Time to move on. He left the shadows and, careful not to step on dry leaves or twigs or deadfall branches, went up the slope and crossed the ridge in a deep crouch as Johnson had taught them. In daylight you did this to minimize your silhouette against the sky. At night you did it by habit, drilled into you by years of Johnson's bitching.

He descended the western, darker side of the ridge back into the night. Despite darkness though, he saw that the terrain changed farther down. Angular features appeared here and there. Relatively straight vertical features – rock outcroppings? – poked through the brush and saplings in places. Thinking, damn this dark! he continued down to inspect a particularly large flat surface, beginning to suspect what they had stumbled onto. Big slabs of exposed rock like this did not exist in this part of Missouri.

He found the area less flat than he had thought, but cracked and buckled with grass growing through its pocked surface. Now he recognized it: the remains of an asphaltic roadway. He went to one of the "outcroppings" he had seen, some three feet tall, grabbed the top of it. It broke off in his hand. Rotten wood, part of a building wall. Just as he had begun to suspect; they had stumbled into a ruined town. He needed to warn the others. Someone might inhabit another part of the town few folks welcomed strangers these days.

A sudden crash split the silence like a bomb, followed by a stifled curse. In a single movement Matt crouched, whirled, and brought up his rifle. Then he realized that the sound had been caused by someone falling through brush. And the curse had been uttered by Lou Travis' deep bass. A few paces up the slope a thicket rustled, not as loudly as before, but too noisy under the circumstances. Lou's huge silhouette detached itself from the thicket.

Matt went up to Lou, his heart pounding. "What the hell did you blunder into?" he hissed.

"A hole. A basement, I think."

"You couldn't see something as big as a goddamn basement?"

"It was hidden by brush and saplings and shit."

"Sst!" From Leighton nearby. They crept over to him. "Here's another one." The kid pointed to a black pit, partially filled with the burnt remains of the house that had stood over it. In the dissipating gloom they saw amongst the weeds, brush, and stands of saplings: rubble piles, disintegrating walls and the flat, black, pocked remains of streets. Undergrowth and the debris of collapsed houses hid most of the curb and gutter and sidewalks.

"We're in a goddamn town," whispered Leighton. "We blunder half-way acrosst it afore we even know we're fuckin in it. Great bunch a point men we are."

"Sorry I wasn't more careful." From Lou.

"Watch what the hell you're doing," Matt grouched. "You could've awakened the dead."

He regretted jumping Lou, but the terror of the last few days had drawn his nerves nearly to the breaking point. Just as it had the others. Still, the big man had no excuse for not moving at the highest alert. He didn't worry about Leighton at all. The kid moved like a cat, the best point man in the gang with Johnson now gone, despite his youth and intensity. The irony didn't escape him. He considered Lou Travis his best friend in the gang while the high-strung Leighton grated on his nerves.

"Let's keep together and move along," whispered Matt. "We've wasted enough time. The town's more than likely deserted."

He led them along the edge of what they now recognized as a street. In the burgeoning light they saw partially-standing walls and the piles of trash, all blackened by fire. Maybe from lightning or a careless cooking fire. Or a looter's torch. The ground gradually leveled out. More stretches of curbs and sidewalks appeared along each side of the street. Building walls stood higher, some above the men's heads. Evidence of fire diminished until it disappeared altogether. They came to a street with most houses, though decrepit, still standing. Leighton pointed down the street with his rifle. Two blocks away the street ended perpendicularly to another with a store front facing them: the business district. At the tee intersection, they crouched behind an automobile's rusted hulk and looked up and down the street. It seemed to comprise the entire business district. Its brick buildings extended only two or three blocks in each direction. Houses continued from there. As Matt had suspected, the town was – had been – very small. And he bet most of the businesses had been defunct even before the Last Days. A sense of desolation, intensified by layers of ancient dust, hovered over the street. Brush and weeds grew between the buildings and from cracks and holes in its cancerous paving. The building's darkened interiors peered morosely out through broken windows. Most of those windows' shattered glass had been swept up and carried away so people had lived here at least for a while after the Last Days. A familiar scene, one Matt had seen in hundreds of these little Midwestern towns over the last twelve years.

Matt thought they may have stumbled onto what they had sought, an uninhabited town. He had nearly decided to call the street, and most likely the whole town, deserted when a movement caught his eye. About a hundred yards to the north, a boy emerged from a store on their side of the street, the east side, a blond kid, about twelve or thirteen.

Leighton saw him about the same time, raised his rifle. Grabbing at it, Lou knocked the barrel against the car's fender. The boy heard the resulting scritch, loud in the sad street's silence, and looked at the men in horror. Dropping the gunny sack he carried, he raced across the street, burst through a door, and slammed it shut.

Matt ground his teeth to repress a string of invective. Typical of these idiots: Leighton reacting completely unencumbered by the thought process, Lou with well-meaning ineptitude. He didn't wait to admonish them, didn't even glance at them. Even before the kid had hit the door, he started running across the street. He hid in a recessed doorway with only enough of his face showing to allow him to see. No one behind that door could fire at him without stepping outside, exposing themselves to Matt's rifle. After the briefest hesitation, the other two followed him across the street and flattened themselves against the building behind him.

Matt watched the boy's door for a couple of minutes. After seeing no activity, he left the doorway, glided along the wall of buildings, quickly but with his eyes focused on the door, his weapon ready. When he reached it, he knocked. No response. As he raised his fist to knock again a voice beckoned him to enter. A gravelly voice, that of an old person – he couldn't tell which sex – but not a weak voice.

He opened the door, peered inside from around the corner of the jamb, rifle ready but not pointed inside. No sense threatening or frightening anyone if they intended no harm. He had trouble making out details in the dark interior at first. A lot of unidentifiable objects filled the room, including several human-sized ragged heaps arranged around a low table in its center. As his vision adjusted to the gloom, the rag piles resolved themselves into people. One of them moved, extended a hand which beckoned him to enter.

"You might as well come on in," said the same voice, now recognizable as that of a woman. "You've come this far."

Matt entered as casually as possible, pointing the rifle at the floor to show he meant no threat, but stepped to one side to avoid forming a silhouette against the open doorway. Lou and Leighton had followed him along the front walls of the buildings. They entered in the same manner and stood at the other side of the door. Lou had hidden his weapon, a .22 caliber target pistol, under his poncho to allay the room's occupants' fears, but Leighton held his rifle blatantly before him, barrel raised to the ceiling, obviously available for use in seconds.

With difficulty Matt ignored Leighton's puerile arrogance and scanned the room. The large front windows did little to ease the darkness. Years of accumulated dust coating their outer surface and clogging their ancient, once-translucent curtains cast a sepia pallor over the room. The woman sat at the low table with three other adults, one at each side of the table seated on ragged cushions. Silverware and cracked dinnerware sat before them. A steaming teapot and a loaf of cornbread on a cutting board occupied the middle of the table. Apparently Matt and his men had interrupted their breakfast. It took him awhile to see the boy. He crouched behind the woman who had spoken. A screen of ragged, faded overlapping draperies, blankets, curtains, and less definable fabrics hung from a rope or cable strung across the high ceiling across the rear. It must have separated the front room from another area, perhaps used for sleeping quarters. A wood stove with links of stovepipe running to a hole above the window occupied the northeast corner. A scattered heap of firewood lay beside it. Sagging shelves, chests, and wooden boxes along the south wall probably held belongings and supplies. A small table held a bucket of water, ladle, and wash basin. A tired disintegrating sofa slumped just inside the door.

"You got here in time for breakfast," said the figure sitting across the table from the woman. Now Matt recognized the three other adults as male (they had beards). All four looked old, but it was hard to tell people's ages any more; life aged people quickly nowadays. "Problem is, we ain't got enough to share." Then he looked pointedly at Leighton's rifle. "'Course you can prob'ly take whatever the hell you want, cancha?" He looked from the rifle into Leighton's eyes, then glared at the others.

These old farts have balls, thought Matt. He said, "We don't intend to take anything that's yours. We just need a place to stay for a few days." He glared at Leighton. The boy finally got the message and grudgingly lowered his rifle.

"Well, there ain't nobody in this town but us and there's still a few places with roofs over 'm so I don't reckon you'll have a problem findin a place."

"Sure you're the only ones here?" demanded Leighton. His Adam's Apple bobbed which meant he suffered from nerves, suspicion and restlessness, a dangerous mix in Leighton.

"Yes," said the woman. "Everybody else died of the Fever last winter. Including the boy here's mother." She put her arm protectively around the boy's shoulders, and he crowded close to her.

That did it for Leighton. "Fever" spoken with an understood capital "F" meant Chou's Disease. Its mention sent shudders of terror through survivors of the Last Days, even those who had been as young as Leighton would have been at the time. Muscles bunched and unbunched in his face, his hands, and, Matt knew, all over his body. Bright red ascended his pale face from his neck to the orange hair straggling from beneath the wide-brimmed hat.

Matt said, "Red, why don't you and Lou check out the rest of Main Street? I'll visit with these folks for a minute."

Leighton slipped out the door; Lou followed.

Matt took his hat off, sat on the sagging sofa and felt the weariness seep out of his body into its lumpy stuffing. He leaned his rifle against the far end of the sofa to reassure them that he posed no threat. Then he leaned back, pretending to be at ease.

"Fever, huh?"

"Yeah," said the man across the table from the woman. "Didn't you see the signs we posted at each end a Main Street? They say 'Fever' plain as day."

"We didn't come in that way. I'm sad to hear your neighbors passed away, though I'll have to say it's unusually bad luck. Chou's Disease mostly died out years ago." He fixed his eyes on the man who had spoken. "Where'd you bury them, all these people?"

The man looked down. The other two men looked nervous. Everyone knew that, except for rare occurrences, Chou's Disease seldom reappeared. In most places its lethal nature killed its hosts faster than they could spread it. He finally said, "Why, in the cemetery a course."

"Oh," said Matt. "You must have more than one cemetery here. The one we passed hasn't had any ground disturbed for years." They had not, of course, passed a cemetery at all.

"Uh, yeah, that's right," said the man, uncomfortably, not meeting Matt's eyes. "You musta gone by the wrong one."

"Where's the one you buried those folks in?" Matt continued to look at the man who now assiduously contemplated his empty plate. Matt turned suddenly on the woman, to see her staring at him with a hardened expression and a firmly-set mouth.

"Okay. I didn't think you could tell me." Then said in what he hoped sounded like a reasonable voice, "We don't mean you folks any harm. We've come a long way, and we're tired. We're not criminals. We're just traveling businessmen. We find useful goods in abandoned farms and towns and sell them to folks who need them. It's a useful service that folks value. They call us scroungers or scavengers."

"Or thieves or looters or terrorists," said another of the men.

Matt shook his head. "I know some that are. But not us."

"Then why'd you barge in here?" demanded the man.

Matt smiled. "We didn't. We knocked and you invited us in."

"You would've come in anyhow," said the man who had not yet spoken.

"Probably so," interrupted the woman before Matt could speak. "But they haven't caused any trouble yet and they could've by now. I say we take them at face value, let them stay here if they want – not that we could stop them in any case – hope they don't steal anything and that they get out of town as soon as possible." Her expression was inscrutable, but her voice was cold.

"That's all we ask of you, ma'am. As soon as we're rested up, we'll be on our way. And we won't steal anything of yours. We have plenty of our own stuff." He lied only with the last statement, a big one.

"What do you say?" asked the woman of the others. "I'd like to get on with breakfast. We all have things to do today." The room stayed silent for a moment; then the man sitting across from her shrugged in grudging agreement. The other two mumbled assent. That told Matt the group's pecking order, useful knowledge for future dealings. The woman acted as their tacit leader. The guy across from her probably usually agreed with her – her second in command – and the other two normally followed their lead.

"By the way, I'm Matt Pringle. The big guy was Lou Travis and the other Red Leighton."

"Maude Potter," said the woman. "And my right-hand man," she smiled down at the boy who she still encircled with one arm, "is John Moore." The others mumbled their names. It would be some time before he remembered them and connected them to faces.

Matt stood up. "Thanks, folks." He put his hat on, retrieved his rifle. "You'll find us good neighbors. You'll hardly know we're around. I'll even repay your hospitality, chop some wood or something."

He turned and as he walked out the door he noticed the woman, Maude, rising in the stiff manner of the elderly. She followed him outside and closed the door behind them.

She came straight to her point. "Running from somebody, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

"Why do you say that?"

"You got that look. Haunted like. Desperate. I've seen it on folks that've come through here before. Always turns out they're running from someone. You see it a lot in these dismal times." Then she grabbed his arm with a strength he hadn't expected, narrowed her eyes, and hissed intensely, "Listen. I want you to know that I don't care about myself or those other old croakers in there. All I care about is the boy, Johnny. If you or your buddies or whoever's chasing you do anything to hurt him, you'd better kill me first – because I'll get you somehow."

Her ferocity surprised him. Her courage made her, a feeble old woman, simultaneously heroic and vulnerable.

His weariness and a nascent headache made it hard to concentrate and he still had a lot to do. He didn't have the time or patience to negotiate with these people. He shook off his confusion and said with quiet intensity, "Now you listen to me. We won't hurt any of you, none of you oldsters, nor the boy. And yes, we are running from somebody. But there's nothing in this town that they want. Except us. And if you'll cooperate and keep your mouth shut, they won't even know we're here. You'll be safe, we'll be safe, and then... we'll be gone."

"Fair enough," she said as fiercely as before. "You just don't forget what I said."

"Another thing," he said more gently. "The ones following us might not even think to look for us here. That's our hope."

"Mine too." Her look of defiance collapsed. She looked away, resigned. "I suppose we don't have a choice." Shook her head, "I didn't want to have this much trouble these last few years. Just getting by's hard enough."

Then she turned, opened the door, and went inside. He heard her say to the boy, "John, go get that sack of apples you dropped. They're part of our breakfast. And don't let these guys scare you. I told 'm I'd whup 'm if they didn't behave."

He looked around for Lou and Leighton. The rising sun did little to ease the town's despondency. Indeed, the shadows etched in doorways and between the dust-pale buildings resembled the hollows in the faces of skulls. The blank windows stared like empty eye sockets. He shivered again.

He met them exiting the last business building at the south end of Main Street. "She's right," said Leighton. "At least in the business part there ain't nobody. We ain't gone no fu'ther though." He nodded farther to the south. The dilapidated houses beyond the last store building looked as though they'd been abandoned for a long time.

Lou said, "And the buildings've been stripped. Nothing to use for either scratch or truck."

"Yeah," said Leighton, "so let's git the hell outta here."

"We're staying," said Matt.

"Staying!" boomed Lou. "After what they said about the Fever?"

"We're lucky if we ain't caught it awready!" said Leighton.

"There isn't any Fever," said Matt. "I pretended that we came into town by way of the cemetery and didn't see any fresh graves, and they couldn't tell me where they'd buried their dead. And you can tell those people aren't sick. The boy's as healthy as we are – healthier."

"Even if that's the case," said Leighton. "Chadwick's guys is right behind us. They'll find this town in no time. Those old fossils'll rat us out and we're done."

"What about that, Matt?" said Lou. "How can we keep those people from turning us over to Chadwick?"

"First of all, you know as well as I do Chadwick's goons don't even know which way we went. They may not even find this town. If they do, the 'Fever' signs might scare them off. Chou's does show up now and again. They may not want to risk it."

"That's bullshit," said Leighton, "all that, 'They may not find us, they may be scairt a the Fever.' But I guaran-fuckin-tee you one thing: if they do find us we won't leave here alive."

"So we find a hole-up as soon as we can," said Matt, "and hide out till it's safe."

"What's to keep the natives from ratting us out?" insisted Lou.

"Something the old lady said gave me the key to keeping them quiet," said Matt.

"And that is...?" Leighton stood with arms akimbo, rifle resting in the cusp of right wrist and body, head cocked to one side.

"She's worried about the boy. If Chadwick's guys come to town, we invite the kid to our hole-up for the duration. They won't dare say a word if he's with us."

"Well, it's not the best," said Lou. "But we got to stop some place. The others can't make it much further without time to rest and heal up."

Leighton looked around at the brooding town. "I don't like it none. Feels like a trap." Then glaring at Matt, he started to say something else.

"Forget it, Leighton," said Matt. "Mitch put me in charge."

Leighton spat, turned and walked a few paces away, pretending to examine the storefronts.

Matt said, "Now you two go find the others, help them back here. I'll find us a hole-up. Use the same route we came in by so I can join you when I'm through here. They'll need as much help as possible, especially Mitch."

Lou nodded, turned, and left. Leighton followed him grudgingly after a last backward glare at Matt.

Matt and Red Leighton had taken an immediate dislike to each other when Boss Johnson recruited the kid and three of his comrades two years before. Hyperactive, wound tight as a steel spring, he had a thin but muscular build, orange hair and a sparse yellow-red beard. His fey blue eyes bulged wildly when he got excited, which occurred all too frequently. But worse, his morose, withdrawn moods occasionally and unpredictably erupted into fits of temper, sometimes violent.

Four doors south of the townspeople's domicile, Matt found a one-story stone building that had once been a bank. He almost dismissed it at first because of its open, exposed interior. The front windows had long ago blown inward, the front door hung open on its hinges and holes gaped in the roof. But his penchant for thoroughness made him check the interior. In the largest office along the back wall (the president's?), he found an open trap door leading to a basement.

He descended the stairs. Enough light to get around shone through the trap door and a small grimy window in the rear wall near the ceiling. A giant safe extended across the basement's rear wall. Its massive door hung open. He knew before looking inside it that he would find the safe empty. The last person to leave the bank (the president?) would have descended to the basement as he had, opened the safe and taken its contents. He had left in too big a hurry to even close the trap door. Matt smiled to think the thief had discovered, after attempting to buy supplies and security, that shortly after the Last Days the American dollar had lost its value forever. Other than dust he found the basement relatively clean. He went upstairs, through the office, down a hallway and out the back door. He had a hard time finding the little basement window, hidden by weeds and brush. Good. Others would miss it as well from outside. A now-weatherworn throw rug he had seen in the office could conceal the trap door, with one of the office chairs pulled over it for insurance.

He would have to stay outside the basement to make it all happen: An imperfect plan, but it would have to do.

With a deteriorating broom and some dusty rags he found and water from his water bottle he swept and cleaned the basement as well as he could. He appropriated fancy satin cushions and bedding from a mortuary. Their solid cabinets had kept them relatively mildew- and dust-free. He found kitchenware, a big tub to take baths in, low tables the right height for the cushions, and other handy-looking items.

Finally, he allowed himself a luxurious moment of rest, sitting on a cushion, leaning against the wall; he didn't dare risk lying down. Then, leaving his scratch bag behind, he left basement and town and retraced Lou's, Leighton's and his route back toward the box culvert where he and his companions had hidden after the ambush.

# Chapter Two

Last spring the gang had left Nellie's Fair earlier and gone all the way to Iowa. They had gone to Iowa before but never so far north and west. The Nellie's Fair market had grown so large and profitable the area roundabout had been thoroughly scrounged for hundreds of miles, forcing them to range farther away each season. That meant leaving earlier in the spring to make it back by market time. They started back to Nellie's Fair the first week of August, still three or four weeks away but well before the harvest market took place in early September. Farmers made that market the most important of the year. They had more excess wealth to trade for goods than at any other time of the year. They had had a good season. The mules plodded slowly, weighted down by truck from deserted towns and farms other scroungers had not yet discovered. They had enough food for a couple of weeks. Though tired and trail-worn, spirits remained high when they stopped at Summerfield Crossing, a clearing by a clear creek, a rarity among muddy Missouri streams.

Boss Johnson had set the following challenge to his men before they left in the spring. If, on the way back to Nellie's Fair, they reached Summerfield Crossing in time they would take a few days off to rest and party. Johnson, who liked to party as well as anyone, offered it as a reward to the men for busting their ass to get back. He rode them hard, wore them out but rewarded their efforts. They raced to the site on the last day. The water came first, to drink and wash off trail dust. The mules agreed; they dipped their muzzles into the stream the moment they arrived.

After a half-hour of rest, Miller found the nearby stand of marijuana they remembered from past visits. Quick-cured pot wouldn't be as good as properly-aged stuff but it was better than any they'd had since leaving Nellie's Fair, which was none. Though weed harvested a month or so before would have been better, no one complained. After cleaning it of stems and seeds, Stony cooked it in the gang's Dutch oven while the others set up camp. They made it more permanent than usual since they would stay for more than a night: pitched tents, constructed a more substantial than usual hearth and dug a latrine a good distance away. The gang's cook Stony cooked the pot; only he could judge the temperamental little oven's temperature to rise no more than 200 degrees. Cooking at a higher temperature or for too long made the pot too crumbly to smoke. Maintaining too low a temperature or taking it out prematurely left it too green to burn properly. The gang often disparaged Stony's meals but no one even pretended to be his equal in quick-curing pot.

So, freshly bathed for the first time in a couple of weeks and full of marijuana-enhanced good will, they partied late into the night. Two groups sat around the campfire, each man sitting in his clique and according to his rank. The older guys, the larger faction, surrounded most of the campfire with Boss Johnson in the center. Dodd, the gang's "enforcer" (Matt thought of him as Chief Goon) sat to his right, with Back-up Goon Downing on Dodd's right. His chief counsel, Hank Mitchell, or Mitch, sat on his left. Though Matt sometimes served as secondary counsel, he sat with the other older guys who occupied random positions around the campfire. These included Lou Travis, cook Stony, and medic Doc Garson.

The younger guys faced the older ones in a clump across the campfire. Red Leighton, their leader, had bossed a gang of orphans in Nellie's Fair. Boss Johnson had recruited him and the other young ones from Red's gang. His counterpart to Johnson's enforcer, Dodd, was Big Miller, the biggest and strongest of them, albeit the slowest witted. Absolutely loyal to Leighton, he did anything Leighton said. The other two boys, the quiet Rossi and chatterbox Jack Kincaid, sat behind Leighton and Miller because the older men took up so much space around the fire.

After a larger than usual dinner, the men refilled their pipes. Stony's pot-cooking ability forgotten, they launched their ritual of deriding his culinary talents. Stony returned their good-humored banter with as good as he got.

"I oughta quit cookin for you guys for a while," he said. "Then maybe I'd get the preciation I deserve."

"Then maybe our ulcers 'd git a chance to heal," grumbled his chief critic and closest companion Doc Garson.

Though utter opposites, Doc eternally glum, rather tall and stooped with a long lugubrious face, and Stony a small spry cheerful man, they were, unaccountably, the best of friends. Though from their constant bickering no one outside the gang would have recognized it.

"I'll try it one a these days," said Stony. "You'll be the first to cry bout bein hungry. You'd starve if you had to cook for yourself."

"Only thing worse 'n your cookin is your luck," said Doc.

And indeed Stony's enthusiasm for life seemed misplaced. Bad luck hovered over him like a curse. Though he had been only about thirty during the Last Days, his hair had turned completely white and since then he had lost most of his teeth. He'd lost an eye to an infection and an ear lobe in a bar fight in Nellie's Fair. Despite his energy, he tended to be sickly, subject to colds and other illnesses. He had at least one bout of bronchitis every winter. No one, including Stony, expected him to have a long life, especially in a world with such a paucity of medicines and such an excess of violence.

"So tell us, Stony," said the youngest and most loquacious of the young ones, Jack Kincaid. "Why the hell are you in such a good mood all the time?"

Stony grinned. "Hey, I survived Chou's Disease when most other folks didn't. If that ain't luck I don't know what is. The rest a my life's a gift. If I die tomorra I'll a had more luck than most folks."

Miller stood up and gathered an armload of wood from the woodpile, clearly intent upon throwing it on the fire, which had deteriorated nearly to coals during the preparation of dinner.

Kincaid jumped up and grabbed his arm. "Don't build up a big fire," he said earnestly. "It'll attract other gangs, or looters. Remember what Boss Johnson says. White men's big fires showed where they was for miles around, but the Injuns built fires like little teepees. That let air through and didn't make much smoke so nobody 'd know where they was." Miller looked shamefaced. But Johnson swaggered up to the two with a big grin, grabbed the wood out of Miller's arms, and threw it on the coals. "Fuck th' Injuns. We're partyin. It's time for a white man's fire."

The marijuana made this a lot more hilarious than they would have thought otherwise. Everyone roared until they could barely sit up. Boss Johnson, who had taught them all the woodcraft they knew, allowed only himself to break the woodcraft rules. Doing so tonight brought the gang together somehow, made the older and younger ones forget the schism between them, for at least this one evening.

* * * *

It clouded up on the third evening so they decided to stay at the campsite at least one more day. They still had plenty of time, and hanging out in the tents during the rain sounded more comfortable than plodding through sticky Missouri mud. The partying ended a little earlier that night. Midnight found everyone asleep, even the younger ones. Even Downing, they decided later, must have been asleep at his guard post because they never saw him again.

Sometime after midnight, the world exploding around him shocked Matt awake. He scrambled to the tent flap, looked outside. He only saw darkness. He recognized the next volley of cracks and pops as gunfire. Accompanied by flashes that split the darkness. From the trees half circling the clearing. They gave brief glimpses of the clearing. He saw two figures lying in front of Boss Johnson's tent in awkward twisted positions. Lying in pools of black, the color night gave to blood. Johnson. And Dodd, gang's "enforcer."

Closer than the louder sounds, he heard a tiny whuf, whuf striking the tent material above his head. He backed deeper into the tent, faster than he had ever crawled forward.

He heard Lou sitting up, muttering sleepily. "What the fuck...?"

"They're shooting at us!"

"Wh – Who?"

"Who gives a shit who?" Matt found Lou and shoved him out the back of the tent. He grabbed the first weapon he touched, his machete, then his hat, scratch bag, and poncho. And scrambled out the hole Lou's big body had made in the tent. He joined Lou in the brush with the tent between them and the gunfire. Later he thought pitching their tent next to the trees might have saved their lives.

Huddled in the brush, he tried to shake off his confusion and terror. Lou had disappeared. No time to worry about him now. He sorted the sounds out – rifle fire, a shotgun blast, the screams of men and mules.

Then he heard a quieter but more ominous sound from the trees, the thut-thut-thut of a Kreutzer impact rifle. He knew what he had to do. The sense of purpose calmed him. He crawled through the brush around the clearing toward the sound of the Kreuzer. That and the flash from its muzzle led him to within a few yards of its wielder. He came up behind the man. In a flash of lightning, signaling the imminent arrival of rain, he saw the man kneeling, intent upon reloading. No time to withdraw his pistol from the scratch bag.

Quickly, without thinking, he raised the machete with both hands. He brought it down with all his strength. Deeply into the angle between the man's neck and shoulder. The man screamed and pitched forward; his blood fountained into the clearing.

"George! You okay?" came a panicked whisper from nearby.

Matt charged the voice, chopped at it with the machete.

"Watch out!" it cried. "They're in the trees behind us!" The man parried Matt's first slash with his rifle in the darkness. Matt raised the machete again and swung it down toward his face, or where the man's voice had come from through the dark. Matt never knew if he or the man would have killed the other. A pistol shot exploded beside the man's head. Its flash briefly showed his face. Its expression showed that he hadn't expected to die just then.

A big hand grabbed Matt's shoulder so hard it made him wince. Lou's bass whisper said, "Let's get the fuck outta here."

"Go on," Matt whispered, fumbling over the Kreutzer shooter's body.

Lou answered, "Come to the creek soon as you can."

Matt picked up the Kreutzer and the belt with the Kreutzer's ammunition pouches from the corpse, then followed Lou's too-loud crashes through the brush. The gunfire suddenly ceased, making Lou sound even louder. Then a shot rang out from the creek bank, tore through the leaves to Matt's right.

"Don't shoot!" Lou's loud panicked voice. "It's Matt and I!"

Shots spattered around them from the enemy side of the clearing. Friend or foe, thought Matt, somebody's going to kill us yet! Then he reached the creek bank, crawled down it behind Lou and saw men lying on its slope. He found Mitch.

"What the hell's going on?" he whispered.

"Chadwick's boys," Mitch answered. "I seen one a his lieutenants, Matheson. Shot at him, don't know if I got him."

"Is Chadwick with them?"

"Can't tell. Ain't seen him."

"Who's here?"

"Now that you and Lou's here, everybody but Johnson, Dodd and Downing. Johnson and Dodd's in the clearing..."

"I know."

"...and I'm sure they got Downing right off the bat. He was standin guard."

"How is everybody?"

"I'm hit. In the thigh. Don't know how bad. Doc wrapped it up. He's checkin the others."

Doc Garson, the gang's self-appointed medic, crawled up to Mitch, Matt, and Lou, found that the latter two had not been wounded. "'Most ever'body else's been hit," he said.

A few sporadic shots flew over their heads or spanged into the bank in front of them. Someone from the gang's side fired, which drew a few answering shots.

Mitch hollered, "Hold your fire. You can't see nothin in the dark." Then turned to Matt, Lou, and Doc. "Here's how we git outta this mess."

* * * *

Matt, Lou, Leighton, and Big Miller held their position along the bank while the others crept away. Mitch had wanted to stay, but Doc wouldn't let him because of his injured thigh. Doc, even though uninjured, had to go with those fleeing to care for their wounds and help the less ambulatory. They would retreat to a well concealed culvert they had run across a half day's hike away. Those remaining behind would make their way there afterwards, if they could break free.

Sporadic distant thunder claps and flashes of lightning threatened for some time. Then Matt felt a few raindrops. Everything got quiet. No one fired. Matt and the others waited nervously on the creek bank.

Then one of Chadwick's men called out: "Throw your weapons down and come out. We don't wanta hurt nobody. We just wanta talk."

Yeah, right, thought Matt, thinking of Johnson, Dodd, and probably Downing's murders. They would wait until dawn gave them enough light to slaughter the gang. Matt knew they had to get out of there before long.

Then he thought of the Kreutzer. Chadwick's men hadn't heard it for a while. Maybe they assumed its owner had stopped firing when the others did, and didn't know it had changed sides. Maybe a few rounds from it would stun them enough to give Matt and the others time to escape. It would work better if he could see some targets to aim at rather than just shooting randomly. He knew how to do that. By utilizing the talent of the most obnoxious gang member.

"Draw some fire, Leighton," he hissed. "Holler at 'm. Mention Chadwick's sister. Then let's all be ready to move out." Then he aimed the rifle at the trees.

He could hear the grin in the kid's voice. "You got it." Then, in his loudest, most strident voice Leighton called out: "Hey, motherfuckers, why don'tcha come over here and git us? Chadwick'd be ashamed a you cowardly assholes tonight. Specially if he knew we had took turns doin his sister last year in Nelllie's Fair. When you ball-less wonders sneak back home, tell him she liked it. Ugly women git all they can git!" Then he stood up – Matt hadn't thought he'd do something that stupid – fired a couple of rounds and immediately hit the ground.

Stupid, maybe, but it worked. A dozen flashes of rifle fire blossomed in the trees. Mattt aimed at them and fired. Answering fire stopped abruptly. The sound of the Kreutzer must have shocked them as thoroughly as Matt had hoped. He fired as closely as possible at the places at which he thought he had seen the flashes.

Then he quit firing. His strategy seemed to have worked, but the shock would soon wear off and Chadwick's men would be after them, even more fiercely determined to kill them.

"Let's move, guys," he said and started downstream, quietly through the willows along the creek. The others followed.

A few yards downstream a flash of lightning followed by a crash of thunder made Matt jump. In the next instant the skies decided to drench him. Soon he thought they had gone far enough for the trees to hide them from their enemies seeing them even in the lightning's glare. The sound of the rain should hide the noise they made crashing through the brush but the mud betrayed their footprints. He started wading through the creek's shallows and motioned for the others to do the same.

As they plodded, stumbling over submerged vegetation, with mud sucking at his feet Matt thought about the Kreutzer impact rifle, a devastating weapon. The harder the object its missile struck the sooner it detonated. In a man, the missile exploded a short distance into the soft flesh. A hit in the arm or head caused that body part to disintegrate. A strike at waist level nearly severed the body.

Matt reviewed the Kreutzer's role at the firefight. He had little ability with a gun; he had never fired one before the Last Days, and since then scarcity made ammunition too precious to waste in target practice. But he had had the clearing's narrow width and his careful aim on his side. And, though powerful, the Kreutzer's mild recoil wouldn't throw his aim off. He knew he had hit one man because of the scream that finally faded to a whimpering sob. The man probably hadn't lived long. He might have made one or more fatal shots. It had looked like he had struck a few of the blossoms right in the middle. If he had killed someone he wouldn't know it. A man killed by a Kreutzer didn't live long enough to make a sound.

It seemed strange not to feel anything about killing the man with his machete and another with the Kreutzer, his first homicides, except to marvel that he had changed so much since the Last Days.

* * * *

It took until nearly mid-morning to reach the culvert. They had followed the creek until it got too deep and then paved roads and forested areas least likely to betray footprints. The thunder and lightning had moved on and the rain had decreased to a steady monotonous drizzle. They watched for signs of pursuit but saw none. It had been a miserable trek. Only Matt and Leighton had gotten their hats and ponchos. Miller didn't even have a shirt so Matt gave him his poncho to wear.

They had found the culvert, a large concrete box under a section of highway, on the way to Summerfield Crossing. Lou, a civil engineer with a lot of experience at highway design, had predicted the existence of a culvert under a low point in the road they saw ahead. A landslide hid it on one end and brush, tall grass, and a thick stand of willows at the other. Nobody particularly cared except Leighton who delighted in challenging the older guys even though he lost most such arguments.

"How can you tell that?" he demanded.

"By looking at the drainage patterns around here. And those willows are a sure sign of water standing at the low end of a culvert with a blocked outfall ditch."

Leighton snorted. "I don't know what the hell you're talkin bout, but I bet you a beer at the Brass Ass they ain't no culvert there."

"You're on. Easiest beer I ever won."

The landslide hid signs of the alleged culvert on the road's uphill side. The two had slid down the embankment on the other side. Sure enough they found the culvert, large but not tall enough to stand upright in, its opening hidden by the brush and willows standing in a scummy pool. After Lou's comment to a sullen Leighton everyone forgot the matter.

Until Mitch brought it up as a destination after the ambush.

Mitch had led them slogging through the wetland and then deep into the culvert. The landslide kept water from entering the upper end. The willows hid them from the other end.

"How's everybody doing?" Matt asked Mitch. A whisper so no one outside could hear.

He said, "Oh, I reckon we've seen better days. You don't look so hot yourself."

"We had a tiring night but not as bad as yours."

"Nine of us made it," Mitch said. "Five of us older guys: you and me, Lou, Doc and Stony; and all four young 'ns: Leighton, Miller, Rossi, and Kincaid. We wasn't hurt as bad as Doc thought. He says mine's the worst. A bullet ripped a long trough along the inside a my thigh. Twasn't as deep as Doc thought but it's high enough to make walkin hurtful and the rubbin keeps it bleedin. He says if we can't git somewheres to boil water to clean it out it could git infected. Same goes for a wound in Stony's shoulder. A bullet took off one a Rossi's earlobes. Kincaid scraped the skin off his arm jumped off the bank. Kincaid's face and shoulder got sprayed by splinters from a tree a bullet hit, a particklarly deep gouge in his cheek."

"Doc never gives his patients much hope," said Matt.

Stony had scooted over to listen in. "We got another problem," he said. "We had to leave most a our gang scratch and all our truck and the mules. We only got whatever each guy had sense enough to grab on the way to the crick."

Mitch said, "At least ever'body got their weapons."

Scroungers called their personal belongings scratch and supplies owned in common gang scratch. They carried personal scratch: a coat or, more often, a poncho, weapons, a bedroll slung over one shoulder and a bag of smaller items – the "scratch" bag – over the other. They referred to goods gathered for sale or trade as truck. They called making the trip to collect truck going trucking. Mules or horses carried gang scratch like food, cooking utensils, medical supplies and tools like axes to split firewood, and the truck. And of course gang scratch included the animals that carried the stuff.

Stony waved his fist around over his head with index finger extended to signal the others to join him, Mitch and Matt. He passed out meager portions of bread and salt pork.

Mitch said, "We'll let the boys who saved our ass at the crick rest for a bit, then hold a confab to tell 'm what we decided before they got here. Rossi, you go spell Kincaid on watch down in the willows."

Matt crawled farther up the culvert into the dark with his food. He felt dead tired but knew his jittering nerves wouldn't let him sleep, knew he should eat but could hardly force the dry food down. He drank just enough from his water bottle to start saliva flowing. He welcomed the time alone, free from last night's terror, to think it all over. They had gone to bed last night wealthy in truck with more than enough provisions to get them to Nellie's Fair. They face the morning as paupers on the run from a superior, bloodthirsty force.

He saw Lou Travis crawling up the culvert. He sat up next to Matt, chewing the tough meat.

"Looks like we're in deep shit, Matt." he said.

Matt shrugged. "So far they don't know where we are. We need to keep it that way."

"Big changes since yesterday, hunh? Without Boss Johnson we're not even his gang anymore."

"And without him, we're not the quasi-paramilitary force he wanted us to be. Only he and Dodd and Downing had that Army Corp guerrilla-fighting training. Now only Mitch and Doc are even good at handling firearms."

"But," said Matt, "they lack those three's other skills. And their ruthlessness. I wonder if the others have realized how vulnerable we are now to assholes like Chadwick and Matheson."

"Yeah. I heard Chadwick made Matheson a lieutenant because he came from the same military background as Johnson and his goons."

They finished eating and lay back in silence. When they saw Stoney's signal to assemble they crawled down to join the others.

Mitch lay on his back with his trousers leg ripped open. Doc had packed his thigh wound with sterile dressing; fortunately he had retrieved his medical kit. A bandage torn from his shirttail bound it around his thigh. Mitch said, "While we waited for you guys, we talked bout what to do. We gotta find a better hole-up where we can git our shit together an figger out what to do next. We thought we'd sleep through the day and send three of you ahead to look for a hole-up tonight." He lay back for a moment with a frown of his thick black brows to hold back a wince of pain and continued.

"We figgered to send Matt cause he's got more sense 'n any you others and Red cause he's quick and quiet like a cat and Lou cause he's big an ain't hurt none an can travel longer and fu'ther 'n any a us. Matt's in charge."

Leighton glowered. Mitch glared at him. "Don't git cocky, Red. You might be as quick as a cat, but you ain't got no more sense 'n a mule so do what Matt says. And Lou, you might be able to cover more miles than any of the rest of us but you can be a fuckin klutz. So stay behind the other two and try to keep quiet. Ever'body agree to this before you guys got here from the crick. Any a you three want out?"

Leighton had a wide-eyed confrontational look, cheek muscles bunching and unbunching. He started to speak.

Doc leaned toward Leighton. "We voted before you guys got here, decided Mitch oughta take the boss's place. Didn't reckon you guys 'd have a problem with that." Still looking at Leighton.

"Of course we don't," said Matt, glaring at Leighton, daring him to speak. "Do we guys?" Lou shrugged agreement. Miller nodded. Leighton looked away, face red, eyes glaring. He knew when he was outnumbered.

# Chapter_Three

The world population of 2072, as in most times, consisted of haves and have-nots. The gap between the technical knowledge of scientists, engineers, and technocrats and that of non- technical folk had widened exponentially for decades. The knowledgeable classes, the "technics," the "haves," practiced the arcane craft of "techne." The majority, the "have-nots," lacked that technical expertise. Their distrust of techne grew, especially as techne's robots made their jobs obsolete. The technics' wealth and power grew at an exponential rate. Only they could afford the astronomical costs of higher education for their children. Subsidizing education for poorer students became untenable. Curricula changed to accommodate the increasing knowledge in technical fields to the cost of so-called "classical" or "liberal arts" programs.

Matt Pringle made his living teaching the haves. In February of 2072, he had lived in Kansas City, Missouri for almost a year. He taught English and cyber-communication at the University. Recording lecture classes at the beginning of each semester for students to take on-line made his first few weeks hectic. After that he conducted a few discussion classes each week, evaluated homework and test results and held occasional student consultations. He discouraged the latter for the most part because he didn't care much for most students. He made exceptions for those, all too rare (to him), who legitimately wanted to learn.

He found few students attending college for reasons he felt important: to learn to reason as well as prepare for their career path. Most only wanted to land technical careers that ensured a lifetime of wealth. Only grudgingly, and only as often as necessary, did those students attend his classes. Their technical future required that they read nothing more sophisticated than the sports page. Matt grumped that their computers did their thinking. He read their attitudes by the way they skulked into and out of his classes, from their long-suffering expressions when he dispensed homework assignments and their poor grades.

He didn't like teaching. He hadn't chosen it to shape young minds. And certainly not for the money. Like most non-techne careers, teaching paid little. Most teachers either lived near the poverty line or took on additional jobs. Nor had he chosen teaching for the recognition. Society measured status in monetary terms. If a field paid poorly, it viewed its members with contempt, no matter what their societal contribution.

Teaching only attracted him because it demanded little of his time because of its many virtual classes. The series of lectures he recorded for the semester only needed updating as new knowledge or theories made revisions necessary. In fact, a small part of Matt's income came from occasionally updating lectures for schools at which he had formerly taught.

He didn't need to earn a lot of money. His parents, technics in the highly remunerative entertainment field, had amassed more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. The cyberworld had made entertainment democratic, easily and cheaply accessible to everyone. His parents assisted in creating virtual worlds in ways Matt only vaguely understood and cared about not at all. Though he would soon turn thirty, they had never stopped sending his allowance checks. Some day he would inherit enough to allow him to quit teaching, though not for a very long time. In their early sixties, his parents had barely passed the midpoint of a normal life span.

The allowance alone would have let him live in genteel poverty. While attending college, though, he had decided to seek a profession that paid a little more without taking much time. His surroundings provided the answer. He found his poor but well-educated teachers to be the most interesting people he knew. He needn't become a full professor – that would take too many more years as a student.

An only child, Matt's parents had never mistreated him, nor even seemed to dislike him, but made him feel excluded from their lives, tolerated as an unavoidable disturbance. When he approached either of them with some childhood conundrum, they listened in a distracted way and returned to more important affairs as soon as possible. In his taciturn rebellious teenager mode, they defeated him completely... by ignoring him. Sullen defiance does not work against those who don't care.

After storming away to college he seldom saw them, though they communicated irregularly electronically and he visited them occasionally at Christmas. Twice their vacations briefly crossed in Europe. As usual, their conversations revolved mostly around his parents' projects. Once a girlfriend had accompanied Matt and, to his surprise, his mother messaged him a couple of weeks later to ask about long range plans. He said they had just broken up. They hadn't, but he didn't want to share any part of his life with his parents. They had never cared before. Let it continue in that way.

In addition to his few serious students, another type drew his interest: the tall leggy female variety. Though not outstandingly handsome, he looked good enough to get by. Using that with a dash of erudition and his often-acerbic ironic sense of humor, he sometimes attracted their interest. The relationships seldom worked for more than a few months. They inevitably looked upon his erudition as pedantry or his humor as cynical. He could tell when they got ready to leave and he was usually just as ready. A few partings had been difficult. He and Estelle had lived together for two years in San Diego, a record. He knew he could have kept her. And he had wanted to. He didn't know why he had not. He still thought of her at times, especially in the bouts of insomnia that had plagued him throughout his life.

He had met his latest tall shapely companion not in the classroom but in the university cafeteria. Not a student but a doctor, Dr. Mercedes Welch, on the university hospital's medical staff, her quick intelligence attracted him. Soon they began dating and by the first of February he had moved into her fashionable condominium near the Country Club Plaza.

She differed from his previous lovers in other ways. Most had been younger than him. Her age of thirty-three exceeded his by three years. Though doctors didn't command the high incomes of fifty years before her wealth topped that of most of his student lovers. Unlike many in her field she had read widely in other areas. Like him she valued her privacy. Unlike him she kept her life organized and under control though she never sought to control his.

And the sex was great.

He found her name, Mercedes, delightfully old-fashioned, and nickname Mercy wonderfully appropriate for a medic. He caught himself thinking, Maybe Mercy's a keeper, but he never let himself think about it for long. He would enjoy her company for now and think about the future in the future.

In late February, Mercy came down with flulike symtoms. She took to bed, plied herself with appropriate medications. She made Matt sleep in the guestroom that night but told him a good night's sleep would make her good as new. But when he checked on her the next morning, he found her condition appalling: high fever, haggard, lips cracked and dry, eyes bloodshot. She thrashed around, almost incoherent.

"You're going to the hospital," he told her firmly, and she nodded, wide-eyed. She knew her condition deteriorating so quickly meant something had gone terribly wrong. The ambulance got her to the emergency room in twenty minutes. Her superior and former teacher, Dr. Scheid, took her under his care, leaving Matt to pace the waiting room. After more than an hour the old doctor appeared with a tired and ambiguous expression.

"Well?" demanded Matt. "She's okay isn't she? It's just the flu, right?"

"We don't know," said Doctor Scheid. "But we sure need to find out. She's very ill."

Two days later, a little before noon, Mercy died.

* * * *

A doctor Matt didn't know told him of Mercy's death. Stunned, it took Matt a moment to notice the man's distant and impatient attitude, as though more important tasks awaited him. The doctor started to turn away. Matt shook off his numbness and grabbed his sleeve. The man turned and glared at him. Matt's temper, often lying near the surface, flared. If he looks at his watch, Matt thought, I'll deck him.

"Wait," he demanded. "Don't I have to make arrangements to... to..." He trailed off, unsure what should happen next.

"Arrangements have been made," said the doctor. He glared down at Matt's hand.

Matt said, "What do you mean? What's been arranged?"

"Doctor Welch made plans in the event of her passing. Those engaged for the service will arrive for her remains soon and she'll be cremated tomorrow afternoon."

"Did she know of some condition that..."

"No, no." Curtly. "Dr. Welch just had her life planned well beyond the present."

Yes, Matt thought, that certainly sounded like Mercy.

Back at their condo, Matt messaged her only living relative, her brother Terence. Not surprisingly, Terence answered that the hospital had notified him and he would soon arrive in Kansas City.

Matt hardly slept that night. The next morning when Matt phoned Dr. Scheid's office the receptionist told him the doctor had gone to a meeting. He called at the office anyway, hoping the doctor would meet him because of Scheid and Mercy's close relationship. Sure enough, when Scheid returned a half hour later he buzzed the waiting room for Matt to come into his office.

After the briefest perfunctory greeting, Scheid said, "The lab has determined the cause of the infection resulting in Mercy's death, Matt. I just came from there. It's a new bacterial infection called Chou's Disease, named after the Chinese medical researcher who isolated and described it. It started sometime last year somewhere in China. No one knows exactly where."

"The Chinese economy has been number one so long I thought their society had become more transparent."

"In many ways it has but they go to great lengths to hide what they consider weaknesses."

"What made them finally fess up about this disease?"

"Japan reported several cases in December. They failed to link them to Chou's at first because of the paucity of information out of China. But when every one of the thirteen stricken Japanese died, the Chinese recognized that a worldwide pandemic could ensue. They released what little research information they had to Japan and other countries."

"My God."

"Yes. Other cases began to appear: Korea, India, southeast Asia. Since then it has spread to central Asia, the Middle East and Russia. None have appeared in Western Europe yet but two weeks ago a case appeared in San Francisco. Mercy's infection is the first reported in middle America."

"Jesus. She flew to Seattle a couple weeks ago to attend some kind of conference. Could she have caught it there?"

Scheid shrugged. "Perhaps."

Another thought turned Matt cold. "Is this thing universally fatal?"

"No, but the death toll is high. Affected countries are keeping the exact numbers of patients and the survival rate secret to avoid panic. No one knows how it spreads or how contagious it is."

Matt had a sense that Scheid knew more than he admitted. Anger overlaid his grief.

Matt said, "And I'm sure no knows how fast it's spreading in the world's slums or rural areas. Or in this country's for that matter." He glowered across the old man's desk. "This is too important to be kept a secret. People need to have time to prepare for it. Mercy might have lived if she had known about this."

Dr. Scheid answered with the equanimity he probably used to soothe survivors of a loved one's death. "Every affected country is working to find a cure. We'll find it soon. We have for other diseases that seemed so deadly at the time: AIDS, Ebola. Everyone infected is immediately quarantined. Mercy contracting this disease surprised us all. Hers was the first case to be documented in the Midwest so we simply weren't prepared. The Office of Public Health and Science assures us..."

"'...that they're on top of this,'" completed Matt, "and that they'll 'find a cure in no time.' Please don't patronize me. I'll find out what this Chou's Disease is that killed Mercy with or without your help."

The old doctor stiffened. "I too was close to Mercy, Mr. Pringle." (No longer "Matt".) "First she was my student. Then we worked closely together here in the hospital. I also want to learn about this disease and how to stop it. My interest in it is even more profound than yours. I have a mandate, after all, to save every life I can. But keep in mind that the West has only known its existence for a couple of months.

"Yes, Public Health has been less than forthright. All they've told us is that it's caused by a new strain of bacteria, that antibiotics to combat it are near final development and that production will soon begin. The FDA has promised to expedite approval. Antibiotics were discovered a hundred and fifty years ago. Pharmaceutical companies haven't failed in their fight against bacterial infections since then.

"But keep in mind that I'm not a biochemist or a medical researcher. I'm not qualified to contribute to any of the necessary antibiotic research or development. I'm a doctor. I can only do my best to heal those who are stricken." A sad smile. "And though it doesn't help poor Mercy, I guarantee I'll do that to the best of my ability."

He stood up. The consultation was over.

Matt also rose, shook Scheid's hand and left, partially mollified. Perhaps the old doctor was sincere – he and Mercy had indeed been close – but he was sure Scheid knew more than he had admitted. The sense of foreboding he had felt in Scheid's office intensified outside in the cold daylight. Mercy's death might presage the onslaught of a catastrophic epidemic that could kill millions.

* * * *

Mercy had not wanted a funeral ceremony but Matt joined a few friends and colleagues who met after her cremation. When Matt reached home afterward he received a call from Mercy's brother Terence, saying he had just arrived from Amsterdam and apologized for being late. Matt said there had been no formal ceremony so he had missed nothing. They arranged to meet for drinks at his hotel and then have dinner at a nearby steakhouse that Terence favored.

Matt had only met Terence once when he had stopped over to visit Mercy on his way from Holland to San Francisco. What little Matt knew of him came from what he had learned over dinner that evening and from what Mercy had told him: After the death of their parents in an automobile accident, older brother Terrence and his wife had helped her through college. Mercy and he had both come from Kansas City, though Terence, a biochemist, currently worked for a Dutch company involved somehow in genetic research.

Matt met Terence at the hotel about 5:00. He looked rather weary and harassed. A thin man of about forty tall and rather stooped, he nevertheless had the beginnings of a paunch. He wore a modern European suit, dark and severely-tailored, that made him look more executive than scientist. And indeed Mercy had told Matt Terence's company had, against his will, forced him ever deeper into management and away from the research he loved.

"Sorry I took so long to get here, Matt," he said as they shook hands. "Several cases of this new disease have been diagnosed over the last few days in Amsterdam. We had to suffer some pretty extensive screening to prove we hadn't been exposed to it before they'd let us on the plane. Not that I could have done anything for poor Mercedes in any case."

The formal Terence could no more call Mercedes "Mercy" than he could have abided "Terry."

"Sadly, that's true, Terence," said Matt.

Fortunately, Terence never wasted time with small talk, so over cocktails Matt asked him, "What do you know about this Chou's Disease? Will it become a worldwide pandemic?"

Terence sipped his drink thoughtfully. "It's hard to say yet. I'm a biochemist but I don't work in pharmaceuticals. That has become such a closed discipline it's hard to tell what's going on there."

"Why is that? I understand that this bug is some kind of bacteria. The medical field has controlled bacteria for a long time hasn't it? What's so different about this one?"

Terence shook his head bleakly. "It's the most deadly one to appear for a long time. I hope it'll soon be contained, but that's far from certain."

Matt's stomach clenched. He had hoped Terence would immediately put his fears to rest.

Terence continued. "We're not as clearly in control of bacteria as most people suppose."

"What do you mean? I thought only people in third world countries died of bacterial infections."

"That's the common belief, but we humans have fought bacteria throughout all of our time on earth and they're not about to give in so easily.

"Think of our relationship with them as an arms race. Arms races are common in nature. Predators and prey always struggle to counter each other's advantages. Prey becomes faster, develops armor or coloration that matches its surroundings, or evades predators by living in large groups. Predators grow larger fangs or claws or develop more acute senses. Or run faster or learn to hunt in groups. Some arms races are less recognizable. Which doesn't mean they're less important or deadly. The one between mankind and bacteria has lasted for millennia, from a time way before we became human beings. For most of that time we didn't recognize it as such because bacteria were invisible to us.

"You must understand that bacteria are the oldest known type of life on earth. They live anywhere that is wet: in the water, in the air, in melting ice and snow, in boiling deep-sea thermal vents. The ground is saturated with them. You know that characteristic 'earthy' smell you get when you turn over the sod?" Terence chuckled. "No, you wouldn't. You're too much the urban boy to have experienced that scent. But if you ever do, you're actually smelling bacteria. The point is that every place in the earth's ecosystem that has organic material and a little dampness is swarming with bacteria.

"It loves unprotected food. This was one of the first battlegrounds where we met bacteria and prevailed – sometimes. Early man boiled, salted, smoked, pickled, and froze his food to protect it. He mummified his dead. He didn't know he was fighting a foe so small that two hundred thousand of them could live on a period at the end of a sentence; he thought that spoiling food was a natural phenomenon like gravity and thunderstorms and rainbows. He didn't know that the same organisms dwelt on and inside his body. By the trillions. In fact a human being is host to around a hundred trillion bacteria. The cells are so tiny they outnumber the cells of the body ten to one but lumped together they only weigh about two pounds or so. They include E. coli, staphylococcus, streptococcus, micrococcus, corynebacteria – lots of others. They invade a baby's body within moments of birth and live on and inside it until death. Then other types of bacteria take over to recycle the body."

"Recycle, yes," said Matt, signaling for another round. "I'd never thought of it like that. Sounds like a pretty dangerous crowd to live with."

"They usually don't do us much harm. In fact, most of them are essential to our metabolism and other processes. Moreover, they protect us from invasion by hostile bacteria. Inadvertently, of course. They ward off outsiders for purely selfish reasons; they're protecting our body's nutrients for their own uses.

"On the other hand, we must never forget that bacteria date from a primeval time eons before multi-cellular life. That makes them utterly alien compared to multi-cellular organisms. And no bacteria, not even those we carry around all our life, are our allies. They are vast in number, they're relentless, and they're our profoundly unsympathetic foes.

"But back to our fight with bacteria. We always fought this running battle mostly without knowing it. We accepted scourges like epidemics and high infant mortality rates as ordinary occurrences. Most families bearing five children hoped two would live. Childbirth was a high-risk event for the mother. People who ate spoiled food or cut themselves had a good chance of dying. Right up through the nineteenth century water borne plagues like dysentery and cholera laid waste to cities with dense populations and lousy sanitation facilities. Tuberculosis and influenza were major killers. Medical procedures, even ones that became in the twentieth century, were considered extremely risky because of fatal infections.

"At the beginning of the twentieth century, four of the top ten killers of people in the United States were bacterial. Tuberculosis and pneumonia held the top two positions, gastroenteritis caused by several bacterial species landed further down the list, and diphtheria occupied tenth place. Other common bacterial terrors included gonorrhea, meningitis, septicemia, dysentery, typhoid fever, whooping cough... I could go on and on."

"But," protested Matt, "all that changed some time in the early nineteen hundreds. Penicillin was discovered first, I think, then the other miracle drugs. We won after all, didn't we?"

"Bravo, Matt. You're right about the first part. Sir Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin in 1928. The sulfonamides followed in the mid-thirties. Antibiotics didn't come into general use, though, until the 1940s and 50s, but when it did our counterattack was catastrophic to bacteria. We leaped ahead in the arms race. The countless millennia that they'd spent slaughtering us reversed overnight. Then the bacteria suffered decimation. By the beginning of the twenty-first century, all the bacterial culprits had disappeared from the dreaded top ten, though pneumonia held twelfth place. Afflictions like cancer, stroke, heart disease, accidents, homicide, and suicide replaced them."

Matt smirked. "The last few reasons for death give a commentary on the times."

"Indeed. We can't blame those deaths on any enemy outside our species. But as far as our once-invisible enemy was concerned, the medical profession now possessed a huge and varied arsenal. Some antibiotics broke cell walls open; some choked off the protein nutrients they needed to live; some poisoned or smashed bacteria's control center, its DNA. Victory was swift and decisive. There seemed no reason to think that it would not last forever. Pharmaceutical companies grew richer than ever. Marketing and producing antibiotics became one of the world's most lucrative businesses.

"Not only did people benefit. Livestock on antibiotics put on pounds quickly, tend to stay healthier and produce cheaper meat. Health authorities began to protest giving antibiotics to animals, but drug companies and agricultural businesses made too much money to listen, continued to manufacture and feed antibiotics to cattle, pigs, sheep, chickens, and all the others."

"So you're saying," Matt said, "that reasoning beings had proven once and for all that mindless globs of unicellular life were no match for clever primates. So isn't this Chou's thing just another batch of the same non-sentient sludge?"

Terence raised a cautionary finger. "Remember when I said that bacteria had been on earth for eons before our multi-celled ancestors appeared? Maybe those billions of years of evolution gave them an edge in the arms race. Maybe the arrogant primates underestimated bacteria's tenacity, their adaptability. Maybe we're about to find out the power of this edge."

Matt frowned. "You've built this foolproof case for mankind's wisdom overwhelming critters dumber than pond scum. Now you mysteriously hint that they might have a few tricks up their, uh, figurative sleeves."

"Perhaps. Specialists have known, at least since the 1940s or '50s, that bacteria mutate in response to selection pressure just like other living things. They also knew they were quite prolific. In a nutrient-rich soup, they can multiply through mitosis every twenty minutes or so. It didn't seem likely, though, that they'd be able to resist one of the new virulent antibiotics. And the ability to withstand two or more antibiotics simultaneously appeared impossible indeed. Many believed the days of bacterial onslaught had ended.

"But bacteria had two characteristics that no one really understood: just how versatile their response to changing conditions was and how profoundly different they are from multi-cellular beings, a point I keep harping on.

"Take the make-up of their cells in comparison to ours. In eukaryotic cells, like the ones in our bodies, the DNA is neatly packaged in the cell nucleus. Bacteria's much more ancient prokaryotic cells don't have nuclei. Their DNA is a tangled unorganized double helix floating in their cytoplasm. The cytoplasm is that rich stew of salts, sugars, vitamins, proteins, and fats inside a cell.

"One characteristic of bacteria that makes them so utterly and profoundly different from our eukaryotic form of life is the way they handle DNA. They can extract it from the environment to use, or they can let snippets of their own DNA escape through their cell walls. Sometimes strands of foreign DNA enter a cell and set up self-replicating shops in its cytoplasm. Some segments of DNA can independently replicate themselves and reinsert the copy into a new position within the chromosome. Their most amazing characteristic, though, is that they can place the copy not only in the same chromosome but also in another chromosome.

"These self-replicating bits of DNA wander the bacterial ecosystem. Sometimes they get sucked into a bacterium host, sometimes they're spat out. Bacteria aren't discriminating in their ingestion. To them whatever they take in – a neighbor's DNA or that of another species, virus DNA, or food – is as welcome as their own DNA. They can gobble up foreign DNA like they do food and use it as their own DNA. A wanderer inside the host can snip data off a chromosome with its genetic scissors or slip some data into the chromosome. If the resulting mutation doesn't work and the cell dies, so what? The millions of clone sisters in the neighborhood can fill in."

"Yeah," said Matt. "Cloning every twenty minutes sure speeds up Darwinian evolution. But how does the weird way bacteria manipulate DNA help it defend itself against antibiotics?"

"Well, its program of sharing DNA, enormous quantities of it, continued of even after the invasion of their ecosystems by these massive doses of antibiotics. They shared among their own species and others in the usual manner. Sometimes they ingested DNA from the remains of burst cells – remember, they can take in DNA as food but make it work like data. Sometimes a virus randomly takes in loose bits of DNA and injects it into a bacterium.

"Meanwhile the antibiotics kept attacking. They don't distinguish between different types of bacteria. An antibiotic taken for one type of infection doesn't seek out just the bacteria responsible for it. It attacks every one of the hundred trillion in the body. The majority of the virulent bacteria are destroyed but a very few survive. These few have the genetic information that kept them alive and that'll let them make it through the next antibiotic onslaught, but guess what else they do with it?"

Understanding struck Matt. "They trade DNA with other bacteria, of their own species and others. And they squirt some into the ecosystem where it's picked up by other bugs, which helps all these others survive the next antibiotic attack."

"Exactly. This is bacteria's secret weapon, one early specialists never suspected: the ability to disseminate genetic information within a bacterium's own species as well as others.

"Bacteria surprised them in another way. It's defense system turns out to be as sophisticated as that of the antibiotics. They developed defensive enzymes in the slimy cloud that surrounds them. They grew tougher and thicker cell walls that were less likely to absorb drugs. Some bacteria lost some of their vulnerable porin. Those are the pore-like structures that suck in and expel the nutritious filth they live in. Some stored enzymes just inside the cell wall to chew up and digest the drugs that did get in. Other enzymes cracked or chemically smothered antibiotics. Among the pump-factories the cell uses to take material in or chuck it out, new pumps evolved specifically to grab antibiotics and spit them out of the cell. To counter protein-destroying antibiotics, some bacteria changed the way they produced protein to close up sabotage sites, and others produced so much excess protein that ten or fifty times the amount of drug was needed to kill the cell. Some even developed immunity proteins that latched onto antibiotics in such a way that it turned them into harmless inert lumps.

"Once genetic knowledge like this spreads, it's here to stay. Bacteria aren't mortal in the human sense. If they aren't destroyed, they just divide and double every twenty minutes. They carry the resistant DNA forward indefinitely. Even if they change through mutation and natural selection after several billion generations, some of the original strains remain in the genome. And too, bacteria can remain dormant as spores for centuries. When conditions turn favorable again, they come alive all of a sudden and go about their business as if they hadn't even paused."

Matt thought all this over for a moment "So the arms race continued after the advent of the antibiotics. We just didn't notice it because we thought we had won."

"The average person thought we had won but the specialists knew better. Remember, they had known for a long time that bacteria respond to pressures of selection just like all living things. The slaughter of the bacteria by antibiotics did just the opposite of stopping the arms race. It speeded it up. Bacteria fought back and with a vengeance. The late twentieth and especially the twenty-first century were vastly different from previous times. Bacterial strains traveled the world at the speed of air travel. A hundred trillion bacteria per human host mingled and exchanged resistant DNA as never before.

"The new, more virulent strains of superbugs began to evolve as early as the 1990s, but they were isolated and destroyed for awhile. Further into the new century, epidemics began to increase. As long as they affected only the Third World the industrialized nations wrote their causes off to conditions like crowding due to overpopulation, unhygienic conditions, and so on.

"By the first of the twenty-first century, it became clear that superbugs were becoming a problem in the developed world too. Medical specialists grew concerned about controlling them. Health agencies remained indifferent though, and the medical profession's proclivity for secrecy hid the problem. American hospitals weren't required to disclose infection rates so most didn't, just as doctors didn't have to inform patients of risk or exposure to hospital germs.

"And of course the drug companies kept their mouths shut. They continued making fortunes by maintaining the status quo. By now they well knew how fast resistant species of bacteria could evolve. A hundred million dollars in antibiotic research could be thrown away in a blink by the emergence of a new superbug."

Matt scowled as the ice in his forgotten drink turned to water. "So we've been losing this war for decades, and nobody is concerned enough to fight back."

"A few of us are. I have colleagues trying to rally the health industry. But they mostly ignore epidemics until they reach disastrous levels. They don't believe there'll be an apocalyptic collapse. When the crisis reaches that level, they think that medical researchers will be shocked out of their complacency, resume the arms race and win it."

"But supposing it's too late?" said Matt. "Suppose bacteria have all developed defensive mutations too sophisticated to overcome?"

"That's a possibility. Bacteriologists might not be able to find a new drug to withstand highly evolved bacteria for long. In that case there would be a long descent, decades, maybe even a century, back into a pre-antibiotic era a lot like the nineteenth century. Back to high mortality rates for infants and mothers, back to worldwide epidemics, quarantines, tubercular sanitariums. Medical practice would take a drastic step backward. The high-tech surgical procedures that developed during the twenty-first century would be too risky to use except under the direst emergencies. Expense would soar because prevention of infection would be so difficult. There would be no more transplants of cloned organs to replace damaged ones except as a last resort, no prosthetic implants.

"This would still not mean an apocalyptic end to society though. The first few generations of survivors would find the world terrifying, disastrous, but the human race would not be destroyed by lethal worldwide pandemics. Life would merely return to the way it had always been between man and bacteria, except for the less than two centuries of our antibiotic supremacy."

"You're not reassuring me, Terence. What if this superbug has developed a more resistant strain of DNA than any previous one, one virulent enough to kill us all before we have time to develop a new super-antibiotic?"

Terence sat there for a moment stirring his own watery drink. "I suppose that's possible, Matt. I pray that it isn't. One thing is true: Other matters of importance may distract people from the arms race and a lot of them don't even know it exists. But bacteria are never distracted. They're single-minded, inexorable, and they never give up. If they added yet another secret weapon to their arsenal, a new disease, it's quite likely that we would be taken completely by surprise. Could we recover in time to fight and win? I don't know."

Neither felt very hungry then. They eschewed Terence's favored steakhouse for a light meal in the hotel's cocktail lounge, and Matt left soon thereafter with a feeling of cold dread.

# Chapter Four

Matt met the gang about half-way between the town and the culvert in early afternoon. Mitch led, limping badly on an improvised crutch, his short, gnarled body hunched in pain and irascibility. Beside him Lou's huge frame appeared even larger because of some of the wounded guys' scratch bags draped around his body. The two looked like a bear striding beside a crippled groundhog. Lou seemed no worse for the wear. _Jesus_ , thought Matt, exhausted almost to the point of delirium, _doesn't this guy ever wear out!?_ The rest of the gang followed in a straggly line behind them. Matt relieved Lou of some of his burden.

Mitch stopped, rested most of his weight on the crutch and looked up at Matt, eyebrows knit in a characteristic frown. "Hope you found us a classy hole-up."

"Best accommodations in town."

They got to the town before dusk. Upon reaching the main street, the gang members unconsciously clumped together behind Mitch, staring about at the cadaverous buildings. At the bank, Matt led them to the back office and lifted the trap door. Mitch looked down the stairway and then suspiciously up at Matt, as though concluding as Leighton had of the basement looking like a trap. But he said nothing and let Matt help him down the steps. The others followed.

Mitch grunted in surprise at the tables encircled by cushions and the other items Matt had scrounged, and with a sigh of relief, settled onto one of the cushions. The others followed his example. Matt left the trap door open. That and the small rear window allowed a little light in, but dusk quickly dimmed the basement.

Mitch leaned against the concrete wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Matt. "So tell us bout the Fever."

Matt repeated his conversation with the townspeople and how he had caught them in their lie about the presence of Chou's Disease. Then he explained his plan to use the boy as a hostage if Chadwick's men found the town.

"But even if they find it, Mitch, they may not enter because of the 'Fever' sign."

"I'm a pessimist," said Mitch. "Say they do come and you fetch the boy. What then?"

"I bring him to the basement. I stay upstairs, close the trap door and cover it with the throw rug and desk chair. Then I hang out on the street, pretend I'm one of the locals, tell them everybody died except for me and the oldsters."

"Why you?" asked Leighton.

"The only ones of us they don't know are me and you younger guys. For various reasons I think I'd be better at the part than any of you."

"That's right," said Stony. "I forgot. They don't know you. You stayed in Nellie's Fair that winter we went to Kansas City."

"Right."

"They might decide you're lyin and stiff you," said Doc, the gang's chief pessimist. "Or they might stiff you and the old folks just for the hell of it."

"They won't have any reason to doubt me," said Matt, "and they don't kill people just for fun. Besides, they're intent on finding the gang."

"Who they might think is a long way from here," said Lou, "on the run."

"I guess if they do stiff you," said Doc gloomily, "it won't take much for us to move that chair off the trap door from down here."

"I have no doubt you guys could handle that," said Matt. "But, you know, maybe we should wipe out any trace of a trail we left into town."

"Good thought," said Mitch. "It's too dark tonight. It'll wait till mornin. It ain't rained as much here so there shouldn't be much of a trail. They ain't likely to come to town the way we did anyways."

"They're more apt to come in by the main street," said Matt. "And like I said, the 'Fever' signs might scare them away."

"I still don't like it none," said Leighton, looking around for support, especially from the younger guys. "If they find us here, they'll stiff us like rats in this hole."

"What else can we do?" said Rossi, a quiet kid who seldom spoke in confabs. "Some of us can't barely walk now, includin me, and I ain't hardly hurt."

"An if we go on," said Jack Kincaid with a shudder, "they'll catch us sure. They outnumber us by a bunch."

"Yeah," said Big Miller. "An they can go faster 'n us cause some of us is hurt."

Leighton bristled at what he considered defection by his faction but said nothing.

"Mitch and Stony can't go another mile," said Doc. "They gotta heal. And we gotta take care a Rossi and Kinkaid too. We can't let their abrasions git infected."

"Then we stay here," said Mitch, frowning into every face. Nobody contested his decision. "Big Miller, you take first watch. Just inside the bank's door. If you see or her anything bigger'n a hound comin up the street git your ass down here and report immediately."

"I gotta check ever'body's wounds," said Doc. "Mitch, I'm gonna need your light."

One of the few with presence of mind to bring his scratch bag, Mitch unlaced its flap, withdrew his everlight and frowned over it for a long moment.

Doc said, "I know you love it, Mitch, but it's pitch-fuckin-dark and I can't see without it."

Mitch glared at him. "As you know, they ain't many of these things left that still work and this'n gits dimmer every time we use it. We used it more'n I liked at the culvert. Don't leave it on longer'n you need to." But he handed it to Doc.

"I won't but I gotta clean and dress these wounds immediately. As _you_ know infection can be fatal and you won't let me build a fire to sterilize nothin."

"We'll find a place tomorrow well away from the hole-up to build a fire.

"How's them things work anyhow?" Kincaid asked.

"Somehow on solar power. You set it in the sun several hours to charge it. This 'n is bout gone though."

Doc walked away grumbling. He had no medical training. His lack of emotion when confronting torn flesh or splintered bone, whether his own or that of someone else, originally qualified him to serve as "medic." That and the fact that none of the others had wanted the job. His diagnostic abilities and skill at fixing injuries had grown over the years. A perennial pessimist, he faced the vicissitudes of scrounger life with similar equanimity. As Doc put it, he never bitched when the worst happened because he had expected it, and felicitous occurrences always made him suspicious.

Doc checked Mitch's gouged thigh first. In the culvert he had enlarged it by removing dead tissue. He frowned as he took out the old dressing and packed it with one of his few remaining sterile ones so it would heal from the inside out.

"How's it look?" asked Mitch, wincing.

"You better start healin faster. We're runnin outta dressin's."

"You never give your patients any hope, do you?" groused Mitch.

Without answering Doc took care of Stony's shoulder next and then looked at the others.

Then they ate. Fortunately, at the last minute Stony had shinnied up a tree to grab a pack of food, stashed there to protect it from the "critters." Because of the restriction on fire they had cold rations: venison they'd killed, dried, and jerked a few weeks before and dried apricots.

"What else you got in that pack?" asked Lou, whose appetite matched his large frame.

Stony poked around in the pack. "A bag a dried beans, more apricots, more venison, some potatoes, some corn meal." The beans and fruit had come from Nellie's Fair. They had traded part of the venison for the potatoes and corn meal from farmers living near where they had killed the deer.

"How long'll that last us?" asked Mitch.

"Few days," said Stony. "Four, five."

They ate in silence. They had not yet thought of their food supply. Or water. Their water containers had not been refilled since they left the culvert. They silently added those losses to their list of dead companions, a season's truck and most of their scratch. Even if they had had time to gather more truck, Chadwick would soon hear of their appearance at Nellie's Fair or any other market.

Even Stony, the gang's chief optimist, yin to Doc's gloomy yang, brooded. Then he mentioned what the older men must have been thinking; Matt certainly did. "They's always our stash. We could use at least enough of it to git through the winter, replace our scratch."

"Or maybe," added Doc, "use it to git us a long fuckin way from here."

"There's always that," agreed Mitch. "Let's git some sleep. We'll figger out what to do tomorrow."

In addition to the stash, Matt and the older men had savings accounts at Nellie's Fair bank. Not in pre-2072 dollars of course which the Last Days had rendered worthless, but in Nelson dollars issued by the Nellie's Fair bank. Since no one in the Chadwick gang had seen Matt he could safely go there to withdraw it.

Mitch appointed a rotation of guards for the rest of the night. The others settled into the cushions, so exhausted they fell asleep immediately.

* * * *

They awoke early, for the main part well rested considering the last few days' tensions. Mitch called a confab during their meager breakfast of dried apricots. He said they had to secure the area before deciding their next move.

"Matt and Lou," he said. "You guys explore the town, find two or three lookout posts where you figger Chadwick's men will most likely come into town. Leighton, you and Big retrace our trail from yesterday and git rid of any signs we left. Stony and Doc, look for a place to git water and a well-hid place for a fire. We need to sterilize Doc's equipment, cook food and take baths. Okay?"

They finished eating. As those with assigned duties started to leave, Mitch stopped them.

"One more thing, guys. Keep a eye out for truck. Even if the oldsters have purty much cleaned out the downtown there might be some in other parts a town."

"Keep in mind our ethics though," said Lou. "Real scroungers only truck in places that are deserted beyond question. That's why so many folks look down on us. Lots of gangs ignore that rule whenever it serves their purposes."

Mitch regarded him from under lowered black eyebrows. "Don't lecture me, Lou Travis. We always foller that rule. These folks, you might say, has been 'scroungers-in-residence' here for twelve years. If they ain't needed this stuff in all that time, well... chances are they won't need it nearly as bad as we do now. But seein as how it is theirs cause they live here we'll see to it that they approve ever'thing we take."

The others nodded solemnly. They valued the gang's reputation. Even Boss Johnson, despite his sometimes-capricious interpretation of ethics in other areas, he strictly respected people's right to their own belongings.

Years of experience exploring deserted towns had taught Matt and Lou how to notice every bit of truck as well as potential danger almost without thought. They conversed quietly at the same time.

"I've always wished Mitch had more authority," said Lou. "Mitch's quiet complimented Johnson's outbursts. Gave Mitch a reputation for wisdom too. He didn't say much but when he did we listened. He's handled our confabs well so far too, lets everyone have his say, then has the last word. Kept Leighton in check without chewing his ass like Johnson used to do."

"Remember, Lou, how much we worried about Johnson and his goons the first few years? He and Dodd and Downing ruled us like an absolute dictatorship. Despite the violent times some of us thought about leaving the gang. Mitch talked him into going with the 'confab' tradition that other gangs used. More or less informal meetings. Every man got his say. He showed Johnson how people simply left tyrants to join friendlier gangs or started their own."

"Or violently deposed their bosses," said Lou. "After a while Johnson learned that we had sense enough to make decisions too. He let the gang become so democratic that now anyone can call for a confab that wants to."

"Then he decided he needed wiser counsel that his lieutenants could provide. He invited Mitch to some of his 'executive' confabs along with Dodd and Downing. Then one fall he kept Mitch but dropped Downing. He'd finally figured out what a psychopath the man was."

They found the houses in the north end of town in much better condition than those in the east side through which they had entered the town. They crossed a shallow creek and started down the only street west of the downtown.

"And finally," said Lou, "Johnson had sense enough to invite you to the higher-level meetings. Which sure didn't go over well with Downing."

"Sure didn't. He left when we got back to Nellie's Fair last fall. When I asked where he went Johnson said he didn't know or care, said he could go trucking with us if he got back in the spring. Otherwise he need not ever come back. Well, he did come back and went with us but stayed surly and distant. Remember, Mitch told us to keep an eye on him."

"Then, come last spring," said Lou, "all of a sudden Mitch was our new second in command. Nobody told us. We just knew. Dodd didn't seem to care."

Matt kicked aside some trash so he could see inside a house. "Or maybe he didn't know. He wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. If he had survived and Johnson hadn't he might have taken over the gang. He was competently brutal but sure lacked Johnson's smarts and charisma."

They found the town even smaller than they had thought; the total population had never exceeded a few hundred inhabitants. Traffic had entered only at each end of the extension of the main street. At the south one they found the Fever warning sign next to one bearing the town's name and population: "NEWCASTLE, pop. 462". On the street's east side sprawled the ruins of a small farm. It had apparently boarded or maybe rented out riding horses. Inside the barn, the only intact building, they crawled up a rickety ladder to the haymow. Carefully, they crossed a rotting wooden floor to look through an opening to the south. About a half mile away the road teed into an east-west highway. The usual weeds, brush and saplings covered the abandoned fields between barn and highway but the ridge along which the highway ran made it visible.

"This's the town's southernmost building," said Lou. "A good vantage point."

"I agree."

Outside, on their way to the bank, Lou looked back at the barn and the ruined corral, house and outbuildings.

"Wonder how that horse riding fad got started?" he asked. "I mean, so late in the twenty-first century. What a big step backward technologically."

Matt shrugged. "Probably nostalgia, part of that back-to-the-simpler-life thing. People moved away from these rural areas all through the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. By the middle of the twenty-first, towns like this were practically deserted. Small farms got eaten up by big ones. There wasn't anything to do for a living. Then people started moving back."

"I remember," said Lou. "Cities got so crowded and crime-ridden that people started heading for the country. Get outta Sodom and Gomorrah and all that. Electronics let lots of people work anyplace they wanted to live. As a kid in Denver, I saw people relocating to the mountains, rebuilding ghost towns that'd been deserted for a hundred years."

"Same where I lived in LA. People left for the mountains or deserts. Not only moved but changed their lifestyles, went back to church in droves, mostly old-time religion or evangelical ones, took up what they thought of as wholesome hobbies from the, as they saw it, less sinful past: raising and canning vegetables, weaving and knitting, making their own clothes...."

"Yeah, but riding horses? Couldn't they have found a more comfortable kind of nostalgia?"

Matt shrugged again. "Don't ask me. I never rode a horse until after the Last Days. Still don't like to ride'm. But I'll tell you what. I wish we had some damned horses to get us out of here now."

After a time Lou said, "I suppose things were bad before the Last Days and I know people were lonesome for the good old days. But isn't it ironic, Matt? Now we'd welcome the late twenty-first back in a blink."

Matt thought he heard a catch in Lou's voice. Probably thinking of his wife and kid and all the others who had died during that dreadful year they now called the Last Days, along with a way of life lost forever. Lou often suffered from these dark moods.

At the north end of town they found a reasonably intact two-story house with a good view of the road from the second floor. They spent another hour looking through mostly sound houses. Surprisingly, they found quite a few undisturbed by the townspeople or weather.

"Maybe we aren't as broke as we thought," said Lou. "There's plenty of truck in these houses."

"And there must be markets closer than Nellie's Fair," said Matt.

"Yeah, but we don't know how to find the good ones."

"We ought to be fairly close to Wild Billy Kane's place. He knows every market north of the Missouri River. He can tell us the best one. And the closest."

"Good point. And one where they serve as good a beer as he brews." Those in the gang and elsewhere knew Lou for his love and knowledge of good beer. "It'll be good to see Billy again. He's a good old boy."

Matt laughed and lightly punched Lou's arm. "After all these years you're going native, Lou. 'Good old boy' is Missouri cracker talk."

Lou grinned. "'S true though. He's a good old boy that brews a good old beer."

Despite his attempt at humor, on the way back to the basement Lou's earlier depression claimed him. The older gang members often remembered their past lives, irrevocably lost to the sparsely inhabited wilderness they now roamed, but by tacit agreement they seldom spoke of it.

# Chapter Five

Terence left the next day but, as he had promised the previous evening, he messaged Matt a bibliography of sources providing information about bacteria, the history of antibiotic development and Chou's Disease. Thus armed, in between and after classes Matt began his research. Because of its brief lifespan he found little information on Chou's. Yet he found little to support Dr. Scheid's purported confidence in either the government's or the drug companies' ability to contain the disease. The feeling of cold dread he had felt after the conversation with Terence returned.

His study of bacteria and the history of antibiotic development supported what Terence had told him about the arms race between man and bacteria. Matt came to realize that humanity had started losing its battle with bacteria long ago. He hoped that Terence had been right about the world to come being similar to the pre-antibiotic one. People could, albeit painfully, some day adapt to it.

He followed the news services avidly. Up until now they had treated Chou's Disease as an exotic Oriental malady. Since Mercy's death, however, new cases had appeared in numerous other spots in the United States and all over the world. Soon none of the services could deny the advent of a new and very dangerous worldwide epidemic. Indeed, panic headlines screamed about the rise of "Killer Bugs" and the "Death Flu".

Healthcare specialists had isolated the bacteria responsible for Chou's Disease. They had not determined, however, if it had developed from an existing strain it if it had, through mutation, evolved into a new species. Increasing numbers of victims flooded the hospitals. Already overwhelmed staffs dwindled as healthcare workers succumbed to the disease or simply stayed at home to avoid infection. Overworked authorities had neither the time nor resources to keep accurate survival statistics but estimates varied from ten to twenty percent. Other services also suffered. The news services provided wildly contradictory information. Some announced the imminent arrival of life-saving antibiotics while others proclaimed that the worldwide epidemic threatened the very existence of civilization.

Stock markets all over the world plummeted. Most economists agreed that even if medical researchers found a solution soon, the world's economy would deteriorate to a level that would take decades for recovery. The day after Mercy's death Matt had closed out all his investments and put his money in his virtual bank account.

He stocked up on groceries and other supplies. After brown-outs periodically diminished the condo's power, he bought only food that didn't require refrigeration or preparation by a compwave (the computerized descendant of the microwave). This proved more difficult than he imagined. Most modern foods required refrigeration for storage and preparation by means of compwaves. He loaded up on cereals, bakery items and insipid dehydrated foods that he could reconstitute by adding water.

He called his parents on their commcomp. His mother answered. She sounded distracted, her face looked drawn and worn. She told him that she and his father planned to go to their cabin in the mountains with friends, two other couples.

"LA is too dangerous," she said. "Too many have come down sick. Most stores have closed but looting goes on, sometimes in broad daylight. There are demonstrations; some violent. You should leave the city too. But don't try to fly out here. Travel is more and more uncertain."

He didn't say that he wouldn't consider joining them even as his last option.

"By the way," she said. "How about you? Are you feeling all right?" She had spoken her concern for him almost as an afterthought.

"I'm fine," he said and ended the conversation soon after.

* * * *

His classes shrank by one or two students per week, then faster until no one showed up at all, so he also quit. Nor did he go out except for necessities, as fearful as others of infection. He no longer visited anyone for the same reason, though he kept up long distance contact with friends nationwide; he had lived in a lot of places.

Checks came from the school and his parents for a time. He deposited them in his virtual bank account kept increasing amounts of cash out. The money bought less and less. Prices had skyrocketed. The condo's power became less dependable. Utility companies pleaded with people to refrain from using unnecessary household appliances like cleaning 'bots. He stocked up on goods that didn't depend on electricity: everlights, friction lighters to start fires, candles by the case (those had been unbelievably hard to find), charged power cells for his car.

The checks stopped coming but he had plenty of money in his virtual bank. The miracle of electronics would allow him to withdraw it any time even if none of the human bankers survived Chou's.

People's lives revolved around their commcomps. They provided entertainment, made possible communication and provided vast sources of information, while providing services that no one had thought of before. They operated automobiles, appliances and smart homes. Because of the inconsistent availability of power Matt bought solar batteries for his commcomp. Otherwise he could not have locked or unlocked his doors when the electricity went off. Information and entertainment stations began to go off for hours at a time. Then some quit providing service altogether.

Finally, retail stores seldom opened. Personnel had quit coming to work for fear of infection or the increasing incidence of armed robbery and suppliers no longer delivered goods. Robberies, burglaries, vandalism and violent crime increased and then abated as more people succumbed to the Disease. The city declared a curfew. Even though too few emergency personnel remained on duty to enforce it few people now went out of their homes for it to matter.

Matt lived from day to day, in dread, unable to concentrate on reading for long, sleeping poorly and at random hours. He had no reason to leave the condo. The last time he had, to the last functioning liquor store he knew of, he had found it looted and burned. He realized that he had, for the first time as an adult, lost control of his life.

* * * *

On a Sunday in late April, Matt read the obituaries of Dr. Scheid and his wife in the Kansas City Star on his commcomp. Both had died of Chou's Disease. Dr. Scheid had taken ill and died while on duty at the hospital. His wife had been found dead at home by their son four days later. Apparently she had chosen not to go the hospital.

He switched the machine off and looked out the window into a menacing overcast sky, watched a surly wind blow the ubiquitous trash along the streets. He couldn't hear the wind of course through the nearly soundproof wall. April showers would soon come. Would anybody remain to see May flowers a year from now? With a pang of intense sadness and loss, he remembered walking with Mercy down the few blocks to a Country Club Plaza restaurant for breakfast on their common days off. None of those restaurants remained.

He had come to terms with the inevitability of getting the Disease and the virtual certainty of dying. He had decided not to seek medical help. He didn't need a doctor's diagnosis; he knew the symptoms from his research. Not only could a hospital provide little or no help, entering one increased the risk of nosocomial infections, those diseases contracted in hospitals, especially now with their shrinking staffs.

In his research he had learned that myriads of infections incubated in modern hospitals, beginning way back in the twentieth century. He had often wondered what Mercy thought of them. Working in a hospital must have made her aware of them. He didn't like thinking that she had kept any such knowledge secret from him.

He got up and paced the floor. His self-imposed imprisonment wore on his nerves. He should decide how to spend the time remaining to him. He didn't fear dying, only the manner of it. Maybe he should follow his mother's advice and get out of town. But where would he go? He had never liked the country; he'd lived in cities all his life. He hoped he had enough supplies to last him to the end. He tallied them in his mind: food, everlights, lots of other stuff – even candles, for Christ's sake.

In the late afternoon, he called his parents. His mother answered again. He told her he had decided to leave town.

"I'm so happy to hear that, dear," she said. And she looked as if she meant it. Her bright eyes made her look years younger than the last time they had spoken. "Your father and I are so glad we came up here. We invited the Clarks and the Allens along, you know. It's so good to be away from that dreadful Disease. Hold on a minute." She turned away from the screen, spoke to someone else, and turned back. "Here, honey. Your dad wants to speak to you. We love you."

"And I love you, Mom."

Bob Pringle's big fleshy face filled the screen. His fair skin was flushed, and his sparse white hair stood up like a halo around his bare pate. He echoed Matt's mother's relief that he had decided to flee the Disease and the crime as they had. Matt realized that his parents' ebullient moods resulted from reefers.

"If you get far enough away from the crowds," his dad said, "you'll be okay. It's only a matter of time before they get this bug licked. Then we can all get back to our lives. Where are you going?"

"Maybe I'll rent a cabin down on Lake of the Ozarks." He thought of it only as he spoke.

He talked to his father for all of five minutes, the longest continuous conversation they had shared for years, or maybe ever, then hung up and started preparations to leave. He'd pack his car tonight and leave at dawn. He had enough cash to live comfortably for a couple of months and could retrieve more from his virtual bank by means of the commcomp at any time from any place in the world.

He started gathering everything he planned to take into the middle of the living room floor. Then he paused, looked up at the bookshelves for a moment. A difficult decision faced him: which books would he take? All the reading material in the world was available electronically, either by means of his commcomp or on bookcubes. But he loved having certain old-fashioned printed books around, loved holding them as he read. He walked to the bookcase and ran his fingers over them. He obviously couldn't take many. Which would he take and which could he sacrifice?

His fingers stopped at his annotated copy of Bocaccio's Decameron. This one he must certainly take, an appropriate companion for his journey, a tale of ten young people fleeing another plague just as he fled this one, theirs the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century, his a blacker plague some seven centuries later. The Decameron related the tales those youths told each other to while away the time in their self-imposed exile from the city. He would reread them for the same purpose – to occupy time during his flight from the city. People, after all, didn't change so much over the centuries.

* * * *

He scarcely recognized the first onslaught of the Disease when it struck in mid-afternoon. He felt a slight headache and a warm flush rising in his face. Then, within a few minutes, his headache increased until he could hardly see and warmth spread over his entire body. A feeling of discontinuity with reality came over him. He found it hard to concentrate on driving. Though still some distance from his destination, the town of Lake Ozark, he watched for the next exit. When he reached it he switched the car to manual mode and left the freeway.

Once on the two-lane county road the fever abated quickly, to be replaced by a violent chill. He shook so hard he could hardly hold the car on the road. He slowed the car, knowing he couldn't make it much farther. Through pain-wracked eyes he saw and pulled into a driveway, At the far end a farmhouse seemed to flash in and out of existence. It looked abandoned. He stopped the car. He looked up at the house. Somehow he had fallen beside the car without realizing it. He crawled up onto the porch, fumbled his way up the door to turn the knob, found it locked. He awoke lying in the porch swing, feeling the day's cold through a burning fever and raging headache. So this is how it ends, he thought, alone on a cold damp porch. Had it indeed grown cold or had his chills made it feel so? He could no longer think clearly.

Except for one last thought: Needn't 've worried about having enough supplies.

That was the last Matt knew for a long time.

* * * *

He opened his eyes with difficulty. They felt sticky as though they'd been glued shut for a long time. Blurred light stabbed sharply into them. A pale oval with a dark frame before him gradually resolved itself into a human face, a large face with shaggy dark brown hair and beard.

In a deep voice that sounded far away, the face said to someone behind it, "Looks like he's made it. In fact, he may be waking up."

Another male face appeared beside the first one, a smaller face with a full black beard and glowering eyebrows that almost met over the nose. The newcomer said, "How you feelin?" Matt tried to ask where he was. Only a croak came out. He wondered how the men had found him. He had certainly never seen them before.

"Bet you're thirsty," said the man with the deep voice. "I know I was when I first woke up. Want some water?"

Matt suddenly realized he had never felt thirstier. He managed to nod his head. The big man disappeared to return a moment later with a glass of water. The two managed to raise Matt's head far enough for him to gulp down most of the water. The act completely exhausted him. He fell asleep almost before they laid him back down.

* * * *

He awoke again in the dark. This time he could raise himself up on one elbow but he felt amazingly weak and his head throbbed with a dull persistent ache. A shaft of light, probably from an everlight, speared the room through a slightly open door. He heard male voices talking in the next room, though too low for him to understand.

He could think more clearly now. He remembered passing out on a porch swing in front of a deserted farmhouse. Or maybe not deserted. Maybe those two men lived here and had just been away when he'd arrived. He flopped back on the bed, unable to remain propped on his elbow. He remembered dreams, vague and surreal. He felt as though he'd been unconscious for a long time.

His movement on the bed must have made enough sound to alert the others. The door opened wide to allow a great deal of light and noise to enter. Men surrounded the bed. A giant stood at his side, a big bald man with white teeth gleaming through a massive brown beard.

"So this is our newcomer," he said in a loud voice. "They wouldn't let me near you cause I ain't never had it."

"Had it?" Matt's voice still croaked weakly, but at least he could make himself understood. He hadn't a clue what the big man meant.

"Chou's," said the giant. "I ain't never had Chou's Fever. They was scairt I'd catch it from you so they wouldn't 'low me in here."

Then Matt remembered. He'd had Chou's Disease. And he was still alive! He could only hope he had passed the worst of it. He had lost consciousness on the porch swing expecting never to wake up again. These men had found him.

"He's over the worst part," said the frowning man whose black eyebrows nearly met over his nose, "and he ain't contagious now, but we ain't doin him no good standin round yammerin. Let's all git out and I'll open him a packet a that chicken soup."

He hustled the others from the room and followed them. Matt had nearly fallen asleep when the guy with the eyebrows returned with the soup. He indeed felt ravenous; he ate the thin watery fluid with relish.

"I'm Hank Mitchell," said his benefactor as he fed him, "but ever'body calls me Mitch. The first one you saw was Lou Travis and the big bald guy is Frank Johnson, our boss. I'll interduce ever'body proper tomorrow."

Dozens of questions formed in Matt's mind. He finally got out, "How – how long...?"

"How long was you out? Right close on four days. That's bout average." A trace of a smile appeared. "For them that live anyways. Oh, we woke you up at times. To git some water down you to fight the fever, or some soup, but you prob'ly don't recall. I didn't when I had it."

"All of you, uh...?"

"Yeah, All a us took sick but Johnson. And he'll brag bout not gittin it till you could kill him. If he wasn't so damn big, anyways. Thinks that makes him better than the likes a us. 'Good genes,' he says." Then Mitch's brows knotted closer together and he looked away. "But I ain't always sure us survivors is the lucky ones."

With a chill, Matt realized Mitch had it right. Whatever future awaited the survivors would not be a pleasant one. Perhaps not even a long one. And for sure, grief over those lost would haunt the survivors as long as they lived.

Though questions crowded Matt's mind, he was too weak to stay awake much longer. Eating exhausted him. After he finished he sank back on the bed breathing heavily and soon fell into a deep sleep.

Mitch introduced him to the others the next morning. He told him Johnson and two others, Dodd and Downing, had been Army Rangers stationed at nearby Fort Leonard Wood, trained to counter urban terrorism at home or abroad. Only they remained of a company sent to Lake Ozark to guard a camp of refugees from Kansas City.

"As for me," said Mitch. "I was a automobile mechanic. This is my house. Had my garage out back. This here galoot, Lou Travis..." He hooked a thumb at Lou, sitting beside him, "was a engineer from Kansas City."

"A civil engineer," said Lou. "I took sick while inspecting drainage structures relating to the Lake of the Ozarks' dam. Took sick, decided to end it in a Lake Ozark motel room. Amazingly, I survived, all alone in the motel. Ate what little stale food I found there. Then, while I wandered around, weak as a new-born pup, looking for food I happened onto this house of Mitch's. He saved my life."

"I need to call my parents," Matt said after the introductions. "My commcomp's in the car."

"I've got my mobile unit in the living room," said Lou. "I'll get it."

After he had done so, Matt checked his messages. His mother had left the first one nearly a week before, asking if he had reached the lake all right. There followed several from friends and acquaintances in other parts of the country, many reporting deaths among families and friends. Then more from his mother, quite concerned now that he hadn't called.

Though weak and tired, he mustered the strength to call his parents. His mother answered, looking distraught. "Oh, Matt," she said, "thank god you called. I've been so worried..." Then she hesitated, startled at his appearance. "What in the world's wrong, darling? You look terrible."

"I've been sick, Mom. Had Chou's. But I'm over it."

He later remembered the ensuing conversation as one of the best he had ever had with his mother. He had never felt closer to her. She even cried with relief that he had survived the infection, an odd thing, he thought, in one who seldom displayed genuine emotion. Maybe she really had motherly feelings toward him after all. Maybe she even loved him after a fashion.

He slept well that night.

Over the next few days his strength slowly began to return. Mitch encouraged him to drink a lot of water because of his severe dehydration. He ate soup the next day and increasingly heavier foods thereafter. His weight loss appalled him. He had always been too thin.

They received world news sporadically, mostly from a federal emergency service. Conditions had deteriorated while Matt had been incapacitated. Too few people now showed up at their jobs to maintain the necessary services. The postal service had cancelled its twice weekly deliveries. Utility brownouts or blackouts blanketed most of the country until the facilities providing them failed altogether. Food riots erupted in most cities. Cities quarantined whole neighborhoods in a vain attempt to halt the spread of the Disease. Police and fire protection had virtually evaporated along with all other governmental services making quarantines and curfews unenforceable. Fires raged unchecked in the cities. The death of commerce and the extinction of financial institutions had made money worthless. (So much for my savings, thought Matt.) What little news from overseas indicated the rise of anarchy.

Chou's Disease didn't pose the only health risk. Polluted drinking water spread water-borne diseases such as dysentery and cholera. Tuberculosis, once considered near extinction once again appeared. There were yellow fever epidemics. Ironically, wealthier people succumbed to disease more readily than the poor. Cocktails of preventive drugs tailored to their genomes had kept them healthy while weakening their immune systems. The pharmacies dispensing the drugs disappeared, giving their microscopic enemies the freedom to attack. Increased starvation, especially in the cities, lowered people's resistance to disease. Finally, starving mobs left the cities to ravage the relatively quiet countryside, spreading the Chou's and other bacterial infections.

The group in Mitch's house took the advent of the starved hordes seriously. They had made the house looked as deserted as possible, tightly covered windows so no light escaped at night and took turns at guarding at night.

* * * *

It took nearly a week after Matt woke up before he could get through a whole day without at least one nap and several weeks before he felt normal. He sometimes thought of those Chou's survivors who had awakened alone and died anyway because they had no one to care for them. He may not have survived without these men's help.

He talked to his mother once again, but the closeness had gone. She seemed distant and distracted. His dad talked to him briefly, perfunctorily. He called Terence once, only to find that his service had been discontinued, which could either mean he had died or become too preoccupied with survival to answer. It struck him that Terence had not once mentioned his wife who had helped to raise Mercy. He couldn't know if they still lived together or if they lived at all. Few of his other acquaintances called and he quit trying to call them. The time had come to end those relationships and prepare for whatever lay ahead.

His benefactors had brought his possessions inside from the car. He found only the food and first aid supplies missing. Johnson explained that they pooled supplies like that. He nodded. They had probably saved his life and he had eaten their food. Sometimes the gang members, except for the one selected to guard the house, disappeared for a day or two. They usually brought back food or other supplies. Fortunately, probably because of their remote location, none of the roaming ravenous mobs ever showed up.

On his walks near the house to regain his strength, he noticed three graves in the back yard. Since Mitch visited them when he thought no one noticed Matt assumed they belonged to members of Mitch's family that he had lost to Chou's Disease. Years later Mitch verified that they were the graves of his wife and two little daughters.

Also in later times Lou confided to Matt that he never saw his wife and son after his illness. After he had recovered enough to go to Kansas City in search of them he learned they had died in a house fire resulting from a riot while he lay incapacitated in the Lake Ozark motel room.

At the end of the fourth week of his convalescence, Matt received a call from his dad, surprising since his mother usually instigated the calls. Bob Pringle's demeanor was grave.

Matt's mother had just died of Chou's. She hadn't wanted him to know when she got sick. She had only lived two days so she didn't suffer long. Susan Clark, one of their houseguests, had died two weeks before so leaving the city to escape death hadn't worked. His father didn't stay on the line long, afraid of breaking down, Matt supposed. Neither of his parents ever liked showing emotions not compatible with advancing their careers. Even to their son.

Matt never heard from his father again. He called him once but he didn't respond. Matt never knew if he succumbed to Chou's or to some other disease or if he just didn't care to answer.

He soon quit giving a shit one way or the other.

* * * *

When the men were all at the house, they took their meals together. One evening after dinner, Johnson told Matt that he and the others had formed a business. They would acquire goods from abandoned farms and towns to sell to those who needed them. The company would thereby not only make a living but provide mutual protection for its participants. Johnson stressed that they only took items from clearly abandoned sites. The many who had died or fled left many of those. Since no one remained to inherit or buy them, anything they left of value belonged to anyone for the taking.

"You see," said Johnson. "We'll save society while helpin ourselves." His grin revealed a row of huge teeth that Matt came to recognize as a trademark.

Yeah, thought Matt, you guys are real philanthropic entrepreneurs. Why are you telling me this? He soon found out.

"We'd like to recruit you," said Johnson. "We need good men and you seem like a smart guy. One benefit a joinin is that me an Dodd an Downing has all trained to fight in these modern wars where there ain't no battle lines. We can live off the land for months, even years if we have to an take care a anybody that gits in our way. A good benefit with all these starving bands runnnin around."

He went on that way for a while and ended by saying, "Don't decide now. You're still under the weather. Think it over for a few days."

"I will," Matt promised. He had already decided not to join them. In the first place, Johnson and his two cronies in their camouflaged fatigues looked more like terrorists than businessmen. In the second, he didn't like their military jargon. Johnson hadn't asked Matt if he wanted to join; he'd said he'd like to "recruit" him. He talked about "missions" and "strategy." The non-military types, Mitch and Lou, had had nothing to say. Only Johnson, with a few short contributions from Dodd and Downing, had spoken. Besides all that, Matt was not a joiner. He didn't like to follow. But then he didn't like to lead either. He was a loner. His car was intact, with a good supply of power cells. He could leave anytime he wanted.

As Matt recovered Johnson invited him to accompany him, Mitch and Lou on a supply-gathering mission. They found nothing of value but Matt learned a lesson he would find of value. Johnson stopped them on a hill above a walled compound that had suffered a fire and breaches in the wall. Little remained of the cabin inside it.

"Just lookee there, Matt, my man. Tell me what you see."

Matt shrugged. "A lot of destruction. Maybe caused by looters."

"Almost certainly caused by looters. The wall made 'm think something of value was in there. There might a been and there might not a been but nobody inside there lived to tell about it. I showed it to Mitch and Lou. Then we went back to Mitch's place and made it look as unlived in as we could."

As it turned out, Matt never did give them a decision. But he never quite got around to leaving them either. Johnson's description of his, Dodd's, and Downing's expertise had not been idle boasting. Matt had no doubt these ruthless looking men could live up to their claims. He found it too difficult to leave such security in the terrifying reality the world had become.

Twelve years later he remained with the gang as it sought to elude Chadwick's men.

# Chapter Six

When Matt and Lou reached the basement, they found only Big Miller there.

He said, "Mitch left me here to tell you where the others are. Also to watch for Chadwick's men. Me and Red been back a while. They wasn't much to cover up on our trail but we found houses with a bunch a truck."

"How about Doc and Stony?" Lou asked.

"Yeah, they been back too. They found a draw just west a town. Hid real good with brush and trees. A crick just west of it." He gave them directions to the draw.

They found Doc in the draw cleaning and treating each man's injuries properly for the first time since the ambush.

"I see you found something to use for bandages," Matt said to Stony. Doc didn't want anyone talking to him when he treated patients.

"Yeah. In a house just off main street we scrounged sheets we could tear into dressins an bandages. An cookin equipment to replace what we lost. See here we built a fire, small but hot without much smoke – it ain't no white man's fire. Doc boiled water to sterilize the dressins and his equipment."

They went over to talk to Mitch, sitting on a shaded log, his injured leg straightened out. They told about the watching posts they had found. He thought Matt's idea of questioning Wild Billy about local markets a good one.

"If we move fast enough," said Lou, "we can still collect at least some truck and find a market by the end of harvest season."

Matt said, "Things seem a little less grim than they did last night."

But Mitch reminded them: "All this counts on us avoidin Chadwick's guys."

Some of the others returned dripping from the creek where they had bathed.

Mitch said to Matt and Lou, "You two take baths, then git back to the basement before dark. We got plannin to do."

Back at the basement they found that Mitch had put Miller and Rossi on guard at the outposts first.

"Matt and Lou, you guide 'm to the posts and git 'm into position. From here on ever'body not standin guard or doin stuff like bringin water from the crick stays here."

"How long?" said Leighton. "Shouldn't we be out truckin?"

"Till Chadwick's men 've had time enough to find the town."

Doc Garson scoffed. "What the hell's 'time enough'?"

Mitch's customary glower deepened. He said, "Yet to be determined."

Inevitably, as they lay around on the cushions in the dim dank basement, thoughts turned to the vicious attack by Chadwick's men. Finally Kincaid, the most inquisitive of the young ones, said, "Who the hell is this Chadwick and why's he out to git us?"

"I don't know for sure why," said Mitch, "but if it's for what I s'pect, it goes back a couple years. Wasn't it the year before the young'ns joined us?" He looked at the older guys.

"Yeah," said Lou. "It was three years ago this coming January when Chadwick tried to steal our truck, and the following Thanksgiving when we got his stash."

Leighton said, "We heard a little bit bout the stash, but nobody told us bout Chadwick tryin to steal your truck."

Mitch retold the story for the younger guys' benefit. Matt remembered details Mitch left out.

* * * *

The two gangs, Johnson's and Chadwick's, (Mitch said) had seldom run into each other. They operated in different parts of the state, Johnson's in the northeast and Chadwick's in central Missouri. They sold their truck and spent the off-season in different market settlements, Johnson's gang in Nellie's Fair in St. Charles Lake near the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers and Chadwick's in the remnants of the university town, Columbia. Each gang knew of the other, of course. Scroungers and others who made their living by traveling loved to gossip. News disseminated quickly over large areas.

Finally, three years ago the previous January, almost four years ago now, the gangs met. The winter being a mild one, both gangs had decided to go trucking in January, normally an off- season. In Johnson's gang only Matt didn't go. Every winter he had a job assisting an accountant in Nellie's Fair and had no desire to trade a guaranteed income for the discomforts of trucking in winter. A little time away from the others helped too.

Both gangs coincidentally went to an area they seldom visited, the Kansas City metropolitan area's sprawling ruins in western Missouri. They met in an eastern suburb. Each leader tried to intimidate the other through verbal sparring into leaving the ruins to them. Chadwick's thirteen men outnumbered Johnson's nine, but Johnson, flanked by Dodd and Downing, presented a more threatening array. Amazingly, Lou told Matt later, they somehow avoided a conflict. Johnson seldom turned down a fight, and his counterpart, Chadwick, seemed a man of like mind. They did this time, though, agreeing to divide the suburb between them.

However, a surprise awaited the Johnson gang as they left the ruins a couple of weeks later. The roadway they took led around a curve and through a cut. Felled trees obstructed the far end of the cut, too recently and purposely placed to have been there long. Johnson, who led, stopped when he saw the blockade, about a hundred yards distant, and motioned for quiet. Johnson nearly always led; his constant wary surveillance made him the gang's best point man.

Almost immediately Chadwick and two men to his right appeared from behind the trees, guns leveled at Johnson's chest. The rest of his gang appeared along the ridges above the cut, weapons bristling. Chadwick demanded that Johnson and his men lay their weapons down and surrender their truck-laden mules.

Johnson laid his rifle carefully on the pavement, ordered his men to do the same, and stood up. He raised the arm not holding his mule's halter and conceded defeat. Then, arm remaining in the air, with long strides he led the mule toward Chadwick, praising Chadwick's sagacity in outsmarting him in his loud voice, even grinning and shaking his head at his own naiveté.

"C'mon, fellers," he called over his shoulder. "Bring our mules up. These boys caught us with our pants down. This here truck's theirs." The men followed reluctantly. Lou admitted to Matt later that Johnson's behavior dumbfounded him.

Too late, Chadwick realized that Johnson had approached too closely. He bellowed for Johnson to immediately stop or die.

Johnson kept the mule between himself and the two men standing to Chadwick's right. In what appeared a single movement, Johnson forced the mule against Chadwick's men and pushed Chadwick's rifle barrel up so that it fired harmlessly into the heavens. The sudden maneuver surprised them all, including the mule, which further confused matters by kicking and rearing into Chadwick's companions.

When stunned quiet returned to all except for the snorting, bucking mule, Johnson stood behind Chadwick holding his service knife to Chadwick's jugular.

The tables, as the saying goes, Lou had said, had turned.

A short time later found Johnson's gang on its way back to Nellie's Fair, still in possession of its truck and mules and richer by the amount of weapons they had taken from Chadwick and his men. Saving their truck and mules made Johnson a hero in his men's eyes. And he had done it single-handedly!

He waved them off, saying, "I'm one of America's best trained soldiers. I better be able to take care of a fuckin inbred hillbilly like Chadwick."

And that should have been that, Mitch told them. They returned to life as normal: went back to Nellie's Fair, sold the Kansas City truck and left for the regular trucking season in the spring.

They returned to Nellie's Fair that fall after an inconsequential trucking season. As always, the men with wives or lovers in Nellie's Fair spent the nights with them and the days at the market selling their truck. Matt returned to a new love interest with whom he had spent the previous winter, Lily. Her former lover, Josh, also a scrounger, had foolishly gotten caught cheating at cards and ended up in St. Charles Lake with his throat cut. Matt had no illusions about Lily's fidelity – he had taken advantage of her indiscretions while she had been with Josh a time or two himself – but he didn't want a long term commitment any more than she did.

Johnson never wintered with the rest of the gang in Nellie's Fair but spent his winters in a mysteriously secret hole-up with his wife and children. He stayed in Nellie's Fair only long enough to help dispose of the truck, divide the proceeds, and party and gossip with other gangs for a few nights.

After selling the last of the truck, the men partied as hard as they had worked. In the late afternoon of the day their market stall emptied, they occupied their customary end of the main room of the Brass Ass, under the doleful gaze of the eponymous brass donkey on its shelf behind the bar. With the trucking season over and their pockets full of money, they looked forward to the upcoming season of leisure. (They always forgot how bored they grew after a few weeks, how they longed for the new trucking season.) Other scroungers came in, ordered drinks, slapped each other on the back and bullshitted, just as they did every year.

Big Mike McCutcheon came over to the table with his beer and pulled up a chair. The Johnson and McCutcheon gangs had been allies in the past; a couple of times they had even gone trucking together.

After exchanging gossip for a while, McCutcheon said to Johnson, "Say, Frank, last night I run acrosst a kid that'd like to talk to you but, well, he's scairt."

Johnson snorted, grinned his big grin. "Scairt a me? I'm a pussycat." He looked around to make sure the others appreciated his joke. Frank Johnson was anything but that.

"Well, you see, he's one a Chadwick's men. Name a Bennett."

Surprising news indeed. Why would a Chadwick gang member want to talk with Johnson? The gang hadn't discussed the confrontation with Chadwick's men much with others. News like that was best kept quiet. But they had mentioned it to a few like McCutcheon, those as close to friends as scroungers made outside the gang. When another gang went bad like Chadwick's had, their allies deserved a warning. Even though they didn't know the details about the incident, though, most gangs and people in related businesses now knew of the bad blood between the two gangs. News traveled quickly within their small but widespread community.

Johnson regarded McCutcheon through narrowed eyes. "What's he wanta talk about?"

McCutcheon shrugged. "He wouldn't say, cept that it had to do with Chadwick hisself. Said it was only for you to hear."

"Might not hurt to hear him out, Frank," said Mitch.

Matt said, "Information about our rival could prove valuable."

Johnson thought it over for a moment, then shrugged. "What the hell? I reckon it wouldn't hurt none. Where is he?"

"He's at the Rattrap Radisson," said McCutcheon. That was their nickname for one of the two winter residences scroungers favored, Radcliffe Room and Board. The other, the Clapham Hotel, was called the Claphouse.

In the end Johnson sent Downing to the Radcliffe to invite Danny Bennett to join them at the Brass Ass. Bennett should feel more secure in a crowd of partying scroungers than in a less public place. Downing brought Bennett to a private meeting room at the rear of the ramshackle building. Whatever security the crowd in the main room might have afforded Bennett didn't extend to this small room full of strangers, two of them big strangers. He saw four guys standing behind a rickety table in the room. The most imposing, a huge man with a shiny bald dome of a head and a thick brown beard, stood at least six-four, with massive arms crossed over a broad chest. The glaring man to his right, though not as tall and less heavily built, was still big and looked more threatening somehow. A short, gnarled scowling man stood on the bald man's left, and a slender man of average height stood next to him.

Young Bennett's face showed evidence of a fairly recent fight: yellow-purple stains of healing bruises, a couple of patches that probably covered cuts and a swollen, blood-shot eye.

The bald man suddenly grinned through his thick beard, grabbed Bennett's hand, and pumped it with such strength he almost pulled the young man off his feet.

"You must be Danny Bennett," he said. "I'm Boss Johnson. This here," nodding to the right, "is Charley Dodd. Hank Mitchell and Matt Pringle to my right. Have a seat."

Johnson indicated a chair on Bennett's side of the table, and they all sat. Johnson's demeanor turned serious. "Now, I hear you got somethin to tell me. Boutcher boss, Chadwick."

"He ain't my boss no more," said Bennett.

Johnson's eyes narrowed. "Why ain't he and why should I b'lieve you?"

"For one thing, he did this to me." Bennett pointed to his face. Then he told them about Chadwick's half-sister, Gretchen, some ten years younger than her brother. Chadwick doted on her, kept her in near-isolation to protect her, especially from the other members of his gang. Bennett had met her some time ago and they'd fallen in love. Though they had believed they held their trysts in absolute secrecy, Chadwick had finally caught them. In a rage he knocked Bennett down and warned him that he would kill him if he tried to see Gretchen again.

This didn't deter the lovers though. They plotted to escape. Bennett acquired a small boat, provisioned it, and hid it in a small cove on a tributary of the Missouri River just outside Columbia. Their aim was to get to the Missouri and follow it down to Nellie's Fair and then down the Mississippi, and begin their life together.

Somehow though, the canny Chadwick discovered their plans. He waited near their boat when they came to it in the night, alone. He probably didn't want his men knowing his prohibition against them seeing his sister had failed. Without a word he started beating the younger man, coldly and methodically. Bennett said, without hope, he tried to defend himself. He knew Chadwick intended to beat him to death with his bare hands.

"Then," he said, "I heard a solid thunk, like wood hittin a human skull. I seen Chadwick slump to his knees, then onto his face. Didn't make a sound. Gretchen stood there shakin. She held a fallen tree limb with both hands.

"She helped me up and into the boat. An here we are a week later. I reckon he ain't figgered out where we are. He ain't showed up yet."

"A right touchin love story," said Johnson, "What's it got to do with me?"

Bennett leaned forward eagerly and spoke with pent-up passion, his intimidation forgotten. "Gretchen an me figgered to rest up here and head on down to the Mississippi. Go so far south he can't never find us. But then I got to thinkin. A trip like that's gonna take some supplies and I ain't got much money. And I wanta git even with that asshole, Lyle Chadwick. I know how to git his money and git even at the same time, but I can't do it alone."

Johnson leaned back and crossed his arms. "Whaddya got in mind?"

"We found a helluva treasure last summer. Chadwick took us back to Kansas City, checked out a street he'd known about when he lived there before the Last Days. Said it had stores that catered to rich folks. Said he had a different kind a truck in mind. From a business he remembered, a jewelry store. We all thought this was a waste a time. People had looted jewelry stores and pawn shops first. But he said he wasn't lookin for truck in the store itself. We'd find it somewhere else. He said it was a long shot but something in the store could tell us where. If it didn't work out we'd look for the stuff we usually got."

"So he musta found what he was lookin for, huh," said Johnson, "since you're so eager to steal it?"

"Not right away. When we got there, sure nough, the store had been looted. But he tromped right through its trash to the office in back. He took a sheet a paper from a glassed-in frame on the wall and held it up. 'See here,' he says. 'Here's the storeowners address on the fuckin merchant's license.' He said that when owners of fancy stores like this saw the end comin they'd clear out their bank accounts and buy valuables to hide in their houses."

"So how much did you guys git?"

"None from that house but he turned out to be right. The first house had been so ransacked that anything valuable was long gone. But we found other merchants' addresses the same way and checked their houses. Some had been looted like the first, others hadn't but was as empty as the first and others had safes we couldn't open. We was all ready to give up but not the boss.

"Then we hit it: a house so caved in nobody'd bothered to dig into it. We dug through a corner that wasn't too covered up into the basement. In a mostly undamaged room we found four footlockers filled with them bars a gold they call... I forgit."

"Ingots," said Matt.

"Yeah, that. Chadwick didn't know how much they was worth but he said it was more 'n we'd ever see in one place again. The footlockers was too heavy for the mules to carry so we divided the ingots amongst all of 'm, well-hidden a course. We brung the footlockers too.

"Back in Columbia we hid the footlockers in his basement and refilled 'm with the gold, then Chadwick set alone thinkin for a couple a days. Then he called a confab, said he'd come up with a plan. He'd use the gold to make us all more rich and powerful than anyone in the whole Midwest. He couldn't tell us any more till he worked out all the details. Some a the men grumbled but he had always come through so they said they'd wait."

Johnson fidgeted, losing patience. "So you think you can get ahold a this gold."

"I know I can. It just so happens that Chadwick and his two main men'll be away for a few days over Thanksgiving. They're gonna meet with a rival boss, Ben Hauptmann, at some secret place away from Columbia. I don't know what they're gonna talk about but I bet it'll have to do with his plans for usin the gold. Most a the men don't stay in hise Big House in the off-season – that's the headquarters and Chadwick lives there. They got families in Columbia. He'll leave a few in the house to protect the gold. We could slip in and take it while they're gone. My share would take me and Gretchen a long ways down the Mississippi."

"How many men we talkin bout in the house?" said Mitch.

"Not over a half dozen," said Bennett.

"Why so few?" asked Mitch. "If I had what's prob'ly the most valuable truck in Columbia settin in my house, I'd want it under damn heavy guard."

"Nobody knows it's there outside the gang."

"And now us," said Johnson, grinning through his thick beard.

But Mitch persisted. "Why don't the guys guardin the gold grab it and run?"

"Cause two a the men he's leavin is ones he trusts the most," said Bennett. "Bo and Sam Thompson, his brother-in-laws. Chadwick's wife was their sister. He not only trusts 'm, but they know the secret he's workin on and they b'lieve in it."

"Okay, Danny boy," said Johnson. "We'll chew the deal over with the rest a the gang an let you know. Guess you'll be at the Rattrap?"

After Bennet left he called a confab in the meeting room and temporarily interrupted the men's night of carousing. He explained Bennet's deal to them.

Matt said, "We aren't well-suited for this, you Army rangers' expertise notwithstanding. We're scroungers, businessmen, not brigands. There are a lot of loose ends. How factual is Bennett's story? Can we count on Chadwick and his men being away from the house long enough? Is the gold still in the Big House or did Chadwick move it without Bennet knowing? Maybe he put it in a safer place, like the Nellie's Fair bank." (There was no bank in Columbia.)

"I for one," said Dodd, "believe the kid's story. He didn't beat hisself up like that. The fact that he's willin to go long with us proves he ain't lyin."

"But," said Doc, "hatin Chadwick like he does might make him think the raid's easier than it is."

Lou said, "And what about retribution? We made Chadwick look bad once. Now we're talking outright theft. He won't let us get away with this. And if he teams up with Hauptmann they'll outnumber us more than two to one."

Only perennial pessimist Doc Garson backed Matt and Lou. Matt could tell even before the confab started that Johnson, supported as usual by Dodd and Downing, had made up his mind to go through with the robbery. The others, even Mitch, remained neutral at first but gradually began to side with Johnson as he countered Matt's, Lou's, and Doc's concerns and played to the other men's greed.

After a long discussion, Johnson stood up to bring it to an end. "Okay, boys, ever'body's had their say. It's time to decide. I say the kid's tellin the truth. We'll be careful before we bust into the house, make sure most of Chadwick's guys is gone."

"Chadwick knows Bennett knows bout the gold," said Doc. "He'll figger Bennett led us to it."

Johnson said, "We'll wear hoods so they don't reckanize us. Chadwick's got this comin, boys. He tried to rob us but wasn't smart enough. We're smart and tough, and he needs to be brought down a notch or two, oncet and for all. And we gotta think bout our future, how much longer we can keep this kinda life up. We're all in our forties and fifties.

"For myself, I'm goin to Columbia to relieve Chadwick of his gold. If Chadwick ain't at no meetin but is still in town, so much the better. I'll take it whether he's there or not. Any a you that wants to share the gold with me is welcome to come along. Anybody that don't come though, ain't gittin any.

"In the meantime I built myself up a helluva thirst. Who's havin another beer with me?"

* * * *

In the end the whole gang participated in the hold-up. It went exactly as planned, far more smoothly than Matt had expected.

They rented horses from a livery near Nellie's Fair and rode to Columbia as fast as they could without winding the horses, stopping only once for a few hours sleep and a meal. At the house they found only five men and Chadwick's current lover, a terrified young woman barely out of her teens. Awakened in the middle of the night by ten armed and hooded men, they surrendered the gold without argument.

"So you still got this gold?" said Jack Kincaid. "You never told us bout it."

"Well," said Doc, "you ain't got no claim on it. We done all the work, took all the risks." He had been against recruiting the kids and never hid his dislike for them, especially Leighton.

"Yeah," said Mitch. "We got still it, paid Bennet his share in Nelson dollars, then buried the gold way north a Columbia in the footlockers. Johnson picked the place. Some of us wanted to put it in a more secure place, like the vault in the Nellie's Fair bank but Johnson didn't trust the bank, said the gold'd be too big a temptation for its officers."

Matt said, "The officers aren't supposed to look in the depositors' vaults but Frank said there's no guarantee they wouldn't. Maybe he had a point."

"So," said Leighton, "with all that gold, why the hell you still truckin?"

"We figgered news a the hold-up'd git around in a few days," said Mitch. "If that much gold showed up on the street people'd know exactly where it came from. Even before our little foray we decided to keep it hidden for a few years till the news got old, then divvy it up."

"We think of it as our 'stash'," said Stony. "Security gainst future need."

"Now," said Doc, "I'm thinkin that future fuckin need has come."

Matt remembered that the operation had gone so smoothly that Doc, always leery of success, had confided to him, "We gonna pay for this'n. Big time.

Little did he know how tragically prophetic that statement would become.

That had been two years ago this coming Thanksgiving.

* * * *

The kids had questions.

"How'd they know it was you?" asked Kincaid. "You said you covered your faces. Somebody musta ratted."

"And why'd they wait so long to come git you?" asked Leighton. "They shoulda been on your ass soon as they knowed it was you."

"We don't know for sure that they attacked us because a the gold," said Stony.

"But I can't figger no other reason," said Doc.

"I don't see how they coulda found out," said Mitch. "It wouldn't a done nobody in the gang no good to rat. But if that's why they ambushed us, they figgered it out somehow and it musta been pretty recent. Otherwise, like Red said, Chadwick would a been on us like stink on shit soon as he found out three years ago."

"They definitely seem bent on gitting us all," said Lou. "They didn't leave after they stiffed Johnson and Dodd and Downing."

No one spoke for a time. Young and old alike found both facts, that Chadwick had found them out and his determination to exterminate them, unnerving.

Lou broke the silence. "One thing bothers me: critters gnawing on Johnson and Dodd and Downing's dead bodies. We oughta take care of them."

"We owe Frank Johnson a lot," said Mitch. "Prob'ly our lives, but we can't help 'm now. Not till we know Chadwick's men's whereabouts."

"There wouldn't be no danger back there now," offered Stony. "That's the last place they'd look for us."

"There wouldn't be any danger in being there," said Matt. "The risk is in getting there. They could be any place between here and there looking for us."

"Yeah," said Doc. "We don't have no idea where they are now. But as soon as we git outta here maybe we oughta git our stash and scrounge in new parts."

"Maybe Doc's right for a change," said Stony. "This country ain't so healthy no more."

"And it won't be again," said Lou. "We soon found out what Chadwick's and Hauptmann's meeting was about. By the next spring they had joined forces, hired other assorted toughs and taken control of the settlement in Columbia's ruins. They suspended the town council and raised taxes on the citizens."

Stony said, "And last spring before we left Nellie's Fair folks was sayin Chadwick was recruitin more men, that he had over a hundred. They was even rumors he had taken all the land down to the Missouri River and was planning to set up stations to git tolls from the river traffic."

"Stony's right," said Lou. "Let's get our stash, and try to get our savings out of the bank. Then we'll be ready to haul ass or lay low or whatever else we need to do."

"Wait a goddamn minute," said Leighton. "You old guys are talkin bout yersel's like us young'ns ain't even here. Your feud with this Chadwick ain't got nothin to do with me and my boys. We didn steal no shit from Chadwick. He don't even know us. We don't need to run from him. We got somethin to say bout this."

"You ain't got nothin to say," said Doc. "If it wasn't for Boss Johnson, you rat turds 'd still be starvin in Nellie's Fair's slums where you belong."

"Hold on!" said Mitch in a loud voice that got their attention. "We're okay as long as we stick together. Red, you and your boys is stuck with us whether you like it or not. If you leave now, with winter comin on and no scratch you'd starve. And you know it. After this is over you can go your own way. And Doc, Red's right. We owe these boys. Red and Big fought Chadwick's men with Matt and Lou so the rest of us could git away. First thing we gotta do is git Chadwick off our ass, git some breathin room. Then we can figger out our next step."

"How do we git 'm offa our ass?" demanded Leighton.

"I suggest we wait a couple more days," said Mitch, "to see if his boys find the town. If they don't, then we need to send Matt out to look for signs of 'm. Sorry, Matt, but you're the only one they don't know. Ceptin the kids, a course, but they lack experience at stuff like that."

Matt shrugged, nodded his agreement. The other older guys also agreed. Nobody wanted to think beyond the next few days just then.

"And what about the fossils?" insisted Leighton, nodding toward the townspeople's apartment. "We can't forgit them."

"I'm thinking of checking in on them pretty soon," said Matt.

Leighton glared intently at Matt. "You do that, Perfessor. You check on 'm. But if Chadwick's assholes catch us like varmints in this hole, I..."

"You'll do nothin," said Mitch. "This place ain't Matt's fault. He only found it. We decided to stay here as a majority cause we couldn't go no fu'ther so that's the end of it. Go ahead and check on the folks, Matt. Stony, you and Doc might spell Rossi and Miller at the guard post."

# Chapter Seven

Matt needed to gain the townspeople's confidence enough for them to allow the boy to visit the gang, a first step in his vague plan to use the boy as a hostage if necessary. He walked up the alley to the back of their building, feeling less exposed there than on the street. He found the woman Maude and the argumentative man who had sat from her (Clarence? Claude?) in the alley hanging up clothing they had just washed. He saw a woodpile beside the back door and a large garden across the alley. A sagging shed that served as a chicken coop with a pen to one side squatted just beyond the garden.

The man looked at him suspiciously, the woman nodded without expression. He nodded back and without a word picked a shapeless garment out of the basket and began pinning it to the line. The homemade clothing had been stitched together from fabrics never meant for that use: bedding, towels, draperies, even carpeting.

The man wore faded, almost colorless, ancient slacks and a sleeveless shirt adapted from a pillowcase. The woman wore ragged, patched jeans. Different materials had gone into her patchwork blouse – he recognized a bit of kitchen curtain – but fashioned so well it fit perfectly. Mass production of garments had made good seamstresses rare in the twenty-first century.

The two took their washing from the basket and hung them on the line in a manner that kept them from getting in each other's way. Matt joined them and soon picked up the rhythm. The three worked without speaking. The two ignored Matt except for an occasional surreptitious glare from the man. The man looked younger than Matt had thought earlier, perhaps around sixty, but Maude had reached the far side of sixty, probably close to seventy. They finally finished. Maude winced as she straightened her back. The man picked up the basket and entered the store's back door without a word.

Maude turned to Matt with a congenial expression, almost a smile. "Much obliged, uh, Matt, was it?" A once pretty woman, she still looked quite handsome.

"You're welcome, Maude, and yes, it's Matt."

"I supposed the rest of your – companions – have arrived."

He detected a note of distaste in the word, "companions."

"Yes, we're all settled in."

"You sound like an educated man," she said with a slight tone of surprise.

"So what am I doing with guys like this, huh?"

"Something like that." The near-smile took on a quality of irony.

"Well, yes, I had degrees in English, cybercommunication, and cultural history. I taught all three at various universities, the last one in Kansas City. Till I had no one left to teach, of course. Then I got into this business." He shrugged. "I had to do something for a living."

"We all have to get by as best we can. I used to teach, too. At the local school."

"I find my education a liability sometimes now," he said. "One of the guys calls me 'Professor' because of the way I talk."

"Every profession has its liabilities. I'm luckier than you. I still have someone to teach – John." She turned toward the doorway.

"One more thing, Maude."

She turned back to face him.

"I promised to chop some wood for you but I don't have an axe. Do you have one I can borrow?"

"That's quite unnecessary. We've chopped our own wood for a long time."

"I'm sure it is and that you have. But I'd like to do it."

She regarded him for a moment, then turned without speaking and went into the building. He wondered: had she dismissed him or gone to get the axe? Then she reappeared and presented him with an axe. "Thanks, Matt."

He smiled, nodded, and turned back toward the bank.

In the basement Matt found everybody quietly cleaning their weapons or organizing their scratch. He found it interesting that Leighton and his cronies, Miller, Rossi, and Kincaid, sat across the table from Mitch and Lou, allowing the table to, perhaps unconsciously, divide the two factions that had formed when the kids joined the gang two seasons before.

They had lost two members the winter before, Kirby and Andrews, to a flu epidemic. That put their number at eight, two short of Boss Johnson's minimum practical number for the gang. To make up the loss, he suggested recruiting older boys from one of Nellie Fair's orphan gangs. They needed tough kids like them, he had argued, to endure scrounger life. Johnson had chosen gang leader Red Leighton and three of his followers. Leighton looked to be in his late teens and two of the others a couple of years younger. Some of the other men, especially Doc, didn't want to recruit kids so young, but Johnson argued that they could more easily "bring 'm up right" in the gang's mores. The low survival rate among orphans, Johnson pointed out, and the fact that these four had made it into their teens showed they had the balls for scrounger life.

Matt agreed with Doc. He didn't like kids much, never having spent much time around children. And he felt skeptical of taking so many of what he considered feral brats into the gang at once. Unexpectedly though, Matt grudgingly admitted that Leighton had gradually evolved into an asset for the gang. Under Johnson's rugged tutelage he had learning to move quietly in the wild to become a great point man. He never complained at hard work, long treks, scarce food supply, or inclement weather. (Though he sure found plenty of other things to bitch about.)

Mitch looked up as Matt came down the stairs. "How're the old folks? Happy? Pissed off? Plottin to kill us?"

Matt shrugged. "I'm going to chop some wood for them."

"In the meantime," said Mitch, "why don't you and Lou spell Stony and Doc so Stony can fix us something resemblin a meal."

Lou and he went to their guard posts.

* * * *

The next morning dragged. They couldn't know when or even if their enemies might appear. No one felt like talking which only added to the palpable tension in the basement. When Mitch sensed that the stress level had risen too high, he told everybody to inventory their scratch and figure out what they'd need to replace once free to search the town. Mitch wouldn't allow anyone outside the basement in daylight except to relieve themselves and to man the outposts. Stony cooked in the draw only after dark. The basement, already smelling of dust and mildew, had begun to take on the gamy scent of unwashed bodies. Mitch hadn't allowed anyone to bathe since the first day. At that time Mitch, with Matt's concurrence, had believed the only way Chadwick's men could have found the town so quickly would have been to follow them directly from the ambush site. Now they had had more time to find it in a random search.

While the others moped Matt and Mitch discussed strategies for taking the boy hostage when or if Chadwick's men came. It seemed more complicated than it had when Matt had first proposed the idea. Since friendly circumstances would more likely make the citizens more amenable to allowing the boy to visit the basement they decided Matt should spend more time courting them. They both thought they had a few days.

Matt welcomed midday and his turn to spell Jack Kincaid with profound relief. He felt a bit of the basement's stress lift with each step up the basement stairs. At the south post entered the sagging barn and climbed the ladder to the loft until his eyes cleared the floor. He saw Kincaid lying on his back at the opening, hands folded under his head which he had craned far enough back to peer serenely into the sky. Damned kids, Matt thought angrily as he hurried up the ladder. A rung creaked under his boot. The kid's body cleared the floor by at least an inch.

Matt stepped from the ladder onto the haymow floor. "I don't think they'll descend on us from the sky, Jack."

"Jesus, Matt! You scairt the shit outta me."

"I should knock the shit out of you. Chadwick's men would have done worse." He looked around. "And look at this place. One glance would tell a child someone had been here."

Kincaid stood, brushed off ancient straws, his composure regained. He grinned at Matt with the impudence he'd seen Leighton give the older men, a lot different from the shy scared kid that had joined the gang a couple of years before.

"C'mon, Matt. We all know they ain't comin near here. You said so yourself. The Fever sign 'll scare 'm off."

But Matt wasn't looking at Kincaid. He was looking a half mile to the south where a group of men moved from east to west along the highway.

"Who's that then?"

Kincaid turned. It took him a moment to see them. Then, "My God! Are they comin here?"

"What do you say we wait and see. Get down."

They lay on the floor peering out the opening. Matt counted over thirty men, all armed. Chadwick's men, without question. The lead man rode a mule, undoubtedly one of theirs. The other mules, along with their truck, would be on the way to Columbia. Matheson, Chadwick's lieutenant, probably rode the mule if Mitch's shot hadn't hit him during the ambush. Matt had never seen the man and couldn't have recognized him that far away in any case.

When they reached the intersection with the road, they paused to look toward the town. Matt's heart almost stopped. Kincaid shuddered beside him. A few of them, undoubtedly the leaders, gathered in a group for a discussion that seemed to last an eternity. Then about half of them turned north toward the town, and the other half, led by the mounted man, continued west.

Wild-eyed, the youth started crawling frantically backward toward the ladder.

"Let's git outta here!"

Matt grabbed his arm and said with a forced calmness he didn't feel, "No, you get outta here. But get Lou first – he's at the north guard post – and get your asses to the basement as fast as you can. Tell the others what's going on."

"Aw – awright, but – but, what about you?"

"I'm going to stay here and straighten up your fucking mess. Then hide the trap door over the basement like we discussed. And become one of the citizens of this ghost town. Now get!"

Kincaid needed no further encouragement.

Matt concealed signs of his and Kincaid's presence as well as he could and checked the men's approach. Now that the dreaded moment of confrontation had arrived, the calm he often felt under stress enabled him to think clearly. Taking the boy hostage would no longer work now, of course. Chadwick's men had come sooner than he and Mitch had expected. He finished with the haymow with the men less than halfway to town, then edged back to the ladder and dropped to the floor. He brushed the dry hay from his clothes and ran back to the basement. Everyone, including Lou and Kincaid were accounted for.

"Where's the kid?" hissed Leighton up at Matt.

"It's too late for that," said Mitch. "Git outta here, Matt. You got stuff to do."

Indeed he did. He closed the trap door, concealed it with the rug and the chair, and went out of the bank and down the street to the townspeople's apartment. He knocked on their door and opened it when invited to. The four sat around the table as they had the morning he had first seen them, this time playing cards.

"The people we've been expecting are coming into town," he said. He looked around the room. "Where's John? He should be in here."

Maude had begun getting painfully to her feet. "Out back. I'll get him."

Matt said, "Let me mention something first. We don't expect any trouble from these people. They aren't the kind to go around hurting people they don't know and they certainly don't have anything against you. Or against me either. They don't know me any more than they do you. In fact, I'm going to sit right out here in front of your door and talk to them. Just go along with everything I say and we'll make it just fine."

He tried a reassuring smile but knew it came across as wan. They regarded him with various levels of apprehension and distrust, the one named Clarence or Claude with open hostility, Maude with an ambiguous expression.

"We don't particularly care if you all kill each other," she said, "your gang of ruffians and that other one. But not in our town. Not with John here. We'll back you only so that you'll leave as soon as possible." She started out the back to fetch the boy.

"Fair enough," said Matt. He tried to smile again, went out and closed the door behind him. He squatted on the sidewalk with his back against the wall beside the door. Only then did he begin to worry that one of the men had inadvertently left something lying around that would give them away, or that some factor had escaped their consideration. And then too, just how reliable were these townspeople?

Too late to do more now, he thought. They'd soon know if their ruse had worked or and if they had been right to trust the townspeople.

It began to seem as though his vigil had drawn out too long, even accounting for the stress of waiting. Occasionally he looked down the street. No sign of them. But he couldn't see as far as the southern edge of town where the Fever sign was posted. He visualized them hesitating while studying the sign, trying to decide whether to continue their in the face of the Disease, wondering if they faced a new, more virulent outbreak of Chou's that promised a nearly certain death sentence.

Then he saw them, tiny with distance, a knot of men moving up the pocked street. One of them noticed him and pointed. As they approached, another dread assailed him – that he could not play his role convincingly. He had left his broad brimmed slouch hat in the basement because scroungers favored such hats. He wore the moccasins he wore in camp while trucking instead of his boots. Only places like Nellie's Fair sold such boots. Finding them in such an isolated community might give him away.

They drew close. He assumed the vacuous stare common to these disintegrating little towns that he had practiced it for this role, the look of fear and loss.

At last the men stopped before him. Their leader approached him alone, leaving the others in a nervous huddle in the center of the street, as if they felt threatened by the cadaverous buildings looking down on them. He remembered that their gang had huddled around Mitch in much the same fashion when they first came. A shotgun rested in the crook of the man's arm. He looked tired and despondent like one who disliked his job. He regarded Matt with pity and contempt, evidence that Matt's act had worked so far.

"You the only one here?" the man demanded.

Matt looked up slowly as if he had just noticed him, took his time answering.

"There's some old folks inside. And a boy. The others died."

The man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. A look of suspicion? Matt's heart beat a little faster. He forced himself to remain motionless, expressionless.

Without warning the man lifted his foot and planted a solid kick to the left of Matt's head against the door. The door flew open with a splintery crash. He knew the man was watching him for some reaction. He remained as still as the wall behind him, didn't flutter an eyelid.

The man stepped inside the room with his shotgun ready, looked around for a moment and stepped back outside, glared down at Matt.

"Any men come through here? Bout a dozen. Armed."

"Nobody comes through here. Scared of the Fever."

The man continued looking at Matt without speaking for a moment, tiredly, sadly.

"These men we're lookin for, they's criminals," he said. "They's thieves and murderers. If you know anything bout 'm, it'd be to your benefit to tell us. Could save your skins."

"Sorry, I can't help you none."

He regarded Matt for another moment as one might a sickly animal, then turned and gave an order for the men to search the main street. They split into two groups and moved in both directions along the street, examining the buildings in the same perfunctory manner the leader had checked the townspeople's apartment, by kicking open the doors and glancing briefly inside, their hearts clearly not in their mission. Matt knew how they felt with medical facilities practically non-existent. Entering a town possibly ridden with disease, even one less virulent than Chou's, could mean a death sentence. That they had come at all reaffirmed two things to Matt: that they feared their boss more than Chou's Disease and that Chadwick had was set on exterminating the remainder of Johnson's gang.

After what seemed an eternity, the gang regrouped around their leader where he still stood in the middle of the street. A brief discussion ensued in which they convinced each other that the gang had not come to the town. They skinny guy was right, they said; no one else had lived there in a long time. It didn't make sense, they said, to keep poking around here while these "criminals" got farther away every hour. They wouldn't catch up with the rest of the gang until way after dark even if they left now.

The leader came back to stand over Matt.

"Listen, if y'all see these guys or hear anything bout 'm let us know. Come to Columbia – you know where that is? – good." (His expression showed he doubted that Matt or the others could make it that far.) "Then ask for Boss Chadwick or Del Matheson." (So even if Mitch's shot had injured Matheson it hadn't killed him.) "They'll see that it's worth your while. Winter's comin on, and I reckon y'all 'd welcome a few pack horses full of vittles fore the cold hits. Maybe some blankets."

He spoke in an almost kindly manner. Matt looked at the leader closely for the first time. He had a weathered brown face, a rather thin brown beard, and strangely sad brown eyes. He even wore brown clothes. A brown man, maybe not an altogether bad guy.

But he had helped kill three of us, Matt reminded himself. And he wants to kill the rest of us.

"I'll remember what you say," he said. I promise I won't ever forget what you did. And I'll get even with you for it if I ever get a chance.

The leader rejoined his men and led them out of town the way they had come. Maybe the man was sincere, he thought, maybe a recent recruit that joined Chadwick after he took over Columbia and believed all he'd been told about Johnson and his gang of "criminals."

But he still participated in the ambush. Those with him did, too.

Matt didn't allow himself to feel relief until the men had passed from sight. Then he went to the barn and watched from the haymow until they reached the highway, turned west, and rounded the bend into the woods to rejoin their companions. Only then did he roll over on his back, in much the same position he had found Kincaid a couple of hours earlier (only two hours!?) and let out a tremendous sigh.

Then he returned to the apartment. Amazingly, the oldsters had gone back to their card game, though John huddled closely by Maude's side. Matt stepped awkwardly around the door, which hung from one hinge, partially blocking the doorway.

"I'll fix the door before bad weather gets here," he said.

"Clarence can do that," said Maude without looking up from her hand. "He does things like that for us. You've probably got too much education to be very handy."

Matt shrugged. "I suppose that's true, but it's our fault the door's broken. We should be responsible for fixing it."

Clarence (not Claude) glared up at him. "Yeah, but we want to know it's fixed right. We don't want it whipped open by the first heavy wind and have snow blowin up our ass. I'll fix it to make sure."

Then Maude looked up. "I assume your, uh, colleagues are gone."

"Our, uh, competitors. Yes, they're gone. I don't expect them back."

"Good." She turned back to her hand.

He looked down at the crouching boy, John. "You were a brave kid."

The boy smiled shyly, his chin trembling slightly. Matt left to rejoin his men.

# Chapter Eight

As soon as Matt rejoined the gang, Mitch sent Miller and Rossi to the guard posts – just in case Matheson sent his men back – and called a confab with the rest.

"We gotta decide our next move," he said. "First, let's figger out where we stand."

"That's easy," said Doc. "We're nine men, mostly banged up, runnin from a hunnert or so murderers. They killt three of us an fixin to stiff the rest. They took ever'thing we had. And here we set, prob'ly within a week of their hole-up in Columbia." He looked around. "Am I wrong?"

Stony rolled his one good eye and said, "As usual, yes. Even though some of us got knocked around a little, we're gittin better, in spite a you takin care of us. We're settin in a town full a truck. Looks like only the main drag's been scrounged. If we can git the truck to Billy Kane's place, he'll prob'ly have mules to sell us. And we don't have to pay him all at oncet. We have the stash to fall back on if we need it. And some of us got a little savings in the bank."

"It don't bother you none," said Doc, "bein this close to Columbia?"

"Best place we could be," said Stony. "Now that they been through here, they won't come back. They'd never spect to find us this close to home anyways."

Doc shook his head. "I swear to God. If 'twas up to you we'd march right up to Chadwick and say, 'Here we are'."

"Maybe Stony could cook for him," said Lou, "and get rid of him once and for all."

The others laughed, Stony along with them.

Mitch cleared his throat and drew his black brows together. "Okay, Doc an Stony 've spent enough time figgerin out where we are. Let's decide what we do next: collect the truck, git it to Billy's, buy mules and find a market."

"How do we git the truck to Kane's?" asked Leighton. "Wish it there? In case ever'body forgot, them assholes took our mules."

"We're probably not too far north of the Missouri River," said Matt. "If we can get it that far, we can float it down to Wild Billy's. We could make some rafts, maybe even be lucky enough to find boats."

"Floatin down the river takes us towards Columbia," said Doc.

"But not all the way," said Mitch. "Kane's Cove is still this side a Columbia, and it's a ways up the Grange River from where the Grange meets the Missouri. I think it's a good plan. If we git to work right away, like tomorrow, we can collect truck and find a market – hopefully a far piece from Columbia – afore the harvest season's over."

"But this only solves the immediate problem," said Doc, "which is how to git some quick income, replace our scratch and mules. Let's don't forgit our main problem: What to do bout Chadwick."

"I think we oughta head for safer country," said Lou. "There's truck all over America just waiting to be had. No need to stay here; we can do our business anywhere. We got our stash and savings to stake us. I say we get as much truck as we can out of this town, sell it, retrieve our stash, and head out as soon as possible. I'm from Colorado, a helluva lot friendlier climate than this and a long way away from Chadwick. I wouldn't mind heading back there before I get too old for trucking. I'll bet there's a lot of truck along the Front Range and a lot of folks to buy it."

"That sounds like a plan to me," said Doc. "I don't even give a shit bout the truck in this godforsaken place. I wouldn't mind just gittin our stash and headin out. The sooner we go the less chance Chadwick's boys has a findin us."

"Colorado sounds good to me too," said Stony, "but I think we oughta gather up and sell this truck we're settin on. I mean, it's right here, we're right here. We could sell it on our way to Colorado."

"What's Colorado like?" asked Kincaid, clearly excited by the prospects of a new adventure.

Lou grinned. "There's a huge long city that stretches along the east side of mountains called the Front Range, from Fort Collins down through Denver to Colorado Springs and beyond. There's mountains that touch the sky, the biggest sky you've ever seen. Air so pure you get higher by just breathing than by smoking the best weed in Missouri. Air so clear you could see all the way around the world clear to the back of your head if the mountains weren't in the way."

Stony applauded. "I didn't know you engineers was such poets."

Matt grinned. "Only when they're from Colorado and they get a chance to lie about it."

"Another great thing about Colorado," said Lou. "None of this goddamned humidity. After you step out of a bath in this muggy heat, it doesn't help to dry yourself off. Rub yourself all over with a towel and you're still wet. And so's the towel! When you get out of a tub in Colorado, the air's so dry you're dry before you grab the towel."

They talked further about the logistics of collecting truck and how to get it to the river and from there to Kane's. Leighton was uncharacteristically quiet. Finally he said, "What about us, me and Big and Rossi and Jack? You always make it clear as hell we don't git none a that fuckin stash so how do we replace our scratch? When there's a confab, you send two of us to the guard posts so you can decide ever'thing just like we don't count. It ain't our fault we got our scratch stole and almost got our ass shot off."

"Red has a point," said Matt. "It's true that the stash belongs to us older guys. But like Red pointed out earlier the ambush wasn't the younger guys' fault. We older fucks are responsible. They got involved only because they happened to be with us. But they faced it as bravely as we did. I think the stash should be used to replace their scratch along with ours. They've earned it."

Leighton looked at him in a new way, not with gratitude exactly, but a little surprised, and without the usual hostility.

Mitch listened intently, then looked at the other older men.

"I don't think nobody has a grievance with that. Right, boys?"

"Hell, no," said Lou. "Matt's absolutely right." Then he laughed. "Hell, these kids are our next generation."

"That's a scary thought," said Doc with a sour grin. "But even I agree with Matt. You all know I ain't no big fan of our young'ns, but they ain't no denyin they've carried their share a the load."

"Okay," Mitch said. "Lets start scroungin this town in the mornin. Early. We collect all the truck we can in two weeks. No longer than that. We'll figger out how to find the river, south a here somewheres, and all the rest of it. Then as soon as we can we'll dig up our stash, buy all the scratch we need, and head out. Does ever'body agree on Colorado, somewhere round Denver?"

Everyone did.

"Okay, Colorado it is. We'll work out details as we need to."

"There's one last thing," said Lou. "The guys at Summerfield Crossing."

Mitch's brows drew together in thought for a moment. Then he looked at Lou and said, "You and Matt go take care of 'm tomorrow. But git up early and git back by nightfall. One day's all we can spare you. We're shorthanded the way it is. And for God's sake be careful – Chadwick's assholes could be anywhere. Like I said," with the slightest of grins, "we're too shorthanded to lose any more. The rest of us 'll start scroungin tomorra.

"Now I vote we all go down to the draw and take some baths and wash some clothes. I can't stand the smell of you any more 'n you can stand me. And Stony, why don't you fix us a really great dinner?"

They headed for the draw, free at last to leave the noisome confines of the basement. While Stony and Doc built a fire and heated water for baths and laundry, the others sat around talking quietly in the dark. The fire drew them all together in a sense of camaraderie. Soon Lou fell asleep on the grassy side of the draw, lulled by the fire's heat. Mitch sat apart from the others, perhaps planning their next few days' activities. Matt found himself alone in a comfortable silence, enjoying the evasion of their foes, at least for now, with profound relief.

In today's confab, Mitch had again fortified Matt's confidence in him as a good leader. He had let the others talk everything out, give their opinions and kept them focused. He let the men believe they made the decisions while he guided the conversation, simplified complications and made his decisions seem like a gang consensus. He had run meetings like that as Johnson's second in command even though Johnson often vetoed him. He had always accepted Johnson's pronouncements with equanimity.

Across the slope Matt saw Leighton fill his wooden pipe with some of the Summerfield Crossing pot, suck in a deep draught, and pass it to Kincaid. Then he retrieved the pipe he angled up the slope toward Matt, sat down, and without a word, passed the pipe to him. Matt took in a deep hit, felt the familiar deep relaxed tingle spread out toward his extremities. They passed the pipe back and forth. Matt's next hit spread the luxurious feeling yet farther.

"Y' know, Perfessor," said Leighton finally. "You talk just like a book. I can't read of course, but if I could... I mean, what you said bout me and the boys back there... I mean, I bet there's somethin written in a book somewheres that sounds like that."

Another deep inhalation sent the pleasant tingle all the way to Matt's fingertips. "Like as not," he said. Leighton left after they finished the pipe.

That was Leighton's way, he realized, of thanking him for support in the confab.

* * * *

The stifling heat of late summer followed Matt and Lou to Summerfield Crossing even though they left before first light. They stayed out of the open as much as possible to avoid detection by Chadwick's men and local people as well. Matheson's group might have offered them a reward just as the Brown Man had Matt. They had learned to avoid unfamiliar settlements over the years in any case. Most people felt, quite understandably, hostile to armed gangs.

"A price on our head," joked Lou after Matt told him the Brown Man's offer, "just like some gang out of the old west – Butch Cassidy or Jesse James or Sam Bass."

But the only sign of habitation they saw was a thread of smoke from a cook fire rising from a distant chimney. Lou thought he saw a shadowy figure moving in the trees around the house. "Probably went out for his morning shit," he guessed. They kept their distance.

The only town, village really, they came across had burnt completely to the ground. They had no way of telling if it had been the victim of lightning or pillage. They saw a few farmhouses and outbuildings, mostly in ruins as well, some burnt, some sagging in collapse. Many had probably been uninhabited even before the Last Days. People leaving the cities tended to stay near them, in existing older villages or new developments built just for expatriates from the cities, not in areas as remote as this. They remained alert even when they saw no signs of habitation or their enemies, spoke little, and moved quickly across openings in the vegetation. Their grim mission and the growing humid heat oppressed them, as did the silence.

They reached the clearing sooner than they thought they would, well before midday. Before starting their main task, they looked around for items Matheson and his men may have missed. Even though Stony had hung their food in bags in the trees to thwart wildlife all but one had been plundered, a bag of dried beans.

"Damn, I'm sick of beans," said Lou.

"At least the squirrels have good taste," said Matt. "They took everything but the beans."

They had especially hoped to find one or both crossbows. Unfortunately, they found neither. Johnson had purchased these expensive but very powerful weapons out of the gang's funds for hunting. The shrinking of the supply of ammunition had made it too dear to squander on game. Arrows shot from regular bows could hit distant targets more accurately, but no one in the gang possessed skill as archers. They could aim a crossbow more or less like a firearm.

Finally, they could delay the chore of burial no longer. They found precious little of Johnson and Dodd, and scavengers had dragged parts of what they did find all over the clearing and beyond. Of Downing who had stood watch, they found nothing at all.

Afterwards, Matt and Lou never spoke of this day and tried to think of it as little as possible.

They reached the Newcastle bank after dark. Stony had left out some cold smoked venison. Tired and not very hungry, they ate only a little and went right to sleep.

* * * *

The next morning Mitch woke everyone in the dark, but when Matt went outside to piss with the others, he saw the first glimmer of dawn tint the sky above the buildings across the street. They broke their fast on the last of the dried apricots and Stony's corn meal cakes. (Doc opined that Stony had gained his nickname from the consistency of these cakes rather than from his name, Harold Stone.)

Doc refused to let Mitch and Stony scrounge until their wounds healed further but grudgingly allowed them to man the guard posts. As leader, Mitch could have excluded himself from guard duty (Johnson always did) but he took longer shifts at the posts than the others to allow them more time for scrounging. He didn't have to urge the men to work long days. They knew their future depended on collecting as much truck as possible in the short time they had. Those able to scrounge worked in two-man crews during all the light hours.

Stony talked Doc into letting him set snares in the brush and other rabbit haunts around the town's perimeter and to search for edible vegetables. Matt and Lou worked until after dark the first evening. They returned to find the basement vacant. They found everybody at the draw except Leighton and Big at the guard posts. Even before they reached it, the scent of a brothy stew assailed their nostrils. Stony had finished preparing their first freshly cooked meal since arrival. It consisted of three rabbits from his snares, wild onions and a few herbs he had found along with potatoes from their dwindling supply. No one ragged Stony about his cooking that evening.

The next morning Matt awoke in the dark to make good on his promise to chop wood. With Maude's axe, he went to the woods at the western edge of town, watching for signs of game, especially deer. Their dwindling food supply meant they would have to hunt soon. Though still too dark to see well under the trees, he found some large fallen limbs that didn't look too badly rotted. He chopped them into stove lengths and carried a couple of armloads back to the woodpile in the alley behind the apartment. Someone had placed an upended section of stump beside the woodpile, undoubtedly to use for splitting wood. He used it for that purpose. The well-cured wood split cleanly with each blow. He developed a comfortable rhythmic swing that completely absorbed his attention.

The back door of the store opened and the boy John came out. He noticed Matt as he closed the door and stood warily watching him for a moment. He held a fishing pole and line and a rusty bait can. Matt grinned at him, stood up to stretch his back and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

Matt nodded at the fishing tackle. "Hi. I see you're going fishing. Fish sure would taste great for breakfast."

The boy looked down shyly, scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dust. "Yep, that's what I figured."

He remained there as if wanting to continue talking but couldn't summon the courage. Having never been around children much, Matt didn't know how to talk to them. At last he tried keeping the conversation alive with, "I'll bet you know all the best places to catch fish."

"Yep. I know better places than Clarence and the best places to find mushrooms, too. It really pisses Clarence off."

Matt laughed. "Good for you. How old are you?"

"I turned twelve last month. How old are you?"

"Forty-two." Matt's age didn't awe John but of course he only knew adults older than Matt.

"Would you like me to show you where the fishin's best?" John asked.

"Why – uh – sure," said Matt. "Some day. I got to work today, though." He shifted as if to resume splitting wood, and John took the hint.

"Okay," the boy said. "See you later." He turned and started away.

Matt finished splitting the wood and left to start his day's work.

* * * *

The next morning Matt split the rest of the wood he had chopped the day before. He didn't see anything of the boy or the others, and didn't go back to the apartment the next day. That evening he and Lou chopped and split a large pile of wood for the gang.

The next three days went much the same. The men worked at guard and scrounging details. They stored accumulated truck in the second floors of buildings along the main street. The younger gang members griped about lugging it up the stairs, saying they could just as well keep it downstairs as up, someplace like the lobby of the bank.

"Use your head," Mitch said to Leighton. "Chadwick's men woulda reckanized a stack a goods as truck right off the bat. And filling the bank lobby with it'd be like postin a sign sayin, 'Look for us here first.'"

On the fourth evening, when Matt and Lou got back to the draw, where they had been taking their meals at dark, they found Doc wrapping Stony's shoulder. Mitch sat nearby.

"Despite this two-bit medic's head-shakin," Stony told them, "we been gittin better. We finally talked him into lettin Mitch and I git to work tomorrow."

"Only if they don't lift nothin heavy," growled Doc, "and work short days. As it is, this'n," He tapped Stony on the chest. "has been rootin around in the store buildins up and down the street. Against my orders."

"Well, layin on my ass all the time is makin me addle-brained."

"More-so than you are already. But you might as well find us some truck while you're gittin addle-brained. Though I would like to know what the hell you been up to."

Stony said with a grin, "Workin on something that'll make all our lives a lot easier."

"Would you two shut up?" said Mitch. "You're addlin my brain."

Later, as Matt and Lou left the basement to take their turns at the guard posts Lou said, "I'll be curious to see what Stony comes up with. He's always fiddling with something, taking it apart to see how it works, putting it together to make it work in some new way. I'm sure it'll be something ingenuous."

Matt said, "He told me the thing about pre-Last Day life that irked him the most was not being able to take things apart to see how they worked. He said this 'flaw' reduced the number of 'handy' people in the world."

Lou said, "Yeah, it pissed him off when he did break through gadgets' tough casings. All he found was solid-state components he couldn't take apart. I told him some new devices had organic parts in their innards. He said he'd never believe animals lived in his commcomp or his car's computer."

"Yeah. He's kinda religious. He probably thought scientists had encroached too far into God's world."

Lou shook his head. "I'd like to have seen those model airplanes and cars he made. To scale, he said. Big'ns, up to 1/6th scale, equipped with period internal combustion engines that really worked. The airplanes flew and the cars drove."

Then they split and went their separate ways to their posts.

The next morning Matt got up early again and chopped several more armloads of wood for the townspeople. He had emptied an armload on the woodpile and turned to go after another when he saw John emerge from the back of the building.

"Where you goin?" he asked Matt.

"After another load."

"Can I help?"

"I never turn down good help."

John followed him without comment and helped bring another load. John sat on the edge of the woodpile for a while watching Matt split wood, then asked, "Can I chop some?"

"Ever used an axe before?"

"Nope."

"Then I'd probably better finish it. I don't want to explain to Maude how you came to have one less foot."

John watched silently. When Matt finished, they said good-by and went their own ways.

* * * *

That night and the next, even after his day of trucking with Doc, Stony worked in the back room of a store. Sometimes the men heard hammering and grinding sounds and occasional cursing. They had scarcely been aware of his work before; he had worked during the day while they scrounged. On the second evening Stony said he would have the results of his labors in front of the bank the following morning.

When Matt went out front the next morning he saw two cart-like contrivances mounted on bicycle wheels parked in the middle of the street. Stony demonstrated how the wheels acted independently on their axles to make turning easier. He had made the bodies lightweight while maintaining their structural integrity with a skeleton of aluminum tubing that supported floors of ridged translucent plastic. The kind of woven wire used for fencing enclosed the sides. Legs that unfolded from the carts' front and each had a handle that looked like those in pictures of rickshaws. A rack held spare tires on the back. He gathered with the others around the carts.

Stony said, "With these trucks, gentlemen, we'll revolutionize trucking. We can bring bigger loads of truck back to the bank in less time. We'll use 'm to carry our truck to the river. I plan to make two more of 'm." And seeing Mitch about to speak, "Don't worry, boss. I'll work on 'm at night like I did these."

"I wasn't gonna say nothin bout that, Stony. Your shoulder still needs some healin. Just don't overdo it."

"The other two'll go a lot faster. I got a system worked out now."

"I'll have to admit these is purty ingenous, Stony," said Doc. How'd you find all this stuff?"

"I lucked into findin a bicycle repair shop. It not only had dusty old bicycles but parts, tires and tools. I found a bunch a old tools, equipment and the other junk you see on the magnificent machines in other stores."

Matt knew Stony as a master at finding junk that only he would find useful.

At day's end all agreed that the carts made the day's work more efficient.

They felt more secure sleeping in the basement, but because of its musty smell and dark dreariness, they spent every waking hour they could away from it. For that reason they held their confabs in the draw. That evening, on their fifth day of scrounging, Mitch called for a confab. He suggested they take the next day off from scrounging to hunt for food.

To begin he said, "Today's load a truck shows Stony's carts will help us gather more truck than before but our grub's gittin low. The potatoes and dried fruit're gone. We got a little corn meal and smoked venison left and the beans Matt and Lou had brought from Summerfield Crossing. Stony has got us some small game and wild greens but he can't feed all of us. I suggest we take tomorrow off to do some huntin. Fresh venison would taste pretty good.

"What about the 'no guns' rule for huntin?" asked Doc. "We don't have the crossbows no more."

"If we don't make an exception this time, we're gonna git mighty hungry," said Mitch. "We'll use guns at least this once."

Matt sat with Mitch and Lou during supper, the last remaining original gang members together. A thought struck him.

"Hey," he said, "this might sound goofy but that boy John claims he knows the best places to fish. Should I try to go fishing with him in the morning? Join you guys later to hunt?"

"Don't sound goofy if it works," said Mitch. "They's plenty of us to go huntin without you. If you're lucky, stay with him as long as the fish is bitin."

"I'd better go see Maude about that after supper," said Matt. "They don't seem to trust me much, may not want me off alone with the kid."

Matt found the townsfolk all sitting around a rickety folding table set up on the little patch of grass behind their store/apartment. Empty plates and silverware stacked on the table showed that they had just finished eating. He exchanged greetings all around. Except for Clarence they seemed marginally less aloof.

Then he said, primarily addressing Maude, "John invited me to go fishing with him some time. I've got the day off tomorrow. Wondered if you folks had any objections to us going in the morning. That is if John wants to."

He looked at the boy.

"You bet," said John immediately.

"Don't know why you need the boy to help do your fishin," said Clarence.

Matt shrugged. "He says he knows the best spots. I don't even know where the nearest creek is. You're quite welcome to come along, Clarence. Or anybody else for that matter."

"I don't see anything wrong with it," said Maude. "Go with him if you want, Johnny. You can go too, Clarence, or stay here and gripe all day. I imagine Matt and his friends could use a nice mess of bullheads for supper tomorrow."

"And John's our luckiest fisherman," said the one Matt thought they called Vernor or Vernon with a big, largely toothless smile.

"I'm our best fisherman," said John with a grin and a playful smack against the old man's shoulder. Laughter all around at this, apparently the latest installment of an ongoing joke.

* * * *

Matt got to the back door of the townspeople's apartment at first light the next morning. John, waiting for him on the upended stump, stood up and smiled when he saw Matt.

After they exchanged greetings, Matt said, "One other thing I hope you can help me with... I don't have any tackle. You know, hooks, lines, stuff like that."

John held up a tackle box. "I brought extra just in case."

They followed a pocked street that turned into a dusty road that weeds, brush and saplings slowly but inexorably devoured. Within a decade or so, scarcely a trace of it would remain. The road finally led downhill into the shade of trees that had been there since before the Last Days. About fifteen minutes from the apartment, they came to a bridge that crossed a lazy, narrow, muddy creek of a kind common to northern Missouri.

"Clarence likes to fish from under the bridge," John explained, "because it's handy to get to, but you don't catch much there. I think he likes to hide and sleep there to get out of work."

"I take it you have a more productive place that's harder to get to."

John grinned, rather proudly. "Just follow me."

So Matt did, south along the creek bank, through thickets of willows and brush, around large old cottonwoods and over fallen logs. They followed a faint trail John and others before him had worn. Another five minutes or so brought them to a curve in the creek where a little cove had formed, overshadowed by trees. John sat down on a log that must have been placed there by some long-gone fisherman, its position too convenient to have been an accident. Subsequent fishermen's butts had worn away the bark and polished the wood. John indicated that Matt should sit on the log, then unwrapped the line from around the pole, extracted a giant earthworm from the rusty bait can and threaded it on the hook. He and handed the pole to Matt.

"Just throw it in the water over there," John pointed to a spot, "and wait. We should catch some bullheads here. They're little but my very favorite. I'm gonna go cut another pole."

He got up and disappeared into the trees behind them. A few minutes later, he returned with a hickory sapling, which he stripped with a pocketknife and outfitted and baited as he had Matt's equipment. It surprised Matt to catch the first fish, one of the little catfish called bullheads. John put it on a stringer that he anchored to the muddy bank. They fished for most of an hour. Matt caught only the one fish. John caught a bullhead and one of the little sunfish called bluegills.

"I'm not crazy about bluegills," John explained. "You have to be careful eating them because they're bony. But the meat is sweet. They're Virgil's favorite." He grinned. "He has more patience picking the bones out than me. I wanta just eat."

The time passed pleasantly. John didn't talk much, which suited Matt who wasn't especially loquacious. He grew bored, though, and began to think he should join the gang in their hunt. Then he caught two more bullheads in quick succession.

"Just as I was beginning to think I'd starve as a fisherman," he said.

"And I was thinking of moving on," said John. "But maybe we oughta stay for awhile."

Eventually they did move on. After another hour, Matt's stringer held seven small fish, mostly bullheads. John's held a few more.

Suddenly a distant staccato sound: crack! And then another, louder.

John started, jumped to his feet. "A gun!" he said. "Maybe those men, maybe they came back!"

"No, no," said Matt, standing up too. "Those're our men. They're hunting today."

John looked at him wild-eyed. "You sure?"

"Sure. Sorry I didn't tell you."

John settled down some, but remained clearly upset, angry. "Let's head back."

So they did. When they reached the road, Matt asked, "How did you know that was a gun shot?"

"Guys with guns have come before. Bad things always happen." The boy glared at the ground, still angry.

"I've had bad times too, John. But guns aren't always used for bad things."

John stomped on, still mad, unconvinced.

Clarence met them half-way to the apartment, eyes narrowed, fists clenched. Matt hurriedly explained the gun shots. Clarence said nothing. He just put his arm around the boy, scowled one last time at Matt, and walked back to the apartment with John, pointedly leaving Matt behind.

# Chapter Nine

Matt went back to the alley behind the bank, sat on the stoop of the back door and began cleaning the fish. He hadn't anticipated John's and Clarence's wrath at the sound of gunfire, but he supposed he should have. Gun-toting thugs had terrorized settled people for the last twelve years. No wonder they distrusted him and the gang.

Just as he dropped the last cleaned fish into a bucket of water with its mates, he heard the distant sounds of excited conversation – the gang returning. He went through the bank and watched them coming up the main street. Leighton and Miller carried some kind of slaughtered, gutted beast suspended from a pole resting on their shoulders. They called out greetings when they noticed him. As they approached he recognized the animal as a small pig. Wild pigs didn't yield the flesh their domesticated ancestors did, but it would be fresh meat nevertheless. As they neared Matt three or four voices described what had happened at once.

"Down to the draw," Mitch shouted over the confusion, and to Matt, "How'd the fishin go?"

"A lot better than I would've thought. Caught seven."

"Bring 'm long. Them and a little pork'll make a good lunch."

Matt couldn't understand from the young guys' overlapping tales of how they had killed the pig. Finally Doc said, "You young shitheads shut the fuck up and let Lou tell Matt what happened, how we ended up with fresh meat in spite of you assholes."

Leighton bristled but Lou calmed him down: "Let me tell it, then you can correct me, okay?"

Jack Kincaid and Big Miller (Lou said) chased a small sow into a thicket with clubs. Kincaid told Miller they should sneak into the thicket and kill it with their clubs to steal the glory from their armed partners. They'd look like heroes by saving bullets. Miller hesitated. The pig's tusks and savage energy made it look too fierce. Miller, the biggest and brawniest of Leighton's faction, knew he lacked the wit of others. He let them, especially Leighton, make decisions for him. Jack's enthusiasm and badgering ("Where's your balls?") drove him to agree. Besides, as the younger boy said, it was a young sow after all, not fully grown. They charged into the thicket swinging their clubs.

She counter-attacked. The two fled in opposite directions. Only the sow's indecision saved the hunters-turned-fugitives from serious injuries. She got snarled in the thicket thrashing back and forth while trying to decide which of the two to pursue.

Leighton, attracted by the sounds of violence, reached the battle scene first. The sow had chosen Miller to attack. Seeing Miller racing around the thicket, wildly waving his now-forgotten club above his head, and Kincaid half-way up a tree yelling encouragement and advice, caused Leighton to erupt into uncontrollable laughter. Attracted by Leighton's laughter, the sow stopped and charged him. Leighton was the only one of the younger men who owned a firearm, a Remington small caliber rifle. The scarcity and expense of ammunition had precluded him practicing much. And the outraged, squealing pig's charge did nothing to steady his aim. His shot struck the sow in the front shoulder. She stumbled, fell to her knees, then rose, enraged to madness, and charged him again.

Mitch, unlike the kids an excellent marksman, appeared just as the sow began her charge. A bullet from his high-powered rifle through the sow's brain dropped her instantly.

Stony fried the fish and slices of pork for lunch. When the time came to divide the fish, Stony asked Lou how much each of the nine men would get from the seven fish. "You engineers gotta be good for somethin," he said. "Three-quarters of a fish each," said Lou. "Even you oughta be able to figure that one out." That wasn't much fish per man, but it was a delicious change and each had a slice of pork along with it.

Stony asked for volunteers to help him dig a pit after lunch. He had pit-roasted game before, for sixteen to eighteen hours along with whatever ingredients he could find to go with it. Nobody ever ragged him about those meals.

During lunch Mitch said to Matt, "While we was bringin the hog back, I mentioned to the boys that we oughta invite the townfolks over to help us eat it tomorra. Whadda you think?"

"Good idea. I applaud your altruism."

Mitch grinned. "Phrases like that's why Red calls you 'Perfessor.' It ain't all 'altruism' though. They may offer some veggies from their garden to cook with the pork. Stony said some tomatoes and corn 'd be nice."

"I should have suspected you'd have an alternative motive."

"Why don't you go invite 'm over for tomorra afternoon?" said Mitch.

"Why don't you come along?" said Matt.

Mitch looked away. "They ain't no sense a me goin. They don't know me."

Mitch excelled as a Machiavellian manipulator of the gang, a tough negotiator in truck-related dealings and an implacable adversary to opponents, but he felt awkward around citizens of the settlements they visited. Except when he sold truck, which fell under the category of negotiations, he left dealings with townsfolk to others, especially to Matt and Lou.

"No you don't," said Matt firmly. "It's time they met the main man."

Mitch shrugged. "Okay, what the hell? Lead the way."

After they finished eating while leading Mitch up the alley, Mitch in on John's and Clarence's reactions to the gunfire.

They found Maude and John digging potatoes in the garden, probably the last of the crop. They straightened when they saw Matt and Mitch. No longer upset, John smiled at Matt. Maude wiped her hands on a tattered apron. She spoke first.

"I assume that gunfire meant a successful hunt."

"Yes," said Matt. "A good one. That's what we came to talk to you about." He nodded toward Mitch. "First, though, I thought it time you met our leader. This is Henry Mitchell."

"Ma'am," Mitch said with a slight nod. He leaned forward and rather awkwardly, grasped Maude's hand. "And you too, young man," he said, shaking John's hand as well. "I want to apologize to both a you. For huntin today without letting you know."

"Warning us would've been good," she said, "but I understand why you wouldn't think of it." She gathered the boy under her arm and said, "But I hope you understand if John overreacted. He has every right to. Based on past events."

Maude and John paused, waiting to hear what Mitch had to say next.

Finally, with a glare at Mitch, Matt said, "Mitch came along to invite you folks over to share the results of the hunt. Right, Mitch?" A light kick to Mitch's boot.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "We killt a young pig. Our cook Stony wants to cook it in a pit, real slow, till tomorra afternoon. We'd like you folks to join us then for supper. We don't know what time it'll be done yet. We'll have to let you know."

"Why, that's very generous of you," said Maude, looking at Mitch curiously. Maybe, thought Matt, she had expected the gang's leader to be some kind of ruffian – someone more like Johnson – instead of this small rather misshapen shy man. Matt felt Maude's meeting Mitch had raised her assessment of the gang. Maybe they seemed less of a threat.

"We'd be pleased to join you, Mr. Mitchell," Maude answered. Then, after she noted Mitch's interest in the potatoes, "Oh, is there anything we can contribute to the meal?"

"Well, now that you mention it... uh, well, Stony our cook said some tomatoes and corn'd go good with the pork."

"Wait just a moment," said Maude. "Let me make a trip to the root cellar."

* * * *

The roasted pig was ready in late afternoon. The men quit work after a short scrounging day. They set up scrounged tables and chairs and dinnerware in the draw. By the time the townsfolk arrived, the pig and the vegetables Maude had contributed lay on an oilcloth-covered table. In addition to the tomatoes and corn she had given them potatoes, onions, and bell peppers.

They exchanged introductions all around. The meal began a little awkwardly at first, though the abundance of food and pleasant late-summer weather soon created a spirit of camaraderie that relaxed even the grim-faced Clarence and the frenetic Leighton. The townsfolk had probably tasted no pork since before the Last Days and John never. Their only source of meat came from the fish John and Clarence caught, the occasional rabbit or squirrel and chickens from their precious flock after they quit laying.

After eating, the townspeople sat around talking with the men for a long time. Their little community's isolation made them starved for news. The men described other communities they had visited, some small and isolated like theirs, some larger. They told of the vast uninhabited areas between settlements overrun by nature and inhabited by packs of wild dogs and men. The townsfolk nodded seriously; they had experienced both wild creatures firsthand.

In answer to their questions, the men told them they had heard no evidence of a central government forming or the return of any services civilization had provided. Not enough people remained to bring any of that about. And yes, they said, occasional cases of Chou's Disease arose, though most patients now survived. After all, virtually everyone who now caught the disease had survived it at least once before. Only a few like Frank Johnson had never gotten infected. Yes, commerce of a sort remained. Scroungers like them gleaned useful goods from the ruins and traded it for food and other necessities. People in the settlements traded with excess food and goods they manufactured. Scroungers' truck, farmers' produce, and goods from cottage industries made their way to larger marketplaces. There, traders bought or bartered for commodities and transported them to other markets. Some good-sized ones existed at places like the Blue River Market just east of Kansas City, Columbia, Morel Market, and Nellie's Fair.

How did that last one get such a ridiculous name? A guy named Nelson O'Conner set up a market there a couple of years after the Last Days for people to trade goods. He picked a little island close to the north shore of St. Charles Lake and keeps it under tight security. People can only get to it by taking O'Conner's own ferry. All guns get checked in at the shore before they'll let you on the ferry. Where's St. Charles Lake? That's the long lake where the Missouri River meets the Mississippi. It formed when the land around the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers sank in the earthquake of '69, right before the Last Days.

O'Conner put up a big sign on the island that said in huge letters, "NELSON O'CONNER'S FAIR AND MARKET." The market gradually became a town and he took the sign down. O'Conner's nickname is Nellie, so over time the town came to be known as Nellie's Fair. He wanted to give it the feeling of a perpetual State Fair where people could come to trade and have fun and feel safe. He pays a contingent of armed men to ensure that safety. Anyone doing business in Nellie's Fair pays for their security by contributing to Nellie's coffers. Merchants feel the cost is worth it; business thrives. Having a safe place to do business and spend the winter after an often-harrowing trucking season certainly appealed to the Johnson gang. They had returned nearly every fall since they discovered the Fair four years into their new career.

O'Conner encouraged permanent businesses to set up shop and then taxed them for the privilege. He established a bank that made loans to help start and expand businesses. Almost no one had collateral to back up the loans so O'Conner took part interest in most of the ventures. If a business failed, he took it over and either found a way to make it profitable or liquidated whatever assets remained. The O'Conner bank issued currency of its own to replace the US currency as it became worthless, leather bills stamped with the bank's seal and the denomination. The bills had made commerce so much easier that they circulated miles beyond Nellie's Fair, though the further away from the market they appeared, the more arbitrary their value became.

You haven't heard of them? What are they called? Officially, they're Nelson dollars, though sometimes they're called "nellies" or just "ens". O'Conner hoped the design of the stamp was too complex to be copied, but counterfeit bills did appear occasionally, especially at greater distances from the market. You can bet he deals harshly with counterfeiters; they needn't hope for a jury trial.

Matt didn't take much part in the conversation. Some of the others needed the sense of importance gained by dispensing news, interspersed with tales of their adventures. He didn't. The men's description of Nellie's Fair left out its main reason for existence. Security at Nellie's Fair was not for the farmers and their families who traded there; the town encouraged them to finish their business and leave quickly. It catered to merchants, scroungers, traders, outfitters of gangs and adventurers, mostly tough competitors used to grudges and conflict. Nellie's Fair provided a place for them to carry on their business under temporary truces. Nellie hired strict peacekeepers; more than one gang member a trading season ended up in a dank filthy jail or found himself ejected from the island or, occasionally, never left the island alive. Nelson O'Conner had not established his "Fair and Market" just to help all those people to turn a profit. One way or another he found a way to share in it.

Nellie's Fair had made Nelson O'Conner a very wealthy man. Chadwick had probably taken over Columbia for the same reason.

At one point Maude said to Mitch, "It sounds like you fellows have a pretty adventurous life, get to see a lot of different places."

He sighed. "A little too adventurous sometimes. Settlin down sounds mighty comfortable at times."

"Where are you going after you leave here?"

"We'll find some town or other to sell our truck in. Prob'ly not Nellie's Fair this year. We'll stop by a family name a Kane's house first. They specialize in raisin mules and kids."

"We're interested in his mules, not his kids," laughed Lou.

"We need to buy some to carry our truck – uh, goods."

"Why do you say he specializes in raising kids too?" asked Maude.

"Well," said Mitch, "when so many folks died off durin the Last Days, sometimes a whole family ceptin a little child, Billy and Hanna Kane run round the country gatherin up all the little 'ns they could find and took 'm home. They still take in any urchin that needs 'm. They's so many kids there I don't know how they keep track of 'm."

"Billy and Hanna are lucky in one way," added Lou. "They both lived through the Last Days. Not many spouses made it through together. They got Chou's one at a time, early, and helped each other through it. And they missed getting the other diseases that killed people in those days, like flu, cholera, dysentery, TB. But another tragedy hit them. Chou's Disease killed all their children, one by one. Now they take in all the orphans they find."

Matt lay on the grassy slope at the edge of the conversationalists. Sounds of youthful laughter and cheering drew his attention to the far end of the draw. Jack Kincaid had fashioned a crude bow and some arrows that very morning. He, John, Miller, and Rossi took turns firing the arrows at a burl in an ancient oak tree. Luck played a greater part in the contest than skill; whoever ended up with one of the straighter arrows had a better chance of hitting the target.

He noted that John, at twelve, didn't differ much in age from the other boys: Jack Kincaid about fifteen and Miller and Rossi a year or two older. Leighton, who may have been about twenty (none of the kids knew their exact ages) sat with the older guys relating the news of the world to the townspeople. He liked to think he had outgrown childish games like archery and more properly belonged with the adults.

Maude called to John some time after dark, and the townspeople went home. Matt and Lou left to take their turns at the guard posts. Mitch didn't trust the younger guys to stay awake late at night.

* * * *

After the pig roast the men spent longer days scrounging. Only a third of August remained and they needed to find a market by the middle of September. At first Lou, Doc and all the younger ones wanted to cut their scrounging short, sell whatever truck they had, retrieve their stash, and leave for Colorado. Mitch warned them that, though well hidden, they didn't know if anyone had found it. They should collect all the truck they could as insurance.

"You of all people," Mitch said to Doc, "oughta think a that. We ain't been back to check on it since we buried it."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It'd be just our luck somebody's found it. We shouldn't call ourselves the Mitchell gang; oughta be the Hard Luck gang."

He and Lou soon came to agree with the others.

The pig roast succeeded in bringing the gang and the townspeople closer together. The latter gave the men vegetables from their garden, and the gang reciprocated with portions of the game they brought in. Mitch allowed Stony time off to collect food. Though Johnson had taught woodcraft to all the men alike, Stony had learned best. He kept the gang supplied fairly regularly with rabbits and other small game. In the woods he found wild onions and greens: lamb's quarter, amaranth, parslane, wild leeks, watercress and others. Some he fixed as salads, but he had to boil some, like yellow dock, with multiple water changes to rid it of late seasonal bitterness. John went with him occasionally to show him where to find walnuts and oyster mushrooms. Matt went fishing with John a few times but never caught as many fish as he had the first time. John took him to an old farm pond where they caught several small mouth bass, some good sized.

Mitch allowed them to leave the guard posts unattended from midnight until just before dawn. He and Doc took the early morning shift since they awoke the earliest. In the evenings after a long day's work, the men not on guard duty lay around in the draw after eating to talk before heading off to sleep. John started joining them. Though shy around the older guys, when the younger ones drew him into their conversations and horseplay he responded as any twelve-year-old might. Even Leighton took to him, though John seemed a little apprehensive of Red's frenetic and unpredictable behavior. When the younger guys were away on work details or whatever John still liked being with the older men, though he remained quiet and listened to their conversation gravely. He liked Matt's company best. Matt thought John might have the only child in this small group of survivors and so had never been around others his age.

Inevitably, when the gang lay around in the draw in the evenings the conversation turned to their late leader, Frank Johnson.

One night in the second week of scrounging, after they had rehashed Chadwick's foiled ambush at Kansas City, Matt said, "One thing we haven't talked about is how we've changed as a gang. As far as I'm concerned our change of leadership is a vast improvement but we oughta talk about it."

"I don't see as it needs talkin about," said Mitch. "We are what we are."

"Matt's right," said Lou. "I've been thinking about it. Johnson, Dodd and Downing intimidated them with their paramilitary skills. They thought we all shared them. They didn't know that outside of Mitch and Doc, none of the rest of us knew diddly about weapons of any kind. They'll still think of us as tough guys. What happens after they figure out we ain't?"

Doc shook his head. "Chadwick's already figgered it out. That's why if we don't git the hell outta here we're dead meat."

Stony grinned his near-toothless grin. "So we'll just dig up the stash and head for Colorado. Or California. Johnson made us tough. We hated him at the time. He made us run and jump and climb till we couldn't hardly move. And he could still run circles around us. Called us pussies. He taught us how to trap game and tan hides, how to build shelters, how to reckanize which plants we could eat –"

"How to eat bugs, for chrissake," said Doc. "If we was starving. I swear to God his ass-chewins was such I planned to kill him some day."

"So," said Stony, "we can handle anything we find out there.

"Yeah," said Lou, "he wanted to run the gang like a business but make sure we could stand up to the competition. He trained us with that in mind. We weren't any use to him unless we could take care of ourselves and the gang."

Matt said, "Remember the different vision Dodd and Downing had for the gang. Take advantage of the anarchy to take whatever they wanted and live like bandit chieftains."

They began to talk about the scrapes he had gotten them out of. They remembered his talent for finding good scrounging sites, his great energy and drive.

But their maudlin moods, Matt noted, made them forget that he had gotten them into most of that trouble. Johnson had made a lot of enemies among the people they dealt with. He bullied, intimidated, and insulted them. He loved to fight when drunk, and the poor bastard too foolish or drunk to avoid Johnson in that mood would certainly regret it, maybe while lying in the hospital.

"Remember the nicknames he gave people," laughed Stony. "Some was kinda silly. Cyril Bailey was Breakfast Food Bailey. Cyril bein cereal to Frank. Scrounger co-bosses Rinker and Ditmar were Rinky-Dink."

"But some were downright insulting," said Lou. "Barbara Bergfalk was Bobbie Birdfuck. He combined Dugan and Schmidt to make Dogshit. Blake Ashton, a black guy, was Black Ass."

Matt said, "He just couldn't resist slamming people. He told Dugan and Schmidt, 'Dogshit, I just saved your worthless asses, killed me a shit-eatin dog.' Those insults and his victims knowing they were no match for Johnson physically made him a lot of serious enemies. It's a wonder somebody didn't kill him."

"Sometimes, though, he took pity on some of 'm," said Stony."

"Yeah," said Matt, "One night Frank and the McCutcheons and I sat in the Rat's Nest in Nellie's Fair. Remember that trader, Geraldo Grimes? Bought goods at big markets like Nellie's Fair and traded them in smaller, more distant settlements. He came up to Frank in a drunken fury, waving a heavy stick around, shouted something about an insult Johnson had allegedly delivered to his wife.

"Frank sprawled back in his chair, pleasantly inebriated, eyes half-closed, a pot of beer in one hand. Dodd, sat on his right, grinning, leaned forward, looking forward to watching Frank fuck the guy up. Grimes is a little guy, and so drunk he could hardly stand. I said, 'For God's sake, Frank....'

"He said, 'Settle down, Pringle. You jus don know the subtle art a negotiation.'

"A horse laugh from Dodd. Grimes kept waving his club and cussing.

"Johnson stayed comfortably sprawled back in the chair, only raised his legs. Clamped one on each side of Grimes' right thigh, just above the knee. Locked his ankles together, his knees on Grimes' thigh. The trader's eyes bulged. His tirade broke off with a choking, sobbing sound. He dropped the club. Johnson took a drink of beer, then released his would-be assailant.

"He said, 'Go on home, now, Gerry.'" Almost gentle. 'Sleep it off. This never happened.'"

"Grimes stumbled away, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stopped just before he went out the door and gave Johnson a look of the purest hatred.

"Dodd protested. He'd wanted Johnson to beat him up. But Johnson just grinned drunkenly at him and said, 'Y' know your problem, Dodd? You jus don know the subtle art a negotiation.' He threw his head back and laughed."

* * * *

Another evening at dinner in the draw Kincaid said, "I've always wondered somethin. Why do other gangs have women but we don't? I think havin girls 'd be nice."

Puberty speaking, thought Matt.

Stony laughed. "Cause, Jackie, women is too disruptive for a gang. Right, Mitch?"

Some of the older guys laughed, or grinned sourly.

Mitch gave a brief grin. "Yeah, right."

"Whadda you mean?" demanded Kincaid. "Tell me!"

"Well," said Mitch, "we use to have women in the gang. The boss was kinda ol' fashioned in that he didn't let 'm have much say, just let 'm come along for... well, you know." (Not old fashioned, thought Matt; anachronistic. Women hadn't put up with that kind of bullshit for at least a century.)

Mitch continued, "In the fifth year after the Last Days they was leven of us guys. Sometimes a guy 'd take a shine to some gal and she'd come along with us for a while, the Boss included.

"Then little Jimmy Klein got hisself a high spirited ("and full-breasted," Lou chuckled) gal who wanted a voice in the gang. The Boss let her have her say in the confabs. We all figgered what it was; he had a eye on them big tits. and she always put 'm where Frank could see 'm. Jimmy looked mighty sour and mighty nervous in them confabs.

"Then Frank decided to take her in to his bedroll. Jimmy valued his ass too much to do anything about it a course. That fall he took his share of take and split."

"So what happened to the gal?" said Kincaid, wide-eyed, probably thinking, Matt thought, of those big tits. "Where is she?"

"Nobody knows," said Lou. "'Specially us. When we got to Nellie's Fair that year, Johnson took Muriel, that was her name, out a town. Nobody knows where to. He spends – uh, spent – every winter with her. He told us some stuff bout her but not where she is. After we sold our truck and partied for a week or so, he went off to stay with her till spring."

Doc said, "Since we don't know where she is we can't tell her bout Frank."

Jack Kincaid persisted, "But why no more women? Other gangs have 'm. Why not us?"

Mitch said, "The boss made it a rule: No more women in the gang. Too disruptive. It's been that way ever since."

It grew quiet as the coals from the dinner fire dimmed. Darkness seeped into the draw.

Then Matt said, "Do your men a favor, Mitch? Don't keep referring to Johnson as the boss. You're our boss."

# Chapter Ten

A couple of evenings later, Mitch called a confab. As on most evenings now, John had come to the basement. It was well after dark so Mitch left the guard posts unmanned so everyone could attend.

"We been here almost two weeks, boys," he began. "August's bout over and we gotta move on. We ain't got as much truck as we had afore Chadwick's fellers visited us, but we got all we can handle without the mules."

"Prob'ly more 'n we need oncet we git the stash and our savins," said Doc. "I think we oughta git as far as we can afore the cold hits and find a place to hole up for the winter."

The others murmured in agreement.

We've left one aspect of the stash unsaid, thought Matt, though all the older guys surely realized it. We have more wealth to split per man. The original raiding party had numbered ten (and Bennett, of course, though he got paid in ens, not gold, and disappeared as soon as he got paid). Only five men remained to share the rest of the stash: Mitch, Matt, Lou, Doc, and Stony. That extra wealth would make life a lot easier in Colorado. Matt could end his scrounging career.

Mitch continued. "We know the Missouri River's south a here somewheres. But we need to know exactly where and the best route for Stony's contraptions to git there."

"Trucks," corrected Stony. "I'm gonna call 'm Stonebilts."

"You need to go find the river, Matt," said Mitch. "Say day after tomorra? Mainly cause if you run into a Chadwick guy he won't reckanize you, but also cause you're good at findin travel routes."

"Let me go too!" said John. Several of the men started. Though John visited most evenings his shyness kept him so quiet most of them forgot about him.

"I don't think Maude would be too happy about that," said Matt.

"But I know where the river is," John insisted, more excited than the men had ever seen him. "I been there. Lotsa times."

"How far is it?" asked Mitch.

"Me and Scott use to get up early," said John. "We'd get there before noon."

"Who's Scott?" asked Lou.

John looked down and said quietly, "He's dead now." Then looked back up at them. "We used to go a lot. Went fishing in the river sometimes. Clarence used to go with us till his knees got to hurting too much. There's a town there. We used to find stuff there to bring back for people to use." He grinned as a new thought struck him. "We were scroungers like you guys."

He looked alternately at Mitch and Matt with pleading eyes. "I can show you the way."

"You'd have a hard time keepin up with Matt's long shanks," said Mitch. He looked at Matt. "But there's somethin to be said for him knowin the way."

"I can keep up," said John. "I can walk real fast."

Matt considered it. "I'm not sure what Maude would say."

"They's only one way to find out, ain't they?"

Matt shrugged. "I'll walk John home after the confab."

They had little more to discuss, only what they would do once they found the town: Matt would find a secure place to store the truck. While the others transported it to the site, Stony and Doc would build rafts to float it down to Kane's Cove. They worried about that part of the trip. Transporting the truck to the town and especially down the river exposed them to view.

* * * *

Maude surprised Matt by agreeing to let John accompany him. John spent the night before leaving with the men in the basement. Matt woke him early and they left before the first glow brightened the eastern sky, munching cold cornbread.

Matt carried his bedroll, scratch bag, and water bottle. He wore his machete and pistol at his sides and carried the 30.06 bolt-action rifle Mitch had given him in exchange for the Kreutzer. Stony had fashioned a scratch bag for John from a rectangle of carpeting and a leather strap. John had brought a blanket of his own for a bedroll.

John led them west along the highway and around the curve into the trees in which Chadwick's men had disappeared two weeks before. The highway had deteriorated but would serve Stony's "trucks" well enough. The early morning was quiet. The night birds had settled down and the daytime birds had just begun stirring. The road sloped upward through a cut in a ridge. On the other side of the cut a gravel road intersected the highway and ran south, winding back and forth along the ridge. "There's a shorter way," said John, "but the carts won't work there." Matt and Mitch had both emphasized the importance of finding a passage that accommodated the carts.

Neither spoke much at first. Still sleepy, John yawned a lot and stumbled once in a while, but made a point of keeping up. Mitch had lectured him sternly about not slowing Matt down. "If you can't keep up, I'll see that Matt sends you back." Out of John's hearing, Matt had said to Mitch, "If John can lead me to the river, I'll find it faster than if I'm floundering around through the woods alone." Mitch glowered at him. "If Boss Johnson had coddled us, would we be as likely to be alive now?" Matt shrugged. Maybe or maybe not, but he saw Mitch's point.

As the morning brightened so did John. He pointed out landmarks remembered from previous trips and called out the names of trees and other plants and birds they saw and heard. Matt found communication with him less difficult than he had imagined it would be with a twelve-year-old boy, especially since John did most of the talking. During the morning Matt learned the homespun wisdom of this boy raised in so primitive a setting: where to find nuts of all kinds, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, asparagus, and several varieties of mushrooms and greens in season. He had also received a more formal, comprehensive, education from Maude and his mother that included reading, arithmetic, history, principles of general science, and geography. He said he liked to read apart from school books. Matt asked what books he had read and was surprised at the extensive list: Kidnapped, The Jungle Books, The Hobbit, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, a couple of Tom Swift books, A Princess of Mars and other ERB books, and others from the twenty-first century.

Matt asked where he got so many bound paper books, especially schoolbooks. Electronic books had largely replaced them but they no longer existed of course. Maude and his mom had ransacked houses for books after the Last Days, he said, and Maude had some of her own. But they had gotten most of them from what they called a com-something before it died and they couldn't use it anymore.

Of course. They would have printed electronically stored books from the local school's computers or their personal commcomps before the power went out.

John's unfamiliarity with the word "commcomp" reminded Matt that children of his age found their parents' world totally alien. In addition to commcomps he wouldn't know anything about computers, audio or video devices, automobiles, airplanes, space flight. He would never have flipped a switch to instantaneously produce light, turned on a faucet for running water or seen a compwave oven turn a sludge-like slab into a porterhouse steak in two minutes. He would never watch endless, mindless garbage on univision. But then he'd never hear Ludwig Van's Pastoral Symphony or Wolfgang Amadeus' Eine Kleine Nachtmusik either.

The kid's better off than us survivors though, he thought. We had it all and lost it. We're condemned to remember that world and the people we lost. We're living under a shadow that he'll never even know exists.

Well, not quite from scratch. History showed that when a culture died some aspects of it survived into the one that followed. The culture that domesticated the horse had long disappeared into the dimness of prehistory, but people continued to ride and work horses for thousands of years. The same for writing, mathematics, the moldboard plow and countless other inventions. Some cultural developments, like language, religion, literature, music and governmental and military continued in altered forms. True, many had as many or more bad elements than good. Science and engineering, for example, had produced a wonderful new age for mankind. Yet its misuse had brought about climate change and the horrors of the Last Days. Whatever society rose from the wreckage of the Last Days would carry along vestiges of the previous culture, for better or worse. John carried part of it with him in the form of the education Maude and his mother had given him.

Matt began to entertain himself as he often did on the road by thinking of trivia to illustrate his current line of thought. As an example of a language that had survived in several mutated forms Latin had given birth to Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Catalan, French, Sardinian and Rumanian, and probably others he had forgotten. (Oh yeah, the Romansh dialects of eastern Switzerland.) It also influenced other languages, notably English. Military officers had continued reviewing their troops for centuries. He thought Alexander the Great had started that practice. The military reminded him of the ancestor of the very boots he wore, the Roman caligae. The modern footwear of first Europe and now most of the world had descended from those heavy sandals that had carried legionnaires over most of the known world.

Matt suddenly realized that they had stopped walking. The road had descended from the wooded ridge to cross the flat fertile bottomland, once covered by fields, indicating their approach to the Missouri River. Long grasses, pale yellow now in the drought of late summer, covered it. Brush and saplings had begun to overrun it. The saplings would eventually mature into trees that would overshadow and kill off the grasses and much of the underbrush. A century from now the resulting timberland would resemble that of pre-Columbian America.

Nature, which had patiently abided man's civilization for centuries, now began to take back her own.

He saw John looking back and forth across the grassland. He looked up at Matt as he shook off his makeshift carpet scratch bag and bedroll and said, "Would you mind if I stopped here for a minute, Matt? You can go on. Just follow the road. I'll catch up real fast. I promise." Matt restrained a smile at the look on John's face. He wouldn't dare risk slowing Matt down.

Matt grinned. "I think it's time for a break anyhow." He watched as John extracted a slingshot out of his bag, not the kind you'd expect a kid to carry but a heavy duty one made from a thick branch and a broad elastic band that looked almost too powerful for him to stretch. He also pulled out a cloth bag and took a small smooth cobble from it. He stood up, positioned the stone in the sling's pocket, and stuffed the bag into a pocket. Then he grinned briefly at Matt and waded into the tall grasses.

Matt sat on the road's shoulder and watched John slip through the grass, barely making a ripple, holding the slingshot high. He passed behind a thicket and out of sight for a while. John's quest soon became apparent. The meadow swarmed with rabbits. The grass served them as manna from a coney heaven, as it would until the maturing forest shaded it into extinction. In turn the rabbits turned it into a smorgasbord for hawks and owls. And for young boys with monster slingshots.

He sat there for some time, occasionally seeing signs of John, sometimes moving silently through grass or thickets, sometimes standing motionless. The midmorning sun arrived, drawing sweat out of all the accustomed places. He wished John had chosen a place to stop near a tree.

After Matt realized that he hadn't seen John for some time, he heard a crash through some brush to his right. He looked up to see John striding through the brush with a triumphant grin, holding two very dead rabbits up by their hind legs. "Lunch?" he called to Matt.

Matt grinned back. "Absolutely."

John plopped down beside him, hot, flushed, obviously exhausted. "Go on ahead, Matt," he said. "I'll catch up."

"No, we need to dress those rabbits. I'll do it while you watch, but let's get under those trees up ahead. Don't know about you, but I'm about roasted."

Matt stifled another smile at the look of abject gratitude on John's face.

* * * *

The heat increased and the cloud of dust stirred up by their feet followed them down the road. Except for the occasional meadowlark's trill or the distant chitter of squirrels, intense quiet surrounded them.

The silence came to oppress Matt as it so often did when he traveled, especially when alone. He had never gotten used to the lack of signs and sounds of people. His missed seeing orderly rows of crops or carpets of grain or hay where now lay overgrown fields, and livestock in the meadows, and intact farm buildings in place of the burnt-out overgrown farm they had just passed. He watched for the slightest sign of human life and saw none.

They reached the town, overlooking the river, at midday. Though Matt had often seen the river, its powerful serenity impressed him as though seeing it for the first time. Its majesty added to the desolate look of the town's ruins. There should've been people around and barges on the river. And little boys like John fishing from its banks. And traffic and crowds jostling on the streets and children playing. He looked up to the sky. What he wouldn't give to see one goddamn contrail! Still not a sign of life. What a goddamn-empty-fucking-shithole of a world.

He turned abruptly to John and demanded, "Does anybody live in this godforsaken town?"

John started. Matt regretted his outburst immediately. They hadn't spoken for some time. John couldn't have known the train of thought that had passed through his mind. He forced a smile. "I only meant that if someone lives here we should let them know we're friendly right away."

"Oh, yeah," said John, relieved that he hadn't done anything wrong. "No, nobody lives here now. They used to. A kid named Tony, a little older than me. He had a dog. Him and his folks and the others all went down the river. They heard a lot of people lived in St. Louis and thought things 'd be better there."

A lot of St. Louis was under water and the rest inhabited by near-savages roaming the ruins. Maybe the refugees had settled in Nellie's Fair or one of the other settlements around the lake, though Nellie's Fair didn't welcome refugees from places like this.

"Didn't your people think about going with them?" Matt asked.

"Scott wanted to, but Maude and some of the others said they were too old to make the trip. Mom wouldn't go and leave them alone, said someone had to stay with them. And Scott wouldn't go without Mom. So we all stayed."

Scott must have been John's mother's boyfriend. John's father had probably succumbed to Chou's during the Last Days or to one of the maladies that followed: starvation, disease, murder, or God knew what else. If Scott and John's mother had taken John away with the people of this river town, Scott and John's mother may still have been alive with John in a larger, more secure community. The oldsters would be no worse off than they at present.

But someone did remain to take care of the old folks: John. Despite his youth, the boy could already take care of himself and would care for the others when they could no longer do for themselves. In addition to his proficiency in hunting, fishing, gardening and finding food in the wild, he must have learned domestic skills from Maude and the others. What a lonely, depressing future for the kid though. Clarence, the youngest of the oldsters, would probably be the last one John nursed through his last years. Matt shuddered to think of John stranded alone with that irascible lout.

You had to hand it to whatever mad Fates ran things. They had a creative, if sadistic, sense of humor.

John acted surprised when, after having just snapped at him, Matt put his arm over his shoulder.

John started a fire and roasted the rabbits while Matt explored the town. Though he found the buildings remarkably intact someone had thoroughly scrounged them. After lunch, John joined Matt. They found a metal pole barn once used as a warehouse set so far back nobody on the river could see it and large enough to hold all their truck. In other buildings they found lumber and other building materials for use making rafts and even a couple of rowboats. They took it all to the barn.

They finished in late afternoon, too late to return to Newcastle. After eating the cold food Stony had fixed for their lunch they talked, John first about things of boyish interest until he asked Matt to tell about his adventures as a scrounger. They watched the sun's slow stately brilliant descent into the river and heard the crickets' and frogs' evening cacophonous symphony. Evening cool replaced the heat of day. They talked for a long time.

In the morning they got up early and started back to Newcastle.

* * * *

Matt and John reached town in late morning. After Matt saw John home, he went to the basement, found it deserted, dropped his gear off, and went looking for the others. He found Stony and Doc in the draw smoking venison, some rabbits, and a couple of quails. With Matt and John gone, they told him, Mitch had assigned them to concentrate on hunting and gathering food while the others scrounged.

Stony said, "We kilt the deer yesterday. I'll cook the hindquarters and invite the townspeople for supper this e'enin, like when we roasted the pig."

"Good for you, Stony," said Matt. "Where's Mitch?"

"Up north next to the guard post, scroungin with Lou."

Matt found them. They sat with him while he described his and John's journey, the town by the river, and the pole barn. Matt said it took them about five hours to get to the town by way of the gravel road so they should count on seven to haul the carts. One trip would take two days, one to load the carts and get them down there and one to unload them and come back.

"So when do we leave?" he asked.

"Day after tomorra," said Mitch. "That'll be September First. The harvest markets'll start purty soon."

"That's about right," said Matt. "You said we'd stay two weeks. That's probably about up."

"It was up yesterday," said Mitch. "It'll take us four, five days to haul the truck down there. I'm not gonna be much help; my leg's still botherin me some."

"We figured Mitch and Doc and Stony'd stay down there," said Lou, "to build the rafts. The rest of us'll cart the truck down. That's six to take the four carts. We'll pack small items on our backs too."

"How far do you figger Newcastle is from Billy's?" asked Mitch.

"It was hard to tell where we were," said Matt, "but surely not more than a couple days."

"At least we got plenty of food," said Lou. "We even traded some of the game to Maude and her folks for produce from their garden. We didn't have time to cure the deer hide so we let them have it and told them how to make buckskin from it. They might as well have it to replace some of those rags they wear."

Mitch stood up. "Well, let's git this load finished and back to main street. Tomorra we pack our food and scratch and load Stony's trucks. The next day, we'll git on our way."

As they finished loading the cart Maude surprised them by approaching down the street. After they exchanged greetings Maude said, "Your men in the draw said I'd find you here. You're just the three I wanted to see. By the way, thanks again for inviting us over to dinner this evening."

Then she hesitated, looked down as though collecting her thoughts. They waited, puzzled at what she could want of them.

Then she looked at each of them in turn and said, "Larry woke up with an upset stomach this morning. He won't be over for dinner tonight. He just turned eighty this year, and he's sick more and more often. He may not make it through the winter. Virgil's almost his age, and his wits come and go. Sometimes he wanders away and forgets how to get back. I'm sixty-eight, and these winters aren't all that friendly to me anymore either. Clarence is only in his early sixties, but he's none too healthy for all that."

She looked at them steadily now, almost fiercely, any trace of hesitation gone. Matt hoped she said what he expected her to say next.

"I want to ask you a favor," she continued. "Not for me, but for John." She cleared her throat. "I want you to take him with you." Matt heard indrawn breaths from Mitch and Lou. Apparently they hadn't expected this at all.

She continued quickly in her best classroom-lecturing manner. "The only two young folks left until last year were John's mother, Helen Moore, and Scott White. They died last winter. They shouldn't have – both were in their thirties – but Helen had always been sickly. Most of us got sick from the flu last year, but Helen caught pneumonia and couldn't survive it. Scott spent too much time with her, nursing her. He got it before any of us knew how bad he was.

"The rest of us are so old and frail we won't be around much longer. This is no place for a young boy to grow up. When we're all gone –"

"Well, uh, Ma'am," Mitch interrupted, almost desperately Matt thought, "a scrounger gang ain't a right good place to raise a child. We can barely feed and take care a ourselves. And it ain't the safest life for a kid neither."

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "I don't mean for you to raise him yourselves. I wouldn't let him go anywhere with you barbarians if I thought you meant to keep him. But ever since you mentioned those people down the river – the Kanes? – raising all those kids, I've thought about them. I just want you to take him to them. I'm sure Hanna Kane would welcome him. She sounds like a natural-born mother."

"It's a far piece from here," said Mitch. "It won't be the safest trip with Chadwick's men lookin for us."

"You obviously feel it's safe enough to risk going yourselves," she said, glaring at Mitch. "Listen, he needs to be raised and educated with other children. He hasn't been around others his own age much. There used to be kids in the few other communities around here, but the rare folks to survive the pandemic had the good sense to move away. I don't want him stuck in these rotting ruins, watching us turn senile and die one by one. I wish to God I'd tried harder to get Helen and Scott to take Johnny out of here when they had the chance."

"What will John think of going with us?" asked Matt.

A hint of a smile softened her fierceness. "Sometimes he wants to go so bad he almost hops up and down. Then others he gets sad when he thinks of leaving us." So she had discussed this with John and the others. Now Matt knew why she had allowed John to go to the river town: to let them get to know each other better.

"Think about it, Mitch," rumbled Lou. Then he nearly broke the tacit gang rule about mentioning their families. "We'd want the best for him just like we would for one of our kids."

"We'll have to run it by the men," said Mitch. "We ain't never had kids in the gang before."

"Thank you, Mr. Mitchell," she said. "That's all I can ask, that you and your men consider this. But it's not like you'll have him from now on, just until you get to the Kanes'." She turned around and started back to the main street.

Mitch stared thoughtfully after her for a while, as if turning this over in his mind. Then he turned back to the cart and said gruffly, "Let's git this thing loaded so we can git the hell outta this rat trap town."

As Matt and Lou trundled the cart back toward the main street, Mitch said, "Okay, we take the kid as far as Billy and Hanna's. But that's it. No fu'ther. and he sure as hell better keep up." Seeing Mitch's bad limp and remembering how well John had traveled with him, Matt knew John would "keep up" more easily than Mitch.

Then he grinned as he realized that Mitch had already made up his mind. He had no intention of running this by the gang. Lou thought of this too. He looked at Matt and winked.

# Chapter Eleven

John squatted under a thicket scanning the river. His eyes roved constantly, observing from the edge of his vision as Matt had taught him. Matt had explained, and John had verified by practice, the futility of focusing on individual objects in the dark when looking directly at them. A chill wet wind out of the northwest that threatened more rain, though a few stars poked through the clouds, forced him deeper into the blanket he hugged around him.

Seven days ago Mitch had agreed to Maude's request. The next day John had helped the men clean and oil weapons, wash clothes, pack scratch and load Stony's trucks. After a tearful good-by to Maude and the others, he and the gang had spent five days taking the truck to the river, a daunting chore for the final three days. Intermittent, sometimes pounding rain that turned the roads to brown soup kept them chilly and miserable. Even John's spirits, high at the beginning, began to flag, but he didn't miss a single trip to the river because of Mitch's warnings not to slow the men down. He wouldn't give Mitch an excuse to change his mind and leave him behind at the last minute. He worked so hard he fell asleep early every evening, completely. The younger guys liked him. He pulled his share at least as well as skinny little Kincaid. In fact, he stood almost as tall and had a sturdier build.

The evening before they had loaded the rafts and rowboats. Last night and this morning the unseasonable chill the rain had brought had stayed with them.

The sky gradually brightened, suffusing the eastern clouds with an opalescent glow. The gang would stir soon and start down the river on the most exciting leg of their journey. He could hardly wait. Matt had left him to guard this section of the river while he went back to camp to rouse the others. He knew Matt wouldn't have entrusted him with this duty if Lou Travis hadn't been hiding a little way downstream – with enemies still hunting them he couldn't leave only a kid to guard the camp – but it still made him feel important.

John admired Matt nearly to the point of adulation, had learned a lot from him, and felt awed by all the stuff he knew. But some of his mood swings spooked John a little. Usually quiet, he stayed aloof from most of the gang's bantering and contributed little to the meetings they called confabs. (Though when he did speak, the others listened intently to him.) And sometimes for no apparent reason, he would lose his temper and speak harshly. When he spoke harshly that way to John he always apologetic but seldom did to the others. Some of them didn't get along with him, especially Red Leighton.

Such an event had happened just that morning. John had approached Matt as he sat at this very guard post. He had quietly spoken Matt's name. Matt started violently, whirled around with his rifle ready. He snarled, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

John started. "I – I couldn't sleep, Matt. Just wanted to join you. Didn't mean to make you mad."

Then Matt had unexpectedly quietly laughed. "I'm not mad at you, John. I'm mad at me. If you had been one of Chadwick's men, I'd be dead now."

John continually swept his gaze up and down the river and its banks. As a member of the gang until they left him with these Kanes the same threats applied to him as to them. The pre-dawn light had turned it into a magic world. Ripples undulating across the river's dark surface made it a living creature. The far shore bristled with ranks of malevolent giants. No, not giants! The deadly plant men of Barsoom, as described in A Princess of Mars. Similarly, the long dark shape of a giant alligator split the water just downstream. Twittering and scuttling sounds grew louder in the surrounding brush: small life awakening.

How he loved this scrounger life! The days of rain and mud meant nothing now.

He turned at a crackling sound at the edge of the thicket. Matt appeared out of the darkness clutching a parcel next to his chest. John opened the blanket to admit him. After Matt got settled, he unwrapped the cloth parcel and handed John cold cornbread Stony had prepared the evening before and smoked fish. They ate in silence as dawn's burgeoning light turned the water's ripples into scintillating jewels, the plant men into trees and the ominous alligator into a sandbar. Waves slapped gently just below their feet, and the first day birds began arguing behind them. John noted with relief that the clouds had largely dissipated, making the chance of rain that day remote.

Miller came to get them as the first brilliant sliver of sun appeared over the rooftops to the east, and led them to the boats. The night before, hidden by the dark, they had floated the loaded craft from the pole barn down the little creek east of town. They had tethered them just upstream of its entry into the Missouri.

Soon the first rowboat, carrying Mitch and John, edging out of the creek's mouth. The two rafts followed with Stony bringing up in the other rowboat in the rear. The men poled the rafts until the water got too deep. Then they guided the by sweeps affixed at the rear and let the river's current propel them downstream. The heavily loaded rafts moved ponderously. They carried the truck and the four carts. The men had divided the food, cooking and medical supplies, and most of the men's personal scratch between the two boats. They moved slowly along in the relatively shallow edge of the river.

Excitement made John forget the glowering gang leader intimidated him. He asked, "Why don't we go out to the middle of the river? The current looks a lot faster there."

"Cause it's too damn fast. Them rafts is so overloaded that current'd twirl 'm round like whirligigs. Soon as I see they got the hang a handlin them though we'll move out a little fu'ther. The current's strong enough there to move us a little faster but not dangerous. I hope."

The new experience both terrified John and made him exultant. While still in the shallows Mitch showed him how to row. The heavy load made the boat so awkward to manage he welcomed the current's assistance. The sky cleared, the day warmed, and the gentle undulation of the river felt soothing. The quiet rhythmic slap of waves against the boat made time seem to stand still and the overgrown, impenetrable riverbanks made the rest of the world seem serenely remote. Mitch didn't speak much, but that fit John's mood, especially after he remembered that the taciturn, scowling man intimidated him.

At length Mitch took the oars back and moved the boat a little farther into the river. The rafts ponderously followed and then Stony. Later, John noticed that Mitch and the others had been watching the banks of the river ahead of them downstream, especially the closer northern one, and asked Mitch why.

"We're watchin for people," he answered. "Sometimes they ain't so friendly. And sometimes they think they have a right to our truck. We been by this part a the river before. There wasn't nobody livin here then but that was a couple years ago. Things change. So we keep a eye out."

After a midday lunch of smoked venison Mitch watched the shore more attentively. A little after mid-afternoon, he raised his hand and waved it in a circle for attention, pointed for the shore and started rowing toward it. The men turned the rafts with the sweeps, bouncing across the current and sculled until the river grew shallow enough to use the poles. "They's some folks ahead we don't want to run into right now," he explained to John.

Mitch rowed into the mouth of a creek so overgrown John hadn't seen it and rowed far enough up it to give room for the rafts and the other rowboat to moor. Once ashore with the craft anchored and concealed under overhanging boughs, they went farther up the bank to hold a confab.

"I seen we was comin up on McClellan's squat," said Stony. "What's the plan?"

"Yeah, they's right around that next bend," said Mitch. "I thought we'd hole up here till dark and then slip past."

"Who the hell's this McClellan?" demanded Leighton. "Did you guys steal something from him too!?"

"No," said Lou, "but it's smart to keep our whereabouts unknown. News travels fast on the river. Chadwick may have offered the McClellans a reward for news of us."

"Besides," said Doc, "if they stop you they keep a little of your truck for a 'toll'. We need to keep it all this time."

"Let's try to git a little rest," said Mitch. "Let's don't leave till on towards midnight, then keep goin till we git to Billy's."

"You bet," said Doc. "I'll sleep a lot better oncet we're off a this fuckin river."

* * * *

The clouds returned to partially obscure the moon and stars, which made it quite dark when they pushed off. A chill wind whipped up the river to bob the rowboats like corks and soak their passengers with bone-chilling spray. The heavier rafts rode the water better and the rafters stayed dryer. Once rounded, the bend Mitch had identified as leading to McClellan's squat marginally blocked the wind. A half-mile beyond the bend, Mitch shouted something to John above the noise of the wind and waves while pointing toward the shore. John saw a long regular structure that might have been a stockade. McClellan's "squat?" he wondered. Since the current propelled them at a good rate, Mitch rowed only intermittently and then only to correct their course.

The journey dragged on interminably. John sat huddled in his now-soaked blanket, his stomach beginning to rebel against the roiling river. He had seen the river whipped by worse winds on his trips to the river town with Scott but without riding them. Fortunately, these waves did not rival those. He began to revise his opinion of river travel.

After an impossibly long time, the sky lightened somewhat through an increasingly overcast sky. A sullen dawn had arrived to reveal a gray world, different shades for water, sky, and vegetation. As if aware of John's discomfort and wanting to give him hope, Mitch shouted over the sound of the wind and spray of that they grew near Kane's Cove.

Mitch continued to survey the shoreline. About midmorning he announced grimly, "We got comp'ny." He again raised his arm and circled his hand to draw the men's attention. He pointed toward the north bank. John's gaze followed his finger, wondering what new danger threatened. Despite how tough Mitch and his men seemed, they welcomed strangers no more than John's little helpless community had. It made him shudder to think that meant they had even tougher guys for enemies.

A dugout canoe bounced across the wind-chopped waves toward them. The foremost of the two paddlers waved his arms. When he saw he had their attention, he resumed paddling.

Mitch relaxed. He almost smiled. "Friends for a change," he said. "We even been lookin for these folks."

In a surprisingly short time, the paddlers stopped their canoe deftly alongside Mitch's rowboat. Laughing and panting, they shouted greetings to Mitch and the other men. The men tried to keep the rafts still to avoid swamping their canoe. The two young canoers, about the same age as Miller and Rossi, wore buckskin jackets and trousers, woolen shirts, and knitted woolen caps.

"What're you river rats doin out here on the river on a day like this?" called Mitch, shouting above the noise of wind and river.

"Lookin for you guys," one of them shouted back.

"And we're lookin for you," said Mitch. "We're headed for your place." Then, when he saw them looking curiously at John, he said, "Scuse my manners. This here's John Moore, and John, these muskrats is Buck and Willard, Billy Kane's oldest boys."

"Since you're looking for us," said Matt, squatting on the edge of the lead raft, "you must know a little about the trouble we've had."

The older boy, Buck, became deadly serious. "We don know zac'ly what happened, but we know you got a price on your head. Chadwick hisself come up the river with some guys lookin for you last week. Come to Kane's Cove. Told Pap they figgered he might a seen you seein as how he's on the river a lot."

"Whadda you mean, a price on our head?" asked Mitch.

"Chadwick said he'd pay fifty ens a head. Said you stole his money and run off with his sister and killt some a his men."

"Sounds like we been purty busy," said Stony. "I don't rec'lect doin all that."

"I'm pissed we ain't worth more," said Doc. "At least a hunnert."

"We been lookin for you ever sense Chadwick come round," said Willard. "They went up the river last week to look for you so they'll be comin back down afore long. If we found you on the river, we figgered to git you off afore that happened."

"Pap told Chadwick to fuck off," said Buck. "Said to git off'n our property, a dangerous thing to say to that asshole. Chadwick told Pap he better not hear we was hidin you guys."

Willard said, "Buck and me and some a the boys wanted to go after 'm, but Pap wouldn't let us."

"Your Pap was right," said Mitch. "They's too many of 'm. But let's quit jawin and git off the river. Them rafts is bout to swamp the rest of us, and Chadwick could decide to come back long here any time."

Less than an hour later they reached the mouth of the Grange River, a smaller stream that fed the great Missouri. Then the hard work began. The Missouri's current had carried them this far. Now they had to pole the rafts and row the boats against the smaller stream's current. Buck and Willard hid their canoe in the underbrush, saying they'd come back for it later, and helped Matt, Doc and Lou push the lead raft up the Grange through the shallows along the west bank. John joined them, waist-deep in water, ever ready to show his worth to the gang.

The wind dropped, and though it remained overcast, the humid warmth grew. Within a half hour everybody sweated profusely even after shedding jackets and shirts. With hands raw and back aching, mud up to his ass and sweat and grime from there up, John reversed his opinion of river travel. Not even wheeling the carts through the mud and rain had equaled this misery.

John distrusted the Kane brothers at first. He had never been around men with such long, tangled hair, though they tried to keep it in place in loose ponytails bound at the napes of their necks. Nor who wore wrinkled, greasy buckskin clothes. They smelled of sweat and other disagreeable but less definable odors. While working tenaciously, they exchanged a flow of good-natured badinage, sometimes splashing or smacking each other. They began teasing John about being so quiet until they got him laughing and horse-playing with them. He began to feel comfortable with them.

They began to flag at last and on their first brief break, plopped back against the bank.

"You guys look beat," said John.

"Damn right," said Buck. "We been lookin for you fuckers for five whole days."

"Pap said not to come back without you," said Willard. "We was ready to kill him and you both."

They both laughed at that. John decided they had the right to look unkempt.

During the next break John complained about the river's crooked path.

"Yeah, it's a bitch," said Buck.

John saw no signs of people except for deteriorating roads and crumbling, deserted buildings. Then he saw what looked like a fire-blackened town several miles east of the river.

Noticing John looking at it he said, "It's called Braunsweig. Mobs from Kansas City burnt part of it, then lightning hit it a few years ago. Bout fifty or so people still lived there. They got spooked. So many fires wasn't natcherl. Built 'm a new place a piece north a there. We trade and visit with 'm on occasion. They come to our parties."

And finally they reached Kane's Cove.

It formed a watery loop a ways upstream of Braunsweig but on the opposite, western bank. Though large, close to twenty rafts nearly filled it. Frame houses or sheds stood on most of them in a haphazard arrangement. Wooden walkways linked them. One of them connected a large house-raft to the cove's south bank. John saw some dry land among the rafts, toward the back, an island or maybe a peninsula jutting out from the cove's bank.

The rafts cluttered the cove too much to admit the gang's rafts and rowboats so the men tied them to mooring posts on the bank. Several dogs appeared from amongst the rafts to bark and wag their tails in greeting, then raced to the shore on the connecting walkway and joined the men. As the men walked toward the large raft-house, a young woman in her late teens emerged from it. She searched the faces earnestly. Buck waved and called, "Verbena!" When she saw him she waved and called his name ecstatically, then turned and called to someone inside the house.

"You'd think they hadn't seen each other in a month," said Willard, rolling his eyes.

Floating metal drums held the main raft-house high out of the water. The other rafts floated in a similarly substantial-looking fashion. The long rambling raft-house dwarfed the others. A small deck, sort of a covered porch, extended from th south end of the house. A much narrower one surrounded the other three sides of the house. The young woman stood on the porch. A small woman with graying hair followed by a group of children of various ages joined her from the house. Together they almost covered the porch.

Buck ran up the walkway first to embrace Verbena. Mitch went next with John who he led up to the gray-haired lady.

"Hanna," he said, "this here's John Moore. And John, this is Ms. Kane who rules this band a ruffians. And this beautiful young woman is Verbena who, for some reason, hankers after this Buck. Now, if I can remember their names..." he introduced those of the children whose names he could remember.

"John," said Ms. Kane, "welcome to our house. We'll do our best to make you comfortable." John could feel the serenity and dignity that she radiated.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Ma'am," he said, and really meant it.

"And I you, John," she replied with a cherubic smile that brought dimples to her cheeks. "I hope Hank Mitchell hasn't worked you too hard. He prob'ly starved you too. But you won't go to bed empty tonight." Then arching her brow at Mitch, "You're recruiting 'm young, Hank."

"Well, he ain't exactly a recruit, Hanna. I'll tell you bout it direc'ly."

Most of the men hadn't fit on the porch but they all called their greetings to Hanna Kane and she said hello to them in turn. As she looked them over, she said with concern, "I see some missing faces here, Hank, and I heard something about Chadwick, so I reckon we'll have quite a bit to talk about."

"Fraid so. For now though, Hanna, if you'd be so kind, we'd like to just go straight to the bathhouse. We're too much a mess to come into the house like this."

"Be our guest, Hank." To the others she said, "Good to see you boys again. Take your time and rest a bit. And Lou Travis, I got a big mug a lager in there with your name on it."

"You're a saint among women, Hanna," his big voice boomed back. John saw that Ms. Kane had impressed the other men as she had him. Those who still owned hats had removed them.

"Where is ever'body, Hanna?" asked Mitch.

"Mostly in the fields shocking corn. We're usually through by this time a year but we had a wet spring so we planted late. Don't worry, you'll see 'm all at supper." She laughed. "Nobody round here misses any meals. Cept for Billy. He's still out looking for you."

Bathing took a while. With Buck and Willard they numbered eleven with only six bathtubs to share so they bathed in two shifts. They luxuriated in the hot soapy water, talking about the trip. John felt nervous at first – he had never been naked around other people – but decided he had to adapt to scrounger ways now that belonged with the gang.

With a pang he realized he wouldn't be a member much longer. He would stay with the Kanes. He didn't yet know how he felt about that, but he had no say about it in any case.

After their baths, the men went back to the large house, into a room that comprised about two-thirds of it and served as kitchen, dining room, and living room, bright and noisy like Buck and Willard. Long tables flanked by benches dominated the room's center. Homemade and scrounged cabinets, shelves, benches, and small tables lined the walls. None of them matched. Neither did the items they held. Those ranged from kitchen utensils to knickknacks to toys to tools. Except for the utensils, none seemed to fit in any kind of order. A few narrow windows, pictures and posters covered what little wall space remained. The clutter around the walls made the big room feel crowded yet comfortably homey. A great stone fireplace dominated the rear of the room. The doors on either side of it presumably led to adjoining rooms. A sofa and four comfortable-looking chairs formed a semicircle before it. Wonderful smells issued from pots simmering over the fire.

Ms. Kane and three older girls, including Verbena, worked by the fireplace and at a nearby table near it preparing dinner. When the men entered, she bade them to sit. She and Verbena served the men mugs of beer and one of apple juice for John.

"You gotta to tell me what's going on," she said. "Even though you'll have to tell Billy all over again when he gits back. We've heard rumors that we know can't possibly be true because it ain't like you guys. We been plenty worried."

Mitch asked Matt to give the account because of his talent for speaking. So Matt told of the ambush by Chadwick's men, led by Matheson; their flight first to the culvert and then to Newcastle; how they avoided Chadwick's men when they came to town; their truck-gathering in Newcastle; and the trip down the Missouri to where they met Buck and Willard.

Mitch said, "They musta ambushed us to git even for that time in Kansas City, when they tried to steal our truck in and Boss Johnson turned the tables on 'm."

He couldn't tell them the real reason, of course, for their theft of Chadwick's gold. Though they had included Billy in the select group to hear about the failed hold-up attempt in Kansas City, they had told no one about the gold theft.

After the gang finished their story the conversation turned more general. John grew bored. And drowsy, especially with the fireplace overheating the room. The week's strenuous labors had caught up with him. When Willard asked him if he wanted to look around the cove, he agreed. A walk outdoors might revive him.

The cooler air outside did just that. He asked Willard what the decoration on the door meant. He had noticed it earlier, a disk woven of willow branches and decorated with dried flowers and leaves, about two feet in diameter. It looked strangely like a face, especially when he had seen it at a distance, while coming from the bath house. Not a human face but like those one he had enjoyed imagining he saw in certain configurations of leaves and branches in nature.

"That's Mom's Green Man. He's there for good luck."

"Green Man?"

"Yeah, Mom's a Gaian. You don't know what a Gaian is? That's sorta like a religion. But, Mom says, it's more like a way a lookin at things, fittin in with nature. Mom says some Gaians b'lieve in gods that live in the woods and cricks but she don't."

"So is the Green Man a god or not?"

"No, he's just for fun. She's got lots of other little nature trinkets she makes on the shelves, but none of 'm are gods. They're all just for fun."

Willard led him to the back of the houseboat. There he saw a raft bare of any structure, attached to it by two walkways and several cables surrounded by a low wall. He said, "That's where we party. Nobody throws a party like Pap. Folks come from miles away."

A maze of rafts nearly filled the cove. Willard took John along decks around the buildings and over connecting walkways. He pointed out the tannery, the brewhouse, the distillery, tack sheds, granaries, houses for married couples and kids and the bunkhouse where John's gang would sleep. Most doors bore variations of the Green Man. Toward the western shore they came to the land John had seen earlier, an island, connected to the land by a kind of draw bridge.

"I saw that island before," John told him. "Didn't know if it touched the land or not."

"Used to connect to the shore," said Willlard. "Pap cut a channel through it to separate it."

"Why in the world," asked John, "would anyone dig a ditch through a perfectly good neck of land and then replace it with a bridge?"

Willard laughed; he always seemed to have one handy. Buck was more serious but not by much. "See the corrals and stables and barns on the island? We keep the livestock there at night. Then we take the middle part of the bridge up so nobody can git to the island."

"Where are they now, the livestock?"

"At pasture. You can see some of 'm over yonder." He pointed to a distant ridge where John saw horses and cattle, diminished by distance, grazing. Stubbled fields ringed the flatter land between the cove and the slope.

Willard indicated a building nearly as big as the main house on a raft anchored to the island. "That's Pap's office," said Willard. "He's a land surveyor."

John had heard the gang members describe Wild Billy Kane as a scrounger who also ran a farm large enough to feed his little community with enough left over to sell. He didn't know what a land surveyor did but this guy apparently kept very busy.

"Why do you all live here on these rafts?" asked John. "Why not on the shore?"

"Pap and Mom use to live yonder," said Willard, pointing to the top of the ridge above where the livestock grazed. John saw the ruins of several buildings. "Back when I was a little kid. But assholes from the city raided them a couple times. Pap finally said enough was enough. He built his first raft in this cove and moved us onto it. and moved the livestock onto the peninsula. Then as they found more a us, he built more rafts and houses."

"Found more of you?"

Willard grinned. "Yeah. Mom and Pap ain't our real folks. They found us when we was little kids. Orphans. Our folks was dead. Me and Buck was the first, and we're the oldest. We ain't really brothers, but folks say we look and act alike. I don't hardly remember my own folks. I don't even remember my last name, just that they called me Willard. I think I had a older sister, but she must a died too. Buck and me, we call ourselves Kane. Most of us do. It don't hurt none to have Wild Billy as a Pap."

"How many of you are there?"

"Forty-some. And a few grown-ups that joined us over the years. Some of them got kids of their own."

Then a bell rang from the house. "Supper time," said Willard. "I'm ready, too."

Though well-organized at first – the children lined up in order to get their plates filled – dinner soon degenerated into a noisy, bustling affair. Regular meals must have crowded the main room, but the addition of the gang filled it. No one seemed to mind. Most of the smaller children sat on the floor to eat. Conversations filled the room, punctuated at times by laughter or a howl from one of the younger children. At first the general chaos bewildered John. He had never been around large groups of people, or groups of any size that all talked at once. Ms. Kane maintained her serenity throughout. She moved around the room, filling plates for the smaller children, arbitrating arguments, kissing a little hand with a minor burn. She didn't fill her own plate until she saw everyone seated and eating.

The variety and quantity of food, compared to the limited menu at Newcastle, stunned John. The meal included cured ham and sidemeat, fresh corn on the cob, carrots and green beans. They had eggs fixed in a way he had never had called "deviled," fresh bread and butter. The last cow in Newcastle had died several years before so he had not tasted butter for a long time. They had little honey-filled cakes for dessert.

After they had finished dinner and helped clearing the tables cleared the gang members went out and down toward the brewhouse where they hoped to meet some of the community's married couples. They seldom joined the Kanes for meals except on holidays but they went to the brewhouse some evenings and the gang wanted to ask them about markets in the area.

After Ms Kane and the girls bustled the small children off to bed John found himself alone. He settled into a big comfortable chair before the fireplace and kicked his shoes off, tired and sore from last week's work. The chair reminded him of the one at home, the one in which, long ago, he had often sat in his mother's lap, listening to her reading aloud or just talking. He would never hear her soft voice, her quiet laugh, ever again. He felt tears well up and didn't try to stop them when they overflowed. A woman's tranquil voice spoke through his drowsiness. He felt fingers brush away his tears. As sleep slipped over him he again snuggled on his mother's lap, soothed by her gentle murmur, comforted by her hand on his cheek.

# Chapter Twelve

John awoke on the sofa by the fireplace, covered by a blanket, his head resting on a pillow. He vaguely remembered Ms. Kane returning to the room and speaking to him but he didn't remember going to sleep on the sofa. Dark still filled the room but he heard Ms. Kane stirring up the coals, preparing to build another fire for breakfast. She turned when she heard him stir.

"I tried to be quiet," she said. "Didn't want to wake you."

He sat up, smiled. "That's okay, Ma'am. I've slept enough. I feel fine." And he realized that he did. She warmed some milk for him while he went to the bathroom, and as he sipped it by the fire he felt ready for whatever came next that day.

Breakfast started early and proved even more anarchic than dinner. People came in to eat and departed at irregular intervals. Ms. Kane kept track of everything and made sure everyone got fed.

After breakfast the gang held a confab at one of the long tables to discuss the market recommended by the people they'd met in the Kane brewhouse.

"We've heard of this Coleridge Gardens before," said Mitch. "At least us older guys. But we ain't never been there before. They said it's bout a day north a here. Let's talk about it."

So they did. They all agreed that Coleridge Gardens had sounded like a minor market for which they could expect little for their truck but that, because of its close location and lateness in the season they had little choice.

"So let's make it work," said Mitch. "I'll see if Hanna thinks her and Billy can sell us some mules or horses. We'll start up there right away."

John's heart sank when he heard this. He would probably enjoy the chaotic exuberance of Kane's Cove and he really liked Ms. Kane, but he would terribly miss exploring the world with the gang.

Mitch went back to talk to Ms. Kane working in the kitchen, careful to be out of earshot of the gang's conversation. He came back to the table shaking his head.

He said, "She says they won't have no mules to sell till next summer. They won't be old enough to break till then or big enough to carry a load. They sold ever head they had this summer. But she says we gotta wait till the wild man gits here or he'll never forgive her for lettin us git away. He'll figger something out. At the very least he'll prob'ly buy some of our truck."

"So how the hell soon is Billy gittin here?" demanded Doc.

"She says any day now. She spected him before this."

They saw Ms. Kane walking toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped before Mitch and said, "We might loan you boys enough horses and mules to git your stuff up to Coleridge. We got our own stock, just none to sell. Billy's takin stuff to their market. You can go with him."

While sitting through the confab John felt already estranged from the gang, even by Matt. After it had ended he left to be alone with his thoughts for a while. He decided not to take the walkway from the main raft to the south bank; he had seen plenty of that part of the river while pushing the raft. Instead he followed rafts and walkways to the northern bank and followed the river north.

The land had been cleared all the way from the river to the far ridge where the Kanes had first lived. Immediately north of the cove large gardens had been planted. Most of the vegetables had been harvested except for large ripening pumpkins. Beyond the gsrdens people worked in the fields which had begun to look barren now, near the end of the harvest. Several of the older children played some kind of ball game on the distant slopes above the fields as they watched cattle.

He enjoyed the pleasant, clear morning and most blessed of all, the quiet away from the Kanes' main house. He put off thinking about the gang abandoning him and savored the brief time that he didn't have to share with anyone else. The river's bank curved northeasterly and then easterly. Brambles backed by trees hid the cove with its rafts and the cultivated lands. A gravelly point stuck out into the river. He squatted there watching the river's current dance around the point, then searched the trees across the river for wild life. He found some flat stones, stood and skipped them across the water like Scott had taught him.

A sound from upstream drew his attention. He watched an approaching canoe warily. In the bow sat a huge dog with scruffy reddish hair. A man who looked scarcely less shaggy squatted in the stern paddling. The man seemed friendly enough. He smiled and called out, "Howdy there, young feller." John waved shyly.

As the canoe drew closer, John could better make out the details of the man's face. Exposure to the sun had stained it the color and texture of old leather. Its countless wrinkles crinkled when he smiled, making him look as if his whole face smiled. Long graying strands of hair fell from under a strange hat made of an animal pelt of some kind. A salt-and-pepper beard hung to his chest.

Almost before the canoe scrunched onto the bank's gravel the dog leaped out. The man jumped into the shallow water with surprising agility and pushed the canoe a little way onto the bank. A short man once he came ashore, sitting in the boat had made him appear of average height. Then John saw why. The man's slightly bowed legs had not grown long enough for his regular-sized body. He had broad shoulders, large hands and muscular arms. He wore buckskin trousers, worn boots, and an amazing leather jacket bulging with pockets.

While the man beached the canoe, the big dog edged closer to John, stiff-legged, sniffing suspiciously.

"Don't mind him none," said the man. "He just don't like folks much. The asshole that had him as a pup treated him purty bad." And to the dog, "Fred! Heel!" The dog retreated reluctantly to his side.

This close John noticed that the man's amazing blue eyes smiled along with the rest of his face. "Who might you be, young feller? And how come you to be out here all alone?"

"I'm John Moore. I'm visiting at Kane's Cove, and I needed to take a walk." He decided against mentioning the gang. This man could be Chadwick himself for all John knew.

"Sometimes a feller needs to do that. When did you git to the cove?"

"Yesterday. I came with Buck and Willard. Do you know Buck and Willard?"

The man sighed. "Sometimes better'n I want to. They treatin you right over to the cove?"

"They're real nice, especially Ms. Kane. She's my favorite."

"Mine too. Hop in. I'll give you a ride back."

"Okay," said John, looking apprehensively at the dog. "Do you live at Kane's Cove?"

"Shore do. When I'm not gallivantin anyhow."

John suddenly knew exactly who the man was. "Are you Wild Billy Kane?"

"Shore am. Pleased to make your acquaintance, John Moore."

* * * *

Matt sat with Lou atop the truck on one of the rafts, ostensibly to check the tarps covering it, but mostly because they needed to get away from the others for a while. Hanna and Verbena had released the young students from the school they oversaw for recess. One of the young wives supervised the youngest of them as they ran and shrieked on the open raft behind the main houseboat. Lou watched them dispassionately. He had been quiet all morning, probably from one of his periods of depression.

Matt's own mood had suffered that day. He had awakened with the sensuous melody of Fauré's Pavane stroking his mind and had lived with it all morning, a mocking reminder of the loss of the music he loved, except for an occasional poorly rendered piano sonata or string quartet performance in Nellie's Fair. At least Lou didn't have that loss. He had only listened to the descendants of rock and roll that bands still played in most places.

Matt looked up to see a dugout canoe approaching. Billy's big part-mastiff mongrel rode in the bow, and behind the dog, to Matt's surprise, sat John! With a twinge of guilt, he realized that he hadn't kept track of the boy. He hadn't spent much time with him for the last two days and resolved to do so as soon as possible, especially since they would be parting soon.

When the canoe got close enough, Billy leaped out of it onto the raft with his customary alacrity. After Matt and Lou descended from the pile of truck he shook their hands.

"Look what I found up the river," he said, nodding at John. "Shoulda known I'd find you fellers here when I run into this fine young man. Where'd you find him? No, don't tell me yet. Wait till I hug my woman and wet my whistle and kick some a my boys' ass. That's the first thing I do when I git home even afore I know what they done, cause I know they done somethin to deserve it. Specially Buck and Willard. I swear them young'ns is makin a ol' man out a me."

Matt didn't think Buck and Willard had to worry much about an ass-kicking.

John cautiously watch the surly dog while he made the canoe fast to the raft. Billy thanked him for taking care of the canoe and retrieved his gear from it: scratch bag, sleeping bag, shotgun, and a large bow and quiver of arrows. He had told Matt he carried the bow for hunting and the shotgun for two-legged predators. Matt and Lou helped Billy with his gear. His arrival seemed to lighten even the Lou's mood.

Billy nodded for them to join him as he went into the houseboat. His entrance introduced a festive air to the room. In only a few minutes he had hugged Hanna, the little kids playing on the floor and the older girls helping Hanna sort clothes to be washed. Verbena brought him a large mug of beer. He was quiet only long enough to gulp a good third of it down.

"How did you two run into each other?" asked Matt, looking at Billy and then John.

Billy only winked and said, "Me and my new little buddy John Moore here, we been scoutin the cove."

Hanna set a plate of smoked beef, cheese, and bread on the table and refilled Billy's mug.

"Forgive my poor manners, fellers," he said, "but gallivantin builds up a powerful thirst and hunger in me. And I got to git fortified afore I go out to see the damage these young assholes has done to the place. Stay close, though." Suddenly turning serious. "I want to hear your news. Sounds bad. We been hearin rumors."

"Hanna said you were looking for us," said Matt.

"Yep. I spose you've heard by now that Chadwick's after your ass."

"More than 'heard'." said Matt.

While Billy ate, Matt and Lou rounded up the rest of the gang. After Billy finished they told him the account of the ambush as they had to Hanna and their hope to get their truck to market. Hanna had told them the Kanes traded at the Coleridge Gardens market so they wanted to as well.

Billy said, "Yeah, I do a lot a business with them folks. You gotta be careful dealin with the mayor, Eleanor Coleridge, though – she's a shrewd bitch – but the harvest market is a good 'n. It's a small town – must only be bout a couple hunnert people there – but farmers come from all over. They honor nellies, but they ain't worth quite as much as at Nellie's Fair. The mayor sets their value."

"When will you have some mules to sell?" said Mitch.

Billy shook his head. "When they git old enough to break next summer but I ain't the only one that sells 'm. We'll find you some horses somewheres if you need 'm afore then. For now we can loan you mules we use on the farm to carry your truck to market. We're takin our truck and extry grain from harvest there this year so you can go long with us. We're sendin some cattle to Columbia too, but my boys'll take 'm there. I ain't too pop'lar with Chadwick just now."

"Buck and Willard told us about him stopping by here," said Lou.

"How far is this Coleridge Gardens?" asked Matt. The name Coleridge tickled his memory, but he couldn't remember why.

"Bout twelve miles," said Billy. "Comfortable day's walk with the mules carryin the truck."

"I'm wondering," said Matt, "is if Kane's Cove is about five miles upstream from the Missouri and Coleridge Gardens is another twelve, given that Chadwick came here looking for us how long will it take him to think of checking up there?"

Billy frowned. "Chadwick didn't come up the Grange lookin for you. He came to ask me if I'd seen you. He knows we're on the river a lot and you might a been on it. His men ambushed you west a here so they're still lookin for you over there. When I sent Buck and Willard lookin for you on the Missouri I went north to make sure neither you nor Chadwick's men was up there. I know them folks better'n any a my family do so they'll open up to me. I ast if they'd heard anything bout a new gang of scroungers workin the area, you bein the new gang but of course I didn't mention your names. They hadn't. Then I ast if they'd seen any a Chadwick's men. They hadn't. They don't want nothin to do with Chadwick. They hear how he's takin over land all round Columbia and c'lectin what he calls 'taxes' from folks.

"I went to see the Mayor in Coleridge Gardens, ol' Ellie herself, and ast some other Coleridge folks. None of 'm 've seen a new gang or anything a Chadwick's men. More proof Chadwick don't figger you'd be up in that country instead a fu'ther west. He wouldn't think you'd come back east, closer to Columbia. I think you'll be safe at the Coleridge market. He'll have to quit lookin for you because a the Columbia market purty soon. No tellin what he's fixin to do after that though. What're you fellers figgerin for your next move?"

"Gittin the hell outta here," said Doc. "Soon as we sell our truck."

"We been talking about Colorado," said Lou.

Billy laughed. "Glad I'm not goin with you – the country between here and there's so bad a rabbit'd have to pack a lunch to git acrosst it. Your idee no doubt, Lou. You're finally goin home." He turned serious. "Don't blame you none for gittin out. Chadwick makes ever'body round here mighty nervous, includin me. Some says he's too big to fight – he's got close on two hunnert toughs now they say – but we gotta do somethin afore he gits even bigger."

He scooted his chair back from the table and stood up. "But let's look over your truck, see if you got anything I could use. We can spread it out on the open raft behind the house to see it better. We might make a deal on them rafts. I got a couple kids gittin married that need a place to make kids of their own."

Billy tried to shoo away the children playing on the open raft but they held their own, standing around in the way to watch the gang bring their rafts around. Billy, Hanna and the girls working with her in the house helped transfer the truck to the open raft. With most of the family in the fields, only they remained to help.

Then Mitch and Billy began horse trading. Billy examined each piece critically, his face's network of wrinkles clenched in a frown. When he found an item of interest, he described its flaws and asked why they had even bothered to bring it to him. Because of their friendship, however, though he couldn't honor Mitch's asking price, he would gladly pay such-and-such just so they wouldn't have to lug it all the way up to Coleridge Gardens where it would undoubtedly never sell. Mitch retorted that only their skill as scroungers led them to recognize this treasure at all. If not for them, it would have remained buried in the ruins to disintegrate into unusable trash. Because of Billy's status as a valued friend and colleague, even though he didn't recognize quality when he saw it, Mitch would let him steal the item for such-and-such a price. They couldn't sacrifice it for any less. Billy countered by upbraiding Mitch for trying to take advantage of an old man forced into poverty by all the mouths he had to feed. Though because of his great admiration and respect for Mitch and the gang he would come up to such-and-such an amount, though everyone knew he could ill afford it. Mitch scoffed at the offer, describing the harrowing dangers the gang had faced in transporting the item this far.

And so it went. Through midday and into mid-afternoon, with each man countering the other with the most colorful and outrageous statements. Both men had honed their skill over many years with countless professional bullshitters. But Matt knew they enjoyed competing with each other best.

Billy stopped before a full-length mirror propped against the railing of the raft.

"Whoa, look at this!" he said. "I wouldn't a thought you clumsy critters could ever a found somethin like this, let alone lug it this far without bustin it in a hunnert pieces."

"First," said Mitch, "I'll have to admit that we have John to thank for findin the mirror..."

"I might a knowed!" said Billy. "I could tell this kid was the smartest one in the gang the minute I seen 'im. Tell us how you come by this, John Moore."

John shrugged and spoke shyly. "Wasn't nothing really. I was looking for lumber for Stony and Doc's rafts one evening after dinner. In one of the houses by the river, I just happened to look inside one of those big closets some houses have..."

"A walk-in closet," prompted Billy.

"Yeah. Anyhow I saw this mirror on the wall, took it down and carried it back to the barn where we stored the truck. Asked Mitch if he thought it'd be worth something and he said yes." Matt noticed John didn't mention the two skeletons he had seen lying on the bed across the room from the closet. They appeared to have been holding hands. Skeletons abounded in many places; toward the end people died faster than they could be buried.

"You was right, John Moore," said Billy. And to Mitch and the others, "I tell you, this boy's a born scrounger. What's amazin is that you klutzes got this here without bustin it all to hell." He shook his head and continued, "I honestly ain't in the market for such a thing – I got a couple now. If I had any more the women-folk 'd waste even more time primpin. But all bullshit aside for thirty seconds, I 'low this'll go over big in Coleridge Gardens."

The day had warmed considerably by then. Billy took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a forearm. "We've jawed enough," he said to Mitch. "Let's head on down to the brewhouse and finish this business up. My other folks can look stuff over now. They don't know the worth of truck like I do so your boys'll fleece 'm. They'll spend me outta house and home."

Billy ended up taking the rafts, some tools, and handfuls of trinkets and children's toys that Matt knew he would see in Billy's kids' hands that evening. Billy admired Stony's trucks and said that he had no use for them but knew they'd bring a good price at Coleridge Gardens. Hanna and the girls who helped her in the house had remained on the raft after helping transfer the truck to it, as much to listen to the men's arguments as to wait for them to finish their dealing. As Mitch and Billy walked off toward the brewhouse, they invaded the raft to look the truck over and start trading with the older men.

The trading with the rest of the Kanes lasted about an hour. It took Matt and the others a while longer to repack the truck on the rafts and then he wandered off toward the shore. He hated to waste the golden early-autumn afternoon in the brewhouse. Seeing John sitting on the edge of the most shoreward raft idly skipping stones across the water, Matt remembered his resolve to spend more time with the boy.

When he approached John, he said, "Want to take a walk with me?"

"Sure."

They crossed to the shore and walked along the edge of the fields where people worked. Matt thought they should offer to help in the fields in payment for the Kanes' hospitality.

"What do you think of the Kanes so far?" asked Matt.

John thought about it for a minute. "I like Ms. Kane real well, and Buck and Willard. And Billy too, of course. It's just that... well... I don't know." He stopped suddenly and looked up at Matt. "There's just too many of 'm, Matt. They all talk at once. And the little ones are either shrieking or squalling. It's hard to get used to."

"I know," Matt soothed, "but it's just because you've never been around so many people. You'll get used to it in time."

"I'm not sure." John looked down and kicked at a clod of dirt.

"It's good for you to be around others your own age. And go to a real school with other children. Ms. Kane and Verbena run a school here."

"But there aren't any others my age. They're either older like Buck and Willard, or little screaming kids."

Matt hadn't thought about that, but he recognized the reason why at once. John had been born in 2072, the year of the Last Days. With such of an immense majority of the population dying, not many babies born during that year had survived. Most of those born a few years before '72 would have perished as well. And the rate of newborn survivals remained low for a few years after that while the surviving adults adapted to their alien new world.

"I really wish I could go with you, Matt, on to this Coleridge place, and then to Colorado. Billy himself said I was a born scrounger."

Matt stopped them, took John by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Listen to me. I won't see you become a scrounger. It's not the life you think it is. It's brutal and lonely. Scroungers have to do bad things just to survive, things that haunt them the rest of their lives." (He was thinking of the men he had killed at Summerfield Crossing.)

"And it's dangerous, son. Those men of Chadwick's. They're bent on killing us. They won't stop until they either accomplish it or we're so far away they can't find us. And when we get to Colorado, it'll be more of the same. We'll do more bad things. There'll be another Chadwick.

"I don't want that for you. I want you to stay here and grow up among these good solid people where you'll always have a safe place to live and plenty to eat. I want you to marry some wonderful young woman and have a lot of healthy, happy babies. That's what Maude wanted for you, and I'm sure your mother did too. And that was my promise to Maude. I don't want to break it." He released John's shoulders, straightened up and smiled, rather pleased with his lecture.

John grinned sardonically. "I'm already tired of listening to babies, whether they're making happy squeals or pissed-off squalls, so I sure don't want any of my own, and I'm not gonna get married for a long, long time. I know you're gonna dump me here, no matter what I say, but I tell you what, Matt, I'm sure gonna miss you and all the other guys."

Matt smiled and shook his head in defeat, then put his arm around the boy's shoulders as they continued their walk through the fields and meadows.

# Chapter Thirteen

Before supper Mitch called a confab in the guesthouse to divide up the money Billy had paid for the rafts and truck and to discuss their next step. Billy always complained about having little cash, but Matt noted that he never lacked for Nelson dollars when he needed them. Apart from bartered goods, he took in cash for the products he sold: livestock like mules, horses and cattle, the grain and truck he sold at the market, and whiskey – he had the only still for many miles around. And, because the farm produced most of the Kanes' needs, he seldom spent any cash.

After the gang set aside money for supplies in common, the "scratch fund," they divided the remainder of the take. The scratch fund needed more that year: food and gear for the trip to Colorado and mules to transport it. And that came after renting mules to carry their truck to Coleridge Gardens. Fortunately, Stony had replaced most of his cooking gear scrounging Newcastle and the river town. The others had replaced some of their clothing and other scratch there as well. Mitch suggested, and the men agreed to contribute half the take to the scratch fund and divide the rest. It provided only a pittance toward the gang scratch they needed but it enforced their discipline to save. And a little money in the men's pockets raised their spirits.

"I got one more suggestion," Mitch said. "Since young John here found that wall mirror, and it's gonna bring a purty price up to Coleridge, I suggest he gits a share."

Another unanimous vote.

Neither John nor anyone he knew had ever had money until he had met the gang.

He stammered, "Why – why – uh, gosh, Mitch, I don't know – uh..."

"You earned it as sure as the rest of us," said Mitch. "You worked as hard as any man here and I never heard a gripe outta you, leastways nowhere near the bitchin I git outta Doc."

"Th – thanks a lot," John said. "I really appreciate it."

Mitch gave John five nellies. He had no idea of its value.

"Anything else to talk bout, boys?" asked Mitch.

Matt said, "I've been thinking we oughta help Billy with the harvest for a few days."

Several others agreed, said they'd been thinking the same thing.

Mitch said, "Billy and two a his boys left in the middle of the harvest to look for us so it's no more 'n right that we help them. He says his folks has bout wrapped the harvest up but we can help with some clean up. It'll be a few days afore he's ready to leave. Nine a us workin oughta make a big dent in the clean-up."

"Ten," said John.

Mitch allowed a rare grin. "Ten it is, young John."

At supper, it made Matt glad to see Kincaid invite John to sit with him. Unlike John, the other younger gang members enjoyed interacting with the family, an experienced they had missed as orphans. Matt saw even the shy Rossi speaking intently with a solemn girl of about his own age. Perhaps their example would help John adapt to the family.

The Kane children, young and old, and the young gang members finished eating and left the room before the adults. Billy suggested that the older gang members join him at the brewhouse. When Matt stepped outside, he saw that, despite the near darkness, the older Kane boys and girls had engaged the young gang members, John among them, in some soccer-like game on the grass near the cove.

"They'll be tired out going to work in the morning," said Lou beside him.

"Young kids don't get tired like we do," Matt answered.

As they turned toward the brewhouse, Lou said, "We're gonna owe Billy more than a few days' work just for his booze."

"Especially Mitch and I," said Matt. "You drink his beer. We drink his whiskey."

"That saves him money. Whiskey's cheaper to make than beer. You don't need as many ingredients, and you don't drink as much because of the higher alcohol content."

"Then why did whiskey always cost so much more than beer and wine?"

"Taxes. Don't you remember the Whiskey Rebellion from your high school history classes? They fought it over taxes. The rebels lost, and even though the government reduced whiskey taxes a little, America kept the most ridiculously high hard liquor taxes in the world." He hesitated in mock confusion. "Oh! That's right, Matt. You taught history. In college. How dumb of me to..."

Matt laughed. "Okay, enough already. I remember the Whiskey Rebellion, but I didn't know taxes on whiskey were so high. How could you have let me live in total ignorance of this travesty of justice all the years we've known each other?"

"I'm really sorry, Matt. I'll tell you if they raise the whiskey tax again."

* * * *

For the next two days they cleaned and put away harvesting equipment. They had little to do; they worked primarily as a symbolic gesture of thanks for the Kanes' hospitality. To Matt's relief, John spent the evenings with the younger men and the youths of Kane's Cove.

On the second evening after supper, Mitch called a confab. "This'll be a short'n," he said. "Billy says by tomorra night he'll be ready to leave for Coleridge Gardens the next day. With us taggin along. Durin the market we'll git our savins outta the bank, dig up the scratch and git ready to leave for Coloado. Anybody got anything to say? Any questions?"

To the older men's surprise, Leighton stood up. He usually only spoke in confabs to disagree with one of the older men, seldom to make a statement. He had been uncharacteristically inoffensive since they left Newcastle. Matt thought that might be about to change.

"We been thinkin," he began, "we boys here," he indicated the other younger ones, "that we'd like to recommend another gang member." Matt knew what came next. "We think John Moore here has proved hisself to all of us. We think..."

"Wait a minute, Red." Mitch stood up. "We agreed to let John come this far with us and no fu'ther. That's what we promised Maude. It ain't right to take John along with them cutthroats chasin us. Even if they wasn't, he needs to stay here with these settled folks, git his education. Scroungin ain't no life for a kid, specially one as young as him."

Matt watched Leighton's face turn red as it always did when his temper built. His jaw muscles worked, his Adam's apple bobbed and his fists clenched and unclenched.

Then he said, "Gaddamn it, Mitch. You let ever'body in the gang have their say ceptin us young'ns. But you never let us finish. Lots a times you old guys have confabs when we're on guard duty so we don't know what's goin on and can't vote. Boss Johnson never treated us like that. We got shot at at Summerfield Crossing for something all a you-all did at Summerfield Crossing. You work us like mules, and then we can't have our say."

Matt noticed that Miller had stood up beside him, quietly glowering.

Mitch put up his hands, palms out in a placating gesture. "Whoa, Red. Settle down. You're right. I was wrong to interrupt you. But one thing we gotta git straight. I don't assign you boys to guard duty during confabs any more'n I do anybody else. But go ahead and have your say. You boys have as much right to talk as anybody else." Then he sat down and prepared to listen.

Sometimes, Matt realized, a good leader admits he's wrong. Miller also sat down, still scowling.

"We been thinkin," said Leighton, partially mollified though still red-faced. "John has pulled his weight and then some since he joined us. He done as well as this shrimp Jack –" Kincaid bristled somewhat "– haulin our truck down to the river and then pushin the rafts up the Grange River. He got as cold and wet as the rest of us and never bitched oncet. He ain't all that young, neither. Jackie was only a year or two older 'n him when he joined the gang, and my other two guys was only a year or two older 'n Jack. John's big for his age too.

"Also, we ain't in as much trouble as we was, leastways for the time bein. Billy said Chadwick ain't been to this here Coleridge place lookin for us and that he's likely to quit lookin while he tends his own Columbia market. By the time he's through with that and gits round to lookin for us again, we'll be half-way to Colorado.

"And the school thing. John can already read and figger. He's smarter 'n me and my boys all together. Hell, he could teach school. Besides, we got our own teacher, Perfessor Matt Pringle. He can teach John ever'thing he needs to know better 'n these farmers can.

"The kid's a nacherl born scrounger, too. Billy said so hisself. He found the mirror, didn't he? I'll betcha anything that if we leave him here Billy'll take him truckin next summer. He'll have got hisself a nacherl born scrounger that we could a had, that we need right now." He glanced at John, then said, "Oh, yeah. He's a nacherl in the woods, too. He showed Stony where to find nuts and mushrooms and shit, and he kills rabbits. With a fuckin slingshot!

"Boss Johnson said we need at least ten men, more'd be even better. John makes ten. He knows truck and can find his way round in the woods. Some day he'll be as smart at tradin as Mitch or Wild Billy." He glanced again at John and concluded. "Now all my guys agree with me and John's willin to go with us. We want him to go to this Coleridge place with us."

Matt knew the scatter-brained Leighton could never have organized his arguments so well or even have thought of some of them. Leighton's occasional glances at John seeking guidance betrayed John's influence. John had spent that time with the young ones to work out this scheme to stay in the gang. Leighton would have his own agenda. With John in the gang the two factions would match in number, five to five, thereby increasing, Leighton probably believed, his power.

So they talked about it. Doc strongly opposed John joining them. He said they had too many kids to babysit now, which would have started an explosive argument between him and Leighton if Mitch hadn't intervened. Stony, disagreeing with Doc as usual, said John would act as an asset to the gang. He would only vote against his inclusion because of the danger the gang faced. Lou agreed with Stony.

Finally, Matt spoke. "I don't agree that John is too immature to join the gang. He certainly doesn't require any 'babysitting'. But he is too young. And too unused to the ways of the world. He has lived in a tiny community closed off from the rest of society his whole life. Now he needs to live in a regular family. He needs to go to a real school too. Sure, I could teach John a lot, but I can't give him the interaction with other kids and the environment that makes knowledge pertinent. Learning literature or mathematics doesn't make sense to someone roaming around in the wild, fighting looters or belligerent farmers. To lose John to gang life is too terrible a waste to the world."

John leveled a looked at him. "Buck was thirteen the first time he went truckin. Willard went with them the next year when he turned thirteen. I'll be thirteen next year."

After a quiet moment Stony said, "Maybe we oughta think bout lettin the kid come along. We'll be safe on our way to Colorado in a month. He could help me find food in the woods like he did in Newcastle. Maybe he'll be our next cook."

"Ain't no doubt," said Doc, "that a break from your cookin wouldn't hurt us none. But that don't change the fact that the kid ain't growed up yet."

The younger guys talked over each other refuting Doc's argument.

"We need him more than Billy does," said Lou. "John's right. If he doesn't go with us, he'll be truckin with Billy next year. And Colorado's a great place for kids to grow up."

"You're an example, right?" said Doc, shaking his head.

"One other thing," said John, his determination shoving his normal timidity shoved aside for the moment. "Billy said Coleridge Gardens is a real town. With a school. I could go to school every winter and help you guys in the summer."

"That's true," said Lou. "That way he'd get the interaction with other kids in a scholarly environment – I agree with Matt that he needs that – then give us the help we need in the summer."

Matt knew he had lost. The new society was about to lose a precious asset.

Leighton leaped up, grinning triumphantly. He had finally won in a gang confab. Against the Professor, at that! His grin fixed on Matt, he said, "Let's have a vote!"

Matt also stood up. "I have a suggestion. Let's vote to take John as far as Coleridge Gardens and see what happens there. He may change his mind. The rest of you may change your minds." I may have a chance to talk John out of this foolishness, he thought. He looked at John. "Fair enough, kid?"

John shrugged, a gesture much like Matt's, and grinned in his own rather lopsided fashion. "Why not?"

So John would accompany them as far as Coleridge Gardens. They would see what happened then. Mitch had voiced no opinion, the wise leader waiting to see what happened next.

* * * *

As time to leave drew nearer John found, to his surprise, that he would leave Kane's Cove with mixed feelings. He found the relief he would feel at leaving the noise and chaos behind tempered by a twinge of regret. He had had fun there: horseplay with Buck and Willard and two boys their junior by a couple of years, Todd and Robert and the soccer games even though he hadn't quite understood the rules. He also liked the boisterous Wild Billy.

Of the lot he liked Ms. Kane the best. She made Kane's Cove a little island of stability in a world that otherwise felt dangerous and unpredictable. He would miss her serenity and constancy, which somehow anchored the anarchic Kane household. Her peace and charity extended to every member of that household, from comforting the smallest child with the tiniest pain, real or imagined, to giving Billy a hug and a mug of beer upon his return from 'galivantin'.

The Kane clan spent the night before Billy's departure celebrating the end of harvest and Billy's trip to Coleridge Gardens. He would return with goods Kane's Cove couldn't or didn't produce and Nelson dollars. Those with chores finished them early and took turns in the bathhouse. Others brought tables and benches out to the open raft and, on a table in a corner, set a keg of beer and a couple jugs of whiskey. A crowd soon formed around the keg to draw their first beers. Billy came out of the bathhouse with the last group of bathers. After he filled a mug he walked over to the gang members who sat together in a group.

"Glad to see you boys all together," he said. "I figured you'd start drifting apart and that I'd get my nose too wet to talk. Before that happened I wanted to tell you about heronner, Mayor Eleanor Coleridge of Coleridge Gardens. The less you have to do with her the better, but you need to know how Coleridge Gardens operates."

"Sounds like you don't have much use for her," said Matt.

Billy sat down. "Oh, no. I got a lot a respect for that woman. In fact I like her. She knows how to get things done; I just don't always approve of how she gits some of 'm done."

And, with breaks for refilling mugs and questions from the gang, Billy prepared them for trading in Coleridge Gardens.

"First, you need a little background on Ellie. By the way, don't call her Ellie; it's always Ms. Coleridge, or Mayor Coleridge. She cottons to titles. When others is around, I'm always, 'Mr. Kane'. Me and her go back a long ways, clear back to high school in Trevelyan. She was Ellie in those days, Ellie McInnes. Me and her run around together some. Nothing serious, just having fun. Then we went to different colleges. I went to a local one, come out a land surveyor and still a hick. She went to a back-east school, got to be lawyer and quit being a hick. Married another lawyer, stayed back east a long time. I lost track of her.

"Then they moved back to Trevelyan, her and her lawyer, Adam Coleridge. He put up his shingle and she went into real estate. After a couple years they started doing purty good. Had a little girl. Turned out he was a land lawyer name of Adam Coleridge. Being as how I was a land surveyor, we did quite a bit of business together, and even though I never cared much for him person'ly, he was purty sharp.

"What didn't I like bout him? He never told you the whole story, only what he wanted you to know. If you pumped him for information, he'd just look at you real steady like a snake looks at a mouse he's about to swallow, smile a secret kinda smile, then say something in that Boston accent to make you feel like a idiot. Still never told you what you needed to know. Even the other lawyers didn't like working with him, especially my own attorney and drinkin buddy Stan Shapiro.

"But Adam Coleridge and Ellie, they was a perfect match. She always was a cold bitch, even as a girl. Even when you was in the sack with her, you got the feelin she was planning her next scheme. She came back more calculating than ever, started doing real good in real estate. She found out about that getting 'back-to-the-simpler-life-in-the-country' thing that was going on in the cities and advertised in the city papers to attract folks to the area. Sold some houses based on that. Then she sold a farm over by Columbia to a big Kansas City developer. He built a lake in the middle of it and sold the lots at a premium. Made a fortune. I did okay surveying it; can't complain about that. But Ellie really cleaned up. She got a big commission off the sale of the farm and sales of the lots after they was developed.

"That gave her an idea. If that big developer from the city could clean up like that, why not her? She optioned a piece a land adjoining Trevelyan overlooking the Grange River. Then she come to see me about surveying it. I agreed of course – I did all her and Adam's surveying – but I told 'm it was a dumb idee.

"Why was it dumb? Well, you ain't seen Trevelyan yet. When you do you'll see what I mean when I say, who in the hell would wanta live there? People from the city, I mean. They ain't nothing for folks like that to do there. They ain't no golf courses, no swimming pools, no good shopping, not much fishing unless you're a local like me. Trevelyan never had a population of more'n a thousand, even countin dogs and cats. And to tell the truth, I kinda liked not havin outsiders around. I'd lived here all my life, knew everybody. Being a surveyor, I knew every square inch of land. And me and Hanna was doing good. I had the biggest surveying company in the county, and we had us a nice little farm here near the cove.

"Sure folks from here move back sometimes from nostalgia or from this 'back to our roots' movement. But most real city people, I mean people born and bred in cities for generation upon generation, move to places like that lake by Columbia, a big town with lots of amenities. The only kind a people that move to places like Trevelyan are folks with ties. Like my grampa. He was born and bred down on the Grange River close to here. He moved to Chicago as a young man, but he and his wife moved back here after Pap was born and never left.

"In general, realtors, even good 'ns, make lousy land developers, even worse 'n us surveyors. But most surveyors has better sense than to try it. Realtors don't. They git greedy seeing their developer clients making it big and they say, 'Why not me?' Makin money in one field makes it look like folks can make it everyplace. They think, 'We made money sellin the land, but they made so much more developin it. We're as smart as them. We can't lose!' So they do the deal, lose their ass. Never seen it fail.

"So anyhow, I warned 'm, told 'm city folks wouldn't care about a little hick town beside a muddy Missouri river. But Adam just looked at me like he was gonna swaller me and Ellie ignored me, so we did the project: Coleridge Gardens. I did the surveying and my partner Cal did the engineering design and we got bids for construction. Before long the first phase, forty-two lots, got built, all the streets, water lines, sewer, drainage facilities, power – the whole works. Then a community center and five model homes. They sent the advertising out, had their grand opening and... nothing.

"I mean, nothing. Course the locals showed up for the free lemonade and cookies and toured the models. They'd never seen such fancy houses. They had security systems and electronics and stuff just like city folks had. But the ads didn't bring nobody else. Finally they sold a couple of houses, one to Stan Shapiro and one to Doc Lawrence. Then they built one for themselves and one on spec that nobody bought. After a year Coleridge Gardens had nine houses, six empty, and a community center nobody used.

"Then came 2072, the year of the Last Days. We were so busy dying and taking care of our own, I didn't go up to Trevelyan for awhile. Or to check on them three families in Coleridge Gardens. Not with our little'ns dying..." Billy looked down, sniffed once, and continued, "Hanna and I got sick too; then we got well. She wouldn't let me lay down and die like I wanted to. 'Git off your ass, Billy,' she said, only she didn't say it like that of course. She don't talk coarse like I do. 'Maybe our little'ns is gone,' she said, 'but there's a bunch of others out there with no one to care for 'm. We're gonna round 'm up and make 'm our own.' and that's what we did. I tell you boys, that woman's got more balls'n any man alive.

"As it turned out, when I finally got around to checking, everybody in Coleridge Gardens had died – the Shapiros, the Lawrences, Adam Coleridge – except for two: Ellie and her little daughter Alicia. She had marched into Trevelyan one day late in the summer and in her usual manner, took charge. The few who still lived needed her, as a matter a fact. They was numb, didn't know what to do. She made sure the sick ones got taken care of and directed other folks to round up food, clothes, whatever they needed. Took their minds off their grief like Hanna did mine.

"When I got there in the fall, looking for orphans, the folks in Trevelyan were getting ready to move out to Coleridge Gardens. Ellie told 'm there was new houses there, and water, the river and a little spring just south a the subdivision. She was scairt a them getting cholera, she said. Before there quit being news, she'd heard that cholera was bad all over because of contaminated water. It surprised me that she was so good at taking care of folks. There was less'n a hundred of 'm, purty woebegone lookin folks – I've seen mangy old hounds in better shape – but she seemed to have things in control and I had business a my own so I went on my way.

"Typical of Ellie, I found out later that she'd figgered out a way to profit from all this. What with one thing and another, I didn't git back there for over six months, but when I did I found a healthy bunch of folks. Ellie and her daughter and some young guy were living in what had been the community center. A preacher name of Gates lived in her old house and a doctor lived in Doc Lawrence's place. She had sent her people round the country looking for folks she thought her new little empire needed. Apparently she rated a preacher and a doctor near the top. The other families had moved into the other houses and some cobbled together shacks.

"They were trying to live off food they'd scrounged. It was mostly gone or spoiled but they had some scrappy little gardens started. Didn't know where they found the seeds, but the gardens weren't big enough to keep 'm alive through the next winter. It was late in the year for planting but I went back to the cove, got a bunch a seeds and seedlings and taught 'm how to plant and tend gardens. Later that year I gave 'm some of our chicks to start a flock. I kept helping 'm over the years when I had time. Taught 'm to fish and hunt and trap and tan hides and god knows what all. They came along, made it just fine. Now they got a wealthy market, over two hundred people. And they bless dear Ellie for all this, figger they'd a never made it without her. Nary a thought about ol' Billy Kane's help.

"By the way, she still owns Coleridge Gardens. She makes the folks living there pay her rent outta whatever they produce. But she's their savior so don't speak against her in that town.

"I said they all pay rent, but that ain't quite true. There's one that don't: the preacher, Gates. He's the first outsider she invited to town. Surprised me at first; never heard of Ellie darkening a church door. But then I got to thinking. With people being so religious nowadays, what better way to keep 'm in line than to control their religion? Find a preacher that'll tell people what you want 'm to hear for a roof and grub. He tells 'm God says do this and they do it, the Bible says do that and they do it. You gotta hand it to Ellie."

"I know you're not a religious man, Billy," said Lou, "but that's pretty cynical, even for you. How do you know Ellie's not into religion? Like you said, most people are nowadays."

The myriad wrinkles of Billy's face gnarled into an ambiguous expression. He spoke in an uncharacteristically cold tone. "Cause I know her too well. We fucked behind the alter of a little country church more 'n once when we was in high school. And since you mention it, let me tell you why I ain't religious. I use to be, you know, a dedicated Bible-thumper with the best of 'm."

Billy's voice lowered. "Then I watched my little babies die, all five of 'm, one after the other. I couldn't do nothing for 'm. They died and I had to live on. If it hadn't been for my Hanna, I'd 've ended it right there. But she wouldn't let me, boys. When I said something like, 'How could God allow this to happen?' she'd just say, 'There ain't no way of knowing so there's no sense thinking about it. But there's other little kids out there that needs our help and that's what we're gonna do.' I gave up on God and his religion. Hanna had got into this Gaia business but not me. I dunno. Seems too much like religion to me, even though she claims it ain't."

A bell rang.

Billy finished his third beer. His face again clenched, but into a more characteristic grin that almost concealed his intensely blue eyes within its wrinkles. He said, "Hey, supper's ready. And I damn near talked your ears off. Let's go, boys." And they went to dinner.

* * * *

The quantity and variety of food far outdid any of the previous Kane's Cove meals. Despite that, however, John noticed that Hanna allowed no waste. She gave each kid a measured amount with the assurance that they could come back for more. When John commented on the larger than usual variety Willard said they emptied the larder after every harvest to make way for a new supply of food for the winter.

After people had, for the most part, finished eating, Billy stood and gave a tally of all the grain they had harvested, how much he would take to market and the amount they would store against winter. He gave the numbers and conditions of all the livestock; of the cow-calf units for that year; of the cows being milked; of steers to be butchered; of horses, donkeys, and young mules; and the quantity of fowl: chickens, ducks and geese. Then the young men cleared away the tables and benches to transformed the raft into a dance floor. The fiddler Ed Baines, one of the young married men, took his place in a corner, couples formed and the music began.

John had heard very little music before; he had never heard a fiddle. He found it unnerving at first and then enjoyable as he picked out the rhythm. And he had never been around girls maturing into womanhood until the soccer games. Their lithe movements had awakened new urgent feelings in him. He found the sinuous movements of the young women on the dance floor even more compelling.

Nearly everyone danced. Children inexpertly capered, sometimes three or four kids in a ring, sometimes one hopping around alone, showing off. Rossi's solemn girl tried teaching him dance steps in a corner. Buck and Verbena, who sat together at meals and spent their evenings together, danced a few dances, then disappeared into the shadows of another raft. John figured Billy had had them in mind when he bought the rafts for new household sites. Willard danced with several girls. He finally disappeared with the one he had danced with most often.

The music grew wilder as the level of the "corn" in Ed Baines' bottle descended. John felt his difference from these people. They had connections to each other. He sat with Leighton's group but not as part of it. They had started out together as orphans in Nellie's Fair. The older gang members had lived and worked together since the Last Days. He had no family and had left the only group he had belonged to. When he finally left the raft no one noticed.

He had packed his scratch bag that afternoon. The bundles containing his other belongings remained just as Maude had packed them. Only his bedroll lay spread out on the cot; after he rolled it up in the morning he would be ready to go.

Sitting on the edge of the cot, he withdrew a small packet wrapped in waterproof oilcloth from his scratch bag and carefully opened it, exposing two squares of cardboard tied together with string. He untied the string and took the cardboard squares apart to reveal a photograph of a young man and woman. The pretty woman smiled broadly. Long wavy brown hair fell in cascades to rest in pools on her shoulders. The man had a square face and hair a lighter brown than hers. A smile softened his rather severe expression. She had told John that he would some day look a lot like this man who he had never seen except in this picture, that his fair hair would darken to a similar light brown as it had indeed begun to do.

John only looked at this picture of Helen and Brandon Moore, his parents, on special occasions; seeing them more often made his throat too tight. He had last looked at it one night when he realized, with panic, that the memory of his mother's features had begun to fade. He had needed to look at it this night too, though for a different reason. For the reassurance that he too had once belonged with someone else, someone he had loved and who loved him in return.

He put the picture away with great care and went to sleep with a tight feeling in his throat.

# Chapter Fourteen

Morning came so early that only the men leaving for Coleridge Gardens, Ms. Kane and Verbena appeared. The women had a warm breakfast with hot sassafras tea ready for them. John had slept deeply and well, felt refreshed and could hardly wait to leave. From seeing the men on mornings after they had spent the nights in the brewhouse John knew the reason for their glum silence. He also knew not to talk to them.

Later, as John helped load the mules by the light of tallow lamps in the cool early dark, Ms. Kane drew him aside and handed him a delicious-smelling bundle. She whispered, a smile dimpling her cheeks, "Take this, John, in case you get hungry on the way."

John knew Ms. Kane as a practitioner of miracles. She prepared complex, delicious meals for the household not once but three times a day. And kept the clothes for all these people washed and mended and their living spaces clean and he had no idea what else. Plus, with Verbena's help, she operated a school.

Yet she had somehow found the time to prepare a treat for just him to take on the journey. Impetuously, he grabbed her around the neck and hugged her. As he pulled away, a little embarrassed because he had not been raised by demonstrative people, she kissed him gently on the cheek.

"I – I'm really gonna miss you Ms. Kane," he said.

"Why, we'll miss you, too, John," she said, "but only till you come back. Prob'ly real soon. Surely you're coming to our Christmas party." Another smile, more dimples.

"I hope so."

"Course you will. See you then, Sweetie. Don't let these cranky old men work you too hard."

And she moved off to speak to Robert and hand him another bundle. She moved to all the young men, those of the gang as well as her household. She made everyone feel as special as she did him.

Soon they left, Billy first, followed by Buck, Willard, Todd, and Robert leading their mules. Billy's big surly red dog whined to go with him from his leash on the main raft. Billy had explained that Fred didn't get along well enough with folks to come along. Mitch's gang followed with the mules Billy had lent them, four of which pulled Stony's "trucks".

Billy's wagon, pulled by two of his stoutest mules, came last. A barrier at the center divided it into two compartments. Corn filled half of it and wheat the other. Mayor Coleridge had contracted to buy the load. Waterproof cowhides covered the wagon. The heavily-loaded wagon left last because the rest of the group would soon outdistance it. The main party would reach their destination by mid-afternoon; the wagon wouldn't make it until after dark. Ed Baines drove the wagon, accompanied by one of Billy's other men, both armed. No one had had trouble along that road but extra precautions never hurt to protect such a valuable cargo.

The other two adult men of Kane's Cove and some of the older boys would deliver cattle to buyers at Columbia's market with whom Billy had already made deals. Ruben Garcia would represent them because no one knew him as a member of the Kane community, including Chadwick or his men. Chadwick and Billy's confrontation at Kane's Cove had made Billy cautious letting others know he traded there.

No road had run along the western side of the Grange River before the Last Days so they followed a track worn since then by the feet of beasts and men and a few wheeled vehicles. It ran straighter than the river's looping coils, occasionally climbing gently sloping hills to avoid boggy areas or other obstacles. Twice they forded creeks tributary to the river. They crossed the shallowest one near the river; they had to follow the other a ways upstream to find a crossing.

More people lived along the road than John had seen elsewhere. Two tiny settlements of two houses each, along with outbuildings, sat beside the tributary creeks they crossed. Little more than lean-tos, they had been built since the Last Days. They passed the first so early that the inhabitants still slept, though a couple of dogs barked at them. At the next one, a woman gathering firewood in the yard waved and smiled. Billy and his folk traveled the road so often they knew everyone that lived along it. Most houses and farm buildings from before the Last Days that they saw had been abandoned and decaying into ruin, except one apparently inhabited, substantial farmhouse, barn and lesser outbuildings from that era sitting on a hill.

The sun warmed the day but not to the enervating levels of just a few weeks before. The floodplain lay dusty with drooping yellow grasses between the willows and cottonwoods along the banks of the river and its tributaries. Meadowlarks sang their territorial warnings and rabbits fed warily among the grasses, brush, and piles of driftwood. An occasional hawk drifted languidly far above. How happy John felt moving along with the gang again.

When they stopped for a brief rest at midmorning, John opened Ms. Kane's bundle to find two slices of fresh bread spread with butter and honey between them and an apple. He ate the bread and saved the apple for later. When they continued, trees growing densely all the way down to the water forced the crude road to depart from river. They passed a couple more habitations, and saw evidence of others across the river. In answer to a question Billy said, "Folks gradually moved here after the Last Days because of the water. They know the Grange ain't gonna dry up."

They stopped for lunch in the shade of an ancient white oak tree beside a creek wider than the previous tributaries they had crossed but with a sluggish current. John sat just outside a ring that included Matt, Mitch, Lou, and Billy. He had learned to sit there quietly to hear their plans without getting sent away. This had proven a valuable tactic; if, in Newcastle, he hadn't heard them discuss looking for the Missouri River, he couldn't have led Matt to find it. More importantly, he wouldn't have been with them right then.

"We're nigh there," said Billy. "Couple more hours. First, there's a guy I gotta see that lives up this crick, Fats Tanner. He has a place at a salt lick. He and his family make a good living off the salt. He sells it mostly at Coleridge Gardens but I make my deal with him on the way to market. Then I pick it up on my way home. I'm one of his best customers cause we got so much meat to cure, but I don't have to pay retail. I trade Fats something he loves that he can't get nowhere else."

"And that is...?" said Mitch.

Billy indicated a mule that held two boxes slung over its sides, each full of very well swaddled pint jars of whisky.

The others chuckled. "How could I forgit?" said Mitch. "You got the only still around!"

"And I make good money from it. Soon as we eat and ford this crick, I'll take them bottles up the crick and me and Fats 'll make our deal. Then we'll move on."

They crossed on a ford of flat stones that made the creek less deep though the water still reached their thighs, and John's and Jack Kincaid's waists. "You can't cross this ford in the heavy spring rains," said Billy. "Then you gotta go up to Fats' farm and pay him whatever he asks to cross his bridge."

While the last of the men and mules finished crossing, Billy led his whisky-laden mule up a path beside the creek and disappeared into a stand of willows. It took him over an hour to come back. Not because it took long to get to Fats' place, Billy explained, but Fats had to make sure of the whiskey's quality and a neighborly man had to have a sip with him. The road became more substantial. It climbed onto a wooded bluff where they found it graveled.

They came to a broad clearing occupied by a three-story Victorian house and numerous stables, sheds, and corrals. The house, situated near the edge of a bluff overlooking the river, easily dwarfed the outbuildings. It faced south with a covered porch across the front. The ancient giant oaks surrounding the buildings, pens, and a broad front lawn, lent an air of aristocratic dignity. At some distance behind the house, John saw a high steel bridge crossing the Grange River. The gravel road they had followed turned west to avoid the buildings and disappeared into the woods. It appeared to circle the house and lead to the bridge.

As they neared the house, activity across the river caught John's eye. The lower elevation on that side allowed him a good view. Several hundred yards of stubbled fields separated the river from a steep slope leading up to a plateau. On top of it he saw neatly laid out streets lined with houses of every description. A few built before the Last Days included one much larger and finer than the others. Dozens constructed of logs, scrap materials and even railroad ties had been built since then. A lot of people moved about the streets. Most wandered around between lean-tos situated along the southernmost street. He dreaded seeing such a big crowd. Something told him he would soon find himself thrust into its midst.

"That's Coleridge Gardens," said Willard behind him, pointing across the river. "Them stalls at the yonder end is the market."

Billy led them toward the house. Horses in one of the corrals nickered at their mules. A portly middle-aged man with reddish-brown hair combed straight back came out onto the porch. He had a clean-shaven face except for a bushy droopy reddish mustache. Two things about the man struck John as strange: Due to the scarcity of food, John had only read about overweight people. He had never seen one. And, the lack of razors meant most men wore beards. John would learn later that Bernie owned a rare old-fashioned straight razor. The man stood wiping his hands on an apron. When he recognized Billy, he smiled and waved.

When the caravan stopped before the porch, Billy announced to the gang, "Boys, this here's Bernie Haas, the proprietor of this fine establishment. We'll stay here during the market. And Bernie, this is the Mitchell gang, a ways away from their normal haunts but as good a bunch a men as you've ever known."

"If you say so, it's true, Billy," said Bernie with a broad smile. "Welcome to Haas House, gentlemen."

Billy introduced each of the gang by name and then said, "Why don't you boys unload the mules and help Joey here rub 'm down and feed 'm while Mitch and Bernie and me have us a confab. Joey'll tell you where to make 'm at home."

A young skinny teenager with a vacuous grin and bobbing head had appeared beside the landlord sometime during the conversation. He bounded down the steps of the porch and led them toward the corrals. Outbuildings built in units of two faced each other across each corral. One units served as a warehouse built of stout oak logs with a sturdy plank door fitted with a padlock and no windows. The other was a stable. The roofs of both sheds sloped away from the corral.

Joey, still grinning and bobbing his head, led Billy's boys to the first corral and Mitch's gang to another. He showed Mitch's men how to store the truck. They backed the carts into the warehouse without unloading them and stacked the truck from the mules around and on top of them.

As they worked, Willard told John, "This is a great place to stay. They got great food and the hottest women you ever seen."

After finishing rubbing down and feeding the mules, they went into the house. Its front door opened into a small foyer and then into the bar, a room made long by removing an interior wall. A bar made of doors laid across barrels and crates ran along the left side of the room. Different types and styles of stools, some made since the Last Days, lined it. Shelves behind it held a variety of glasses and bottles of whiskey and wine. The ends of two tapped kegs protruded through the wall. John would learn later that Bernie drew light-colored beer from one and dark from the other. Several signs such as, "Hangovers professionally installed and maintained" and "It only takes one beer to get me drunk – I don't remember if it's the eighth or ninth" adorned the back wall beside the shelves. Tables and chairs filled the other side of the room. Two large round tables in the rear usually hosted card games. The bar and dining room occupied most of the ground floor. John heard the sounds and smelled the scents of a kitchen in back. A lot of people sat and milled about in the bar, all adults. He found a corner from which he could sit and observe the bar and a dining room which set at right angles to one another.

He began to sort people out. Billy introduced Mitch and the other gang members to the twenty or so men and women. Their clothing and the horses in the other corrals led John to identify them as scroungers like Mitch's gang. The others must have worked for Bernie Haas. They included two burly young men who didn't seem to do much besides lounge by the front door and greet the customers and (delightfully!) two or three women in low-cut chemises and swirly skirts who served the customers.

Only Matt sat apart from the others in a moody contemplative silence sipping a beer. Since he didn't look as though he wanted to be disturbed, John kept his attention turned to the room at large. He didn't want to try talking to anyone. The older people probably would ignore him anyhow. That didn't matter. He found watching such a crowd a new and exhilarating experience.

Then, to John's surprise, Matt came over and sat by him.

"A little different from Kane's Cove, huh?" he said with a grin, his mood apparently lighter than John had thought. "Think you can get used to this?"

John nodded. "I sure want to try."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then Matt asked, "Did Buck tell you directly that he first went trucking with Billy when he was thirteen?"

John shrugged, looked away. Then: "Well, you know, I figured he might've gone trucking with Billy about then."

Matt shook his head. "You're gonna make a helluva poker player."

* * * *

After dinner, as the other men started toward the bar, Matt drew Lou aside. "Let's take a walk. There's something I want to run by you." Outside it had turned nearly dark and more comfortable. They crossed the porch, descended the steps, turned away from the stench of the stables and corrals and followed the road toward the bridge.

"A couple of things've been eating at me," said Matt. "At first they didn't seem related. Now I'm not so sure. I wanted to see what you thought."

"Fire away."

"First, as you know, we seldom went to Kansas City before that time we met Chadwick there, only once before, in fact. And Chadwick, according to Bennett, had only been there a couple of times himself. Don't you think it peculiar, then, that you guys ran into them there? And in January, an unusual time of year to go trucking so far from home?"

"I've thought that same thing, yes."

"And then there's the question of Downing, who was standing watch. Why didn't we find a single trace of him back at Summerfield Crossing?"

"Well, at the time I think we figured wild dogs dragged him off. I mean they sure made a mess of Johnson and Dodd. At least something did."

"But Johnson and Dodd were at least there, if spread around a little. And there was blood everywhere around them. Downing didn't leave a drop of blood, a scrap of clothing. Not a trace."

"So what happened to him?"

"That's what I've been asking myself. Here's another puzzle for you. We've all wondered a couple things about the ambush. Number one, how did they figure out that we robbed the gold? And they must've found out. Otherwise, why the ambush? And two, if they knew it was us, why'd it take them so long to come after us? I mean, two whole years? They'd have wanted revenge, not to mention their treasure back, a helluva lot sooner than that.

"Here's another thing to think about. Remember how Downing sulked when it finally got through to him that he'd been kicked out of Johnson's inner circle and replaced with Mitch? We didn't see anything of him all winter, not till we went truckin in the spring."

"I'm trying to see where you're headed here."

They reached the bridge and walked out on it a ways.

"So try putting it all together like this: Johnson replaces Downing with Mitch. Downing's really pissed. He decides to leave the gang and goes to Columbia to join up with Chadwick. He didn't know much about Chadwick, but he'd heard he had the biggest and richest gang in that area. It doesn't work out for some reason, so Downing comes back to rejoin the gang. His loss of status gnaws at him, though, for a couple more years. But who notices? Downing's always been surly and unsociable.

"Then Johnson decides we should go truckin in January to make up for a lackluster season. Winters are usually pretty mild anymore, so why not go all the way to Kansas City? Downing sees his chance to get even. After the market he goes back to see Chadwick and tells him our plan. None of us would miss him between the close of market and January in Nellie's Fair, right? We didn't all stay at the same place and sometimes didn't see each other for days at a time. Some of us, like you and me, had winter jobs sometimes."

"Yeah," said Lou, "sometimes O'Conner hires me for public works stuff and you play accountant."

"But that year O'Conner didn't need you but my accountant did."

"So you're saying Chadwick's trip to Kansas City wasn't a coincidence." He looked sharply at Matt. "But the gold! You think Downing told Chadwick we stole his gold?"

Matt shrugged. "Somebody must've. How else could he have found out it was us? Is there a more likely candidate?"

"Why didn't Downing warn Chadwick we planned to steal the gold before we did it?" Then Lou answered himself. "Probably couldn't get away long enough. We talked to Bennett toward the end of October, and we had to go to Columbia on Thanksgiving. Since we hang out together pretty much through November, it would've seemed odd for Downing not to be around then."

They sat down on the bridge railing. They could see lights across the river in Coleridge Gardens.

Lou thought it over for a while, then said, "But if Downing was in cahoots with Chadwick, he wouldn't've gone along with us to steal the treasure."

"He had no choice. Everybody else was going, even cowards like you and me. He couldn't even act like he was against the plan. He backed Johnson in every nutty scheme he thought up, the more dangerous the better."

"But why'd they wait so long to come after us? I mean, they'd have been on us, in Mitch's words, 'like stink on shit,' the minute they found out we were the thieves."

"Not if they were waiting for Downing to give them the perfect time and place for an ambush. A crime like that would have to be utterly secret and foolproof. It wouldn't be wise to let it become common knowledge that they had perpetrated such a chicken-shit crime. Other gangs would consider such a renegade band bad for business and think about eliminating it. And by single-handedly foiling their first ambush attempt in Kansas City, Johnson had gained their respect as a dangerous opponent. For those reasons this next, more deadly, ambush had to be at a site that took him and his two chief warriors completely unawares.

"It would take a while to put something like that together. Look at it like this: We steal the gold one November, but Downing doesn't get back to Chadwick for the rest of that winter. Or maybe he does but our trucking route the next season doesn't lend itself to the perfect ambush.

"But during the next season we plan to stop at Summerfield Crossing on the way back to Nellie's Fair. That's the perfect place. No one lives for miles around, and it's off the beaten track for other gangs. Downing knows about it in the fall, slips away to tell Chadwick some time during the winter, can tell him within a few days when we'll be there. So Chadwick sends Matheson, because army training has made him a professional murderer just like Johnson, with a contingent of toughs to wait for us. Finally, one night Downing's standing guard. He waits till we're all asleep and gives Matheson the word...."

"Yeah," breathed Lou.

"They didn't have to be in any particular hurry to deal with us," said Matt. "They already had what was most important to them...."

Lou turned suddenly to Matt, wide-eyed, "The stash! They already had the stash!"

"Watch out. Don't fall off the bridge."

"You're saying Downing had already led them to the gold so they weren't in any hurry to stiff us. They could afford to wait till it was absolutely safe."

Matt shrugged. "He either took them to the stash before the ambush or he has since. Either way is the same for us. If this scenario is right, of course."

They thought all this over in silence.

"Were you gonna tell the others your theory?" asked Lou.

"As soon as I ran it by you. I wanted to hear your thoughts."

"Unfortunately, I think it could've worked like that. It answers a lot of questions, like why we didn't find a trace of Downing. He did it to get his revenge on Johnson and share in the gold. Ditto for Chadwick, not only for us stealing the gold but for his disgrace in Kansas City."

"Let's sleep on it tonight," said Matt, "and get our trading started in the morning. If I'm right, there's no hurry in trying to dig up the stash."

* * * *

Billy had told Mitch that the following morning he had to meet the Mayor to rent a market stall, and suggested that Matt go along. Billy would introduce them. She preferred to deal only with the two or three leading members of a gang. She didn't care much for scroungers, but knew the importance of their goods to the town. He took them across the bridge to Coleridge Gardens and what Billy called the "Mayor's palace," the subdivision's former community center. There, he had said, she "held court" in its main room every day of the harvest market. She lived as well as ruled from there. It certainly looked big enough, Matt thought as they approached it, in fact large even for a subdivision in the city. It certainly seemed out of place here in the boondocks.

Three steps took them onto a porch that extended across the building's front. Pseudo-Corinthian columns supported its roof. Billy doffed his hat; Matt and Mitch followed suit. He led them through large open double doors with a burly man stationed on each side into the huge octagonal main room. The furnishings looked a bit shabby, with worn once-thick carpeting and heavy draperies. Carpet runners covered the most heavily-trafficked areas. Offices opened off two of the western octagonal walls, and double doors in the rear offered access to a conference room. The glass walls between the main room and the adjoining ones and a couple of skylights made the main room look even larger. Matt guessed that the solid, closed double doors in the east wall led to the Mayor's quarters.

Several people stood around. Billy, acquainted with most of them, exchanged greetings as he led Mitch and Matt to a long low dais in front of the conference room. Four people sat behind a long table. The middle-aged woman to the left of center had to be the mayor. A handsome, clean-shaven man with curly black hair, her junior by at least ten years, sat on her left, and an older man with a vague beatific smile and yellowing white beard sat to her right. At the far end of the table, separated a little from the others, a grouchy-looking man crouched over with a clutter of papers.

The woman stood as Billy approached and put on a practiced politician's smile, a tall, handsome woman, with severe patrician features and carefully coifed dark-blond hair graying at the temples.

"Mr. Kane, I'm so glad to see you." She held out an elegant long-fingered hand. "I'm so sorry you missed the opening festivities last Saturday."

"I'm right sorry we couldn't make it, Your Honor." He had told the men he always avoided the opening day's long boring speeches and religious ceremonies. Billy shrugged. "You know how farm life is."

"Indeed, indeed." Though Matt knew she had no idea.

And seeing her looking curiously at Matt and Mitch, "Let me introduce you to my friends. This is Henry Mitchell, boss of a scrounger gang that's new to our country and his second-in-command, Matt Pringle." News of his promotion surprised Matt, and no doubt, Mitch too.

She nodded slightly to each man. "Mr. Mitchell. Mr. Pringle. So pleased to welcome you to our town. I am Ms. Coleridge, the Mayor of Coleridge Gardens. This is my husband, Mr. Gelden," she indicated the young, curly-haired man who nodded slightly and regarded them with a bored expression, "and the Reverend Dr. Gates, our community's spiritual leader." The man with the yellowing white beard. "At the far end of the table is my secretary, Mr. Gordon." As Billy had said, she liked using honorifics, anachronistic even in the pre-Last Days world except for people of very high station.

"Did you gentlemen wish to participate in our market?"

"That was our hope, Ma'am," said Mitch, "uh, Your Honor. Mr. Kane has oftentimes spoke so kindly of your fine community that we've long wanted to visit and trade at your market."

Well said! thought Matt with surprise. Wily old Billy must have coached him.

"Well, I'm glad you've finally made it," she said, though her interest in them had begun to wane. She acted as though other, more important, business awaited her. "Mr. Gordon will be glad to show you what stalls are available, help you make a selection, and discuss charges."

# Chapter Fifteen

The gang decided to rent only one stall because of the cost though they had enough truck in Bernie's warehouse to refill it several times. Stony's Stonebilt trucks carried enough truck to fill the stall. The gang pulled them across the Grange River bridge and along the road extending east called descriptively, if unimaginatively, Bridge Road. A short distance beyond the floodplain's stubble-pocked fields they turned south down a paved and curbed street: Coleridge Way, Coleridge Gardens' main street. They followed it through the town to the market in its southern end.

After they arrayed their products in the stall, Lou wiped sweat from his brow. "Wish this town had a tavern. This heat makes a man thirsty."

"Remember what Billy said," said Matt.

"I know, I know. Coleridge Gardens has banned alcohol. But I can wish can't I?"

Billy had strolled up from the stall he had rented next to theirs. "You know what they say bout wishing, Lou," he said, holding his hands palms up. "Wish in one hand and shit in to other. See which one fills up first. Or, you can foller me over to Bernie's for an early lunch. He's got a whole basement full of beer. Fact, it'd be good for us main guys to go eat now: Mitch Matt and Lou, Ed Baines and me. We need to be here after noon for heronners's traditional visit."

So those Billy named went to Haas House for lunch.

The crowd wandering among the stalls that had opened Saturday, dickering and trading and buying, made the gang eager to open. Billy had told them though, that by custom, stall holders waited to open for business until after the Mayor's visit. At that time they invited her to select whatever she fancied from their wares. Though not mandatory, sellers who honored the tradition fared best at future Coleridge Gardens markets. Those who didn't paid higher rents for inferior stall sites or suffered delays in opening.

Shortly after Matt and the others returned from Haas House the Mayor arrived with a small entourage: Ronald Gelden, her bored-looking husband; a young man and woman, presumably servants since they carried baskets filled with goods from other stalls; and two young girls, apparently her daughters. She greeted Mitch and Matt with brief formality and barely acknowledged the others, except for a curious look at John, probably thinking him young for a scrounger.

Her attention went directly to the full-length mirror. She stood regarding herself in it for a moment. She turned to look over the other items on display in a cursory manner but kept glancing occasionally at the mirror.

John had skipped lunch to make sure he saw the Mayor. He told Matt his description of her had made him curious. Matt saw that John watched the older daughter with interest, though not as covertly as he believed. Noticing his attention, the girl struck different poses for his benefit. Blond, pretty and petulant, she looked about two or three years older than John, the right age to have been a baby during the Last Days as Billy had described her.

The other daughter, younger than John, eyed him with as much interest as he did her sister but with no pretense at secrecy. Her dark curls and eyes and porcelain olive complexion gave Gelden away as her father. Though at present a gangling, mischievous little girl, her pretty face and lithe build, Matt predicted, meant that some day she'd be a knockout. Fortunately, both girls had inherited their mother's body that would make them tall, leggy beauties.

The mayor's oldest daughter examined her reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that, glancing at John occasionally to make sure he watched. The Mayor went over to her.

"Isn't that a wonderful mirror, Alicia? It's just what a young lady needs to make sure she has put everything together properly. Jaclyn, come over here, darling. Let's see what you look like in front of the glass."

She pulled her youngest daughter over from where she had been appraising John from under long eyelashes to face the mirror. She stuck her tongue out at John on the way. She frowned at her reflection, then began to make faces at it.

Mayor Coleridge turned to Mitch. "Mr. Mitchell, Alicia and Jaclyn are simply entranced by that wonderful mirror. You have been so kind to invite us to receive a gift from your wares. Would you mind terribly if they had that mirror for their very own? Oh, my, thank you. They'll be forever grateful. They'll think of you every time they look in it. Isn't it wonderful, Ronald?" The husband apparently, thought Matt, though she didn't glance in his direction or wait for a response. "Not a flaw in it. And you must've brought it from god knows how far away.

"No, don't bother bringing it over, Mr. Mitchell. I'll send my man over for it later. Did you see anything you'd like, Ronald?" But she didn't wait for an answer. "Thank you all again. Now we must be off. Come, Ronald, don't dawdle. I have a lot to do before the day is over."

And she left in a swish of her skirt. Something about that skirt and her people's clothes looked familiar to Matt: finely woven and well-tailored, with tasteful and permanent appearing colors. The Mayor had worn a full-skirted dress of pale green and a fitted bodice threaded with stripes of an earthy orange, and Ronald a pale blue woolen shirt and darker blue trousers. The older daughter Alicia had worn a simple blue dress that matched her eyes and the younger, Jaclyn, woolen shorts and loose short sleeved shirt.

Of course! Coleridge Looms. Some of the finer woolen clothing sold in Nellie's Fair bore that name on their label. That's why the name 'Coleridge' had sounded so familiar back at Kane's Cove. Several of the gang members, including him, owned some of their shirts.

Matt saw John's gaze follow the departing group a little wistfully and went over to him.

"I see you've made a hit with the ladies of Coleridge Gardens," he said.

John looked away, face reddening. He looked confused and angry and didn't answer.

As they opened the stall for business, Mitch fumed because the Mayor had taken such a valuable item. "That would a been a half day's take," he growled.

"Yeah," laughed Stony, "but heronner's little girls 'll think a you ever time they look in that there mirra. She said so herself!"

"You won't be laughin like that," said Doc, "when you're layin out there in the western Kansas prairie on the way to Colorado some night with the wind blowin up your ass. You'll be thinkin, 'Oh, if we'd a just had the money from that mirra to buy more blankets.' You ain't never seen wind blow like they got in western Kansas."

"Yeah," said Stony, "They say the wind don't blow in Kansas. It sucks.' But I'm used to wind. I'm around you all the time."

"Would you two shut the hell up," hissed Mitch. "We got customers."

The trading proceeded briskly. They collected nellies as often as possible, because of cash's portable nature, and only took goods in trade that traders would buy for cash later. Adept at recognizing those items, Mitch supervised all barter transactions. The gang had found barter a disadvantage of small country markets. Nellies circulated more freely in larger places, especially in Nellie's Fair where the bank minted them. That night Mitch made a deal with Bernie to accept food items toward their room rent.

As they had paid their stall rent they had encountered another frustration. The Mayor's secretary Gordon gave them a "blue book" that set the prices of items for sale at the market. Because of paper's scarcity they had to leave a deposit to ensure the book's return at the end of the market. Only the costs of items not included in the blue book could be negotiated. "Nother fatality a the Last Days," Mitch had grumbled. "The fuckin free market."

The market stayed open until late in the evening. When it got dark, the mayor's people put up rather smelly pitch-soaked brands for light. Trading proceeded so successfully that the young ones returned to Bernie's warehouse twice for more truck. The men took turns returning to Bernie's for dinner. At last people drifted away and the stalls closed. At Billy's recommendation to trust the mayor's guardians of the market, who patrolled it day and night, Mitch didn't require a guard from the gang to remain at the stall overnight.

After they closed the stall, Matt called a confab for only the older guys down by the river under the bridge. Matt told the young guys it didn't involve them because it concerned the stash. After they gathered, squatting in a circle, he told them his theory of Downing's betrayal. After a little discussion they grew quiet as they chewed it over.

Finally Mitch said, "There's a good chance Matt's wrong. Let's hope so. There's no sense a panickin till it's time to panic. But we oughta go check the stash as soon as possible."

"We can't, though," said Doc. "We all agreed to dig the stash up together and we can't trust the kids to run the stall by theirsel's. Might as well give ever'thing away."

Mitch sighed resignedly. "We gotta know, one way or t'other, if the stash is there or not. If it ain't, we go on to plan B."

"Which is ...?" said Lou.

"Yet to be determined," said Mitch. "Anyhow, we gotta know. So here's what we do. We wait a couple days till the market settles down a little. Then you boys go dig up the stash. I'll stay here with the young'ns to run the market. When you git back, we'll know."

"But we said we'd all go together!" insisted Doc.

"Hey, Doc," said Mitch, "if I can't trust you assholes after twelve years, who can I trust? We gotta know. Period. Only then can we head out for Colorado or...." Probably only Matt right beside him noticed his shrug in the dark.

"Mitch's right," said Matt. "We need to find out about the stash one way or the other."

Then they tried to determine the stash's location in relation to Coleridge Gardens. They had gone there from the opposite direction, from Columbia. After they figured out the site's general area, they estimated that it would take a day to get there and a day to get back. They would tell the younger guys their destination, of course, but nothing of their glum expectations.

"I suggest we wait till Saturday," said Matt. "That's three days from now. Billy says the market's closed Sunday; good Christians don't do business on the Lord's Day. If we leave Saturday, we can probably make it back by Sunday evening. Sunday gives us a travel day that we won't have to worry about the market."

"Perfect," said Mitch. "And boys, to tell the truth, my leg ain't what it should be yet. I can't keep from walkin long enough to let it heal proper. I ain't hankerin for a long walk till we head to Colorado."

Back at Bernie's, they found the main bar mostly deserted. Only two of Billy's men, Ed Baines and the man who had ridden shotgun with him, Earl Keller, sipped beer at a back table. The other gangs had probably preceded them and were now up in their rooms assessing their take for the day. The younger men from Mitch's gang, except John, played pool in a back room, taking turns playing pool with two younger members of another gang.

The five joined Billy's men at their big round table and ordered beer.

"Where's Billy?" asked Matt. "He's usually parties till the last dog dies."

Baines grinned. "He may be partyin right now, for all I know. He's down at the Mayor's. On his first night in town, he delivers her the case a whisky she buys ever' year. After dark of course. The fine citizens a this town'd be mighty put out to think their glorious leader ever imbibed the devil's drink."

"Don't git Ed wrong though," said Earl Keller. "Billy ain't up to no hanky panky with her Honor. I ain't never known a man more honorable to his woman than ol' Billy. And well he should be. Hanna's a blessin to us all. Here's to Hanna."

They all drank to Hanna Kane.

After one round, all the gang members except Matt went up to their rooms, their spirits dampened by the discussion about the stash. Billy's men went as well. Matt went to the bar where Bernie washed the pint canning jars he used to serve beer and ordered three of the establishment's favorite products: a shot of whiskey, a pint of dark beer, and a joint.

Matt wanted to get to know Bernie better. Bernie was a little older than him, perhaps in his late forties. He displayed a lot of stamina and strength for someone carrying around some extra weight. Strong enough to wrestle the big kegs of beer into place behind the bar without help, he seemed to work day and night.

"So where you guys from?" asked Bernie, in his role of conversational bartender.

"Oh, here and there," said Matt, "like most of our type. We usually winter at Nellie's Fair."

"So why'd you decide to give us a try?"

Matt shrugged. "Looking for new places, new markets. You know."

"Yeah, we get lots a curiosity seekers."

A bit of sarcasm? Coleridge Gardens had one of the smaller markets Matt had seen, one that primarily attracted local farmers. Yet it fit their purposes as a market too small to attract larger scrounger and trader gangs that could have leaked news of their whereabouts to Chadwick.

"That kind of surprises me," he said. "With all due respect, this town's market isn't the biggest I've seen."

Bernie let out a hearty laugh. "Of course they don't come for the town. But Haas House isn't in the town, it's across the river, and it belongs to me, not the Mayor. No doubt her people 'd like to get rid of my sinful establishment, but that ain't never gonna happen." He set down the jar he had been polishing, picked up a pint of beer he had been sipping – a porter like Matt's – and held it up to admire its color. "No, they don't care about the fucking town. They come to my place. They come for the beer!"

Matt laughed. He decided he liked this man. He raised his jar, and Bernie clinked his against it. Matt had intended to go up to the room as soon as he finished the round but got involved in conversation with Bernie and stayed for another, of beer only, which Bernie bought. And then for another round that Matt bought. According to Bernie, his beer's reputation had spread far and wide. He sold it to homesteads and settlements over a broad area. Matt admitted to Bernie that his porter surpassed any he had tasted since before the Last Days. He finally stumbled up to bed with a pleasant glow.

* * * *

John and the other youths had little to do except restock the stall periodically so on the first day John explored the town, which didn't take long. It consisted of the original nine houses the Coleridges had built, the community center now occupied by the Mayor, and about two score small houses built since the Last Days. Billy had said about two hundred people lived there. Even without the addition of the market crowd, more people lived there than John had ever seen anywhere, including Kane's Cove. The population of Newcastle had never exceeded a dozen. People in the town by the Missouri River had numbered twenty or so before they left. Only a few isolated families lived near Newcastle, but they had seldom come to town and Maude and the others never visited them.

The Coleridge Gardens' streets formed a rectangle with two long streets running north and south and two short east-west ones. The main street, Coleridge Way, extended south from Bridge Road, encountered the northernmost east-west street about a block south and then continued through the center of the rectangle to end at the southern east-west street. The market stalls criss-crossed the slope south of town. The nine pre-Last Days houses lined the northernmost east-west street, the five model homes to the west of it, the other four to the east. The Mayor's residence and center of government, the former community center, sat on the northeast corner of that street's intersection with Coleridge Way. Most of the townspeople lived in smaller dwellings, ranging from sturdy log structures to ramshackle huts, that faced the other streets. The largest building on Coleridge Way in the center of the rectangle exceeded even the Mayor's house. John later learned the long low structure housed Coleridge Looms.

John liked exploring the market. An interesting variety of merchandise filled the tent and lean-to stalls. Farmers sold produce from the backs of carts or from stalls, every kind of vegetable he had ever seen and many he hadn't, as well as eggs and live chickens, butter and cheese, flour and corn meal. Some people sold homemade implements: wooden bowls, cups, dishes, spoons, forks, and even table knives; nails and horseshoes; tools and household items made from what had been trash before the Last Days. One stall featured bows and arrows and related accouterments: quivers, leather arm guards, bowstrings, and the like. John smiled thinking of Jackie's crude weapon and resolved to tell him of this stall. He saw smelly tallow candles and more expensive beeswax ones, and soap, ranging from harsh skin-abraiding ones like Maude made to softer varieties, some even scented. How he would love to take some sweet-smelling soap to Maude! With a pang he suddenly missed her and the others, even crotchety Clarence.

He saw animal hides for sale, some poorly cured and smelly, leather goods, buckskin clothing and sandals made from leather or remnants of old automobile tires. And hats made of knitted wool, leather and animal hides reminiscent of Billy Kane's. He saw blankets and towels, and woolen clothing for every age and sex, coats and serape-like ponchos like those favored by scroungers. The best and most expensive clothing had not been displayed at the market at all but hung from racks and lay on tables outside their birthplace, the Coleridge Looms building.

He saw some items he didn't recognize. A woman told him the black sooty stuff that looked like partially-burned wood was indeed just that: charcoal, wood burned in the ground under intense heat without the presence of oxygen, which turned it into a fuel that burned at much higher temperatures than regular wood. He found out one of its uses at the plateau's slope, surrounded by the Coleridge Gardens folks' stubbled fields. There he saw pens full of livestock – sheep, hogs, cattle, horses, donkeys, mules, and strange-looking animals that he later learned to call llamas. A blacksmith had set up a forge under a large cottonwood tree near the pens to shoe horses for the some of the visitors to the market. He also sold iron tools he had made. The smith used charcoal in his forge. The man's patience in explaining how the forge and bellows worked and the role of charcoal encouraged John to return over the next few days to watch the fellow and his young apprentice at work.

Food venders sold fish, chicken, beef, pork, lamb, and wild game, roasted, smoked, or cured; sausages, cheeses, a variety of breads and sweets, fruit drinks – none alcoholic, of course – and foods he'd never heard of such as pizza and pasta. Even though the cost of his stay at Bernie's included food (for which the gang fortunately paid) he couldn't resist trying the pasta. He had trouble keeping it on his fork on the way to his mouth, but the sauce was delicious. He decided he'd have to have it again some day. (A few nights later Bernie's women featured spaghetti for dinner.)

A tall man and woman sold only salt stacked in piles at their stall, with a scale to measure it. They and their children looked painfully thin. When someone called the man Fats, John realized that Billy had traded whiskey to this man, Fats Tanner, for salt.

Of the six scrounger gangs who had rented stalls, the Kanes had the smallest amount of truck to sell. They did not count heavily on scrounging. Farming and Billy's whiskey distillery and occasional land surveys supported them. Most of the money the Kanes earned at the market came from the grain the Mayor bought in the town's name and the whiskey he sold to Bernie, and more clandestinely, to the Mayor and other private citizens.

The market produced a lively mixture of sounds from hawking hucksters, dickering farmers, traders and merchants, livestock pens and playing children. A mélange of smells lay over it, odor from of the animal pens, poorly tanned hides, leather, tallow, soap and roasting food from market grills and from south of the market where most out-of-towners camped.

Curiosity drove John to explore the original town of Trevelyan which people had abandoned to move to Coleridge Gardens. He noticed a remarkably well-preserved church on the main street. Looking through a window he saw that someone had cleaned it recently. A bouquet of wild flowers in a vase sat on a low table before the altar. Apparently the religious Coleridge Gardens folk attended church services there.

Sometimes Kincaid or Rossi accompanied John but for the most part the gang members spent time not occupied by the stall in Haas House playing pool or cards. John joined them in the evenings in time for dinner. After dinner, from the day's sales, Mitch set aside money for gang scratch, then divided the rest of the take among the men. The dining room, about half the length of the bar, opened at right angles to it. Billy told them Bernie also used it for special events. Those mostly occurred during the fall and winter when farmers had more time on their hands. Then, on most Saturday nights, some group of local musicians showed up to play there. Billy said they sounded even worse than Ed Baines, but only because they outnumbered him, three or four to a group to his one. In the summer Bernie often had fish fries on Friday nights. A smaller room behind the dining/special events room contained only a pool table and against the wall, racks for balls and cues and shelves for drinks.

Only three women and the adolescent boy Joey worked for Bernie as permanent employees. He hired two burly young farmers from north up the river to work during the harvest market. After they brought their crops to market they were free until after the market when they would return home to prepare for winter. One of them worked with Joey in the stables and the other helped with brewing. They also protected the grounds and hung around as bouncers in the bar at night. Despite these two young men's help, Bernie and the three women always looked tired.

John heard Bernie tell Matt, "We're expecting another gang in; they're a week late. Then we'll really be swamped. There's another one that comes toward the end of the market, but it's only an old man and a few boys and they don't stay with me. The old bastard's too cheap. They stay out under the bridge. We only take care of his horse."

Except for the younger people of Mitch's and the other gangs, Bernie's was nearly empty during the day but he and the women stayed busy; that was when he took care of brewing and the women cooked and cleaned. After the dinner dishes were cleared from the tables and washed, two of the three women took off work for the evening. They took turns working at night, though, so that one always helped Bernie.

At night the place filled up. Most of the scroungers not busy at their booths hung out drinking, smoking, and playing pool or cards. Some of the farmers who lived outside Coleridge Gardens visited Bernie's as well as some of the townsfolk, though the latter slipped in well after dark. It seemed that Bernie and his woman could hardly keep up. The two young farmers were too inept to be of much help except for washing glasses and bringing kegs of beer up from the brewery.

The two younger women, on the nights they were officially off duty, usually kept busy in another capacity. A stairway in a hidden little niche between the pool room and the kitchen led up to the second and third floors, the latter having once been the servants' quarters, to allow servants to come and go unnoticed. One of the two women would periodically appear at the doorway to the servants' stairway and invite a guest or customer to follow her upstairs. This might happen several times a night. It was to be some time before John understood these transactions, and when he did it stirred those strange new yearnings that whined within him in the presence of women.

* * * *

On Saturday morning, Matt, Lou, Doc, and Stony left early to either retrieve the stash or discover that they had to live without it. They borrowed mules from Billy to pull two of Stony's carts to retrieve the gold if they indeed found it, though of course they didn't tell him the nature of their mission.

Before the Last Days, Saturday would have been a busy "weekend" day, and thus a bad time to leave Mitch alone with the young men to run the stall. But weekends no longer existed. People didn't go to regular Monday-through-Friday jobs. They worked whenever work needed doing, except on Sunday in this Christian community. This made Saturday like any other day and the four should be back before the market opened Monday.

They reached the site sooner than they thought, just after midday, and found the basement of what had been one of the ubiquitous automated convenience stores located in rural America. This one had stood at a country crossroads with no other buildings around it. It had burned and its basement had filled with the building's fallen-in debris. They had not buried the gold in the basement itself, of course, since it could attract truck-seekers but some distance from it, in Chadwick's four footlockers. They had used the basement's corner and trees as landmarks to locate the burial site, then concealed it with fallen tree limbs and decaying vegetation. Johnson had suggested the location because no one lived anywhere near. They knew of the store because they had scrounged it before it burned.

At first the four stood under the giant walnut tree looming over the basement without moving to begin excavating. Stony and Doc started arguing over whether the site appeared to be disturbed. Matt grew irritated at their temporizing. Then at his own.

"The gold won't unbury itself," he groused and grabbed a spade from a cart. He paced the proper distance from the tree and began to dig. Lou grabbed the other shovel and joined him. They dug for what, to their taut-strung nerves, seemed a long time. Doc relieved Matt, grumbling that he didn't remember burying it so deep. Stony offered to spell Lou.

"With all due respect, little buddy," said Lou, "I can dig up twice the dirt you can and I'm a long way from tired. Thanks, though."

Matt gratefully let Doc take his spade. Again, he marveled at Lou's endurance. He knew Lou, unlike his companions, hardly felt the effects of the journey. He could easily have hiked the rest of the day and then started shoveling.

Then Lou's shovel struck something solid. Without a word, he and Doc worked with renewed energy at uncovering the top of the footlocker and a trench around it deep enough to reach its latch. Matt and Stony scrambled to the edge of the excavation to help, though careful not to get in their way. Even before they finished digging, Stony had sprung the latch. With a grunt, he threw open the lid.

They looked into the empty footlocker.

No, not quite empty. In the bottom, in the very center, a fist-sized stone lay atop a piece of paper with writing on it. Matt reached in and pulled the paper out. Though crudely lettered, badly faded, and difficult to read, they immediately recognized the author: Frank Johnson.

"Are you gonna read the son-of-a-bitch," said Doc, "or stand there lookin at it all day?"

"You don't want to hear it," said Matt quietly. Then he read the poorly spelled note aloud: "'Sory fellars figered I needed this stash morn you. Save yur strenth. don't dig no fu'ther.'"

They stood without speaking, numb. Finally, Lou shook himself. "I don't know bout you guys," he said, "but I'd like to camp as far away from here as possible tonight."

They nodded agreement. No one suggested looking for the other three footlockers.

# Chapter Sixteen

The news of Johnson's perfidy devastated Mitch of course, his closest advisor, probably hurt him more than it did the others. He had tried to talk Johnson out of his wild schemes and when he couldn't, tried to make them work as smoothly as possible. He had served as the gang's quartermaster, mentor and chief negotiator. He didn't speak at first, but just sat with his black brows drawn together in a deep scowl. Finally he sighed and said quietly, "You gotta give the bastard credit. He had chutzpah."

Mitch surprised Matt by knowing the word but it well described the brash effrontery of Johnson's cruel joke. He might have stolen the stash at any time after their theft from Chadwick. Johnson had counted on the other men's trust in each other, and him, to keep them from secretly going back to check on it. Matt could imagine Johnson's secret glee as he listened, while trucking with the men each season, to how they intended to use their wealth, knowing it lay hidden in a place known only to him and, presumably, to his wife. He probably intended to just not return to Nellie's Fair some spring. They had no idea where he wintered. He had only told them he went "somewheres up north," but that could have been a red herring to throw them off in case they discovered the gold missing.

"That blows my theory about Downing all to hell," said Matt.

"Not atall," said Stony. "Downing coulda led Chadwick to the site. Then they found the same thing we did."

"No, Matt's right," said Lou. "They wouldn't 've covered the hole up nice and neat with the note still in there like we found it. They'd 've left it open just like we did. And they wouldn't be so set on killing us."

With the market closed, they had found Mitch alone in their room mending a shirt when they broke the news to him. Downstairs, the younger men played pool with Billy's boys.

"Well, Boss," said Stony. "I guess it's time for plan B, huh?"

"I'm open to suggestions here," said Mitch.

No one spoke for a while. Losing their stash made their situation much more precarious. Their enemies would resume looking for them after the market in Columbia closed.

Then Mitch said, "We still got our savins. It ain't as good as havin the stash but it'll git us outta here. Matt, you need to go to Nellie's Fair right away to draw it outta the bank. Sorry, but you know why it's gotta be you."

"I understand," said Matt.

"Anyhow," said Mitch, "we all write up and sign withdrawal authorizations. Matt takes 'm to the bank and gits our savins out. We pool that, buy some horses or mules, and git the hell outta here as soon as this market's over. Our savins and take from the market oughta git us to Colorado."

"Good thing we ain't sold the trucks yet," said Stony. "They'll carry a lot a scratch."

"There's one thing that's different now," said Doc. "We was gonna finance the kids' scratch with the gold, but now we ain't rich enough for that. I don't know bout you boys but I don't want my savins goin to buy stuff for a bunch a kids that didn't have nothin to do with earnin that money."

"You're right bout that, Doc," said Mitch. The others agreed.

"We've got to tell the younger guys about this," said Matt. "Let's do it right now. Let them decide. If they go with us they'll have to buy their own scratch. Or they can stay here or go back to Nellie's Fair. Chadwick doesn't know them. We need to decide what to do about John, too. He's also blameless for all this."

"The Kanes'll take John back," said Mitch, "but we gotta tell the kids first."

"We oughta even encourage the kids to go their separate ways," said Doc. "It'd be better for us as well as them. It'll be easier for five of us to hide out than ten, cheaper to feed."

"I think Matt and Doc's both right," said Mitch. "Let's git the kids up here right now and tell 'm what's goin on. You go git 'm, Lou. Then tell 'm what happened. Maybe your deep voice and big hulk'll convince 'm how serious this is."

So Lou fetched the youths, told them he had something to tell them and that they had to keep quiet until he finished. Then each could have his say. Sensing from Lou's mood that he had unpleasant news for them, they solemnly listened as Lou told of the missing gold and of Matt's imminent return to Nellie's Fair. Then he told them the gang could no longer afford to finance their scratch. Each had to provide his own if he wanted to remain with the gang.

As promised, they then allowed the kids to have their say. Leighton started first of course.

"Oh, no," he said. "You guys got us into this mess. You need to pay for our scratch outta the gang's scratch fund. We all need clothes bad, specially good warm ones to git across the plains in winter. And none of us ceptin me has weapons. We can't afford all that scratch. It's still you older guy's fault that we lost our scratch. That fact ain't changed none."

"Well, listen, Red," Mitch said in a reasonable tone. "We reckanize why you don't wanta put out so much money to risk goin so far. We don't know what kinda dangers we'll face, if we can find truck or even any markets to sell it in. We understand if you don't wanta go along. Maybe it'd be safer for you guys back in Nellie's Fair."

For a moment Leighton stood there sputtering, trying to think of what to say.

Then the usually taciturn Rossi stood and spoke. "I don't know bout you guys," he said, looking at Leighton and the other younger men. "But we ain't got no choice. We don't know much bout this business. If it wasn't for these guys, we'd still be stuck in Nellie's Fair. More'n likely we'd be dead now. I think we oughta buy our own scratch and go with 'm."

Kincaid jumped to his feet. "Yeah. We like doin this! You gotta let us go long, Mitch."

As usual Miller looked bewildered. "Whadda we done?" he demanded. "We work as hard as anybody."

"We helped you git the truck this far," said Leighton. "Now you don't need us no more."

"Settle down, boys," said Mitch. "We're tellin you this so you can decide if you wanta go with us or not. If you do and you're willin to buy your own scratch, you're welcome to. Us older guys started with nothin durin the year of the Last Days. That ain't the way we wanted it, but that's all we can afford. Life just ain't fair."

Little more discussion followed until they reached a decision. The gang, including the young men, would leave for Colorado as soon as Matt returned from Nellie's Fair and at the end of the market.

"Take off in the mornin," Mitch said to Matt. "The market 'll slow down next week. These here boys was surprisin'ly good at the stall while you was gone." He grinned briefly at Leighton. "'Specially Red. That kid's a born salesman."

Leighton grinned a little, somewhat mollified.

That evening after dinner, Matt and Mitch talked to Billy about Matt's return to Nellie's Fair the next morning to withdraw their savings and asked him the best way to get there. Matt also asked if he could rent one of Billy's mules to ride there.

"They're not broke to ride," he said, "but Bernie's always got horses to rent out." He described the most direct route that detoured around Columbia. "Even though they're not supposed to know you there," Billy said, "it takes a while to get through the check points, and Chadwick's men are used to takin something of yours they decide they need more 'n you do.

"It'll take you bout four days to get to Nellie's Fair if you really pound the road – that'll be Thursday night if you leave tomorrow – and four days to get back. At the end of the first day you'll get to a big mess a tents straddling 63 Highway. That's Stanley Market. The Stanley family sets that up once a month through the summer, but of course they have their biggest market is at this time a year. That'll be a safe place to stay for the night and they don't charge much. Highway 63 goes south directly through Columbia, but you won't do that. You'll..."

After they finished talking, Matt packed what he needed for the trip and went to bed.

* * * *

John hadn't spoken during the confab. He wanted to remain unnoticed so that no one would bring up his membership in the gang. To his surprise and great relief, no one mentioned it.

But the confab had reminded him of another problem. If he somehow convinced Mitch and Matt to let him remain in the gang he, like the other younger guys, would have to provide their own scratch. The other youths could, just barely, afford to replace theirs with their take from market. Mitch had only paid him a few ens for finding the mirror and helping wheel truck to the stall, not nearly enough for all the gear he would need to travel to Colorado.

That evening, while Matt and Mitch conferred with Billy Kane about Matt's route to Nellie's Fair, another gang Bernie had expected last week arrived. John happened to be on the front porch at the time, brooding about his money problems. Six big sturdy women led by a woman named Annie Austin comprised the gang. Bernie greeted them jovially, introducing them to John as the Pike County Dykes.

The leader Annie grinned and poked Bernie in the shoulder. "After I've had a bath and a couple of drinks, come up to my room. Then you decide how I'm tuned."

Bernie manned the bar for his thirsty new arrivals and his already overworked kitchen staff hustled to add to the dinner menu. Soon the bar filled up with guests returning from stalls at the market and farmers from the camp below it. Somehow Bernie and one of his women, helped not too efficiently by one of the young farmers, managed to make sure everyone had drinks while maintaining a friendly flow of conversation or banter. The other farmer helped Joey take care of the Pike County Dykes' horses and stow their truck.

Matt had started talking with Bernie during slow periods. That night the Pike County Dykes, weary from a long day's ride, went to bed early and most other customers dispersed well before midnight. When John came in from the front porch where he had been talking to Buck and Willard he saw Bernie and Matt sitting on each side of the bar. He took a seat beside Matt.

"Looks like you could use some more help," Matt said to Bernie.

"If I could find some," said Bernie. "I was short-handed with four women last season. Now I only got three. People from town 'll slip in here for a drink or six after dark but they won't work for me. Afraid of how their neighbors 'd treat 'm."

"What happened to the fourth woman?"

"Millie, the youngest one, just a girl really. She ran off with a scrounger gang in the spring. And Luke, one of the young farmers, he's getting married next summer. Wants to quit then. You'll meet his girlfriend Karen. She comes down to spend the night with him every few days."

Then it struck John. In Bernie's dilemma he saw the solution to his own.

The next morning, Monday, Matt left well before John got up. That was just as well. He didn't want Matt around to interrupt the conversation he planned to have with Bernie. At breakfast diners filled all the tables and a few sat at the bar. He counted thirty people, including the six newcomers. That filled all the bedrooms which fit in perfectly with John's plan. He wolfed down his breakfast before anyone else finished and found Bernie replacing one of the kegs in the bar. He waited quietly until Bernie finished, then cleared his throat. Bernie turned toward him.

"How are you this morning, John?" he said in his usual cordial manner.

"Fine, Bernie. Say, could I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, what about?" Bernie had started dusting the shelves behind the bar. John hardly ever saw him not working at something, even when talking to customers.

"I was just thinking. Looks like you could use some more help around here."

"You sure got that right." Then he stopped wiping, turned around and looked at John curiously. "Whatcha got in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking maybe I could help out some." Then he spoke quickly before Bernie could say no. "I'm a really hard worker and I'd work real cheap. I need to make some money before we leave. See, everyone in the gang has to buy his own scratch and I don't have enough money. If I can't get my scratch they won't let me go with them. I'm a good scrounger. I found one of the best pieces of truck, a full-length mirror. You can ask Mitch and Matt and the others." He didn't find it necessary to tell Bernie the gang had not yet, and may not ever, accept him as a member.

Bernie seemed to mull it over, then said, "I don't doubt you're an asset to the gang, John. But scrounger work isn't the same as what we do. I'm sure scrounging is fun and exciting, but our work is mostly tedious and boring."

"I'm used to tedious and boring, Bernie. We hauled carts full of truck through rain and mud. And pushed loaded rafts up the Grange River. I pulled my share of the load. We scroungers have our share of hard and boring work, but at least most of your work's inside out of the rain."

Bernie chuckled. "Except for stuff like mucking out the corrals and stables, but you're mostly right. We don't do that in the rain. So what would you see yourself doing for us?"

"Whatever you see me doing. And if I don't work out, Bernie, I'll understand if you tell me to quit."

"At least there aren't any child labor laws any more." Bernie rubbed his chin while appraising John. "S'pose I had you help Joey shovel horse shit outta the corrals and stables?"

John's eyes lit up. "I'd be good at that, Bernie; I'm strong. When do I start?"

Bernie chuckled. "No, I don't need you for that. I just wanted to see how bad you wanted to work. Luke and Jake are experts at pitching shit – they were raised on farms – but they ain't worth a shit at the job I'm thinking of for you. And you can start right now if you want to."

"Great! What do I do? Oh, wait, I better tell Mitch so he'll know why I'm not at the stall today." Finding Mitch just standing up from the breakfast table, John said, "Bernie wants me to help him out some around here. I guess you don't need me at the market?"

Surprised, Mitch answered, "Why no, we got plenty a young'ns to do that. That's their job anyhow. As part of the gang they git a share a the take. I just give you a few ens for helpin."

So John raced back to Bernie. "So where do I start?"

"Hey, slow down," said Bernie with a smile in his voice. "Don't you want to know how much I'm paying you?"

"Why – oh, sure!"

"Grub, room, and two ens a day. I'll need you on weekends but you get Wednesdays off so it'll be twelve ens a week."

John didn't know anything about money so he had no way of judging the value of his pay. It sounded like a lot though. He wished he had someone to ask but he couldn't let anyone in the gang know his scheme to stay in the gang. "Hey, thanks, Bernie! You'll see that I'm worth every bit of it."

"I'll make sure you earn it. Follow me."

John did, through the large kitchen, steamy and bustling with chatting women washing the breakfast dishes, his first time there. Then through the door to the servants' stairway. Only instead of going up the stairs, they went down into another vast kitchen that filled the whole basement, still dark at this early hour. The only illumination came from the dim dawn light seeping through the window wells.

No, not another kitchen. A simple sort of stove did sit there, a grate over a cast iron belly in which a fire danced. A large pot half full of water rested on the grate. Beside it stood a large metal sink. Tables, shelves, and racks like those found in a kitchen occupied the center of the floor but they held huge cooking pots, vats and inscrutable gadgets and implements. Twenty-some barrels lined the dark back wall of the basement that, John would later learn, contained maturing beer.

"This is the brewery," said Bernie. "I need someone to work in here almost full time during this season. I can't afford the time, and I got too much other stuff for Luke and Jake to do. And frankly, neither of them," he gestured at one of the young farmers coming down the stairway they had just descended with a pail of water, "well, they're just not suited to careers as brewmasters. Right, Luke?"

Luke smiled a greeting at John and said, "'S right, Bernie. I ain't cut out for this here woman's work." He emptied the water into the pot on the stove and turned back toward the stairway.

"Wait a minute, Luke," said Bernie, "you've got a replacement. John's gonna be our new brewer. I got other stuff for you to do. You'll find that brewing's not mere 'women's work', John, but what I have you doing today will make you think Luke's right." He turned to Luke and said, "John'll work in here today, Luke. I need you to clean the public rooms upstairs for me. After that, Jake should be finished helping Joey in the stables. You and him come to me for your next project."

Luke nodded, set down the pail, and started upstairs with a parting, "Good luck, kid," to John.

"Your job du jour," said Bernie, looking around the room, "is to clean this place up. We're going to brew a new batch tomorrow, and the room hmust be spotless from top to bottom. Same with all the equipment."

He took John by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "When I say spotless, I mean more than clean. I mean I want to be able to eat off the floor. Scrub the room first and I'll inspect it. You'll undoubtedly have to go back to hit certain areas, maybe the whole thing again. Luke's been helping me three years, and he still can't get it right the first time. Then we'll sterilize the equipment and put it in airtight containers. I'll help with that this time because sterile equipment is even more important than cleaning the room.

"If you want to become a brewer, you must have two compulsions: cleanliness and purity of ingredients. You'll learn a lot of other important principles, but those are the first ones and you gotta obsess over them, all the way to your bones, before you learn anything else. Neither Luke nor Jake can ever learn that, though they think they have." He shook his head sadly as he took his hands off John's shoulders. "They're not comfortable unless they're doing work that leaves manure between their toes.

"Anyway, let's get to work. Be sure a pot of water's heating on the stove all day. You'll need it for cleaning the room and equipment, and Luke will for mopping the public rooms. Fill the pot from the well. You know where the well is? Good." Then Bernie showed John where to find the cleaning equipment and described the order in which he should clean: the room, furniture and fixtures first, then the floor and windows. "I'll let you get started and check in from time to time. I got other stuff to do." He left John and went upstairs.

John took Bernie's directive to make cleanliness a "compulsion" very seriously. He washed and scrubbed, examined every surface critically, and then cleaned it again. He kept water hot for himself and Luke. Bernie came in about mid-morning and looked around with his hands on his hips, frowning.

John was mopping the floor. As Bernie turned to leave, John asked, "See any spots I missed, Bernie?"

"Yes, but no sense showing you now. I'll wait till the final inspection."

John's heart sank. He had thought he had done a really good job. He finished mopping the floor, then scrubbed certain spots that hadn't come as clean as he liked. Then he started scrubbing the furniture, windows and even the walls.

By the time Bernie came back, John had cleaned the room as thoroughly as he thought humanly possible. He was tired and covered in sweat even though the basement was cooler than the upstairs. The harsh lye soap had made his hands raw and his knees ached from kneeling on the concrete floor. Bernie stood at the foot of the stairs, frowning, arms folded, scrutinizing each portion of the room. Then he moved all over it, examining everything in detail, kneeling for a closer look whenever necessary.

Finally he sighed, came over to John, and said, "Well, not bad for a first try, son, but there's a few places you need to hit again."

Bernie pointed them out to John. Most were obscure parts of the room he hadn't noticed. Bernie went back upstairs. John worried. If Bernie didn't let him work after today he couldn't afford enough scratch to go with the gang. He would have to return to Kane's Cove. Of course Maude and the others would take him back. He again realized he missed them, knew he should never have left Newcastle. He resolved that if Bernie didn't want him he would pack his things and leave, slip out some night without a word to anyone and go back home.

When Bernie returned, he examined only the areas which he hadn't approved the first time. He stood up with a slight smile. "I guess that'll pass this time." He looked at John's red, sweaty face. "Take a break, kid. Sit out there on the back stoop in the fresh air until the customers finish lunch."

Gratefully, John wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and did so. A pleasant breeze soughed through the trees behind the house, peacefully, almost hypnotically. It looked like Bernie would keep him, at least for the present.

He was surprised when Bernie shook him awake some indeterminate time later.

"Time to get our ass in gear," he said. "The customers are done eating. Time for you and I to have a bite. Then start washing pots and vats. When I come down later we'll sterilize the equipment."

So the day went. After Bernie and John finished the sterilization, Bernie had a few more chores for him. Everyone worked until the guests had finished supper and then they ate. Then, though John had finished for the day, Bernie had to run the bar until the guests went to bed and the locals went home. John felt so beat he wondered how the man did it.

After John finished eating, Bernie called him over. "If you want breakfast, come down a little before the guests have theirs and eat. Then we go to work. Tomorrow you'll brew your first batch of beer." He smiled a broad smile. "I promise that tomorrow will be a lot funner day."

But John hardly listened to him. He was thinking, I still got a job!

He went up to the gang's room, intending to read a little and go to sleep, maybe read one of the stories out of Kipling's Jungle Books. Only Mitch and Lou were there, Mitch mending a tear in his scratch bag, Lou lying on his cot reading. Mitch asked, "So how'd the new job go?"

John shrugged, a gesture unconsciously borrowed from Matt. "He hasn't got rid of me yet."

"That's called gettin fired or gettin shit-canned," rumbled Lou from his cot.

"In that case," said John, "I haven't gotten shit-canned yet."

"So far, so good," said Mitch.

John plopped down on his bunk, rummaged through his things until he found The Jungle Books, and began to read. He fell asleep before finishing the first story.

* * * *

On Monday evening Matt reached the temporary tent trading town Billy had described, Stanley Market. It occupied the intersection of the road he was traveling with a much broader north-south highway. As he drew closer he saw that it compared roughly in size to the Coleridge Gardens market. Signs posted at regular intervals around the perimeter commanded newcomers to "CHECK ALL WEAPONS AT NORTH TENT."

The man who took Matt's rifle, pistol and machete pointed to nearby fenced area and told him people who spend the night had to stay there. He went to the enclosure, paid for a night's stay for himself and his horse and went inside. Traders, scroungers, and farm families and their gear crowded the place. One large group had taken up the whole eastern half.

After caring for Bernie's horse, a placid aging mare named Lady, he claimed a place to roll out his bedroll and went to the latrine. As he exited, wondering if his fee included meals or if he would have to buy something to eat in the market, a man approaching the latrine grabbed him by the arm.

"Don't I know you?"

Matt looked up. Sad brown eyes regarded him from a seamed brown face, under a tangle of dark brown hair – Chadwick's man who had led the search of Newcastle. The Brown Man. Now he knew who comprised the large group occupying the east half of the camp. Matheson's men. And so dangerously near to Coleridge Gardens. "I don't think so," said Matt.

"Sure," said the man, a look of recognition lighting his lugubrious face. "You're the skinny guy from that town with the Fever." His expression hardened. "I think you better come with me. The boss'll wanta see you."

# Chapter Seventeen

John awoke early the next morning as Bernie had directed, a little sore from the previous day's exertions but well rested. Since Bernie had said today would be "funner" he looked forward to a less strenuous day. After a quick breakfast with the rest of Bernie's staff, he went down to the brewery. He found Bernie already there, teasing the banked coals in the stove into life. A large stainless steel stockpot rested on the grill. He grinned at John and wished him a good morning which John returned.

"We might as well get started," said Bernie. "You'll get your first brewing lesson while we work. First, you need to know that beer is a food, in the form of a rich, highly complex beverage. Vintners, the folks that make wine, think their products are complex but they're nothing compared to the intricacies of beer and all its many varieties.

"On the other hand, beer requires only a few ingredients. In fact you only need four to brew the most wonderful beers you'll ever drink: water, barley malt, yeast, and hops. Brewers often use other additives, but adjuncts to the basic four usually compromise the quality. Some people, for example, defile their beer with wheat. I'm a firm believer that God intended wheat to be used for bread and barley for beer.

"Let's look at the ingredients for today's batch. First the water. The quality of the water isn't nearly as important as the old advertising slogans would've had you believe, but it's still crucial. The local water is slightly hard so it's perfect for most of our beers. The one we're brewing today, though, is lighter than we usually brew so we must use harder water. We'll harden it by adding a little gypsum, two teaspoons for five gallons of water. This is the water we'll use."

He unsealed a large glass bottle on a table, picked it up, and started pouring it into the stockpot. "We boiled this a couple days ago and sealed it in this five-gallon carboy. Water isn't processed in treatment plants anymore so it can get contaminated in the ground on its way to the well. I let the sediments settle out and poured the water off, then boiled it to kill the bacteria and sealed it. Then I let it set for a day or two." After filling the stockpot half way he returned the carboy to the table and resealed it, then added more sticks to the fire. "Now we'll wait for it to come to a boil.

"This bin holds the malted barley we'll use. It's a six-row barley raised by a couple of local farmers though two-row barley is also acceptable. I know theirs is six-row because I gave them the seeds. I inspect the crops every year before I buy to make sure they're using my barley. We malted this barley through a long process that you'll learn later. I ground it a couple days ago, careful to crack the husks, not crush them, which you'll also learn. That exposes the starchy innards while leaving the hard outer layer intact to use as a filter bed for sparging. Don't worry, you'll find out about sparging later today. The first of our processes is to convert the barley through boiling. The result will be a sweet wonderful smelling liquid called wort.

"Then there's the yeast. When I started brewing long ago as a homebrewer, it was the easiest ingredient to procure. You just bought it at the store. Now it's the most difficult. I have to extract it from the lees of the last batch and make sure it doesn't get contaminated by wild yeast in the air, very difficult to do in a world without refrigeration. We'll discuss the difference between top and bottom fermenting yeasts after while.

"The ingredient that turns beer from sweet alcoholic sludge to delicious bitter ambrosia is this." Bernie ran his fingers through some green plant cones in one of two large open bowls on the table. About the size of large acorns, they looked rather like marijuana buds. "These hops serve three functions: the alpha and beta resins released during the boil provide bitterness and sterilizing qualities; the tannins collect proteins that would otherwise form haze during the boil and the fermentation process and carry them to the bottom. They give beer a delightful aroma which is, unfortunately, lost during the boil."

He smiled as he indicated another, tightly covered, container of hops. "These hops provide the aroma. We add them at the end of the boil. Their aroma will be released during the fermentation and aging stages and then gently trail off toward the end. In fact, these are two different types of hops. We use the first kind for boiling and bittering and the second for finishing. We raise both kinds here of course, and several other varieties, which is a whole complex science in itself.

"They're related to Cannabis sativa, by the way, marijuana, which grows prolifically in this climate. Hops do too, fortunately." He paused, smiled. Bernie clearly loved his subject. "Any questions?"

"Uh, no, not yet." John got the feeling that Bernie had given this lecture many times; it had the feel of Maude's classroom lecture style. He listened intently not only because of its importance to know for his new job but because he found it interesting. He sensed that he'd hear a lot more in this vein over the next few days.

"Good. Let me describe the type of beer we're brewing today. You will learn about the two types of beers, ale which uses a kind of yeast that ferments from the top down and lager which is bottom fermented. Most British beers were ales, and most beers in the rest of the world were lagers, except in the United States where both ales and lagers were brewed. We produce both types here too, but in the summer we mostly brew ales because they ferment at higher temperatures. From this time of year through the spring we primarily brew lagers because they ferment at cooler temperatures. We brew in the basement because it's cooler here.

"Today's beer is a lager, and lighter than we usually brew, both in flavor and color, and with slightly lower alcohol content. This is about my least favorite beer. My taste leans toward the darker and dryer ales."

"Then why do you make it?" asked John.

"Because a lot of my customers prefer a light lager." He checked the water, which had nearly come to a boil, and added a white powder from a jar. "That's the gypsum. I've done this so long I can eyeball most things, but it's incredibly important that you measure everything you add to the boil precisely.

"Remember a bit ago when I said that adjuncts defile the beer? Well, that's exactly what we're going to do to this batch. We'll use corn sugar as well as malt. The boil converts the sugars in the corn to alcohol so they add strength but no flavor or character. The beer ends up with less flavor and character but is also less filling. A lot of Americans still like that kind of beer." He shook his head sadly. "Shows how bad habits persist. In Germany they have a law against brewing poor quality beer like this – a federal law – the Reinheitsgebot. If I brewed this beer in Germany as a brewmaster, I'd probably end up in a federal penitentiary. In the days before the modern legal system, they handled the felonious brewmaster in a cruder fashion, though more directly to the point, I might say. They drowned him in a keg of his own beer.

"But let's get started, shall we? The first step is the mash boil. Let's add the ground barley like so..."

And so one step followed another throughout the day, with down time as they waited for different stages to boil or settle or whatever. Bernie had planned the boil to coincide with work on a batch in the fermenting stage. John stirred the boiling mixture, or "wort," often. Bernie told him the proper times to add different ingredients. The boiling wort exuded an increasingly wonderful smell until it filled the room with a heavenly aroma. The finishing hops, added toward the end, added complexity to the fragrance.

After completion of the boil and the wort had cooled enough they sparged it. The operation rinsed the hard outer shells of the barley and the boiling hops with water from a second pot of water they had boiled. It seemed more complex than Bernie's description had made it sound. They had to keep a certain level of water over the hulls and hops, but Bernie assured him he would get so used to sparging that he could do other chores at the same time – as Bernie was indeed demonstrating.

"If you're like me," said Bernie, "you'll grow to love brewing. I mean, what other job allows you to use terminology like 'sparging your wort'?"

* * * *

Matt knew that refusing to accompany the Brown Man to meet his boss would be futile with so many of their men in the camp. Besides, he needed to find out if the Brown Man's boss, presumably Matheson, intended to move on to Coleridge Gardens. He faced no immediate threat as long as they thought him the man from Newcastle.

"The boss'll wanta know what you're doin here," said the Brown Man as he led Matt into the center of their camp. Matt barely kept himself from saying, Minding my own business, asshole. Remaining neutral gave him the best chance of assessing the situation. He tried to think of answers for all the possible ways the upcoming conversation might turn.

Their camp showed that they had accumulated a lot of scratch since he'd seen them passing Newcastle a little over a month ago. Matheson's men had traveled light then, on foot, carrying their own scratch like they intended to finish the Johnson gang quickly and return to Columbia. Now Matt counted over a dozen two-man tents surrounding a much larger tent. Matt bet that a lot of the horses in the common corral belonged to these guys too. The Brown Man led Matt up to a big black man who sat in front of the largest tent cleaning his rifle. The man looked up as they approached.

"Who you got here, Tim?" the black man asked the Brown Man.

"Remember that town you sent me and some a the boys to check out?" said the Brown Man. "The one with the Fever sign? This was the guy we talked to there."

"Izzat so?" The big man looked Matt up and down. "You're a long ways from home aincha, pal?"

"Yep. Haven't been this far for a long time."

"I'd be right interested in knowin why you're so far from home."

"Well, when your men and, uh, Tim here came to town, he told me bout the men you were looking for. Tim told me if I heard anything about 'm to go to Columbia, ask for Boss Chadwick or Del Matheson and tell 'm what I knew. Said it'd be worth something to me and my folks. That's where I'm headed. I heard bout some guys that may be the ones you're lookin for. Or may not, for that matter. I thought it was worth a trip to Columbia though."

"Well," said the man, "I can save you a trip. I'm Del Matheson. Tell me what you know."

"I went to Coleridge Gardens to sell some coon hides like I do every fall and heard folks talkin about some guys that sounded kinda like 'm. They said they'd been through there a couple weeks before and said they were headed northeast, up toward Chicago."

"Describe 'm."

"Bout a dozen men, armed. The leader was a short guy with bushy eyebrows that met over his nose." ("That'd be Mitchell," Matheson mumbled.) "They camped outside a town, stayed to themselves except when they went in to buy supplies. They had mules carryin a lot of stuff so folks figgered them to be scroungers that'd come to market. But they left before the market opened, said they wanted to get to Chicago before the weather got bad."

"Why Chicago?" asked Tim.

"Because, you idiot," snapped Matheson, "they got something they had to sell at a special market. They knew we'd track 'm down too easy if they tried to sneak into Nellie's Fair." He sat there brooding, stroking his kinky beard.

"So what're we gonna do, Boss?" said Tim. "There ain't no need to go on to Coleridge Gardens like we planned if they already been there."

"How do we know this asshole's tellin the truth? Now shut up and get outta here so I can think." Tim turned away. As Matt started to leave with him, Matheson snapped, "Hey, you!" Matt turned. "What's your name, pal?"

"Jerry Jordan."

Matheson's eyes narrowed. "Well, listen here, Jerry Jordan. It'd behoove you to stick round the market a couple a days. Just in case we think of any other questions."

Matt nodded. "I'll be here." Then he turned and followed Tim. When he caught up with him, he said, "Your boss is in a good mood tonight."

Tim shook his head. "He's been under a helluva strain. We all have. Them boys we're after stole something a Boss Chadwick's, and he told us not to come back till we find it. If we don't find it, he'll have our ass. We looked all over this country for these guys, but they just flat disappeared. Like smoke. Nobody's heard tell of 'm till you come along." Tim headed toward a chow line. So the place did provide at least one meal a day.

Matt followed him. He asked, "How did you come to Stanley Market? This is a long way east of where you came through our town, Newcastle."

"At first we looked for 'm round Newcastle and fu'ther west, figgerin they'd git as far away from Columbia as they could, but we couldn't pick up no trail and nobody we talked to had seen 'm. Then we worked our way back east along the Missouri River, askin ever'body that lived 'long there. The last three places we stopped at, the McClellans' and the Kanes' and then at Parkerville, they said they hadn't seen 'm and was sick a Chadwick's men botherin 'm. Boss Chadwick'd already been there lookin for 'm. That's the first we heard a him lookin for 'm hisself. That means he really wants 'm."

They exited the chow line with plates of beans mixed with scraps of pork fat and a piece of overdone cornbread and sat on the grass under a maple tree to eat.

"Anyhow, we decided they hadn't been on the river, and they hadn't gone either north or west a where we first run into 'm. We'd checked all that country. Where the hell could they be?

"Then Del got the idea that maybe we was lookin in the wrong places. We heard tell that that Mitchell is a cagey little bastard. What if they was hidin somewheres close to Columbia after all, right under our noses? We knew they was hungry. When we first run inta them, we scairt 'm so bad they run off and left their truck and mules and ever'thing. So maybe they rounded up some more truck and took it to a market, maybe one close to Columbia! With Boss Chadwick busy with his market maybe they figgered on sellin their stuff and sneakin away before word got back to Columbia.

"By then we was on the river at Parkerville. That was gittin too close to Columbia cause Chadwick had told us not to come back without the stuff them boys'd stole from us.Or else. Chadwick had a post set up on the interstate bridge across the Missouri close to Parkerville."

Matt had heard Chadwick had a toll station on the river, but he hadn't known exactly where. Thank god the gang hadn't followed the river any further east than Kane's Cove!

"Anyways," Tim continued, "Del wondered if maybe Mitchell had thought bout tryin the market at Coleridge Gardens or Stanley Market. He decided to check 'm out, Stanley Market first cause its closer to Parkerville. We wasn't supplied well enough to be away from Columbia so long so we did a little truckin on the way up here. Now we're tradin for some scratch. In a couple more days we'll head on to Coleridge Gardens. Maybe do some more truckin on the way while we look for the Johnson, uh, Mitchell gang."

Truckin, my ass, thought Matt. They couldn't have collected enough truck in abandoned towns to purchase all the horses and tents and other gear he had seen in their camp. At least one community, or maybe a scrounger gang or two, had suffered the loss of the horses and truck he saw here and probably a few lives as well.

Matt could slip away in the night to warn the men. He could beat Matheson but not by much. As soon as Matheson found out he had left he would suspect he had left to warn the gang and follow immediately. If Matt stayed at Stanley Market Matheson might believe his story and not go to Coleridge at all. He might even pursue the gang to Chicago. In any case Matt had to stay in the camp that night for several reasons. He wanted to find out Matheson's next move and to learn more about the feud between Chadwick and Matheson. Maybe he could use it against them somehow.

"So," said Matt, "why do you suppose Chadwick's so pissed at your boss?"

"Who knows the ways of these guys."

"Johnson's gang musta done something pretty bad for Chadwick to want them dead. I guess that's why he sent Matheson's after them, huh?"

Tim looked at him through narrowed eyes for a moment and said, "Must have."

Then he got up and started toward the cook tent to return his plate and spoon. Matt followed him. He would have a tough job getting information out of Tim but he wouldn't give up yet.

He said, "I didn't notice many men in your camp."

Tim gave him his narrow-eyed look.

Matt shrugged. "Hey, man, I'm just makin talk. If it's some big fuckin secret don't tell me. I don't give a shit."

Tim loosened up. "Naw, it ain't no secret. Del sent most of 'm out lookin for Mitchell's guys. They's three or four at our stall. Me and a couple others ran it all day. The other two's up to Wellsville lookin for a piece a ass."

"Is that close to here?"

"Bout a hour away. I was up there last night."

"If there's a town that close, why don't the Stanleys have their market there?"

"They used to but the preacher run 'm out. It caused too many 'sinful activities.'" He snorted. "Guess the preacher don't know bout the whores livin there under his nose."

Maybe Tim's a drinking man, thought Matt and said, "Y' know, a beer'd taste pretty good about now. Is there a place that sells beer in the market?"

"You know, you're right." Tim grinned; even his grins looked sad. "Foller me."

Tim led him from the camping compound into the market and down the moldering asphalt of Highway 63 between the stalls, then turned right to a beer tent some distance off the road. Matt bought them each a pint of beer. They sat outside on either side of a picnic table and drank. He recognized Bernie's ale, which proved he sold to other markets just like he said.

They talked. Matt stayed carefully off the subject he really wanted to discuss and turned to the one that never failed to warm the subject to the questioner: himself. Matt, as the yokel who knew nothing about scrounging, asked Tim about his life as one. Every beer made Tim's adventures more colorful, the hardships more onerous and Tim more competent. Tim became ever more patronizing to the poor hard-scrabble farmer sitting across from him.

During the fourth one Tim began to confide in Matt. Matheson, he said, considered Tim his closest and most dependable man shared secrets with him that he kept from the others. Over the fifth beer, Tim bragged of his amorous adventures. In addition to his many conquests along the road, the most beautiful woman in Columbia waited for him. With the third round Matt had started pouring a little of each beer on the ground below the table when Tim wasn't looking. Sacrilege, he knew, but he had to keep his wits.

"It must be rough on you," said Matt, "being separated from your woman."

"Yeah," said Tim, "but it's what this kinda career calls for. I miss her but I need to find women along the road to, well..."

"I know," said Matt. "Bein the boss's right hand man and all, you need a piece of ass to settle your nerves once in a while."

"That's right." Then Tim related a heroic exploit of questionable veracity in which he had proved his mettle leading the fight against a rival gang. Matt tried to appear interested. He's headed in the right direction, he thought, but this isn't the escapade I need to hear about.

"Wow," said Matt. "No wonder you're in tight with Matheson." He hoped he hadn't overdone it.

"But that's not the main reason I'm his top man," said Tim. He belched. "Hang on a minute." He disappeared behind the beer tent to piss. Matt poured the rest of his beer out just before Tim returned with two more.

"Now," he said, "what were we... Oh, yeah. What I done for the boss just last..." Tim paused, seemed to be debating something. "Maybe I shouldn't be tellin'..."

Matt shrugged, grinned. "Suit yourself. You sure got me interested, though. I don't get to hear this kinda stuff, livin in the sticks."

Then Tim relaxed, grinned, took a drink of beer, and said, "What the hell. You seem like a good ol' boy. And who the hell you gonna tell? Just your old lady or the neighbor, right?"

Matt leaned forward as if enthralled by Tim's tales. "That's right. Who else could I tell? Nobody important."

Tim leaned forward too and said in a conspiratorial near-whisper, "This happened just last month. With the Johnson gang." Bingo! "I gotta tell you, these guys was dangerous. They had lots a weapons and their boss and some a the others was trained killers. The boss was a big guy name a Johnson, over seven feet tall. Believe it or not, he could whip a whole gang at oncet all by hisself! I seen him do it in Kansas City myself.

"Anyhow, they stold some important stuff from Boss Chadwick. He had Del and me take some guys out to find 'm. They was so dangerous Boss Chadwick told us to hit their camp while they was asleep. But keep it quiet. It ain't good to let other gangs know bout ambushes."

"I can see that," said Matt, "but whadda you gonna do against such dangerous guys?"

"Exactly. But we had a ace in the hole. A guy from their gang was tellin us their movements." Downing! Matt had been right. "This guy knew where the stolen goods was hid, but he wouldn't tell us till we stiffed this Johnson. He knew Johnson'd come after him if both him and the goods turned up gone at the same time. After Kansas City, Boss Chadwick figgered that Johnson 'd come after him too, so he agreed Johnson had to be killt. He said if it worked out, he didn't care if we stiffed the whole gang. Del didn't like that much killin though, and Chadwick hadn't give him a direct order. After we left Columbia, Del told us to just stiff Johnson and let the others alone less they shot at us.

"We knew where they was gonna camp. Not the exact day, but close. We had our camp just over the hill from 'm so we could tell when they moved in. When they was all asleep and our stooge in their gang was on guard, he'd call like a whippoorwill, and we'd move in. After we stiffed Johnson, we'd scare the others away and steal their mules and truck. Maybe they'd think we was some other scroungers. Then this guy, Downing was his name, would lead us to where they hid the goods."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"That's what we thought. The night was perfect, dark and cloudy. Downing give his call. We come over the hill and saw him under a tree. He waved his arms to show ever'thing was okay. Was so dark we couldn't hardly see. We finally got in place and Del was bout to give the order to fire. We'd fire a few rounds to git their attention and then move in, find Johnson and stiff him. Then try to run the others off and take their truck. But before Del give the order he says, 'Tim, do you see Downing?' And I said I didn't. 'C'mon,' he says, and I follered him. I knew what he was thinkin. If Downing slipped off without us, the goods 'd be all his. We would've taken care of Johnson for him for nothin.

"Now one direct order Boss Chadwick did give Del was as soon as Downing showed us the stolen goods, stiff him. If he'd sell Johnson out, he'd do the same to us. Del agreed. He didn't like Downing anyways. He'd tried to join our gang oncet before, and Del voted against him along with most of us. That's why Del watched him so close; didn't trust him.

"Downing was doin just what we figgered. Slippin off through the trees. Couldn't hardly see him it was so dark. The only way we kep' track a him was the noise he made in the brush. We follered him up the hill and started down the other side. Then we couldn't hear him no more. Del says, 'Sst!' and we stopped. And listened. Nothin.

"Then there was a noise down the hill, and I seen a shadda move under a tree. I say, real quiet, 'That's him, Del!' Del said, 'Just shoot to wound him.' I fired but, tryin for just a wing shot in the dark, I missed him. He shot at the same time, at Del, but he missed too. My shot musta spooked him. Then Del shoots at him, and he didn't miss. Downing went down. We hunkered down and went over to him, careful-like in case he fires aback. When we git close to him, Del says, 'Don't move, motherfucker.' He didn't move, and when we got up to him we saw why. Half his face is gone.

"Del says, 'Son-of-a-bitch!' Then he starts off a string a cussin that would a been beautiful to hear on another day. Nobody can cuss like ol' Del Matheson.

"Del had done killt our ticket to the stolen goods!"

# Chapter Eighteen

"In the meantime," Tim continued, "shootin had started back at the clearin. Our shots had woke up the Johnson gang. We hadn't thought a that at the time. By the time we got back there, Johnson and one a his guys lay dead in the middle a their camp, and there wasn't nobody else in the camp. Then we saw that the others was hidin acrosst the clearing on the crick bank. Our guys and theirs was still shootin back and forth. Del told ever'body to hold their fire, save their ammo. Somebody over there must a heard him cause they shot at him but didn't hit him. ( _That was Mitch_ , thought Matt. _He had recognized Matheson's voice._ )

"We got down, and Del ast what the hell was goin on. One a the guys, Philips, filled us in. Our shots had woke up Johnson and another big guy and they come out a their tent firin. They must a been able to see in the dark cause they killt two of our guys and wounded another 'n before the boys stiffed them. In the meantime, some a them 'd got in the trees behind us and killt two more and stold our Kreutzer, though we didn't know bout that yet. We only knew bout the two dead and one that'd prob'ly die soon. That pissed Del off so much he changed his mind bout not killin all of 'm. He said, 'Stiff all of 'm but two or three.' With Downing gone, we had to have at least one alive to lead us to the goods.

"So we started firin again, but nobody hit nobody. It was too dark and both sides was hid too good. They quit shootin, then we did. Matheson thought for awhile. Then he hollered for 'm to throw down their guns and come out, Nobody'd git hurt. But they wasn't buyin that. They lay low and kep quiet."

By then, Matt knew, only Lou, Leighton, Miller and he remained on the creek bank. Mitch and the others had already gone, so quietly that, as they had hoped, their enemies had not heard them leave.

"Then some asshole over there stood up and hollered an insult bout Chadwick's sister, Gretchen. Somebody took a shot at him, then our guys all started shootin.

"Then the Kreutzer opened up. From their side! We was purty sure they didn't have one so we knew they'd been behind our lines at some point. It was spooky cause we didn't know when. That's why they hollered the insult, to git us to fire so the guy with the Kreutzer could tell where we was."

"Did he hit anybody with the Kreutzer?" Matt had to know.

"Oh, yeah. He did a lot a damage. Blew Philips's head clean off. Hit Baumgartner in the chest and took off Eklund's arm. Ek bled to death before we could stop the bleedin." That must have been the man Matt had heard scream. "That Kreutzer's a evil fuckin machine."

Tim was quiet for a minute, ruminating over the carnage. Then he drained his beer and Matt got them another round. He had what he wanted now; he didn't have to worry about curbing his drinking so he didn't waste any more of Bernie's good ale.

But Tim wasn't through. The beer enhanced his volubility. "We all hugged the ground, like we was moss, to keep too low for that Kreutzer. It had been sprinklin a little rain, but then it started rainin like hell. We didn't hear nothin from 'm for quite a while. Then I looked around and Del was gone. We didn't know where the hell he went so we just waited. A long time, or at least it seemed like it in the rain, a really cold rain for that time a year.

"Then Del come back, walkin right acrosst the clearin like there wasn't no Kreutzer over there. And there wasn't. 'The sons-a-bitches is gone,' he says. 'We gotta find 'm,' he says, 'or Chadwick'll have our ass.' So we started after 'm. Del left a few guys to round up their mules, strike their camp, and load their stuff in the morning – found a couple really nice crossbows among it – and the rest of us wandered round in the rain all night lookin for their trail. Never come acrosst it, though. Still ain't seen nothin of 'm."

Oh yes, you have; you're looking at one right now.

"In the mornin we all got together, a beat-up bunch a guys, I tell you. The two wounded guys died in the night, which made our losses eight men. Johnson and his man stiffed three, and the ones that came 'round behind us got Smitty and George Bentley and took George's Kreutzer. Their Kreutzer shooter hit three more. The ambush was a disaster any way you looked at it. They'd killed almost three times more a us than we did a them, and we still didn't know where them or the goods was. Del was in a black mood. Ever'body knew better 'n to say anything to him. But he stood up and told all the guys that I'd saved his life, told ever'thing that happened up there on the ridge. That's why I'm his main man now."

"I see why he values you, Tim."

"Yeah. Anyhow, he sent a few guys to take Johnson's mules and truck back to Columbia and ast for more men so we could cover a bigger area. Chadwick only let one a the men we sent come back, said he was too short-handed to spare any more. This guy said the boss was really pissed, said to tell us he'd sent over forty men to kill a dozen and we'd handled it like a bunch a Sunday school teachers. Said we'd better finish the job ourselves. If he had to take care of it hisself, we'd be in a pile a shit. We better not even think bout comin home till we'd killt the rest a them fuckers and brought back his goods."

"Sounds like he means business."

"Yeah. So we been lookin ever since. Sometimes Del thinks he'll send somebody back to see how pissed off Chadwick is now. Maybe he's got over it. But ever'body's scairt a what Chadwick might do to whoever goes back so he ain't gittin no volunteers. Sometimes he thinks a takin off and startin his own gang. A couple times he even talked bout goin down and takin Columbia away from Chadwick. But we only got a few over thirty guys left, and we hear he's replacing us, that he's got nigh a hunnert men again. Takin Columbia's temptin. They's a lot a money there, from the market and taxes and from the river and highways tolls round Columbia."

Matt filed away the item about Matheson taking Columbia away from Chadwick as something he might use. As they finished their beer, Tim said, "The fellers oughta be shuttin the stall down purty soon and showin up here for a beer. You'll be able to meet 'm."

Chadwick could have recruited some of the people Matt knew along the Missouri River. Some might have ended up in Matheson's group. He couldn't risk running into one tonight.

He yawned hugely and said, "Sorry, Tim, but I need to head back to the camp. It's been great drinkin beer with you – you've sure taught me a lot about what you guys go through – but I had a long trip today and I'm beat."

"Hell, I understand, Jerry. I really enjoyed our talk. You go on to bed and I'll see you in the mornin." He got up and headed, not all that steadily, toward the beer tent.

Matt went back to the encampment and rolled up in his bedroll to think about what he had learned from Tim. Downing's death on the other side of the ridge explained why Lou and he hadn't found his remains. Matheson wanted to find and kill the rest of the gang to get back in Chadwick's favor and in revenge for making him look the fool. Except for one, before killing him, to lead him to the stash.

One thing Matt had not lied to Tim about: his trip had utterly worn him out. He soon fell into a deep sleep.

* * * *

Tim came for Matt early the next morning, looking a little beat up from the previous evening's drinking, and said Matheson wanted to see him. Matt followed him back to the big tent. Matheson sat before it as he had the previous evening, flanked this time by a black man sitting to his left and two white men on his right.

Matt nodded, but none spoke for a moment. Then Matheson said to the others, though looking directly into Matt's eyes. "Boys, this is the guy I told you bout, Jerry Jackson." Matheson didn't introduce the others to Matt.

"It's Jordan," said Matt.

"Oh, yeah, so it is. Jerry Jordan." Had Matheson just tested his ability to remember a fake name? "Me and these boys here talked bout you last night, Mr. Jordan. I told you said the gang we're lookin for's goin off to Chicago. They didn't know whether to believe that or not. I says, now boys, why would a good ol' country boy like Jerry Johnson" (Why Johnson?) "lie bout somethin like that? I says, he knows if he tells a lie that sends us traipsin off to Chicago and we don't find no Johnson gang, well, he knows we ain't gonna be real happy to be made fools of. And we know where to find him. And the other folks in that shit-ass town a his. Ain't that right, Jerry Jobson?"

Matt shrugged. "Of course. And it's Jordan."

"Now I would a took off to Chicago based on your word, Jerry – I ain't suspicious like these ol' boys – but we decided they's somethin we need to know before we decide anything else. It's somethin you can help us with. We'd preciate it so much we'd even pay you for it.

"As you know, we work for Boss Chadwick down in Columbia, but we ain't gittin long right well with him just now. We'd like for you to go down there and nose round a little, find out what he's athinkin bout us. Maybe he ain't still pissed at us; maybe he wants us back. Or maybe he's more pissed than ever. Whichever way it is, we need to know afore we do anything else. Then, dependin on what you tell us, we'll decide whether to go back to Columbia or Coleridge Gardens or off to Chicago. Or maybe do somethin completely different.

"Now like I said, these fellers here is suspicious. They say to me, now what if Chadwick has a price on our head and this here good ol' country boy decides to turn us over to him? So, just to make 'm happy, I tell 'm we'll send Tim here long with you to make sure you come back and don't bring none a boss Chadwick's men with you.

"Here's what you'll do. At night you and Tim stays at this barn just outside a town. Tim knows where it is. You go into town the next day and try to git in to see Chadwick. Tell whoever's at his front door that you know somethin bout Johnson's gang. When you git in to see him, tell him the same story you told me. Find out his current thinkin bout us. Then nose around town, find out how many men he's got, that kinda stuff. You come back to the barn at night. Do this for two days. That's enough time to find out what's goin on. On the third mornin you and Tim come back and tell us what you found out. We'll decide what to do next.

"Now, these boys is still suspicious. They say, what if this here Jerry Jacobson sells out to Chadwick and tells him where poor ol' Timmy is and where we are? What if they go out and burn the barn down round Tim's ears, then come up here after us? So here's what we're gonna do for insurance. We know where Newcastle is. The minute you two boys head down to Columbia, I'll send a few men over there. They'll stay there till I send somebody over to tell 'm ever'thing's okay. If nobody comes to them in a week the town and its folks is toast. Deal?"

Matt hated that he'd gotten Maude and the others involved. He worried a little, too, that one of them might blow his cover to Matheson's men. "All right, but please see that nothin happens to those folks. They mean an awful lot to me."

"Nothin'll happen to them if you don't make nothin happen to us." Matheson pulled a bulging buckskin bag out from under his chair. He loosened the leather drawstring and extracted a handful of square leather Nelson dollars and handed them to Matt. "Here's somethin for expenses. When you git back, dependin on what you tell us, they'll be more. Now you boys oughta git on the road. It's a long day's ride. You won't reach the barn till dark. Stop by the cook shack. I ast 'm to put together some grub to git you and the horses down there."

Matt and Tim left. The men sitting with Matheson must have been his lieutenants, but Tim had not sat with them. He had stood beside Matt during the meeting without contributing a word. (Of course no one else but Matheson had spoken either.) Just as Matt had suspected, Tim occupied a much lower position in the hierarchy than he claimed.

Though Highway 63 ran southeasterly from Stanley Market to Columbia, Tim led them down a series of secondary roads and trails running west of and roughly parallel with the highway, and out of sight of it. Tim explained that Chadwick sent patrols up the highway to "keep order" and collect "taxes" from people living there. A lingering hangover kept Tim from speaking much, which Matt welcomed. He realized that Matheson's errand would keep him from getting to the Nellie's Fair bank by Friday. Since the bank, a rare anachronistic observer of weekends, remained closed on Saturday and Sunday he couldn't make the withdrawals until Monday. The delay could prove fatal to the men if Matheson's outriders went to Coleridge Gardens. Tim had said he sent them to outlying areas.

As Matheson had predicted they got to the barn shortly after sundown. The failing light remained long enough for them to make sure no one occupied the barn or the surrounding area and to care for their horses. After they ate cold sandwiches, Tim crawled up into the haymow and instantly fell asleep.

Matt sat outside leaning against the barn for a while, pondering his dilemma. Unused to riding a horse, his back ached and the inside of his thighs felt like they had been sanded. He wished he could risk lighting a candle to read by and light his pipe to smoke some of the weed he'd brought.

* * * *

Matt awoke to a partially overcast dawn. Tim had already awakened refreshed, with his volubility restored. Matt left as soon as he had eaten some bread and dried fruit, rode east to the highway and south toward town. The trip took about an hour.

Matt remembered from passing through Columbia that its four or five hundred inhabitants lived in a northern suburb that had survived mostly intact from the Last Days. Teachers and students who had lived through the Last Days had formed a smaller community on the state university campus in the south part of town.

The town lay west of the highway. A man-high board fence, added since he had last passed through, surrounded it. Chadwick had probably built it to protect the seat of his little empire. It ran from house to house, integrating the building walls into the defensive system. Heavy wooden shutters covered exposed windows and doors. The fence would give little protection against modern high-powered rifles and none against a weapon as destructive as the Kreutzer. At best it would conceal defenders firing from the slots he saw at intervals in the fence. He saw gardens outside the fence and beyond them, croplands. Cattle grazed in the distance.

The market lay in the highway's grassy median. About twice the size of the either the Coleridge Gardens or Stanley markets, it offered a wider variety of goods, even wine from vineyards south of the river. It included more lean-tos than tents, three-walled with stout awnings that could be closed over their fronts and locked at night.

At the community corral he told the keeper he only needed to leave the horse for the day.

"That'll be a en," said the officious woman in charge of the corral.

"A whole nellie? That's usually the rate for a day and a night. I'm not staying tonight."

"Don't matter none. Boss Chadwick says it's a en whether you stay a hour or a day."

"Chadwick? A guy named Sanderson used to run this corral."

"Well, he don't no more. Boss Chadwick owns it now." And after Matt had dithered for a moment, "Listen, Bud. You wanta leave your nag here or not? I got things to do."

He flipped her the nellie and walked away without a word, really pissed. He wondered what Sanderson thought of losing his livelihood to Chadwick. More information for his mental files. He'd try to find out what other citizens thought of their new regime. An elected mayor and town council had run Columbia the last time he and the gang had been through here.

As he walked through the market he saw several toughs, sauntering either singly or in pairs. Probably Chadwick's men. He turned right at the town's entrance and passed through open double gates that he bet closed at night. Just inside, a guard sat on a stool, a rifle resting across his lap. He read a cheap frazzled paperback book, an "Action Western!" according to a blurb on its back cover. Resurgent popularity of print-on-demand books had appeared just before the Last Days, from the highest quality to the lowest, probably part of the old-ways-are-best philosophy. The reader's book represented one of the latter quality that people bought from automated kiosks on the street or at subway entrances.

Matt stopped before the man and cleared his throat. The man ignored him.

"Don't tell me you don't see me," said Matt. He still felt irritated at paying so much at the corral.

"I see you. I just don't wanta be bothered." The man slowly looked up. "But now that you bothered me, you better have a goddamn good reason. Whaddya want?"

"I want to know where to find either Boss Chadwick or Del Matheson."

The man's eyes widened. "Oh, you do, do you?" he said with mock respect. "Well, that changes things. It ain't often we git somebody as important as you." Then the man stood up and got nasty. With narrowed eyes he advanced toward Matt, rifle held across his chest. "Listen, fuckhead," he said, "the boss ain't got time to fuck with ever farmer that – aah!"

The man lay sprawled in the dust; Matt held his rifle.

Though of average height and not a particularly adept fighter, Matt learned quickly. Johnson's training had taught him how to use surprise and the leveraging of an assailant's own weight against him.

The confrontation took only seconds. The guard had advanced on Matt to strike his chest with the flat of his rifle. Matt retreated a couple of steps. Thinking he had Matt on the run, the man lunged, thrust the rifle forward, his body weight overbalanced to the front. Matt did what the man least expected: he grabbed the rifle and pulled it toward him, ducked to one side and extended a foot for the man to trip over. He twisted the rifle out of the man's hands as he went down.

As soon as the guard could breathe, he rolled onto his back and stared wide-eyed up at Matt and at his rifle, now cradled casually in Matt's arm.

"Now," said Matt calmly, "you can either tell me where I can find Chadwick or Matheson and I'll give your rifle back, or," he looked at the small crowd that had gathered, "I can ask someone else how to find 'm and give your rifle to your boss. I don't give a shit which."

The man pointed somewhere down the street and started to speak.

"Get up," said Matt. "I hate talking to a man groveling in the dirt."

The man got to his feet, the first shock of Matt's counter-attack wearing off. He began to fume with impotent anger. "Turn left at the next intersection. It'll be the big house on your right."

Matt threw the rifle at the man as hard as he could, turned, and walked away without looking back. He felt an itch between his shoulder bladess, but knew the man wouldn't shoot him with so many witnesses. Or rather, hoped. Little did the man know that he could have beaten Matt, inexperienced at fighting, in a sustained brawl.

Then Matt's slight anxiety evaporated at the sound of the crowd's applause, sporadic at first, then gaining in volume and enthusiasm. That shows how much these people like the new order, he thought. He turned and waved to the crowd. As he turned the corner, he again glanced back at the gate. The applause had lessened but the crowd had grown. Some of them heckled the guard. He never understood how news could travel so fast in these little hick towns. Having lived in cities most of his life made it seem almost magical.

He reached the house, one of the large two-story neo-Victorian smarthouses popular just before the Last Days, the exterior embarrassingly slathered with gingerbread. Another guard dozed on a chair on the front porch, his chair leaned back against the wall. Thinking of the toughs in the market he wondered why Chadwick felt the need for so many guards. Then he realized that Chadwick just had to keep his men busy. He couldn't trust over a hundred thugs to sit around with nothing to do.

The first step up to the porch squeaked under Matt's boot. The guard came awake startled. The front legs of his chair clomped onto the floor. He stood up, his hand going automatically to the holstered pistol at his side. Matt thought, Oh, shit. Here we go again. But the guard's hand fell away from the pistol as he looked Matt over. Then he looked back in the direction Matt had come, suddenly aware of the heckling of the guard at the gate that was now lessening.

"Whadda hell's dat all about?" asked the guard.

Matt shrugged. "Who knows? You know how it gets on market day."

"Yeah," said the guard as if that explained everything. He continued to glare at Matt, but his hand stayed away from the pistol.

Matt said, "I'm here to see Boss Chadwick or Del Matheson."

"Well, Matheson ain't around no moah and d' boss don't allow just any fahma in to see im. Go on, man."

New York or New Jersey, Matt decided. He knew people from different locales back there could identify each other's accents but they all sounded the same to him.

"I got information Chadwick needs," said Matt. "He won't take it kindly if he finds out you wouldn't let me in to give it to him. It's about some people he's looking for, the Johnson gang."

"You sawr 'm?" Like so many Easterners, the man couldn't pronounce 'r's where they belonged so, as if to compensate, he inserted them where they didn't.

"No, but I know where they are."

The guard hesitated, then said, "Tell me what youse know. I'll take it to d' boss."

Matt crossed his arms and stared blandly up at the guard.

The man gave in. "Awright awready. Youse stand right dere and I'll see if d' boss wants to heah yoah shit." As he opened the door and stomped inside, Matt heard him mumble, "Dese fuckin yokel muddafuckas..." Then the door slammed.

Apparently the boss did want to hear his shit because the man came back shortly. He left the door open, looked sourly at Matt, and gestured for him to enter. Matt walked into a gloomy foyer looking down a hallway that extended into the depths of the house. A stairway led up to the second floor. The guard hadn't told him where to go but, hearing voices coming from the open doorway to his right, he went through it.

He entered a dark, sparsely furnished room. The three men standing before the fireplace quit talking when he appeared and watched him expectantly.

He had never seen two of the men, but seeing the third one stunned him. His fear of meeting someone who recognized him suddenly became fact.

The third man was his gang's colleague and sometime trucking partner, Big Mike McCutcheon. Standing there with the enemy.

# Chapter Nineteen

Matt regarded McCutcheon and the other two men without speaking. The balding man in the middle, to McCutcheon's right, short but built like a wedge, had broad powerful shoulders and chest narrowing to a slender waist and wiry legs. His outthrust lower jaw gave him a pugnacious look and he had the coldest eyes Matt had ever seen. The man's reptilian look, locked on Matt, didn't waver as he took a long deliberate drink from the mug he held. He said, "Ah heah you got sunthin to tell me bout the assholes that took mah stuff." An accent from further south. This had to be Chadwick.

Matt stared back at Chadwick, careful not to even glance at McCutcheon, and said levelly, "I heard of a gang that might be them. Heard you'd be interested."

Chadwick watched him without speaking.

"My name's Jerry Jordan," said Matt. "Some a your men came through our town bout a month ago, said you were lookin for some guys that'd stole something from you. Said it'd be worth my while to let you know if I heard tell of 'm."

The man still said nothing.

Matt continued. "I went to Coleridge Gardens to trade some coon hides. The folks there told me some guys came through that sounded kinda like the ones you're lookin for." And Matt told his story as he had given it to Matheson. "Your man said to ask for you or Del Matheson."

"Well, Matheson ain't heah no moah." Chadwick finally unlocked his eyes from Matt's to look at the man who wasn't McCutcheon. "Whadda you think a that tale, Hauptmann?" Matt recognized the name as the leader of the gang that had joined Chadwick's.

"Could be true. Frank's boys know you got a long reach so they know stayin round here ain't too smart. They prob'ly figger the fu'ther away they sell the goods, the safer they'll be."

"Matheson'd have some thoughts on this," said Chadwick, and to Matt, "Don't reckon you run acrosst a guy name a Matheson on your way heah."

"Nope. Not that I know of."

"Well, yoah info ain't wuth much to me, but ah tell you whut." Chadwick pulled a few nellies out of his pocket and threw them at Matt's feet, "It's wuth a coupla beahs. And if'n you run acrosst Matheson on the way home, tell him I need him back heah. I can use 'm to go aftuh the Johnson assholes. I cain't git away mahself till the mahket's ovuh. Now geddout. Hauptmann and me got some plannin to do." He looked at McCutcheon.

Mike took the hint. "I'll leave too." Matt saw him reaching over to shake their hands as he turned to leave. His anger at Chadwick's arrogance almost made him leave without the money, but he scooped it up on his way out. It would, after all, pay for the few beers he now badly needed. He ignored the guard, crossed the veranda and stalked down the steps. He thought over what Chadwick had said about Matheson. He couldn't tell if Chadwick had forgiven him or wanted to know his whereabouts to wreak revenge. At the intersection he turned toward the gate, just hoping that asshole guard gave him some shit again. An idea of how to handle Chadwick and Matheson began to form even as he fumed. He wanted to find a private place to mull it over. Then he needed to find out a little more about the situation in Columbia.

Suddenly a hand clamped over his shoulder. He stopped and wheeled around to see Big Mike grinning through his beard. He had forgotten McCutcheon.

"Hey, Mr. Jerry Jordan," said McCutcheon, "why the glare? I was just gonna buy you a beer."

Matt had nearly taken a swing at whomever had grabbed his shoulder. He relaxed.

Mike said, "I couldn't let 'm know we knew each other while they could still see us from the house. We're safe now that we're round the corner."

"Sorry, Mike. You're the last person in the world I expected to see there."

"I can say the same for you, only double. Last I heard, you was dead."

Matt paraphrased Mark Twain. "News of my death has been greatly exaggerated."

"So I see. C'mon. The sun's gittin hot. Let's git some shade and a beer and maybe some lunch. Though the beer ain't very good here, thin and bitter. We got a lot to talk bout."

"We sure do," said Matt as they neared the gate. "Like what the hell you were doing in there with those assholes. I thought sure you'd turned your coat. I expected to be coming out of there feet first right about now. And why did you think I was dead? What have you heard?"

"As to the first question, what I'm doin here is runnin down some rumors. For example, a couple weeks ago, just afore the market opened, a couple a Chadwick's guys come to Nellie's Fair lookin for news of you guys. Said you'd robbed something really valuable from Chadwick and he was offerin a reward for all of you – a hunnert nellies a head."

"We're worth more in Nellie's Fair than we are on the river."

"Hunh?"

"They offered folks up the Missouri River just fifty a head for us. This'll make Doc happy. They hurt his feelings offering so little."

"Yeah, somethin like that can really make a feller feel worthless. Anyways, we knew they had to be lyin bout you boys robbin Chadwick." So far, thought Matt, the secret of their theft remained safe. "So we figgered Chadwick had somethin else stuck in his craw, like maybe the time he tried to ambush you over in Kansas City and Frank made it backfire. A memory like that don't rest easy on a man like Chadwick."

When they went through the gate, Matt ignored the guard sitting on his stool, but he felt the man's glare all the way into the market.

"Then a fisherman come to market from up Parkerville way, said he heard they was some trouble between the Johnson gang and Chadwick. Somebody else said the Johnson gang had just flat disappeared. Another guy told us Chadwick and one a his main men was feudin – that must be this Matheson he talked about – and they was bout to have a war. Then another guy says no, that ain't right. Matheson just wanted to have his own scrounger gang like he used to have and took off with bout half a Chadwick's men.

"All this was beginnin to worry me. We couldn't have a renegade runnin around murderin other scrounger gangs, specially a powerful one like Chadwick."

Matt nodded. "It's bad for business."

"And for nerves. So I talked it over with my gang. Most of the usual gangs had made it to town for the market, ceptin yours of course. Soon as the crowds leveled off a little, us bosses all got together to compare rumors and figger out what to do. There musta been a reason for the rumors. After all, you-all hadn't made it to town yet, and you was never late. The rumors got wilder. One of the bosses said that Chadwick was dumb to mess with Johnson a second time, and someone else said that Chadwick had ambushed the Johnson gang. In less 'n a day after our meetin that story was all over town. People was sayin Chadwick had stiffed your whole gang."

Matt said, "Well, Chadwick's men, with Matheson leading, did ambush us. I'll tell you all about that after we sit down. Chadwick 'll want to keep that secret to keep the other gangs from turning on him. Now I see that, ironically, a rumor based on idle speculation must have spread the truth. That's probably how the story of our demise got started. Rumor."

"But, Matt, you see that it don't necessarily have to be true. That's why I said if we really wanted to know what happened, somebody had to go talk to the man hisself, Chadwick. And since I was the one who made that suggestion, they voted for me to do the job. I had a good excuse to visit him. The Chadwick men lookin for you guys told us Chadwick was recruitin men, and women too for that matter. Said he was really short a folks now that Matheson took off with so many of his men. Said he needed bout twenty, thirty to replace 'm."

"So that's what you were talking to Chadwick about, joining his gang?"

"I made it sound better. Told him my whole gang of fifteen wanted to join. There's only six of us but I figgered the idee of pickin up several at one time would make him greedy, make him spill a little information."

McCutcheon stopped them before a grill, upon which an elderly, nearly toothless woman turned sausages. "Here's the best grub at the market, Matt. How you doin, sugar? Give us a couple a your hottest and biggest."

"They're hotter 'n bigger 'n yourn, honey," she said.

"You're just sayin that cause you'd like to try mine out."

"When I catch a fish the size a yourn, hon, I just th'ow 'im back in till he grows up." She grinned as she handed them each a fat sausage wrapped in a slice of bread. "That'll be four bits."

"Susie's the sweetest thing at the market, Matt, uh, Jerry."

Nellies came as rectangular pieces of leather subdivided into ten equal sections, called bits, delineated by lines of dots punched into the leather. Thus, the value of each section equaled a tenth of a Nelson dollar. Mike reached into his pocket, but Matt shook his head.

"Chadwick's paying for this." And when Mike started to protest, "No, he just gave me this money, remember?" He withdrew a whole Nellie and handed it to Susie.

"So, you're in tight with the bossman, huh?" said Susie sourly. So far Matt hadn't seen any signs of support for Chadwick in Columbia except for his men.

"Not at all, my friend," said Matt. "But his money is as good as any other. And we don't always get to do business with folks we like, right?"

"I kin testify to that," she said, her grin returning.

They went to the beer tent where Matt again insisted on paying. "I came here for the same reason you did, Mike. To pick up information. These eight or ten nellies Chadwick threw me only took a few minutes to earn, and I'm learning more from you than I would've in a week on my own. That's why the lunch and beer's on me. It's pure luck I ran into you."

"Not really. If not me, somebody from the Nellie's Fair gangs would a come. We had to know what was goin on."

True, thought Matt. A tight-knit business like scrounging had few participants. They had to investigate a development as important as the rise of a renegade gang for the welfare of the group.

They carried their beer and sandwiches away from the market to sit under a shade tree, apart from curious ears, and spent a few minutes eating and drinking. Mike had been right: Matt found the sausages delicious and the beer insipid. Too bad Bernie couldn't tap this market.

"So you came to town to see which rumors were right," said Matt. "Which are? Apart from the one about our death, I mean."

"I got here yesterday, but couldn't git in to see Chadwick till today. Told him I heard tell he was recruitin and me and my gang might be inter'sted. He said yes, he was short without Matheson's boys. He wasn't happy that our gang was half women. Said he didn't have many women cause what he did was purty rough. I told him our gals was purty rough."

"Just wait'll you tell Heidi that."

"She won't hear that part a the conversation. You don't keep a woman happy as long as I have Heidi by tellin her ever'thing."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"Anyways, I know he needs more men. In addition to the ones keepin an eye on the market, he's got to have others out on patrol and at the toll posts."

"How many men do you think he has altogether? Billy Kane said maybe as a couple hundred."

"Hard to say, but nowhere near that many. Specially with Matheson gone. He's got twenty-some here in town, thirty max, about that many at the toll posts and more on patrol. I'd say better than a hundred all together. He's so worried bout Matheson's intentions and losin control a the farms round town he keeps the patrols goin all the time. This is the time a year, after harvest, his patrols takes part a the farmers' crops as 'taxes' too. Rotates men between town and patrol and toll posts. It hurt that Matheson took so many – Chadwick said over forty. He don't like not knowin where Matheson is with that many men. Like he told you, he'd really like to git Matheson to come back. It'd solve a lot a his problems."

"Well, Matheson doesn't have that many men with him now," said Matt. "We killed eight in the ambush, and he had to send a few back with the mules and truck he stole from us. His camp looks to have around thirty men in it."

Mike's big head swung around to face Matt. "How do you know that?"

"I know where Matheson is. I've seen his camp. I talked to him." And Matt told him about his encounter with Matheson and his gang at Stanley Market. "Right now Matheson's dithering. He doesn't know that Chadwick would like to have him back."

McCutcheon whistled in admiration. "For a dead man, you sure git around. But I'm dyin to hear how come you ain't dead. And how Matheson come to steal your mules and scratch. I tell you, I'm impressed. It ain't many men that can talk a guy that's out to kill him outta beer money like you just did Chadwick." He raised his leather tankard, and Matt touched it with his.

They drained their tankards, and Matt bought them a second round over McCutcheon's protests that it was his turn to buy. Then Matt told him about the ambush at Summerfield Crossing, how Matheson's men had killed Johnson, Dodd, and Downing; how the men hid out in and scrounged Newcastle; how they followed the river down to Kane's Cove, and of their subsequent trip up to Coleridge Gardens. He left out the robbery of Chadwick's gold, of course, and Downing's defection. Like others to whom Matt had recounted the story, McCutcheon assumed that Chadwick wanted revenge against the gang for the Kansas City debacle.

"So where is this Coleridge Gardens you went to?" asked McCutcheon. "I heard tell of it but ain't never been there."

"Wild Billy Kane and his folks told us about it. They do a lot of business there." He explained how he had come from Coleridge Gardens to Columbia by way of Stanley Market. "That way took two days, but you could probably make it to Coleridge Gardens in a day and a half if you went northwest across the country.

"But to change the subject a little, these folks don't seem to care much for Chadwick's rule."

"Ever'body I talk to hates him. They don't hide it all that well from his men neither."

"Why don't they get rid of him then? Replace him with an elected town council and mayor like they use to have?"

"These are peaceable folks, Matt. They don't know how to fight and they don't have many guns between 'm. Chadwick's so sure they ain't no threat that he didn't even make 'm turn in what weapons they do have. I tell you what, though, if somebody come along that could stand up to Chadwick, these townsfolks'd jump right in with 'm."

"Tell me, what do you think would happen if Matheson rejoined Chadwick?"

"I believe Chadwick 'd send him lookin for your gang one more time. Then, come spring, whether they'd found you or not, Chadwick 'd take over more country, forcin our gangs outta some scroungin areas, tie up more of the river, hire more thugs. I think he'd double his territory by next fall, and I hate to think bout the years to come. He just the same as tol me that, Matt. He said if we joined him now we'd be in on the beginning of somethin really big. Bosses like me 'd have our own markets to run in the towns he took over – though I'm sure he'd git his cut. He's talkin a fuckin empire, Matt."

Matt heard the edge of panic in McCutcheon's voice. He felt a similar fear.

"You're right, Mike. An empire like that's expensive. The more thugs he hires, the more country he has to take over to pay them." He mulled over an idea McCutcheon had given him when he said the townspeople might help whoever tried to throw Chadwick out.

"So what's your next move, Mike?"

"I'll go back and report to the other bosses and to my gang. Then we'll have to figger out what to do. I hate thinkin it, but we oughta do somethin bout Chadwick afore Matheson and his men rejoins him. If all the Nellie's Fair gangs got together with the ones from Morel Market, we'd be close on three hunnert. We might git some traders inter'sted and maybe townsfolks from the two towns if we convinced 'm Columbia could gobble them up in a couple years. I don't think that's too farfetched a threat, Matt.

"The only problem with that is, we ain't trained fighters and lots of Chadwick's people is. Only half my gang has guns and none of us is good at usin 'm. Nelson O'Conner and Morel both have a few fightin men but I don't know if we could convince 'm that Chadwick's such a big threat. We're gonna check with Wild Billy Kane. He's a spunky little bastard and I hear tell he and his boys has shot their way out of a problem or two. He oughta have some clout with scroungers in his country. They must be plenty nervous bout Chadwick."

"They are," said Matt.

"What about your boys, Matt? Would they join us?"

Matt hadn't thought of a joint attack against Chadwick. Neither he nor the gang realized anyone but them feared Chadwick so much. They had assumed they were on their own. (Of course Johnson would have jumped at such a chance. He would have led the attack.)

"I hadn't considered a united effort against Chadwick," he said. "But it just might work. I can't speak for the gang, but I'll talk to them."

He thought of all the blood spilled, that of poorly armed, untrained scroungers and locals. And maybe his own! If it worked though it would be worth it in the long run.

But would it succeed only for the short run? Matheson could wait until the united gangs rescued Columbia and dispersed, then move in to conquer it all over again. The gangs should dispose of him while they remained together. But if they won the taste of victory might keep them together to create a new threat. He began to doubt if the gang members would go for it. Leaving for Colorado would feel like a simpler and safer plan.

"How soon will you talk to your boys bout it?" asked McCutcheon.

"I got some business in Nellie's Fair. I'll get back to Coleridge Gardens in the middle of next week. I'll talk to them then. Billy Kane too if he's still there."

"Great. I'm gonna stay here through Saturday. Chadwick is planning a big party for his men. He wants me to stay for it, prob'ly to see how good he treats his people. So I won't be back in Nellie's Fair till next Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. Could you let me know what your boys and Wild Billy decides sometime after that? Good." He drained his beer and stood up. "This time I'm buyin the beer, no matter what you say."

When McCutcheon returned, Matt asked, "How are the folks down at the university dealing with Chadwick?" He had avoided contacting the scholastic survivors who lived there for complex reasons.

"Chadwick purty much lets 'm be," said McCutcheon. "Cept for goin down to consult with 'm oncet in a while. He's a dumb, uneducated jerk like me, but he respects educated people. You use to be some kinda perfessor too, didn'cha?"

"Yep. Use to be."

They talked of other things. Matt had always liked McCutcheon but hadn't gotten to know him as well as he would have liked. Johnson had always monopolized conversations with other bosses. They had more important things to discuss.

McCutcheon had been one of the twenty-first century's throw-away people, poorly educated and chronically underemployed. The technics and bureaucrats formed such a small percentage of the pre-Last Days population that the few who survived didn't matter much in the new order. Ironically, Matt thought, not for the first time, surviving throw-away people like Big Mike McCutcheon had inherited the technics' world.

After they finished their beer, Matt said, "I gotta go, Mike, while I can still sit a horse."

They both stood up, shook hands.

"This's been a good talk, Matt. I always wanted to git to know you better."

"Same here, Mike. "So I ain't so bad for a professor, huh?"

"I never had nothin against educated people, Matt. Just didn think they'd be like you. Shows that a man don't always know as much as he thinks."

They parted. Matt returned to the market. Part of Big Mike's scheme edged its way into his earlier kernel of a plan. Tim had said Matheson considered wresting Columbia away from Chadwick. Instead of telling Matheson Chadwick wanted him back he might convince him he could take Columbia for himself. After the two bosses duked it out McCutcheon's coalition of scroungers, with the help of the locals, could finish off the survivors. Only by sidetracking Matheson by convincing him to attack Columbia would he give up looking for the Mitchell gang. He still believed they could lead him to the gold. Even if he believed the tale about them going to Chicago he would check Coleridge Gardens for them first since it lay only a day's trip distant.

Matt bought a half-dozen sausages and some bread from Susie at the grill. Their exchange of off-color jokes that set her giggling led her to throw in an extra sausage, for which Matt added a two-bit tip. Then he went to the beer stand and bought a capped leather container called a "sock" of their thin bitter beer. The barman charged him a deposit which he said he would return if he brought the sock back. He wouldn't be back though. He had all the information he needed.

Outside the market Matt entered a nascent wilderness of brush and saplings. He put the food and beer aside long enough to urinate and started back to retrieve his horse.

Someone grabbed his upper arms – two people from behind – knocking food and beer from his grasp. He strained forward but couldn't break lose, then jerked to the left, freeing himself from one pair of hands.

A blow to his right cheekbone brought tears to his eyes. Both assailants again held him. A face appeared before him, wavery through his tears but recognizable: the guard at the gate that he had embarrassed before the crowd. Grinning. Another figure stood behind the guard, looked somehow familiar, a small man partially obscured by a sapling.

Rage consumed Matt. He threw himself back, then forward. They still held him fast. Then back again, legs raised with knees bent to his chest. He thrust his legs out as hard as he could. His feet struck the guard in the chest.

They all collapsed to the ground. He jumped on the half-stunned guard, pounding his face with satisfying impacts of his fists. He felt only red fury. Then pain, though it seemed distant.

Then nothing.

# Chapter Twenty

John awoke on Wednesday, his day off, to find it partially overcast though rain didn't feel imminent. He hadn't been to the market for nearly a week and realized that he missed all of its disordered activity, noise, and diverse smells. He headed there after breakfast, went first to the gang's stall and visited with Doc and Stony for a while, then to the Kanes' adjoining stall, currently tended by Buck and Willard. He asked where Billy was. Somewhere in the farmers' camp, they said, talking to two farmers who wanted a survey of their common boundaries to settle a dispute.

John thought about that for a moment and then said, "Why do they have a dispute? There's so much land where nobody lives, one of them could just move somewhere else."

"It's the water," said Buck. "They both claim a spring. Pap has to figger out which one owns it."

Of course, thought John. Water had become scarce, and therefore precious, even before the Last Days. He remembered summers when the Newcastle well ran dry and how he had hated lugging water from the creek where he and Clarence fished.

Then he wandered among the other stalls. Several people surprised him by asking where he'd been. He hadn't known they even noticed him. He looked around for the girl, Alicia, but as always before didn't see her.

After making a circuit of all the market except the animal pens he wandered over to look at them from the edge of the slope. To his surprise he saw people raising a huge tent in the stubbled fields some distance north of the stock pens. It consisted of several types and colors of canvas stitched together, perhaps from smaller tents and tarpaulins. Most of it lay spread out over the ground, but at one end workers pushed it erect with poles from under the canvas.

"A big tent, huh?" said a voice beside him. He wheeled, surprised.

The girl Alicia looked at him through lowered lashes, smiling impudently.

"Can't you talk?" she said. "I've never heard you say a thing."

He realized he wasn't breathing. "Uh, uh, sure," he said.

"Good. I wasn't sure. Well...?"

"Well, uh, what?"

"Don't you think it's a big tent? Or do you see tents that big all the time?"

"N-No. I mean, yes, it's big and no, I've never seen one that big. What's it for?"

"It's for the revival. Reverend Gates always has a revival the second week of market."

"What's a revival?"

She looked at him derisively. "You sure don't know much, do you? Everybody knows what a revival is."

"Well I don't." He began to feel annoyed. "And I don't know what a 'reverend' is, though I s'pose it's some kinda preacher. And I don't care if you tell me what it is or not."

She laughed. "Don't get so serious. How'd you know what a preacher was but not a revival?"

"A preacher used to come through town occasionally until Maude quit feeding him. There got to be so few of us she said we couldn't spare food for those who didn't help raise it. But he didn't try to revive nobody."

She laughed again, louder and longer. His annoyance increased. "He doesn't revive anybody," she said between peals of laughter.

"Then revival's a stupid word," said John. He turned away angrily to watch the people raising the tent.

She didn't speak for a while. Just as he began to think she had gone as silently as she had come she said, "You know, I never thought of that. I mean, it is dumb to call it a 'revival' when nobody gets revived."

He looked around to see her again studying him from under lowered lashes, her full lips formed into a slight smile that lacked its former petulance. He again forgot to breathe.

Then he remembered to ask, "Why haven't you been to the market before?"

She whispered conspiratorially, "Mother doesn't like me to come here alone. But when she's doing bookkeeping like today she doesn't pay attention to where I am so I sneaked away."

"What about your dad?"

"I don't have a dad. Oh, you mean Ronald?" Her lip curled. "He's not my father. My father's dead. He's that little brat Jaclyn's dad." John remembered the dark little girl with the mayor's entourage. "Let's watch them put up the tent," she said, plopping down on the edge of the slope and patting the grassy spot beside her. He obediently sat down.

They watched for a while in silence. Then she said, "How old are you? I'm fourteen."

"Thirteen." Well, he would be next August.

"You're still a kid. What's your name? Mine's Alicia."

"John Moore," and to deflect attention from the subject of age he asked, "What do they do at a revival?"

She shook her head. "You sure don't know much. They sing a lot, and Reverend Gates preaches. And so does his new young aco, aco-something, Brother Gephardt."

"Who's he? Why isn't he a reverend too?" She sighed impatiently. "You can only have one reverend at a time. Everybody knows that. Brother Gephardt's too young anyhow. He's real cute though."

John felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy. He turned the subject away from Brother Gephardt and reverends and revivals to questions about the town and its people. When the sun neared its zenith Alicia jumped to her feet and said, "Walk me home, John." But when John stood up, a little rankled at allowing himself to be bossed by this rather insolent girl, she had changed her mind. "No, you better not."

"Why not!" He found her contradictory commands ever more annoying.

"Because Mother not only doesn't want me here at the market, but she'd be really pissed if she saw me with you. I'm not to associate with any gang folk."

"Well there's nothing holding you here. Certainly not me." He turned around and sat back down on the edge of the hill, pretending to resume watching the tent raising of the tent. He felt her standing there for a while, then heard her turn and walk away.

Then she came back. "John?" He turned and looked up, trying to glare. "John, if you come back tonight and sit right here... maybe I can come see you. I'll be in the tent with Sissy. She works for Mother, and Mother has her walk me to the revival to keep an eye on me. I'll tell Sissy I'm going to sit on the hill with a girlfriend. She lets me do whatever I want."

He turned back to watch the erection of the tent.

"Well, will you come or not?" Impatiently.

"I might," he mumbled. "If I'm not too busy."

She turned and stomped away. He wouldn't let himself watch her go in case she caught him looking. He wasn't about to come tonight. He refused to be ordered about by this arrogant girl.

* * * *

After supper he went outside Haas House to sit on the porch, only to escape the dining room's heat, he told himself. He had no intention of attending the revival. He sat at the corner of the porch closest to the river. He saw people descending the hill from Coleridge Gardens and from the farmers' camp to the south in the increasing darkness. A lively playful dance of light flickered against the hill on the tent's other side, probably from pitch-soaked torches by the tent's entrance but of course he couldn't see people entering.

He finally got up, walked up to the bridge and crossed it. He went east along Bridge Road just far enough to see the tent's entrance and the people streaming inside. As he had guessed, a torch on either side illuminated the entrance. He had come to Bridge Road merely for a better view of the tent from natural curiosity. After all, he had never even heard of a revival, let alone seen one. He wouldn't go any closer, though, certainly not to the spot Alicia had suggested. The overcast sky made the night darker than usual except for the island of light in front of the tent. Light inside the tent cast shadows of the worshippers against the canvas walls. The tent must have filled. He saw people settling themselves on the lower slopes outside it.

Music from a strange instrument emanated from the tent. He wished he could hear it without the muffling of tent walls. Each note would sound purely and distinctly to form a melody flowing as perfectly as a stream rippling over magic cobbles. This must be the "piano" Matt had talked about.

The music subsided and a man began to speak in a shrill, unpleasant voice. He had heard a couple of preachers who infrequently passed through Newcastle but never one speaking before so many people. The preacher quit speaking and the piano, if that's what it was, started again, the people singing along with it. After the piano and singers stopped, the preacher spoke again. John couldn't understand him. He felt that he really should get close enough to make out his words.

Then a younger stronger voice spoke, Brother what's-his-name maybe? Gephardt? John could still could only understand a few words, but he found the new voice stronger and more compelling. He left the bridge and walked down Bridge Road until it reached the top of the bluff. Then he went south along the top of it. He saw people sitting at its base but not along the top. He sat down when he reached a point where he could better understand the preacher's words. He just happened to sit, he noticed, where he'd been with Alicia earlier in the day. It didn't matter though. She had not arrived, had no intention of joining him.

Just as John sat down the preacher with the unpleasant voice began speaking again, telling a story from the Bible that John remembered hearing from past preachers. Because of the man's high-pitched and not very strong voice, when he tried to shout the sound came out as a squeak. John couldn't understand enough of what the man said to make sense of the story but he listened in a kind of fascinated revulsion.

He listened so raptly that the two figures angling up the hill almost reached him before he noticed them. When he did, he immediately recognized the taller one as Alicia and a moment later the smaller one as her half-sister, though he couldn't remember her name.

"What took you so long?" Alicia demanded.

"I only came to this spot to hear better," he said. "Not to see you."

The smaller girl stared at him though he couldn't read her expression in the dark.

"Sorry about the gnome," said Alicia, indicating the smaller girl. "She said she'd tell Mother if I didn't bring her."

"I'm not a gnome. I'm Jaclyn."

"Gnome, Jaclyn. There's no difference." Alicia sat down beside John.

"I'm gonna tell Mom anyhow," said Jaclyn. She sat down on John's other side. "Is your name John?"

"Yes. John Moore."

"If you tell her, I'll wash your mouth out with soap," said Alicia. Then, "Oh, listen! The Reverend Gates is going to let Brother Gephardt speak again!"

The younger voice John had heard before began to speak in a clear powerful voice. John still didn't understand much of what Gephardt said but the timber of his voice impressed him. Finally, the younger man began calling people to come forward and give themselves to Christ. Alicia watched the tent raptly. Jaclyn leaned against John's arm looking up at him.

"I'm 'leven," Jaclyn told John.

"You are not," said Alicia, obviously annoyed at being distracted. "You're only nine."

"Well, I'm almost 'leven."

My first revival, thought John, and I don't know what the preacher's talking about and I'm stranded between two squabbling sisters.

He asked Alicia, "Is one of this Sissy's jobs to keep you away from people like me?"

Alicia looked at him from under those lashes and smiled mischievously. "Exactly. 'Gang folk,' she calls you."

"Why doesn't your mom bring you instead of sending you with Sissy?"

"She's way, way too busy. There's a lot of responsibility in running a whole town. Even you oughta know that."

Chaos had broken out in the tent, with everything happening at once: He heard the piano playing, people singing and shouting, and both preachers speaking, sometimes at once.

"Oh, that's the final hymn," said Alicia. "We gotta go, gnome, and catch up with Sissy."

"'Bye, John Moore," said Jaclyn. "See you tomorrow night."

"You mean this isn't all of the revival?"

Alicia, leading Jaclyn away by the hand, stopped and turned to face him. "You can't have a revival in one night! It goes on through Friday night. We'll be here every night. See you tomorrow night."

"If I'm not too busy." He got up and stalked along the edge of the slope. That she expected him to do just as she commanded pissed him off. He would certainly not come back.

But John went to the same place the next night. So did Alicia and Jaclyn. Just like the night before, Reverend Gates did most of the preaching in his squeaky voice and allowed Brother Gephardt a few moments to speak. It began to rain part way through, though. Alicia led her sister back into the tent, and John went back to Bernie's.

It rained sporadically on Friday but cleared by evening. John returned to the same spot and sat with the two sisters.

After the opening ceremony, Reverend Gates gave a brief introduction and said Brother Gephardt would deliver the sermon. John assumed it would be as incomprehensible as those of Reverend Gates. But his melodious voice pierced the night.

"Brothers and Sisters in Christ," he began, "tonight let us turn to the Book of Revelation of St. John the Divine." Silence fell over the assembly. His mellifluous voice must have had the same effect on them as it did John. "In Revelation 1:1 we are told that this book is, 'The Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave unto him, to shew unto His servants things which must shortly come to pass; and He sent and signified it to His angel unto his servant John.'"

He paused to let the words sink in, then continued, "Brothers and Sisters, this is the Book of the Last Days. It says, '...things which must shortly come to pass...' and now – now! – we see that these things have come to pass. And those who mocked these words, Brothers and Sisters, and those who defiled His house and His name fall down sore afraid, for they believed not in His Holy Word. But now that the Last Days are at hand, the unbelievers can no longer deny the evidence of their senses. We who are united in Christ fear not the Last Days. Instead, we rise up in exultation! We rejoice in our brothers and sisters who have already departed to join the Heavenly Host, and with great joy we prepare to join them."

Scattered hallelujahs! and amens! came from the crowd. Brother Gephardt said the Book of Revelation gave the long vision of St. John the Divine. He told how God commanded him to send messages to seven churches. Then Gephardt spoke of a lot of mystical sounding stuff, mostly involving the number seven: Seven golden candlesticks and seven stars. God sat in a glorious heavenly court with a book sealed with seven seals. John's attention began to drift.

Suddenly a creature appeared and took the book out of God's hand, an unusual one – a lamb ...one that had been slain! The unlikely newcomer began to break the seals of the book. Things got more interesting. The breaking of each of the first four seals summoned a horse and rider.

"Revelation 6:1 through 6:8," quoted Brother Gephardt portentously. And he read descriptions of the four terrible horses and riders that appeared. As he read his voice rose dramatically. The first was a white horse whose rider carried a bow and was given a crown and "went forth conquering." The second horse was red and he who rode upon him was given a great sword and power was given to him to "take peace from the earth." Then came a black horse whose rider held a balance that seemed of the type to measure grain.

"'And when he had opened the fourth seal,'" intoned Brother Gephardt, "'behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him...'"

Brother Gephardt spoke as though he read from a book. John imagined the preacher, with a large Bible open before him, leaning fiercely over his congregation. He paused and then continued in a quiet ominous voice. "These were the four tribulations the Lord set upon us to try our faith during the Last Days, the Four Horsemen of War, Revolution, Famine, and Pestilence.

"The rider of the white horse was Techne who made War against the Faithful. He carried the bow and wore the crown and went forth to conquer. The three letters in the word 'bow,' B-O-W, describes his weapons: Books of science to challenge Faith by blaspheming the Holy Word, techne Officialdom to silence the protests of pious folk, and Worldly Goods to distract the pious from their faith.

"And the rider of the red horse was Revolution. He brought the bloody insurrections by the evil forces against the Faithful. He led the infidels of Islam, the Jewish murderers of Christ, the heathens of Gaia, the idolaters of Asian lands, and worst of all, the soulless Atheists. All of these are abominations before the Lord, and all were beloved of the Technics.

"And he that sat upon the black horse holding a balance was Famine, the Famine suffered by the Faithful as the Technics measured out all of earth's bounty for their own consumption. Not just our food, Brothers and Sisters, but healing and education and dwelling places. The Technics took it all.

"Yet many of the Faithful disdained these warnings. When Techne came riding on his white horse, they turned their backs from faith to grasp his false baubles. When the red horse bore the Infidel down upon them, they accepted his evil occupation of our lands. The black horse came, but they starved rather than wrest their sustenance back from its thieves, the Lords of Techne.

"Then came the fourth horseman: '...behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death...'"

"And what a Death it was, Brothers and Sisters!" His voice rang out clarion-clear. "It took the unbelievers unaware, shook them to the depths of their shallow souls with terror. They didn't understand. They were so bewildered by the false preachings of techne –" (he spat the word out in disgust) "– and science –" (with a sneer) "– who called the causes, 'natural'! The Lords of Techne said there was a 'scientific' explanation. In their arrogance they even gave the plague a 'scientific' name based on that of an idolater from China.

"But we know the true explanation don't we, Brothers and Sisters?" More hallelujahs and amens erupted from the congregation, then a sound that must have been the preacher slapping the open page of his Bible. "The Lord our God reveals it to us right here! He tells us that the fourth horseman is Death, a Death that the Righteous need not fear, our Heavenly Father's way of separating the wheat from the chaff. The Righteous who died during the fourth horseman's advent on earth have already joined our Heavenly Father, and those of us who remain behind must eagerly prepare for our own Journey.

"Many of the faithful didn't recognize the first three horsemen for what they were. My own dear father, the Reverend John Wesley Gephardt, did. Our Lord Jesus Christ commanded him to found a new Faith based upon the Book of Revelation. It was to be called the Church of Rapture of the Last Days. It was not established to replace the existing Faith. Oh, no. On the contrary its purpose is to prepare all believers for this glorious time by explaining the truths revealed in the Book of Revelation. My father preached of the coming of the Last Days. He described the advent of the first three horsemen, which had already occurred by the time the Lord Jesus Christ revealed the Last Days to him, and warned him of the arrival of the fourth horseman.

"Now the first four seals have been broken and the remainder of Our Lord's prophecy is suddenly clear even to those of weak faith. Let us continue to examine the prophecy as given in the Book of Revelation." He described the breaking of the fifth and sixth seals, which led to a lot of strange and mainly revolting results. At one point some people ascended to heaven and washed their robes in the blood of the lamb (there was that critter again!) which somehow made them white. It began to seem as if they would never get to the breaking of the seventh seal.

Finally the seventh seal got broken. John assumed that would end the vision but it didn't. A new series of seven events occurred, each beginning with an angel blowing a trumpet and ending with gruesome results. When the fifth angel blew his trumpet, for example, all hell literally broke loose. A bottomless pit opened which emitted smoke that obscured the sun. And from the smoke issued locusts shaped like horses, with the tails of scorpions and the heads of men.

A seemingly endless stream of strange apparitions and activities followed. Finally, despite the young preacher's charisma, John could no longer suspend his disbelief. His attention wandered. Then a new monster's description interested John enough for him to try to figure out what it would look like: somehow equipped with seven heads and ten horns, it would rise out of the sea and conquer the world. At least, he thought, this Beast wouldn't come for a long time, given all the other stuff that had to happen after the last horseman's arrival. The Beast would build a new city called Babylon (Wasn't there already a Babylon? he thought) but the righteous would kick him and his host out of it and then the righteous and the host of the Beast would meet in a huge battle for one final showdown.

"The name of this final holocaust, Brothers and Sisters," declaimed the young preacher, "is given in Revelation 16:16: 'And he' – St. John means the Beast here – 'gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.' There the hosts of the righteous will defeat him, but the battle will rock the very foundations of the earth. And the Beast is a man, Brothers and Sisters. The Lord has marked him with a number so that he can be identified. Listen to Revelation 13:18: '... Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred three score and six.' The number of this man who is the Beast is six hundred sixty-six."

Brother Gephardt paused for dramatic effect. Even without seeing him John sensed his agitation. He continued.

"This man who is called the Beast, Brothers and Sisters, is not some far-off danger that will threaten our children or grandchildren. Oh, no. Once the opening of the seals began, the rest of the events prophesied in Revelation became inevitable. No power on earth can stop them. And they will happen very quickly." (So John had been wrong; the Beast would arrive soon.) "The Beast, Brothers and Sisters, walks amongst us right now. He and his entire host shall be cast down at Armageddon, but many of the righteous will die there too. His minions live with us too, preparing for our destruction at Armageddon. We must be ever vigilant, seeking always to identify members of his host. The more of them we cast down before that fateful day, the more of us will survive the final battle.

"We live under a Shadow, Brothers and Sisters, not the Shadow of the Four Horsemen nor of other terrors of the past. The vicissitudes they brought were terrifying but they are finished, never to visit us again. But those horrors are nothing like those that are to come.

"No, the Shadow that looms over us is not from events of the past. It is cast from the future. The near future. It is the Shadow of that last and most horrible event of the Last Days, the battle of Armageddon."

He said nothing for a moment. A hush hovered over the crowd. John realized that Jaclyn had crept under his arm and hugged him with both arms around his body, shivering slightly, whether from the dire predictions of the sermon or the growing coolth of the evening, he couldn't tell. Alicia sat apart from them, completely enthralled by the young preacher's message.

"Let us pray," said Brother Gephardt, and he began. It struck John that, no matter how outrageous the young preacher's tales of the four horsemen had sounded, they could have happened. The pestilence, if brought by the rider of the pale horse as Gephardt claimed, in the form of Chou's Disease, had certainly been real enough. The adults of Newcastle had continued to talk of it in low fearful tones. Perhaps those other disasters had happened before he was old enough to remember them. Matt would know though. He hardly listened to the words of the prayer. He had to talk all this over with Matt as soon as possible.

After the prayer John heard Reverend Gates' squeaky voice asking for contributions. Alicia, pulling Jaclyn out from under his arm, hissed, "Come on, come on. Sissy'll be looking for us." And to John, with a smile and a shake of the head, "I'll see you soon, John Moore. You need me to teach you a lot a stuff."

Jaclyn called "'Bye, John Moore," and watched him wistfully as Alicia dragged her down the slope by one arm.

He reflected regretfully that the wrong girl had sat with her arms around him while the right one sat mesmerized by the young preacher.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Matt awakened to pain. A massive hammer slammed just behind his closed eyes in time with his pounding heart. He lay on his stomach with his right cheek against a cold hard surface, probably concrete, reviewing the events that had brought him there. The guard and at least two others holding his arms had attacked him. If the guard had struck seeking revenge Matt wondered why he hadn't killed him. Trees had hidden them from the market. Then he remembered the small man standing in the trees behind the guard. He seemed familiar somehow, though Matt couldn't see him clearly for the vegetation. As far as Matt knew, the onlooker had not joined in the beating. How did he fit in?

He didn't move or make a sound, kept his eyes shut, hoping he hadn't groaned as he gained consciousness. He listened, heard nothing, at last decided he was alone. He flexed different parts of his body – nothing seemed broken – and turned over on his back, stifling a cry of pain. Painfully opened his eyes. Looked up through wavery red to rafters above. Perhaps the ceiling of a basement. A small window in one wall admitted pallid light, maybe signaling dusk. He wondered how long he'd been out.

He turned his head to examine the room. Directly across from the window he saw a solid looking door, closed, and no doubt secured. The stuff filling the large room identified it as a storeroom. Stacks of chests and boxes filled one end. A bound bundle of thick sticks in the corner smelled of pitch: pine boughs intended for use as torches. Scroungers' supplies filled the other end: a stack of folded waterproof hides and tarpaulins to cover truck in wet weather, and coils of cord to use for pitching tents and securing truck to pack animals, among other uses. Floor to ceiling shelves on both sides of the door, and one over the door, held jars filled with something.

Gingerly, he sat up. The movement made his aching head spin. He remained sitting until the room quit spinning, the hammer behind his eyes grew less intense and his vision cleared, then crawled over to the shelves. The jars held preserved food. That hobby from the back-to-the-good -old-days movement now served as a survival technique. He used the shelves to pull himself upright and just for the hell of it tried the door. And of course couldn't budge it. Then he went to the window and tried to open it. Its rusty hinges wouldn't let it open far, though he couldn't have fit through it even if it had fully opened. Its hinges squealed. A voice outside the window made him jump.

"Pringle! Matt Pringle! Is that you?" A harsh whisper. Matt flattened against the wall beside the window. "Answer if you're in there, asshole, and I'll tell you what's gonna happen to you." A kind of snuffling chuckle. The voice sounded familiar. Matt kept utterly still.

"I know you're in the basement somewheres," came the whisper. "I saw 'm lug your sorry ass down there." Snuffle, snort. Matt must have been in Chadwick's basement.

"Chadwick and his boys know who you are and I want you to know who told 'm. Me, Geraldo Grimes. I know what they're gonna do to you. Heard 'm talkin bout it."

Grimes had been the little guy hiding in the trees. That's why he sounded familiar. An itinerant trader, he bought goods at Nellie's Fair and took them to other markets. He had suffered many humiliations at Johnson's hands. The last one Matt remembered had occurred in the Rat's Nest. Frank had brought tears to Grimes' eyes by squeezing his thigh with his legs. Grimes had given Johnson and the others a venomous glare and a cussing on his way out. Grimes had ratted Matt out to at last get even with the Johnson gang.

"After supper Chadwick's comin down there to person'ly beat your gang's whereabouts outta you. Tell him quick, Pringle, and maybe he'll kill you quick." Again, that nasty chuckle. Then, "Well, don't know if you're there or not. I'll move on to the next winder. Remember, give in quick if you wanta git it over with." Snuffled chuckling as he moved away.

Matt's heart pounded. He had no way out. He worried that he would indeed give the gang's location away but he would hold out as long as possible. He began to pace the small floor area, ignoring his headache. As often happened in stressful times Matt's anger began to override his panic. He looked around the room in the waning light, searching for defensive weapons.

Then he looked up. Maybe he could find a way – not to escape, but to make his captors' torment of him more costly than they had bargained for.

* * * *

Full dark, except for the window's square of dim light, shrouded the basement when Matt heard the door's bolt slide open. He willed calmness to override his wrath. With surprise on his side he knew he could handle two men but maybe not three.

The door slowly opened. Flickering yellow light spilled through it from a candle in the adjoining room, widening as the door edged further open. Matt recognized Chadwick's wedge-shaped build and balding head entering first. A second, taller man followed, carrying (ominously) a pair of hedge trimmers. He stopped abruptly, stumbled into Chadwick who had stopped and was looking around the room.

"Wheah the fuck is...?" Chadwick said, looking around for Matt. A third man carrying a long thick wooden dowel blundered into the second.

Damn, thought Matt. There are three.

Matt had gotten the inspiration for his defense when he noticed the shelf above the door. His captors wouldn't look up, at least not at first. He had climbed the shelving next to the door far enough to remove the jars of preserved vegetables from it. Then he climbed down and grabbed a tarp from the pile of blankets and tarpaulins at the end of the room. Once perched on the shelf free of its canned goods, he unfolded the tarp. His thin frame and the tarp crowded the space between the shelf and the ceiling but not too much to move freely.

He had planned. Upon first seeing Chadwick he had recognized the man's superior strength. He needed to disable him first so he could deal with whoever accompanied him. He would cast the tarpaulin in an attempt to cover the group and try to land on Chadwick with both feet.

He had waited.

Now his enemies stumbled around below him.

It's show time, thought Matt.

Just then, everything went to hell. The shelf, deciding Matt weighed too much, gave way. Three startled faces looked up at its parting screech. A few seconds later the tarp covered Chadwick's companions – mostly. But Chadwick had dodged it.

The collapsing shelf's unstable a launch disrupted Matt's trajectory. He landed on one of the men writhing under the tarp, lost his footing and pitched forward. Chadwick, immobilized by seeing his captive attacking from the ceiling, quickly recovered. He caught Matt by the throat with one hand and yanked him to his feet.

"Clevuh mothafucka aincha?" snarled Chadwick. Matt tried to wrench free of the viselike grip. Then frantically pushed upward on Chadwick's chin with the heel of his hand. Neither worked. They stumbled over the two under the tarp. Chadwick shoved him backward to push him off his feet. Matt backed quickly, knowing he couldn't let Chadwick wrest him to the floor. Matt crashed against the shelves by the door. He could no longer breathe. Spots danced before his eyes. Feeling consciousness wane, his arms flailed randomly, helplessly. His left hand struck a jar on the shelf, reflexively grasped it. With the last of his strength and last shred of rational thought, he swung the jar, felt it connect with the side of Chadwick's head.

Chadwick uttered a surprised, "Unnh!" His grip loosened on Matt's throat just a little. Just enough. Matt knocked Chadwick's arm aside, raised the jar with both hands and brought it down on Chadwick's head with all his failing strength. The jar broke. Fragments of glass and juice struck Matt in the face. He tasted raspberries. He had broken free, at least temporarily.

Chadwick came for him, raspberry juice mixed with blood streaking his face. Holding the broken jar by its cap end, Matt thrust the broken shards at Chadwick's throat. Chadwick backed away. Matt forced his retreat by swinging and jabbing with the makeshift weapon.

When Matt fell for a Chadwick feint to the left, Chadwick struck his wrist and sent the broken jar sailing across the room. He launched himself head first toward Matt.

Fortunately, Johnson's training kicked in. Matt could no longer think through the fog of pain and fear.

Chadwick, sure of victory, had committed himself too far to change his course. Matt dodged to the side, grabbed Chadwick's neck and increased his headlong flight. Chadwick slammed head first into the shelves. He landed in a mass of splintered shelving, shattered jars and semi-liquid goop.

Matt tried to say, "Yeah, I am a clever motherfucker at that," but he could only gasp and cough and try to see through the red fog before his eyes.

He heard one of Chadwick's men crawling from under the tarp – the other wasn't moving – while trying to free his weapon, the long thick dowel. Matt kicked him in the side of the head and finished untangling the dowel. The guy rolled on the floor groaning. Matt smacked him on the head with the dowel. He didn't move again. Matt stood over his unconscious adversaries now, catching his breath, regaining his composure. He hefted the dowel, thinking about how he could kill them with it if he hadn't already.

He would have if his escape depended on it but he could leave without doing that. And he had killed enough people.

But he had to do it quickly. People upstairs must have heard the commotion. Then he realized they would believe it resulted from the interrogation. Peering cautiously out of the storeroom, he saw a large elaborately-furnished office, apparently Chadwick's, lighted by a single candle on the desk. He saw no one around.

He stumbled out of the room using the dowel for support, still gasping for breath. He closed the door, slipped the bolt through its holds, crossed the office and looked through an open doorway. It led down a corridor with closed doors on each side to a stairway that led upstairs. No way out in that direction. He turned to find a closed door in the opposite wall. He crossed the room and opened the door a crack. It opened outdoors onto a concrete patio bathed in cold dim light. He stood in a walkout basement, probably with a guard posted outside. He went to the desk and blew out the candle, then, holding the dowel ready, returned to the door and opened it wider.

"Izzat you, Boss?" Someone outside had noticed the door open.

"Yeah. C'mere." His hoarse whisper, sounded surprisingly like Chadwick's growl.

"Boss?" A tough-looking young woman, her face barely visible in the moonlight, stepped in front of the door, holding a rifle across her chest. "Why's it so dark in there?" Despite Big Mike saying Chadwick didn't like recruiting women, he apparently employed a few. She stood a little too far outside. Anyone standing in the yard would see him strike her.

He stood half-concealed behind the open door. "Come in." She did. He brought the dowel down over her head as hard as he could. She crumpled without a sound. He pulled her out of sight behind the doorway and took her rifle. Edging into the moon- and starlight he recognized it as an assault rifle of some kind; Mitch could tell him the type if he ever saw the gang leader again. Rifling through her clothes he found an additional magazine for it.

He heard steps outside on the patio. A young male voice said, "Marcie?" Shit! A second guard, maybe posted because of the prisoner in the basement.

Matt quietly stepped back into the shadows behind the door. A shadow filled the doorway. He swung the dowel.

The young guard, apparently suspicious and quick, countered the blow with his rifle. As the rifle's blow slammed the upper part of Matt's staff backward, Matt added his strength to the momentum whipping the lower end upward. It smacked serendipitously right between his legs. He went down, curled around his injury. Matt whacked the side his head with the dowel.

If I haven't killed any of these fuckers, thought Matt, they'll have some hellacious headaches tomorrow.

He looked out the door into a back yard with a garden in the rear and an alley behind that. A few steps from the door he saw a wooden screen with stools between it and the house. The guards must have sat there. Seeing no one around he went out. He retrieved the man's rifle, an old Marlin hunting rifle, loaded, but he found no additional ammunition on the man.

He crossed Chadwick's rear lawn and garden, watching all around him. He ran down the alley as fast as his injuries allowed. He heard no sounds of pursuit. To avoid the main gate, probably closed this late anyhow, he went to the board fence at the subdivision's south end. He hunkered down behind a thicket some distance from any houses and listened. No sounds came from Chadwick's house. They had not yet noticed his escape. He took a moment to catch his breath, realizing just how badly he needed that rest. The adrenalin rush of a few minutes ago had abated. He still hurt from the poundings and chokings but had suffered no broken bones and felt only a couple of loose teeth.

He knew his pain and the two rifles would preclude his climbing the fence. He remembered from seeing it in daylight that it had not been that well-built. He worried the base of one of its wide upright boards to loosen it and then the one next to it. Then he scooped out loose grass and duff from beneath them. After a few minutes he had a gap large enough to shove the rifles underneath and follow them through. Sometimes being a skinny guy had its advantages.

Once outside, he pushed the boards back in place and followed the perimeter fence, staying in the shadows wherever possible, to the site of his ambush. There, he retrieved his hat which he had lost in the struggle, and the sausages and bread, which remained in their packaging. Unfortunately, the beer sock lay on its side, empty. Leaving Chadwick's sentinels' rifles behind, he went to fetch Lady. Though he pulled his hat low over his face to hide his injuries, the sleepy youth tending the corral watched suspiciously as he saddled the horse and secured his bed roll and scratch bag behind the saddle. When he returned to pick up the guards' rifles he made sure neither the kid at the corral or anyone else in the market could tell in which direction he rode.

As he disappeared into the dark though, he heard voices raised in the town and saw light blazing, maybe torches alighted to begin the search for him.

It seemed much later to him that he saw the barn's dark form brooding in the moonlight. Tim ran out to meet him. He grabbed Matt as he saw him fall off Lady. He said, "Where the hell've you..." and shut up when he saw Matt's battered face.

"Saddle up," said Matt. "We need to get away as soon as possible." And lay against the barn while Tim made ready.

And then began the longest ride of Matt's life. Especially after a new fear struck him: The riders Matheson sent to Newcastle did not necessarily have to pass through Coleridge Gardens, but one route to Newcastle ran through it. Matheson could tell them to check there for the gang on their way. He also realized not finishing off Chadwick and his men had been a mistake. The detached, objective teacher Matt Pringle could decline for ethical reasons. The scrounger Matt Pringle didn't have that luxury if he wanted to stay alive. He no longer knew if his plan to trick the gangs into fighting each other and keep his gang out of it would work. Finding Matt had shown Chadwick the Michell gang's close proximity. Matt had to bring this threat to an end himself. Now. Or die trying.

He might accomplish it by tweaking his original plan. He would start working it out the minute he saw Matheson. No more fucking around.

* * * *

They reached the compound at Stanley Market just as dawn brightened the sky. Despite the early hour, they went directly to report to Matheson. They found the big man sitting in front of his tent like he had every time Matt had seen him. "I'm surprised to see you back awready," he said. "I thought it'd take you at least two days to figger things out." Then he noticed Matt's face. "What the hell happened to you?"

Matt said, "A case of mistaken identity. One of Chadwick's men mistook me for one of yours. They thought to beat your location out of me."

Matheson's eyes narrowed. "Did they succeed?" He stood up. So his ass isn't grown to that chair, thought Matt irrelevantly.

"If they had, do you think I'd be here now? I'd either be dead or hightailin it away from here as fast as I could." Matt's bruises made his story sound plausible.

Matheson slowly sat back down. "Maybe so. Okay, tell me ever'thing that happened."

"First, before they accused me of being with you, I got right in to see Chadwick."

"Anybody with him?"

"A guy name of Hauptmann." No sense mentioning McCutcheon.

"Yeah, Hauptmann," said Matheson. "Chadwick talked him into partnering with him but he never let Hauptmann have much say in anything. He just wanted Hauptmann's manpower. So what did Chadwick have to say bout us?"

"It's not too good, as you can tell." Matt pointed to his face.

"Spit it out. I don't kill the messenger that brings bad news. Most times."

"He's really pissed that you let Johnson's gang get away, especially if they're on the way to Chicago. And that you ran off with so many of his men. He also thinks you might a stole the goods from Johnson's men and left the country."

"Sounds like Lyle. But I might figger the same if I was in his shoes. He ain't much for lettin bygones be bygones. So Chadwick hisself didn't suspect you was one of my men?"

"No. Somebody fingered me after I left Chadwick's house, mistook me for someone else."

"Tell me how that happened, who ratted you out, ever detail."

"One of the guys you sent back with the Johnson gang's mules and truck after the ambush said he recognized me, said I'd joined your gang just before you left to find Johnson. He and some others tried to beat your location out of me. Chadwick believed me though. He said he recognized everybody in the gang no matter which of you recruited them. Besides, he said you'd never hire anybody as skinny as me."

Matheson chuckled. "Yeah, he got that right. So then he let you go?"

"He told me to stick around in case he had questions but I took off right away."

"When he says to stay put he means it. He might suspect I hired you after I started chasin Johnson's men. He could be lookin for you right now."

"Nobody saw me leave. They wouldn't know which way I went."

Matheson sat quietly for a minute, thinking, scratching his short nappy beard. "How many men you figger he's got? In town and elsewhere?"

"Looked to be twenty-some in town. The rest are out collecting tolls on the river and roads and on patrol. Maybe another forty or so. Chadwick's trying to recruit more. Another thing I picked up is that folks in Columbia ain't too happy havin Chadwick in control. Some said they'd back anybody that tried to boot him out."

"Bet he's nervous bout all that," said Matheson. "They gotta man posts this time a year to charge folks goin to market, and c'lect farmers' produce cause it's harvest time, the only time they got anything to take." He thought it over for a while, then mumbled, "Only twenty-odd guys in town and the natives is restless."

Matheson stood up. "If they's any truth in what you're tellin me, Mr. Jerry Jordan, then Chadwick's lookin for us right now. Even with his market open." Then, almost as if to himself, "He'll figger if I'm close enough for one a my men to spy on him, he'd better find me. I'm too big a danger to ignore. Even if he don't know which way you went, he could come this way as well as any other. In any case he'll be here sooner or later.

"I gotta talk all this over with my lieutenants – Tim, whyn't you run and find 'm – and you, farm boy, don't you leave this here compound till I finish with them. If you're gone afore I give you leave, then your skinny white ass is in worse trouble than it was from Chadwick. If you stay, this here bag is yours." He indicated the buckskin bag of nellies beneath his chair.

"You don't have to worry bout me leaving," said Matt. "In fact if you decide to go to Columbia, I want to go with you."

Matheson looked surprised and a little amused. "Oh, you do, hunh?"

"Yeah. I got a score of my own to settle." He pointed to his battered face.

"Well, if we decide to go and if we decide to let you go with us, I'll let you know." Matheson turned away, dismissing Matt.

"Just one other item," asked Matt.

Matheson turned back around, clearly irritated that Matt still had not gone.

"You can send someone to bring your men back from my town now."

"And you can start addressin me as Boss Matheson." Then Matheson's upper lip curled into a slight grin. "I didn't send them boys out. You don't think I'd waste my men's time runnin to watch over some pig farmer's sty. Naw, just the threat was enough to make sure you did what I said. Now quit wastin my time. Get outta here till I call you."

So Matt left, immensely relieved that Matheson hadn't sent anyone to Coleridge Gardens or Newcastle. And immeasurably sore and weary; he fell asleep the minute he touched his blanket.

Somebody lightly tapping the sole of his boot brought Matt groggily awake. He sat up, disoriented and in pain. Tim squatted before him. Matt shook his head to clear it.

"The meetin's over," said Tim. "The Boss – uh – I mean, us lieutenants all decided to git goin as soon as possible. The Boss says you're to come with us. and says you're to have this." Tim tossed him the bag of nellies that had been under Matheson's chair. It surprised Matt that Matheson actually intended to give it to him. "Git ready. The Boss wants us outta here real quick. Chadwick's boys could git here at any time."

Matt painfully pulled himself to his feet. By the sun he knew he had slept no more than a couple of hours, not nearly enough.

Tim's message from Matheson, that they wanted "outta there real quick" could have meant that Matheson intended to attack Chadwick. Or, he could have decided to flee Chadwick and take Matt along because he didn't trust him. Or to leave him lying by the road with a bullet between his eyes and the bag of nellies back in his possession. But it made no sense for Matheson to give him the nellies only to kill him and take it back. So he must intend to confront Chadwick.

While Matheson's men broke camp, Matt saddled Lady, packed his scratch and went to find Tim.

"So what's the goal?" Matt asked when he had found him.

"You ain't s'posed to know till we're on the road."

Matt's anger flared. "Listen, goddamn it. I'm not going anywhere with Matheson except to Columbia to kick Chadwick's ass. If he doesn't have the balls to do it, I'll go by myself."

Tim looked around, as if nervous that Matheson would hear him.

"Shh! Talk quiet! The Boss ast me to not tell nobody till we're on the road in case somebody's scairt a fightin Chadwick."

"So we are going to Columbia."

Realizing that he had let the secret out made Tim blanch.

"Don't worry, Tim. That's my goal too."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

As Matheson's men loaded their tents, cooking gear and other gang scratch onto the pack animals he moved among them, exhorting them to hurry, worried that Chadwick's men could arrive any minute. He had rented a stall in which to store their truck. Matt helped Tim and the others. They left along a road to the east, instead of south along the highway to Columbia. Matt rode near the center of the group, Tim next to him. Tim had stayed close to him while they broke camp. Matheson must have assigned him to keep an eye on Matt.

That morning's ride made that of the former night the second longest of his life. In the previous thirty or so hours, he had been terrified, beaten, and deprived of sleep except for the scant time during Matheson's meeting with his lieutenants. He had had nothing to eat except the sausages and bread he had shared with Tim on the flight from Columbia and toast and bacon that morning.

He suffered a worse form of torture from the ride. Unused to riding had made him incredibly saddle-sore the day before from aching buttocks and chafed insides of his thighs. Pain shot up his back with Lady's every step. He relieved the pressure to his buttocks by standing up in the stirrups though he could do nothing to spare his thighs and back. He began to doze and sink lower until his full weight settling on the saddle shocked him painfully awake. He scarcely noticed when they turned south toward Columbia. The morning's increasing warmth exacerbated his drowsiness. His pain diffused so generally throughout his body he could no longer identify which parts hurt the worst. He wondered how well he could function when they reached Columbia. He daydreamed about rolling off poor Lady, who began to stumble in her weariness, and sleeping for a couple of days to allow his poor derriere and other body parts to heal.

Then, inexplicably, they stopped. He heard someone at the caravan's front speaking, loudly so that all could hear. Matheson. Miraculously, wonderfully, he said they would stop for a rest. They couldn't attack Columbia until after dark. Matt slipped off poor Lady (Carefully! Carefully!) He took the saddle, bridle, and scratch off her and rubbed her down, led her to the little creek they had stopped beside and tethered her near fresh grass. Only then did he drop near her, head resting on his bedroll, and fall into a profound sleep.

Someone shaking him dragged him groggily, painfully, up into awareness. He sat up in the gloaming to find Tim squatting beside him. He still hurt and felt tired but the rest had taken the edge off. Tim also looked tired. He too had ridden all the previous night, albeit after a day of rest at the barn during Matt's rough day in Columbia. Tim handed him a salt pork and cheese sandwich and they ate sitting together.

"This is the only food the Boss brought along," said Tim. "We'll have to git our next meal at Columbia."

"And if we don't win there," Matt said with a grin, "we won't need another meal, huh?"

Tim fidgeted, looked away.

Matt didn't feel kind. "Don't worry, Tim. Nobody lives forever."

After they finished eating Matt pulled himself stiffly to his feet. One of Matheson's lieutenants walked among the men telling them the Boss and his lieutenants had finalized their plans. He had called a confab to explain it. Even that far from Columbia, with Chadwick's patrols about, they knew to keep quiet. Matheson motioned for the thirty-some men to gather around closely.

"Here's what we worked out," he said. "A simple plan. The simple ones is best. We'll git there bout midnight. We know the guards' rounds well enough to slip by 'm and git through the fence. Then we'll surround the house. Hartman'll attack the front of the house to draw attention. I'll go in the back and find Chadwick. He'll never listen to reason so he's toast. I don't like it but that's what he wants to do to us. We'll do the same to l him and any a his lieutenants that stay stubborn. We want as many of his men as possible to join us. We need 'm to run Columbia. They should want to. We all ran together afore all this happened.

"It woulda been easier if they hadn't mistook this Jerry Jordan as one of us. The house'll be full of Chadwick's men, fixin to take off after us tomorrow. Jerry tells us there's only twenty-some of 'm in town so we outnumber 'm.

"Any questions?"

There were none.

"Then let's go."

The men began saddling their horses and loading the pack animals. Matt limped stiffly over to saddle Lady, dreading the last leg of their journey. Though still sore, the nap had provided more rest than he had expected. Lady nickered a welcome; she also seemed rested. While he made her ready he thought about the Columbia invasion. He had to do everything he could to foil Matheson's plan to integrate the two gangs. Thanks to Geraldo Grimes, Chadwick's men now knew he belonged to the Mitchell gang. Also, Big Mike would still be in town, though not with Chadwick's men, so the fighting shouldn't affect him.

Matheson walked up. "Well, Mr. Jerry Johnson, you make sure you make it the rest of the way. I wanta see you right in the middle...."

"It's Jerry Jordan. And nothing's going to keep me from Columbia. Boss Matheson."

Matheson's eyes narrowed. "Then maybe we better git this business done so you can go home and feed your pigs."

Matheson stalked away. Matt glared after him before turning to tighten a cinch.

The gloaming had given way to the dark. They followed a road south under a star-clad ceiling ruled by a gibbous moon which sometimes ducked behind the clouds. Tim rode beside him. After a time they left the road and rode southwesterly through overgrown countryside. The cloud cover increased, making riding difficult through the infant forest but the darkness would serve as their ally during the attack. The leading horses stumbling through the undergrowth cleared a wake for those that followed, including Lady. Matt's pain returned, especially to his back and abraded inner thighs.

At last they halted and waited for a moment in the dark. The moon's brief appearance showed two riders approach Matheson from ahead and join him in whispered consultation. Matheson must have sent them ahead to reconnoiter. His lieutenants gathered around them. Matt knew Chadwick's men had been looking for him, hoping he would lead them to Mitch and the others. Matheson would think himself Chadwick's prey. Matt wondered if they had gotten as far as Stanley Market. They would have had time to reach it just after Matheson's men left and return to Columbia. With the market open Chadwick wouldn't like to be away from Columbia overnight. Believing both Matheson's and Mitchell's groups lurked so near, unsure of Matheson's intent, and kept from hunting them full time must have sorely vexed Chadwick.

Quiet orders passed from the group's front to dismount, secure their horses, and gather around Matheson. Matt slipped off Lady and tethered her. He and Tim went up as close to Matheson as the crowd allowed. Matheson spoke quietly but so they all could hear.

"We're close to Columbia," he said. "Rusty and Mark got as close to its gate as they could without bein seen. They saw Chadwick and his boys comin back to town bout a hour ago. Bout twenty of 'm. Lookin for us. Cordin to what the pig farmer here says, it musta been most a the men he had in town."

"So if we'd been a little sooner," someone said, "we coulda taken the town while he was gone."

"If we wait till tomorrow," suggested another man, "he'll prob'bly leave again and we can waltz in and take over."

"And when he found out," said Matheson, "he'd gather up all his boys from the toll posts and his patrols and come back. They'd be too many for us to handle. No, we gonna go in and finish this right now while he don't expect us.

"Here's what we gonna do. We leave the horses here, with these two young boys to watch 'm, but leave 'm saddled – just in case. The gang scratch's too heavy to leave on the pack animals, but we'll stack it right beside 'm. Then we'll go to town on foot and slip round to the west fence. That's the point fu'thest away from the market so the guards patrollin the market won't see us. It'll be bout midnight by then. They're all tired. The ones with Chadwick's been ridin all day, prob'ly since afore dawn. Same for any that comes in from patrol. They'll all be sound asleep."

"Ceptin the guards inside the fence," said one of Matheson's lieutenants.

The moonlight had returned. Matt saw Matheson glare at the man. "We all been on guard duty so we know how it works. We'll have somebody slip over the fence and hide out – prob'ly Roberts here. He's a sneaky little bastard that's good at hidin out. Leastways when he's needed for mess duty." Matt saw the cocky grin of the man so acknowledged. "It takes a while for the guard to circle round inside the fence. Roberts'll let us know when he passes by. We'll pry some boards loose and git in.

"Once inside the fence, we'll split into two groups. Hartman'll lead the main one that shoots up the front a the house. Shoot from behind cover. Don't attack the house itself. Me and a few others'll go round behind the house where they ain't many windows for 'm to shoot us from. We'll wait till Hartman's been firin for awhile so Chadwick'll think we committed the whole force to the front a the house. Then we'll break into the basement and set it afire. Once that fire climbs upstairs, them boys'll boil outta the front like bats outta hell."

"An we can pick 'm off like doves on a fence line," someone said.

"No," said Chadwick. "The only ones we stiff is the bosses: Chadwick, Hauptmann, and the Thompsons. We holler for the rest to throw down their weapons. If they do, we spare 'm. We used to ride with 'm – we was all one gang – and we need 'm to help us run this town."

Some of the others nodded at the wisdom of the strategy.

"Yeah," somebody said. "Some a them is good ol' boys. It'll be good bein back with 'm."

"Well, git your shit together then," said Matheson, "an let's git movin. The night ain't gonna wait around for us."

Whatever the night brought Matt wanted it over with. He followed the others moving warily through the nascent forest. Though Matt found walking painful, it beat riding. He carried the 30.06 bolt-action rifle, his pistol in its holster and his machete. He had left Chadwick's guards' rifles hidden in his bedroll with Lady to keep them from Matheson. He and Tim also carried bundles of pitch-soaked pine boughs to use as torches to set the house ablaze.

When they reached Highway 63 they followed it to a bend that hid them from the town before crossing it. Even then Matheson had them cross the two double lanes a few at a time in a crouch. Once all had reached the other side Matheson led them south through a wilderness of brush and saplings to Columbia's open fields and pastures. They crossed the open land running bent over in small widely separated groups, taking advantage of fence rows whenever possible. The moon cooperated by remaining hidden. They met near the west fence a little before midnight. Matheson ordered them to hide in a dry irrigation ditch a hundred yards from the fence while he and Roberts crept up to it. After a time Matheson returned to the men in a crouch down the ditch. For a change Matt and Tim squatted near the front instead of in the rear because they belonged to Matheson's group.

Matheson said, "Roberts didn't have to risk crossin the fence. I found a knothole I could look through. To show how scairt of us Chadwick is two guards went by instead a one. Not only that, two more came by later. I measured the time by countin an I'm guessin we got bout a quarter of an hour tween the two sets a guards. I left Roberts back there pryin boards loose from their two-by-four skeleton. We'll sneak up an help him. Now let's go."

Entering the town proved more difficult than they had expected. Fifteen minutes between the two sets of guards gave them little time. They had to wait until the first pair got far enough ahead not to hear them to go through the opening but finish before the second got within sight of them, and of course replace the boards each time. They ended up crawling under the fence in small groups, Hartman and his men first because it would take them longer to get into position.

Matheson and the six others on his team, including Matt and Tim, passed under the fence in two groups. Matt felt sure Matheson had included him to keep watch on him with Tim to help. Matheson led his small group through the streets and alleys, from shadow to shadow, in a detour that brought them to the street bordering Chadwick's garden. They crouched behind a retaining wall two houses away from Chadwick's house but within sight of it.

Matheson whispered, "I'm goin ahead to check Chadwick's back yard. Don't move till I git back." He left without a sound. He moved deftly for a big man.

They waited for what seemed a long time. Matt began to fear Hartman would attack before they got in place. Then Matheson reappeared.

"They's two guardin outside the back door," he whispered. "Settin on stools behind that wood screen. Shows how nervous Chadwick is now that our pig farmer went missin. They's usually just one guard there. Wasn't nobody at the sides a the house, though.

"Here's what we gonna do. Gus and Reno hides in them shrubs at the southwest corner a the back yard, Butch and Blackie behind the maple tree at the southeast corner. From there you'll watch for anybody slippin round from the sides a the house while you cover the back door. Me and these boys" – indicating Matt and Tim – "is gonna assault the back door.

"I'll shoot the guards through the screen on the way in. It hides 'm but don't faze high-powered ammo. Then us three, we rush the back door. But we watch out for the guards in case one's still alive. I light one a your torches, Tim, outside the door with this here firestarter. Then we kick the door in and see if anybody's inside." He turned to the other four. "You guys foller us to the back door for back-up. If they's somebody inside come in firin. If they ain't – prob'ly won't be – us three 'll go in and pile the rest a the branches agin the inside wall, heap ever'thing that'll burn on 'm and light it. Then we git the hell out."

They all nodded.

"Simple, hunh? Simple plans is always best. Now c'mon. Hartman's gonna start shootin whether we're still here beatin our meat or not."

Matheson led. The four went to their respective hidden vantage points while Matheson, Matt, and Tim took positions behind a compost pile at the edge of the garden. The back door and the guards' concealing screen seemed impossibly far away across the long yard. Matt heard the guards' desultory conversation, saw the smoke from their pipes curling lazily above the screen, though at that distance he couldn't smell their weed. Matt tried not to think about the guards' imminent deaths.

Matheson, lying between Matt and Tim, trained his rifle now on one guard and then the other, locating them by the sound of their voices. Matt sensed no tension in the man. Matheson saw killing as only a game, an exciting one to be sure, just as Johnson had.

Then all hell broke loose in front of the house: The staccato of gunfire and the crash of glass. A couple of large unidentifiable explosions seemed to come from inside the house. Smoke had ceased to rise from behind the screen. Matheson's rifle still moved from one invisible target to the other. The minutes slipped by. Sounds of violence continued from the front of the house. Matt found the tension almost unbearable.

Then two shots exploding next to him made his heart leap. Matheson, jumping to his feet, yelled, "Come on you fuckin slugs! You can sleep forever when you're dead!"

Matheson had shot the guards through the screen and now raced toward the house. Matt clambered to his feet and followed, a pace or two behind Tim.

The back door opened. A figure stood there, silhouetted by the basement's light, aiming a rifle at them. Matheson shot him without slowing. Two others appeared in the doorway and stepped to each side out of the light. Matheson fired at them but missed in the dark. One backed into the basement; the other dived behind the screen.

Matheson stopped and fired into the screen. A cry signaled that he had hit his target. Tim also stopped, rifle aimed at the door so Matt did too, not knowing what else to do. Standing in the open facing concealed armed adversaries seemed insanely suicidal. Matheson fumbled with something in front of him out of Matt's view.

Then things happened quickly. Matheson hurled something through the basement door. Then he yelled something unintelligible that Matt knew meant something like "Get down!" because that's what Matheson did. So both Matt and Tim did. Just before an explosion lighted the interior of the basement and blasted him with heat.

The object Matheson had fiddled with that Matt couldn't see had been a grenade, perhaps homemade. Others had caused the explosions inside the front of the house that Matt had heard earlier, hurled by Hartman's men.

Matheson stood, yelling something he couldn't understand. The explosion had deafened him. As Matt staggered to his feet, he saw Matheson yank Tim upright. Matt retrieved the bundle of torches he had dropped and stumbled after Tim who lurched along after Matheson carrying his rifle and torches. They found the back door hanging across the doorway suspended by one hinge. Acrid smoke billowing out of the basement stung Matt's eyes, made breathing difficult and obscured the basement's interior.

Matheson glanced behind the screen to make sure of the guards' death. Matt did too. He saw only a bloody mess in the dark. Then Matheson, bandanna over his mouth and nose against the smoke, looked around inside the doorway. Satisfied of the interior's safety, he kicked the ruined door out of the way. With a cold smile he grabbed one of Tim's torches.

The son-of-a-bitch, Matt thought again. He really loves this.

Matheson, noticing Matt looking at him, allowed the smile to spread. He just barely heard Matheson say, "The grenade scare y', pigfucker? You ain't seen nothin yet."

Matheson suddenly dropped the torch and shouted, "Git away from the door!" He shoved Matt to one side of the door and took the other. An automatic rifle fired from the interior. Tim had been out of Matheson's reach. The rifle's fire struck him on one side. Matt saw him spin about in a bizarre pirouette that sprayed blood in every direction.

Matt turned away from Tim's collapsing corpse, forced his gorge down. He stood with his back close to the wall beside the doorway, clinging desperately to his rifle, heart pounding. He had lost the pitch-soaked boughs somewhere.

Two gunshots erupting at Matt's feet sent him skittering along the wall away from the door. He looked down, heart pounding madly, to see Matheson lying on the patio floor. He got it: those inside would least expect Matheson to fire from floor level. No sound came from inside. He stood, weapon and attention still trained on the basement's interior.

"I fucked up," said Matheson, more to himself than to Matt. "They sent a party down to go out the basement, prob'ly to slip round behind Hartman. I should a suspected that." Then he grinned at Matt. "C'mon, pigfucker. The fun's just startin. Bring the torches." Matheson stepped around the broken door into the basement.

Matt glared at him. Matheson's new name for him had already gotten old.

From the now-quiet basement Matt heard gunfire upstairs, including at least one deadly Kreutzer, and men yelling. Trying to calm his racing heart, he gathered the torches and tossed them inside the doorway. Rifle ready, he followed Matheson inside. At first he could see little through the smoke. It burnt his eyes, choked him. Worse than that, a ghastly smell threatened to gag him. The smoke began to clear. Small fires among the splintered furnishings made the disemboweled basement increasingly visible. And the source of the stench. He avoided looking at the torn corpses strewn around the room or stepping in the dark greasy liquid splattered everywhere.

Matheson swept the interior with his gaze. A scraping sound from a corner of the office drew Matheson's attention and that of his rifle. Matt, standing a little behind Matheson, swung his rifle around.

An instant before Matheson fired a quavering voice called out, "I got no gun! I ain't one of 'm! Don't shoot!" Matt recognized the voice.

"Stand up," said Matheson. "Real slow. Hands up. Then we'll see."

The man rose from behind splintered furniture, arms raised shakily above his head. His shadow, made giant by a small dying fire at his feet, danced like a mad demon against the wall.

"So, little man," said Matheson, "if you ain't in Chadwick's gang, splain why you're here. Seems like I run into some mighty strange folks lately." He glanced at Matt. "Like farmers that know the where'bouts a folks I been huntin for months."

The man looked at Matt, his eyes wide with recognition. Matt decided Geraldo Grimes had come down to the basement to hide from the violence, not realizing he had moved right into it.

"Matt Pringle! You're back!"

Matt moved his rifle from Grimes to cover Matheson.

"Pringle?" mused Matheson, trying to place the name.

"Yeah," said Grimes. "One a Johnson's main men."

Matheson whirled around. Matt shot him in the face.

He turned, fired at Grimes but missed; the little man dodged into the hallway. Matt fired again, knew he hit him somewhere from his yelp and stumble at the foot of the stairs. Matt grabbed up a torch and held it to one of the small fires caused by the grenade. The pitch-fueled flame exploded into life. He had a greater goal than Grimes but he noted with satisfaction drops of blood dappling the steps as he climbed them. At the top of the stairs he hurled the blazing torch as far as he could into what looked like a kitchen.

Then he ran back down to Chadwick's office and heaped the remaining torches but one against the paneled interior wall. He gathered all the flammable materials he could find, papers from the filing cabinets, a few articles of clothing, shattered post-Last Days furniture (furniture before then had not been made of anything flammable for decades). He hacked curtains from the windows with his machete. Then he remembered the pitch-soaked boughs he had seen in his storeroom prison. He fetched and added them to the pile. The torch he still held set a most satisfying and explosive conflagration racing up the wall.

He heard voices upstairs, among them Grimes. That they hadn't yet come down after him meant the fire he had started up there kept them busy. The basement fire should grow out of control before they could extinguish it.

Matt had set his rifle aside to torch the upstairs. He retrieved it but hesitated, remembering the four men Matheson stationed out there. He, wondered why they had not joined them as Matheson had ordered. At that distance and in the darkness they wouldn't be able to tell him from Chadwick's men. No sense of making it this far only to be killed by friendly fire. Copying Matheson's tactic, he lay down and looked out.

And saw that the four would present no problem. Gunfire from both sides of the yard had driven them to the compost pile in the center rear of the garden. Some of Chadwick's men must have come around the sides of the house to attack them. One of the four sprawled across the compost pile. After listening more carefully he realized that only one man fired from behind it.

The heat and crackle of the growing blaze from behind warned him that he had only a few minutes to get out of the basement. He couldn't risk going into the back yard or even stand up. His silhouette against the backdrop of flames in the doorway would make an excellent target.

He willed down rising panic, looked around and saw the screen that had hidden the guards. Though now a shambles, its remains would provide enough cover for a crawling man. Trying not to look at the mutilated corpses behind ot, Matt crawled across the patio to the screen. From behind it he scanned the side yard. Seeing no one he scuttled across it to a hedgerow running along the lot line between Chadwick's house and a darkened one next door. The unexpected violence must have terrified its occupants. He crawled through the hedgerow to the other side and peered back through it at the Chadwick house. He saw no flames in the first floor windows. They must have put the kitchen fire out. A crash of glass drew his attention back to the basement. The fire there had just blown out the window over the patio, and flames licked out the doorway. Still a healthy conflagration, it began lapping greedily up the back wall of the house.

He crept along the hedgerow toward the front of the house to see how that part of the fight fared. The gunfire had slackened to desultory exchanges between Chadwick's house and two smaller houses across the street. He no longer heard the Kreutzers. Their owners would save their precious ammunition for sure targets. He stopped at the end of the hedgerow. From there he could see Chadwick's front porch. Two bodies lay across it. All the windows, upstairs and down, had shattered. Huge tears poked the front of the building outward as though punched by a great fist: the effects of Hartman's grenades. The defenders had blocked the holes by what looked like heavy furniture.

A shot from Chadwick's house tore through the hedge a few inches above his head. He turned and scuttled on hands and knees along the hedgerow to the back of the house, intent on finding a safer place to witness the battle. He could leave town secretly by way of his earlier escape route under the south wall, but for the gang's sake, he had to know how the fight turned out. He crouched as he ran across the dark house's back yard. He came to a street, paused and looked both ways. A group of about a dozen men approached from his right, obviously citizens of the town, armed with axes, clubs, knives, and even hoes and shovels. Only two carried firearms, one a shotgun and the other a pistol. As they drew near, Matt could hear their excited whispered conversation.

One said, "Manny, Kelly, and some of the boys got four of 'm cornered in the back yard. They sent me to round you boys up. We can finish 'm off and sneak into the back of the house."

"Who you think's attackin Chadwick's house?"

"I don't know. Some other gang he's feudin with, I s'pose, but I don't give a shit. I want 'm all out a here."

"Yeah," agreed another. "I'm sick of all these scumbags, whoever they are."

And another: "If we hang some of 'm out on the highway the next bunch 'll look somewheres else for trouble."

Other mumbling faded as they moved down the street. So a group of townspeople, not Chadwick's men, had trapped Matheson's four men in the back yard. This group would find at least three and maybe all four dead. Of course they knew nothing of the fire. So much for terrified inhabitants! But their mood made his situation more precarious. In addition to Chadwick's men and any of Matheson's who failed to recognize him in the dark, he now had to avoid pissed off townspeople. They would make any stranger carrying a gun a target.

Matt dithered. Safety lay in making discretion the better part of valor and let the three forces fight it out. With him far away. He would face danger even leaving town. He couldn't know how many angry townspeople lurked in the dark houses.

He heard before he saw a crowd to his right. Then he saw it on a street crossing his street a block away, headed toward Chadwick's house, a larger group than the first, including a few women, similarly armed. None of them spoke, but their body language showed anger and determination. He hoped they had sense enough to stay out of the two gangs' line of fire. He admired their courage but recognized its futility. Though they had prevailed over the four in Chadwick's back yard, courage went only so far. What chance would their rakes and hoes have against impact rifles and grenades?

He decided to stay, partially, he had to admit, from misbegotten curiosity. He saw no way to help the Columbians; he could only root for them. He crossed the dark house's back yard back to the hedgerow and crawled down it. As he came opposite the Chadwick kitchen he saw flames leaping from its window and the silhouettes of people beating at them with blankets. The basement fire must have broken through the floor. He edged a little farther along the hedgerow.

A shot came from the dark house, from the window just over his head. He'd been discovered! He rolled over on his back and pointed his rifle at the window. He saw the flash and heard the crack of the second shot, followed almost immediately by a scream from the Chadwick house. He swung back to the kitchen window in time to see one of the shadows fighting the fire fall. Matheson's men must have occupied the dark house. Another shot followed. And another. From the same place and from the same weapon, which meant only one shooter.

Then from the front room of the Chadwick house, so far untouched by fire, came the sinister thut! of a Kreutzer. From the dark house Matt heard a body slam across a room into a wall. No further sound came from the house. Matt turned his attention back to the fire in the Chadwick house. It seemed to be gaining. It had chased the firefighters out of the kitchen and roared beyond control.

Another shot rang over his head. From the same window in the dark house and the same weapon. Someone else had taken up the weapon. Another shot. Without hitting anyone in the Chadwick house. The two shooters had no more ability with firearms than him.

Thut! Thut! Thut! Thut! The Kreutzer had returned. It destroyed the dark house's window and blasted holes in the walls on either side of it. Splinters sprayed the hedge above Matt's head. He swung his attention back to the Chadwick house. Someone had fired the Kreutzer from the front room of the house. He saw the rifleman in the window, a man with an outthrust lower jaw that gave him a pugnacious look. Chadwick. Intent upon reloading the weapon. Matt rolled over onto his stomach. He noticed with satisfaction that Chadwick's head was completely swaddled in bandages above his eyebrows: The effects of Matt slamming him headfirst into the basement wall.

Matt aimed at a spot below the bandage, right between Chadwick's eyes. He took his time, anchored his elbows securely in the soil beneath the hedgerow, and made sure the rifle felt steady in his hands and against his shoulder. He only had time for one shot. If he missed, Chadwick would not.

He fired. Chadwick disappeared back into the room. He had hit him! He noted that the clip in his rifle was empty. He rejected it, reached for another. A shadow filled the window. He looked up. It was Chadwick, a gash across his cheek, the Kreutzer aimed directly at him. Chadwick could not see him through the hedge but knew exactly where the shot had come from.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

John badly wanted to discuss the young preacher's disturbing sermon with Matt, especially the part about the Beast being on earth right now, preparing for this horrible final battle of Armageddon. He wondered what form a battle that could rock the earth's foundations could take. Matt could give him a logical perspective that he knew none of the other gang members could, not even Lou or Mitch. Nor could others outside the gang that he otherwise respected, like Billy and Bernie.

Saturday, the last day of the market, kept him too busy to think about it much but the thunderstorm that pummeled Coleridge Gardens in the afternoon seemed to augur the tremendous battle to come. For the first time, the market closed in mid-afternoon. Bernie told John the market always slowed down during the second week. Most out-of-town artisans and farmers had gone home days before. Merchants had left with goods to sell in other towns. But most scroungers and traders remained. Scroungers tended to end up with bartered goods that they wanted to trade for nellies or scratch. Traders stayed behind to buy their excess goods at steep discounted prices. The scroungers, their work finished for the year, stayed to party at Bernie's before leaving for their winter hole-ups.

After he finished his work John hung around in the bar for a while listening to guests exchange tales of their travels and tell other lies. Since Bernie's patrons always turned too boisterous for his comfort on Saturday nights, he went up to his room early. He tried reading one of Matt's books, the Decameron, but couldn't see how anyone could find interesting such flowery prose and descriptions that tended to go on and on. He gave it up after a while to reread some of Mowgli's adventures. Hearing the wild storm outside and the roisterers' racket drift up from the public rooms made him glad to be safe on his cot with his book.

It rained in a desultory fashion the next morning while John helped Luke clean the public rooms. At breakfast Mitch told the gang Billy Kane had called a confab of traders and gang leaders in his room that afternoon. He wanted to hear everybody's opinion about the threat Chadwick posed and what, if anything, they should do about it. Mitch said the gang would hold its own confab in the evening to discuss the results of the meeting with Billy.

It quit raining in late afternoon while John swept the front porch. As he finished, he heard shod hooves scrunching gravel, a horse snorting and leather creaking: a rider entering the other side of the clearing. He looked up quickly to see, not Matt, but Ruben Garcia, one of Billy's men who had helped take the Kanes' cattle to Columbia. He and his plodding mare looked rain-soaked and exhausted. By the time Ruben brought the mare to a stop at the foot of the porch steps, John stood there to grab the mare's bridle.

Ruben, a little surprised to see John, said, "Hello, John Moore."

"Hi, Ruben. I'll take care of your horse."

Ruben looked even more surprised.

"I work for Bernie now."

"Do you now?" said Ruben. "Well, I'm sure you do him a good job. Me and Daisy 'd be much obliged if you settled her in. And I got some big news to tell Billy and your boys bout the doin's in Columbia."

After Ruben dismounted, John led Daisy to the nearest vacant stable. His curiosity at Ruben's strange statement – big news about doings in Columbia – made caring for her seem to take forever.

When he finally entered the bar, he saw a crowd, mostly of scroungers and traders with a few locals and farmers, standing and milling about, looking too excited to sit. Only Ruben Garcia sat, at a table at their center. John heard him speak but couldn't understand his quiet voice nor see him for the crowd. He heard Mitch, Lou, and Wild Billy near the center of the group, but the press of people kept him on the outskirts. He figured they wouldn't want to be bothered by a twelve-year-old kid just now.

Then he saw Annie Austin, the Pike County Dykes' boss, squirming out of the crowd to join two of her gang members who had just entered the room. As she led them by their arms to the relative quiet of the dining room John heard them demand to know what the hell was going on.

Boss Annie said, "Shut up and I'll tell you what I know."

They sat down at a dining room table. John followed quietly and stood just outside the doorway.

Annie said, "Ruben said he and some of Billy's boys were driving cattle to Columbia early Friday morning. When they got close to town, they saw about thirty or forty folks camped along the road, mostly women and kids and old folks. He could hear gunfire from the town which wasn't all that far away. He stopped and asked what they were doing there.

"They said someone attacked Chadwick's headquarters last night with rifles and explosives of some kind. They figured it was the guy Chadwick was feudin with, name a Matheson. These women's men finally decided to take matters into their own hands. They sent the women and kids and oldsters and sick ones out of town and went after both gangs."

She paused, noticed John, and beckoned him to join them. "Come on in kid – what's your name? John? – you have as much right to know what's going on as anybody." To her women she said, "You've seen John around. He works for Bernie.

"Anyhow, while they were talking to the townsfolk, Ruben said a guy drove a wagon out from town. It carried wounded men. Some of the women got them out of the wagon and laid 'm down and started working on one of them. One of them musta been a nurse or something. She took charge, seemed to know what she was doin. The man was in a hurry to get back but the other women pestered him to know what was goin on, how their men were, stuff like that. He said things was such a mess he didn't know how it was goin. He knew they had killed four of Chadwick's men they found in his back yard and some others across the street in another house. Then these guys the man brought in the wagon got caught in a crossfire between the two gangs. He said the townsfolks had been collecting weapons from dead gang members though. If the gangs kept killin each other while the locals shot a few he thought they had a chance of drivin 'm out. The town guys were better armed now. There were fewer gang members too but nobody knew how many. The guy said it was a free-for-all. Some more bad news was Chadwick's house and two across the street had caught fire. He hoped it didn't spread.

"Ruben said the guy didn't want to say anything else. He was anxious to get back. But Ruben asked him if Chadwick and Matheson were still in the fight. The guy said he didn't see 'm but he figgered so because the gangs seemed so well organized."

Grisly though it sounded, John thought, if the townspeople beat the two gangs the Mitchell gang's desperate problem would disappear.

Annie continued: "They told the Kane men the Columbia market was over –"

"No shit," laughed one of her women.

"—but Ruben said they'd made deals to sell the cattle to local farmers outside of town. He sent his men on with them and came back here as fast as he could."

One of the women said, "You and the other bosses was just confabbin bout what to do bout Chadwick, wasn't you?"

"Yes. We came down from that confab in the middle of Ruben's story. He was happy to start all over though. You know how folks love to gossip."

"So maybe they'll finished themselves off for us," said the other woman. "I'll just be damned."

"Let's don't celebrate yet," said Annie, "till we hear more. Nobody knows about Chadwick or Matheson or how many of their men is still afoot. I guarantee you one thing. Those that are still alive are all fightin mad. And a lot of them are professional killers. They learned before the Last Days, some in the military and some in the slums."

"Yeah," said one of her women, "and some in the military learned by fightin in the slums."

A sudden fear struck John. He shyly waved thanks to the women and ran back into the bar where he found Bernie and Lovey busy drawing and serving beer. John asked Bernie, "Matt didn't go by Columbia on his way to Nellie's Fair did he? Isn't he about due back?"

"No, he planned to make a long detour around it. And no, he isn't due back yet. He didn't leave until last Monday. He won't be back until Tuesday night, maybe Wednesday. And that's if everything went okay. He may have holed up yesterday because of the rain. Matt knows his way around. Don't worry about him."

* * * *

Mitch called a confab after supper in their room before anyone had had much to drink. He said, "I'm sure you all heard that our main problem may or may not 've been took care of so I won't repeat what Ruben said. We've already decided what we'll do if it ain't took care of. We need to figger out what to do if it has been. If we don't have to worry bout Chadwick and Matheson and their gangs no more, then we no longer have to leave the state. Not less we want to. Let's hear your thoughts."

Doc said, "There ain't no sense talkin bout this till we know for sure Chadwick's dead. Even then might be too soon. If any asshole could come back from the grave, it'd be him. And Matheson too. He was some kinda trained military killer like Boss Johnson."

"Wild Billy's gonna find that out," said Mitch. "Him and his boys are packed up to go home. They only waited round for the gang boss confab bout Chadwick we had today. Tomorrow Billy and Ruben 'll head to Columbia while his other boys go back to Kane's Cove. Things will 've settled down in Columbia enough that Billy and Ruben 'll find out what happened. Folks in that country know and trust Billy. They'll let him know what's goin on."

Lou said, "I think we oughta make for Colorado whether they're alive or dead. If enough of their men survive they can regroup and come after us. I think it's time for a change of country."

"No," said Stony. "For oncet Doc's right. We need to find out the status a Chadwick's and Matheson's vital statistics afore we decide anything; they seem too o'nery to just up and die like that. But if they's sure nough feedin the worms, I think we oughta stay here. We know the towns and markets. I, for one, am gittin too old to pull up stakes and start over."

"One a these days," said Doc, "I ain't gonna be able to go truckin no more. Now that we don't have the stash to count on, we gonna have to be more diligent in puttin more away toward that day. I don't want to spend what little savins I got traipsin out to country I don't know."

"It won't cost us much to git out there," said Leighton. "We know how to live off the land. The mountains 'd be fun to explore. We could pan for gold like Lou described. The old guys 'd git more than enough from that to replace their scratch in a single season."

"Glad you agree with me on going," said Lou, "but gold panning isn't all that easy to learn. And to sell it for a decent price we might have to bring it all the way back to Nellie's Fair, or at least to the Blue Springs market in Kansas City."

"Well, what about it guys?" said Leighton, looking around at the other young ones. "You wanta go to Colorado?"

"Yeah, I do," said Big Miller, but he always sided with Leighton.

"Me too," said Jack Kincaid, always ready for an adventure. "How bout it, Rossi?"

"Rossi shrugged. "I suppose."

John said nothing. He still didn't know his status as a gang member – there had still been no official vote to include him – and he didn't even know how he felt about going to Colorado.

Leighton turned on Mitch. "Looks like you old guys is outnumbered. Even if you and the Perfessor vote agin goin, it don't matter with Lou votin to go."

Lou looked rather uncomfortable and started to speak, but Mitch interrupted him.

"I ain't said how I'd vote yet, Red," he said reasonably. "And neither has John here (did that ensure his inclusion in the gang!?) and we don't know how Matt'll vote. I recall him sayin he spent some time in the Colorado Front Range cities and liked 'm better 'n most places. I'm surprised at your vote, though."

"Really?" Leighton looked nonplussed.

"Yeah. I'm surprised you can resist at least one more trip to Nellie's Fair, struttin round that girlfriend a yours, tellin her all the adventures you had this summer and all the stuff you was gonna buy her this fall."

"Oh, yeah. Flats," he said thoughtfully.

"And this summer you finally had adventures worth the tellin: you and Big and Matt and Lou holdin off Matheson and his killers while the rest of us slipped away. The truckin we did right under their nose. They looked all over for us, but we was too clever for 'm. They never did find us." Mitch shook his head. "Yep, I'm mighty surprised." He stood up. "But we don't have no business votin till Matt gits back. We do ever'thing as a gang. Right, boys?"

They all agreed, the older guys as though relieved, John thought, at not having to bring the matter to a vote.

"Anybody up for a beer?" Mitch asked. On that, he could always count on a unanimous favorable vote.

* * * *

A few days later when John caught Mitch alone, he asked him what would have happened if the vote had been cast and Leighton had prevailed. Would the gang have been forced to honor the majority opinion and leave for Colorado?

Mitch snorted. "The first thing you gotta learn bout gangs, young John, is that they ain't as democratic as they look. If Leighton's boys won the vote, we older fucks could a just refused to go. What could they do without us? They wouldn't even know how to find Colorado, let alone truck or a market. If by some miracle they did git there. Even if Lou had a voted with 'm, you think he's gonna trek acrosst that barren country with a bunch a know-nothin shit-assed kids instead a stayin with guys he's trucked with for twelve years? Hell, the kids'd git themselves and him killt afore they got to Leavenworth.

"Course, it's easier on the gang if ever'body comes to a consensus afore the vote. If Leighton's boys won the vote but we stayed here anyhow, they'd always be hard feelin's. I've seen gangs break up over less. People even git shot over less. That's why I mentioned Nellie's Fair and his girlfriend to Red. Oncet he thinks bout leavin Nellie's Fair oncet and for all, he might change his mind. To him and his boys it's more 'n just a place to sell truck and hole up for the winter. It's home. Afore Boss Johnson recruited them boys, they was starvin, dressed in rags, hidin from people that wanted 'm dead. Now they're somebody. They got money and good clothes and, most times, all they want to eat and drink. Them people that wanted 'm dead not all that long ago? Now they compete for their nellies. Naw. They ain't gonna give all that up.

"By the way. You didn't say how you'd vote. I reckon you'll always vote on us older guys side, woncha?"

John thought for a moment. He saw Mitch regarding him with his usual glower but, strangely, his voice had sounded almost playful.

"I don't know, Mitch," he said at last. "I guess I'll have to vote however I think is best."

Mitch favored him with the faintest of smiles and clapped him on the shoulder. "Right answer, young John." Then he walked away.

* * * *

The weather remained decidedly cooler over the next week but still pleasant. Matt didn't return on Tuesday, but John didn't worry. Like Bernie said, he had probably holed up somewhere on Saturday because of the rain. Though Wednesday was John's day off he hung around Haas House all afternoon but Matt didn't show up.

* * * *

Chadwick couldn't see Matt but knew exactly where to aim through the hedge. Matt frantically scooted back – too late – and saw Chadwick pull the trigger.

A shot from over his head. From the dark house's window. Chadwick's shot went awry. Matt saw a little round hole appear in the bandage covering his forehead, and his wide-open mouth and eyes in the instant before he fell out of sight.

Matt collapsed into the soft soil beside his rifle, shaking. His heart pounded. He heard shouting from the room where Chadwick had been. Another figure appeared in the window with the Kreutzer and blasted the dark house. He didn't fire at Matt so only Chadwick must have had known where he hid. Matt still had to get away. Someone would soon discover him. He turned and crawled down the hedgerow, changing the rifle magazine as he went, his last one. So much expended ammunition that night would make at least that part of the world safer from now on. The fury of battle had made the gangs forget their usual parsimonious use of ammunition.

A great whumpf! followed by yells drew his attention back to the Chadwick house. Flames shot out through the window from which Chadwick and his replacement had fired the Kreutzer. Matt raised to a crouch and started to run across the back yard of the dark house.

And stopped. There had been only one rifle in that house but more than one person firing it. The lack of weapons and ineptitude at firing meant they had probably been townspeople. Others might remain alive but injured. The fire had spread throughout Chadwick's house and could soon jump to theirs. He owed a debt to any survivors in that room. One of them had saved his life. He turned and, still in a crouch, crossed to the back door of the house, raced up three steps and through it.

Once inside, he moved quietly, knowing the townspeople would mistake him for an enemy. He crossed a kitchen illuminated by the conflagration next door. Hearing someone weeping inside the shooters' room he edged its door open and peered around the corner. He saw a woman seated but didn't enter until he saw the rifle laying safely by the window's remains. Once inside he saw two shattered bodies against the wall farthest from the window. Fire from the Kreutzer and flying bodies had splintered the room's few pieces of furniture. Blood splattered the floor and walls. The seated woman held another body in her arms. The Chadwick house's flickering firelight didn't provide enough light for him to see her face. Keeping his rifle in abeyance – she might have a hidden weapon – he edged into the room.

His caution proved unnecessary. When he went over to crouch before her, he found her completely lost in shock, eyes wide, mouth open, chin trembling. She was young, under twenty, cradling the upper body of a boy about the same age. His gore spattered her face and upper body. His face had lost its color; his open eyes had rolled up into his head. Matt worked at not seeing the mess the Kreutzer had made of his lower body.

"We have to leave, sweetheart," he said as gently as possible.

The sound of his voice made her start in terror. Her eyes locked on his; a groan escaped her lips; she held the boy's body closer.

He lay the rifle down, then gently pried her hands away from the boy's and held them in his. He tried to smile and spoke gently. "The house next door is on fire. It might spread over here."

He stroked her hair, long and clotted with the young man's blood. That seemed to bring her out of her shock a little. She shrank back from him.

"No, no, don't worry." Still speaking gently. "I'm a friend. We have to leave."

She looked down, took one hand back from Matt, and cupped the cold cheek laying against her breast. "Not without Phil. My Phil."

Loud crackling sounds from the Chadwick house and heat wafting through the open window and torn wall spurred him to action. Chadwick's men had surely started fleeing that house. Some of them might invade this one. Keeping low, out of sight of the Chadwick house, he picked up his rifle, retrieved that of the shooters and a belt next to it with pouches he hoped contained ammunition for it. Then, as gently as possible, he eased the girl from beneath Phil's ruined body and got her to her feet. Encumbered by the weapons and the stumbling girl, the trip to the back door seemed endless. At least she didn't resist him, though she looked back at Phil and whimpered. Before they left the house he checked Chadwick's back yard and found it empty. He inwardly congratulated the townspeople for prevailing in at least that small eddy of their conflict.

Finally outside, he felt a cool breeze alternate with searing blasts of heat from the fire next door. Still supporting the girl, he ran with her into the adjacent back yard. And then on to the far side of its house. When they stopped, she leaned back against the house, buried her face in her hands and broke into wracking sobs. He held her without speaking, hoping the tears meant an end to the shock. Leaning against the house reminded him of his weariness.

Then Matt realized that the girl no longer sobbed. They sat with their backs against the house though he didn't remember sitting down. He had fallen asleep! He shook himself, turned to see the girl looking at him.

She said, "I thought Phil and I could get away after they shot our friends. But Phil had to fire once more. Then they got him too."

He took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. "But Phil's shot was successful. It killed Chadwick."

"He, he... What?"

The gunfire now sounded like it came from the street in front of the Chadwick house. Matt heard the Kreutzers. He took her hands and raised her up.

"Time to go," he said. He looked up and down the street and, finding it clear, ran across it with her. They stopped in the back yard across the street.

"Yes," he said. "Phil's a hero. He shot Chadwick. And just incidentally saved my life. I was outside in the yard with Chadwick aiming right at me. If Phil had fired two seconds later, I'd be dead now."

Her face took on a look of awe. "Phil a hero? Maybe we can win after all."

"Maybe so. But we gotta keep moving." He held up the rifle from her house. "Do you know how to use this?"

"I only tried firing it tonight, but I couldn't hit anything."

"Sounds like you and I are at about the same level of competence. Grab it and the ammo belt and come on. Let's see what's going on."

As he crawled to the front of the house with her following, the gunfire slackened. He looked around the corner toward Chadwick's house. The fire had driven the remnants of Chadwick's gang outside. They crouched behind front yard trees, shrubbery and retaining walls facing the two Matheson houses across the street. Those houses also now burned. They only heard an occasional shot from them. Two of Chadwick's men, one armed with a Kreutzer, ran down the street in their direction but turned right at the intersection before reaching them. They apparently intended to attack the Matheson houses from the side or rear.

A short distance up the street though, dark figures attacked them from shadowy back yards. One dropped from a tree. Though armed with clubs and tools, they numbered a dozen or more. Taken utterly by surprise, the two fell without getting off a shot. The figures melted back into the darkness. The two men lay without moving. Without their weapons.

"That's our guys!" she said excitedly. "Maybe..."

A barrage of gunfire cut off whatever she was about to say. Townspeople emerging from within and behind houses on his side of the street attacked Chadwick's men from behind. The sound of a Kreutzer joined the others, undoubtedly the one just taken from the Chadwick man. But it came from behind the Matheson houses.

Matt said, "Sounds like your guys have taken a lot of the bad guys' weapons." Which, he knew, included those of Matheson's four men in Chadwick's back yard.

Then, incredibly, the gunfire ended. In answer to shouted demands from down the street beyond Matt's hearing (still not completely recovered from the grenade blast) the few survivors of both gang moved to the middle of the street with weapons left behind and arms raised. Only a dozen of so of both groups remained.

Man, did I ever underestimate these Columbia folks, thought Matt. So had Chadwick, by not bothering to securing the area around his house or taking away what few guns they had. After the two gangs had damaged each other enough, the Columbians won the battle.

The townspeople now faced a new danger; fire from the burning houses had started to spread. Ominous crackling sounds emanated from inside the house they crouched beside.

Then he remembered his own very real danger: Townspeople looking for gang members on whom to vent their rage. He turned to the young woman.

He said, "You'll be okay now. I got business elsewhere."

She grabbed his sleeve. "Wait. I'm so sorry. I haven't thanked you for getting me out of there."

"I owe you more than that. Your young man saved my life."

"Yes. My Phil." Tears welled in her eyes, but she also bore a look of pride.

"One other thing. Not only did your Phil kill Boss Chadwick but another guy shot the other gang boss, Matheson. I saw him do it."

"I'll tell everyone. But what's your name and where are you from? I want to know who Phil saved."

"Jerry Jordan. From over Newcastle way."

"My thanks, Mr. Jordan. Everybody'll hear about Phil's courage and about Jerry Jordan."

He left. He had to make it to the south fence without notice by the townspeople and then take an hour's hike to fetch Lady.

* * * *

The first glow of dawn touched the eastern sky as Matt approached the little creek where the horses waited. He stopped a safe distance away and called to the two guarding them, "Friend coming in." Then he approached, rifle over his shoulder.

The youths stepped out of a thicket, regarding him curiously.

"Where – where's the others?" asked one.

Matt shook his head. "They won't be back. We ran into trouble."

"Chadwick...?" started the other.

"No. We took care of his men okay. The townfolks came after us. They're choppin people up, hangin 'm. Columbia won't be a good place for our kind to visit anymore." He continued toward Lady. The young men followed.

"What – what're we gonna do?"

"What's gonna happen to us?"

Panic quavered in their young voices.

"Do what I'm gonna do," said Matt as he patted Lady's neck and checked her saddle girth. "Get as far away from here as fast as possible."

"What about all these horses. And the gang's truck at Stanley Market?"

"It's all yours, except for some food." He went to the supply of food stacked near the pack animals, took a bag of beans, some salt pork and a few other items, and filled Lady's saddle bags. He was famished but wanted to be far away before stopping to eat. "I suggest you take the horses back to Stanley Market while it's still in session, sell them and the truck for as much as you can, and learn something else to do for a living. Start a farm or buy a business – a nice tavern, say – and settle down with a nice young woman. Live a safe, quiet life."

The boys seemed to think about it. One said, "You got a farm, doncha?"

"Uh – oh yeah." Matt had almost forgotten he was farmer Jerry Jordan. "And I'm headed back there right now. Good luck." He mounted, stiffly and painfully. His butt reminded him how much it hated riding.

He turned Lady east to complete his delayed journey to Nellie's Fair.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

At breakfast Saturday morning the gang members speculated on what could have delayed Matt. That the others felt concern for him worried John even more.

When Mitch finished eating he pushed his plate back and said, "That's enough said. It don't profit us none to wonder bout Matt. He's a survivor. I'd bet on him gittin back here afore I would any of the rest of us if we was in his place."

Though no one mentioned it at breakfast, John had heard Doc and Stony talking about one concern caused by Matt's tardiness: their savings. His reaching Nellie's Fair, withdrawing their money and losing it somehow on the way back would make them paupers.

John had another concern. Since the close of the market the week before and with most of Bernie's guests gone, he worried about having little work to do. If he ran out of work Bernie had no reason to keep him. He didn't know if the Nelson dollars he had accumulated were enough to buy all the scratch he needed.

After breakfast he cleaned the bar while Bernie and the women worked in the kitchen. Joey, Luke, and Jake worked in the stables and corrals. John took the throw rugs out onto the front porch and draped them over the railing to beat later. He started back into the bar.

And drew up short at the sound of a rider entering the clearing. He saw a gaunt man astride a roan horse, both looking extremely tired. Even with the shadow of the man's broad hat brim covering his face, John recognized him immediately. He watched until man and horse reached the porch.

"S'pose a man could get breakfast around here?" said Matt's familiar voice.

Suppressing his excitement John said, "If he was hungry," trying to imitate Bernie.

Matt laughed, almost fell getting off the horse, and looped the reins carelessly over the porch railing. He untied two bulging saddlebags from the back of the saddle. "You fucking Missourians. Nothing ruffles you. Didn't anybody worry about me being so late? I could be at the bottom of some creek with the guys' savings in some redneck's hovel."

"That's exactly what I was afraid of, Matt," said John, all levity gone.

Matt hobbled up the stairs and hugged him. John hugged him back.

"Well, they haven't got me yet. Nor the men's money. But I do need that breakfast bad. And this poor equine deserves a rubdown."

John noticed the yellow of healing bruises on Matt's face and scabbing splits in the skin on his cheek and lower lip.

"Matt, what happened to you? Are you all right?"

Matt grinned on the least injured side of his mouth. "Nothing wrong that some food and sleep won't cure. I'll explain everything later."

"I got so many questions, Matt. I was afraid you'd got caught up in that Columbia mess."

"Well, yeah, I did a little bit but it's a long story. It'll have to wait till I've slept for eight or ten hours. But I got what the guys are most worried about in here." He hefted the saddle bags. "Their life savings. I'll take them to our main room."

John nodded. He could wait now that Matt had safely returned.

* * * *

About mid-afternoon, Ruben arrived. He said Wild Billy and the other Kanes had returned to Kane's Cove and sent him here with news from Columbia. He gathered Bernie's household and the remaining guests (except for Matt who still slept) in the bar to give them the latest on Columbia. Only the Mitchell gang and the Pike County Dykes, along with local traders Ernie Flathers and Arlene Hull remained. Ernie and Arlene had come to have a farewell beer with the scroungers. Their business with both Mitch's gang and the Pike County Dykes had gone well during the market. A congenial parting would continue that relationship into next season.

Ruben told the group that the townspeople had either killed or chased off Chadwick and Matheson's men. The remains of neither Chadwick nor Matheson had been found, though they could have been among the corpses too badly burned to identify. A young woman claimed that her fiancée, Phil Blankenship, had killed Chadwick but he found her story suspect. She hadn't actually seen the act and Phil himself had been killed. She said someone named Jerry Jordan had found her in a state of shock in a house she shared with her dead lover and two other slain townspeople. Jordan told her he had seen Phil shoot Chadwick dead and had witnessed Matheson's death. Then Jordan had left. No one else in Columbia knew this Jerry Jordan. He claimed to have come from Newcastle.

"Hey," said Leighton, pushing John to the front of the crowd. "We got a native a that town right here. Whatta y' say, John Moore? Did you ever hear tell of this Jerry Jordan?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. Some folks lived out in the country that didn't have a reason to come see us and we never visited them."

"Well," said Ruben, "this gal herself admitted she was pretty fucked up at the time and nobody else saw this Jerry Jordan."

Lou asked, "What about the men Chadwick was supposed to have stationed out of town?"

"Right," said Ruben. "Them on patrol or at the toll posts. None of 'm had shown up by the time I left. Maybe they heard the shootin and decided they'd rather be someplace else."

Ruben said some of the gang members got away but the Columbians captured nine and locked them in the town jail. Then he told how the fire that started in Chadwick's house destroyed a few other houses though they put it out by late morning. They had lost fifteen dead with twice that number injured. Many argued for hanging their captives, but some wanted them released. They had no stomach for any more killing. After the preacher spoke on their behalf them they let them go. Without their weapons, of course. And with a warning: If they ever appeared near Columbia again, they'd be killed on sight.

Doc Garson shook his head. "Bad decision. "If either boss is still around they can c'lect enough of the survivors to be back in business in a week."

"Yeah," said Stony. "Maybe we oughta think about leavin after all."

Most of the others agreed. Boss Annie said the Dykes might decide to stay in their own Pike County in eastern Missouri.

"We ain't heard from Matt yet," said Mitch. "Let's don't go off half-cocked till he has his say."

"By the way, Mitch," said Ruben, "Billy said to tell you he's got a few ol' decrepit mules he can loan you till his young'ns git broke next summer, but they can't carry big loads. And that's only if you stay round here. He don't want 'm goin off to Colorado."

"I got a few horses I could rent you," said Bernie. "Luke might have a couple too. There again, only as long as you don't leave the state."

Mitch glowered thoughtfully, looked around at his men. "We'll talk bout that tonight, soon as Matt wakes up."

After Ruben answered a few questions he left to impart his information to Mayor Coleridge. Though he didn't much like her, even said she intimidated him a bit, Billy had insisted he deliver the news in person.

After Ruben left, John started down to the brewery to finish a cleaning project, rather grudgingly because he would miss celebrating the relief surrounding the events in Columbia.

Bernie caught him at the top of the stairs and said, "That'll wait till tomorrow, John. Today's kinda special. We won't work much after the ladies wash the supper dishes, except for me quenching thirsts."

Happy with the reprieve, John hung out in the bar, listening to the speculations about the aftermath of the Coleridge battle. After dark, several townspeople appeared seeking news from Columbia. They had also worried about Chadwick's growing power.

Matt came down a little later, yawning, stretching and limping. He stood at the bar – sitting would still be unpleasant for a while – and ordered a pint of porter. The men gathered around him. They wouldn't, of course, let him know they had worried about him. John edged as close as he could in his unobtrusive way. Since Matt had hinted he had taken some part in the Columbia deal, John wanted to hear everything he said.

"Bout time you got back," Stony said to Matt, shaking his head. "You oughta be ashamed partyin in Nellie's Fair while we was in mortal danger, surrounded by enemies."

"Been partyin a little too hard, I'd say," said Doc, "from the looks a his face."

"Still," said Leighton, "you ain't heard the news bout the big fight in Columbia." Obviously eager to tell him.

"Oh," said Matt, "You mean that argument between Chadwick and Matheson?" He took a long pull from his beer.

"'Argument,' my ass," said Leighton. "So you did hear bout it. But how?"

Lou said, "Since you bypassed Columbia, you must've heard about it in Nellie's Fair or on the way back."

"Tell me what you guys know first," said Matt.

Lou said, "Ruben Garcia told us what he knew just a while ago. He's down telling the mayor right now." And Lou told him what Ruben had related.

"Our main worry," said Lou, "is not knowing if Chadwick or Matheson's still alive. Ruben said some unknown number of their men got away. If one or both are still alive they can get them all together again."

"I'm gittin the feelin, Matt," said Mitch, "that you know more'n you've told us."

Matt finished his beer and planted the pint jar firmly down on the bar. "Yes, I can ease your nerves on a couple of items. But that's the first beer I've had in days and the first good beer I've had in a long time. As soon as our good innkeeper refills this pint I'll tell you what I know."

After Bernie filled his glass Matt took a drink and began. He verified Ruben's story, including the deaths of Chadwick by Phil Blankenship and Matheson by someone unknown, both as witnessed by said farmer, Jerry Jordan. He explained how Jerry Jordan had witnessed the homicides.

Matt had decided to take no credit for any of it on the way back from Nellie's Fair. The true hero had been the brave youth who had given his life to save those of his people and, incidentally, Matt's. Phil Blankenship, along with his young lover, whose name Matt didn't know, deserved the honor. Cynical middle-aged ex-intellectuals like him had no need for it.

"How do you know you can trust this feller's story?" asked Mitch.

"I rode with him long enough to get a good feel for him. And the story matches the girl's."

"With them assholes dead," said Boss Annie, "I guess we'll be back here next truckin season after all."

"What about the bad 'ns that got away?" said Doc.

"There's no gittin rid of all the bad guys," said Mitch. "It sounds like most of 'm's gone though, at least for a while. I'm sure Colorado, or any place else we'd go, has its share."

Matt said before they had any more the gang should have their own confab in their bunkhouse. Once there, Matt said, "There's more to the story that I couldn't tell with the others around. I met up with Del Matheson and his men on my first night of travel." He told of his encounter with them at Stanley Market and Tim's account of the ambush at Summerfield Crossing. The men found Tim's story especially interesting. It substantiated Matt's theory of Downing's perfidy. He also related how Matheson's scouts scoured the countryside for their gang and how he feared they would happen on to them in Coleridge Gardens.

"So who beat the hell outta you?" said Leighton.

Matt frowned at him. "All in good time." He described the trip to Columbia with Tim where he met Chadwick and then McCutcheon.

"And here's the part you've been waiting for, Red," he said and told how Geraldo Grimes had betrayed him and of the beating by the off-duty guard and his companions. Then of his incarceration in Chadwick's basement storeroom and how he had escaped.

"Wow," said Kincaid, "what 'd you do then, Matt? Ran like hell, I bet."

"You got that right, Jack," he said. "Tim and I high-tailed it for Stanley Market and Matheson." He told of his lie to Matheson about Chadwick wanting to kill him.

They talked the adventure over and over. Old guys and young alike praised Matt's cleverness. Then someone suggested they should share a round or two to celebrate Chadwick's end and they all started downstairs.

All except for John and Matt. John asked him, "Can I bother you for a minute?"

"Of course. What's up?" Matt sat down on his cot.

John sat on the cot across from him and described Brother Gephardt's sermon regarding the four horsemen, the Beast, and Armageddon as well as he could remember it.

"It seems kind of like a tall tale, Matt, but the part about the pale horse bringing plague sounded like Chou's Disease. Did the other horses really come first?"

Matt said, "A metaphor is the use of one word designated to characterize another. Think of the horsemen as metaphors for worldly disasters. Or think of them as I do, like characters in a richly colorful fantasy. Let me give you a little background.

"The young preacher took his sermon from the Book of Revelation, the last book in the Christian Bible. In this case 'revelation' means the unveiling of knowledge that could never be discovered by mankind through reason alone. It had to either be revealed by mystical means through a religious leader or prophet or it would stay forever beyond man's reach. Another word for revelation is 'apocalypse' so you can also call this book 'The Apocalypse.'

"From around the second century B.C.E. – that means Before Current Era – through the second century C.E., Jewish and Christian writers put out a lot of these books. As a group they're called the Apocrypha, which means they are of questionable authorship or authenticity. They were popular reading for a long time because they took the place of true literature, which was pretty scarce in early Jewish and Christian communities. Some of these books are accepted by the Roman Catholic and Orthodox canons but, although a few of the books in the Protestant Bible have apocalyptic passages, this is the only one included that's purely apocalyptic. And there was a lot of controversy over admitting this one.

"Anyway, this particular book is supposed to be one of the most intricate and richly symbolic of the Apocrypha, a 'best seller' of its time, and it has compelled study and reinterpretation for close on two thousand years. Every time we're beset by a new round of disasters, people invoke the Book of Revelation as symbolic of their specific time. It has fit so many historical events so tragically well, especially war.

"Take the so-called First World War and the years from 1914 to 1920. The four horsemen are, as I recall, War, Revolution, Famine, and Pestilence. That war was the most stupid and brutal bloodbath in modern times until then. That was the first horseman: War. And Revolution followed, a revolution in Russia that influenced world events one way or the other for almost a hundred years. Famine, the third horseman, devastated Germany and Russia just after the war. And to top it all off, in 1918 a worldwide flu epidemic started that killed more people than the war had. That was the fourth horseman: Pestilence. Lots of other examples from world history make it look like the four horsemen are riding us down. Our American Civil War is another.

"What the book actually discussed was events of the time. It was written during the reign of the Roman emperor Domitian to speak out against his persecution of the Christians. The author had to disguise his subject matter using allegory and metaphor and change names to avoid prosecution and execution for treason. Of course, the author's readers knew what he was talking about. When they read 'Babylon', they knew he talked about Rome, the 'Evil City' of their day."

"What about this 'Beast'?" said John. "He's supposed to be a man who's alive right now."

Matt shrugged. "He must've been a man of the author's time. The author was afraid to give his name because of the Roman censors so he used numerology to hide the guy's name. There again, his readers, at least the more knowledgeable ones, would've known who he was talking about. He was using a common technique of the time to disguise the so-called Beast's true name. It involved assigning numerical values to the alphabet and then showing a person's name as the total of the numbers that represented the letters of his name. You could do that in our alphabet by letting A equal 1, B equal 2, C equal 3, and so on. Using this system, a man named Abe could show his name numerically as, let's see..." Matt frowned in concentration for a minute and then announced, "Eight. A is 1, B is 2 and E is 5. Eight would stand for Abe.

"The Jews, Greeks, and Romans all did this, and it continued down through the Middle Ages. The study of the scriptures for numerical significance was called 'gematria,' a corruption of the Greek 'geometria' and our 'geometry.' The so-called 'number of the beast' was derived through some form of gematria. It was probably meant to signify the current ruler, Domitian. Most of the emperors treated the Christians pretty equitably, but not Domitian. He was a true asshole. His name and title couldn't be written according to the Hebrew system of gematria in such a way that they'd add up to 666, but he probably had some nickname that could.

"For those who believe the four horsemen are scourging the earth during our time, it's only natural to accept the notion that the Beast is amongst us right now. You said the preacher warned that we should be on the lookout for this Beast and his minions so we could get rid of them. Let's hope he doesn't take a dislike to someone whose name adds up to six-six-six."

"Or maybe several people's names," said John. "Maybe our gang's names add up to six hundred sixty-six." He grinned to let Matt know he was kidding. "How about that battle, Armageddon? What's that all about?"

"That too was named after something the author knew about: a place. Armageddon is a corruption of a Hebrew word that means, 'the Mount of Megiddo.' A couple of huge battles took place there. The author probably didn't know about the one from the time of the Egyptian Pharaoh, Thutmoses III. His army defeated a coalition of Canaanite cities there. It happened before the Israelites got to Canaan.

"But he would've known about the one that happened about six or seven hundred years before his time. It also involved an Egyptian pharaoh, this time against a Judean king named Josiah. This Josiah, well-loved as a reformer, was killed there. This second battle of Armageddon would have seemed a clear case of the forces of evil overwhelming those of good to Revelation's author. He probably figured it would balance things to have the final battle, where good overcame evil once and for all, at the same location."

John mulled this over for a while and then asked, "Why do you know all this and the preacher doesn't? Isn't it his business to know?"

Matt shrugged. "I had a great education. He's so young he couldn't have gotten any higher education. He was probably in elementary school when Chou's hit."

"But Reverend Gates should've gone to college. He could tell Brother Gephardt he's wrong to believe in such things."

"People seek truth in lots of ways. I just gave you some of the historical basis behind certain Christian beliefs. Even if Gates knows this stuff – and I gotta believe they teach it in Christian seminaries – he probably doesn't find it very comforting. His version of 'truth' is one that is so mystical and powerful that it's just too much for humans, with our puny intellects, to understand. I'm sure he gets a big rush from contemplating these higher mysteries and that he achieves the 'peace that passeth understanding' that such folk talk about."

"Then there are people like me. I've always been a very curious person; I have to find knowledge for myself. If there's some higher truth beyond human understanding, I'm not interested in looking for it. I mean, what good would it do me if I couldn't understand it? And if I, as a fairly intelligent person, can't understand it, why should I believe some wild-eyed preacher can? How did he come to have some insight hidden from me that allows him to explain the mystery?

"I'm not saying people like Gates are insincere. Far from it. I'm sure he believes every word he preaches and that the same goes for his neurotic underling. And that he's sincere when he prays for lost souls like mine. And that he feels sorry for people who lack his faith. He wakes up joyfully every day secure in his beliefs and assured of the rewards awaiting him in heaven.

"I've heard people from many religions say that the agnostic or atheist must be very lost, angry, and lonely. Just the opposite is true. Like I said, I've always been blessed by a healthy curiosity, and it gives me great satisfaction to find things out. I'll never have the final answer to most things, but that's the way I want it to be. Just as Socrates would rather be a dissatisfied Socrates than a contented pig.

"I enjoy the eternal search for knowledge. Peace of mind that derives from something that can never be proven or demonstrated seems like small comfort. It's a form of intellectual suicide.

"But the number of faiths rampant in the world proves that people desperately need this sort of comfort, no matter how unbelievable their religion's tenets sound. In answer to Satan tempting him to make bread from stones, the fasting Jesus said that man shall not live by bread alone. Spoken in a different context, we might say that man occasionally needs a good-sized dollop of bullshit. From the likes of pastors Gates and Gephardt."

* * * *

Ruben returned from the Mayor's in time for supper with the Mitchell gang and the Pike County Dykes. They all went into the bar afterwards. After dark a few townspeople who wanted to hear about the Columbia battle came in. Gossip had spread in the town that the Haas House people knew the truth about it and that one of them had related it to the Mayor. Ruben told what he knew of the conflict yet again. Lou Travis related the roles of Matt and Jerry Jordan in a manner that made them instant heroes, despite Matt's protestations to the contrary.

Driven by gossip more people drifted in from Coleridge Gardens. Ernie Flathers and Arlene Hull returned. People from nearby farms, including Luke and Jake and their girlfriends. The size of the crowd soon rivaled those during the harvest market. The bar kept Bernie so busy that, after they finished cleaning up from supper, all three of Bernie's women helped him and John bused tables and washed glasses.

Matt sat at the end of the bar with four beers and three shots of whiskey, bought for him by congratulators among the crowd. Annie Austin joined him with a smile, sipping a glass of wine. He smiled in return and nodded at the drinks in front of him. "Won't you help me with some of these?"

"But your admirers bought them for you."

"Like I've said so often it doesn't bear repeating, they're lionizing the wrong guy. Since the right one's not here I'm drinking to his honor. If I finish all these though I'll have trouble finding my room tonight."

"Then I'll help you honor him. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but I never turn down a sip of Wild Billy's whiskey. After I finish my wine, okay?"

"Sure."

"I haven't seen you around much," she said. "I wasn't sure you were a full-time member of Hank Mitchell's gang at first." Then, "Oops. Never mind. I'm not trying to pry."

He had indeed been gone much of the time, with the older guys to look for their stash and then on the much longer trip to Nellie's Fair. They had talked a few nights over drinks in the bar and flirted casually. Though he couldn't call her pretty exactly he liked her open, straightforward manner and subtle sense of humor.

"Well, maybe we can get to know each other better now," he said. He stood up and indicated that she should take his seat.

"No, let's go out on the porch. It's getting stuffy in here. I'll help carry your drinks."

"Good idea. It'll keep people from buying me more of them."

She finished her wine and left the glass on the bar. Soon they sat on the porch railing facing the clearing with the drinks beside them. She raised a shot glass and downed half of its contents.

"You were right," said Matt. "This much more pleasant."

"You know," she said, "I think you had more to do with getting those two gangs to fight each other than you let on."

"Why do you say that?"

"You seem to know too much about it."

He shrugged and grinned. Then they talked about trucking in the scrounger fashion, hiding their gangs' former and upcoming trucking areas while trying to learn those of the other gang.

They looked up at the sound of a clatter to see a cart crammed with people entering the clearing. When it drew closer Matt recognized two young men and a young woman who occasionally performed music at Bernie's along with their girlfriends and boyfriend.

"We heard there's a party goin on here," said the boy who jumped out first, guitar in hand. "Heard somebody killt the scrounger that run Columbia and all his men."

Matt grinned. "You can hear all about it inside." As he had so many times, Matt wondered how news traveled so fast between small towns. And how it changed so quickly from the truth.

They secured the horse pulling the cart to a porch baluster and clattered into the bar with their instruments. A few minutes later they debouched back onto the porch.

"Ain't no room in there," said one of the boys. "Reckon we'll have to set up out here." He looked at Matt and Annie apologetically.

"Sure," said Matt. He retreated with Annie to the front yard with the rest of their drinks. They sat under one of the large oaks. People spilled out of the bar into the clearing. Couples formed to dance.

Annie took Matt's hand. "Let's dance."

"I'm not very good."

"Anybody that can bullshit two gangs into killing each other can bullshit his way through a dance."

And so they did, several times, and people bought them more drinks, Annie as well as Matt because she danced with him. The ad hoc party lasted well past midnight. After one dance Annie took Matt's hand and drew him into the shadow beside the house. She threw her arms around him and gave him a quite serious kiss. He tried for another. She pushed him away.

"No," she said with a hiccup and a giggle. "Thanks to you I've had too much to drink. I gotta go to bed. Alone. But we're gonna be here another week. And I'll be sober tomorrow night." She giggled again. "Mostly."

"Me too. Mostly."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow night. I got my own room, away from the other bitches." She kissed him again, not so sensually, and went in.

No one had expected such a celebration. Relieved when the crowd moved outside, John sat down at the table he had been busing, beat. But just for a moment. He rose and carried a trayful of dirty glasses to the sink behind the bar. Bernie clapped him on the shoulder.

"I appreciate your help, John, but we're almost caught up now. As soon as you finish those go out and join the party."

"Okay, Bernie, but I'll be back in if you need me."

John went out and sat on a large fallen limb across from the house. He needed to be alone for a while after the cloying crowd in the bar. He watched the dancers, among them, to his surprise, Matt and Annie Austin. He had never seen Matt dance before but he seemed to know how and Annie danced gracefully for a big woman.

The music and dancing reminded him of the party at Kane's Cove at which he had grieved for a parent he scarcely remembered and one he had never known, the loneliness of one with no family. Now he had two: Mitch's gang and Bernie's. True, he often wondered if the gang would keep him with them or leave him behind. Tonight he felt like a member of the gang without question. And he felt secure at Haas House. Bernie and his women treated him warmly and he got along with shy, awkward Joey. Bernie had told him about all the beers that needed brewing that winter. The painful longing for his parents had turned bittersweet.

When a shadow appeared over him, John looked up to see Lou Travis standing there.

"Whatcha doing out here all alone, John?" boomed the man's great voice.

John realized he had grown ready for company, especially of this gentle bear of a man.

"If you sit down," said John, patting the branch beside him, "I won't be alone."

The limb creaked and rolled a little under Lou's bulk. John asked him how the gang picked the best stuff when scrounging.

"That's easy," said Lou. "Select the things you yourself would find handy and the irreplaceable stuff. Like everlights that've been stored in complete darkness and unused over the years. Most of them are worn out now. Or anything that can be used to start a fire. Doc found a card of ancient disposable firestarters a few years ago. Him and the other guys would've put too small a price on them if Boss Johnson and Mitch had not recognized their worth."

"Who's the best scrounger in the gang?" asked John.

Lou stroked his beard. "That's a tough one. Mitch is best at planning trips and Doc's good at finding truck. Only Mitch can get us to arrive at a consensus, usually the way he wanted it all along. He and Doc are the best at selling truck. Stony and I are the worst. Stony feels sorry for people and wants to give 'm good deals, and since I see both sides of negotiations, I compromise too much. Matt's good both at selling and at finding truck. And of course Matt's the smartest of all of us. Even though he's irritating at times when he lets us know it." Travis chuckled.

"Yes," said John. "He's able to explain most everything. Sometimes he really surprises me."

"He often surprises me too."

Lovey came up to them, holding out her hand to Lou. "Dance with me, Love?"

Lou stood. "I warn you. I got two left feet."

"I got two right ones," she said, winking at John, "so it'll work out fine."

And indeed, on the dance floor Lou looked like a great clumsy bear leaping up and down.

John saw Matt and Annie finish a dance and disappear into a shadowed side the house. A little later they emerged. Annie went inside and Matt returned to where he and Annie had sat between dances. Seeing John, he picked up two pints of beer, one nearly full, and crossed to him. He sat next to John on the limb, then placed the two pints on the ground with the exaggerated care of one who has deeply imbibed. They sat without speaking while Matt finished the nearly empty beer and lit his pipe. John thought of how he and Lou Travis had talked about how much Matt knew and how often he surprised them.

"A question, Matt?"

"Umh-hmh?"

"Of all the puzzles of life and nature and, and everything, if there was just one question you could have the answer to, what would it be?"

Matt chuckled. "That's an easy one."

"Really? What is it?"

Matt exhaled a deep lungful. "What did Johnson do with that fucking stash?"

He stood up with the remaining beer, yawned hugely and winked at John. "Gotta get some sleep. See you in the morning." He left for the hotel and his room.

Yes, Matt often surprised him.

# # # #

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The Shadow of Armageddon

Sample Chapters from A Shadow Over the Afterworld

Author's Note: A Shadow Over the Afterworld continues to follow the life of John Moore and many of the same characters that appear in The Shadow of Armageddon. It is not, however, necessarily a sequel since either book can be read without having read the other.

Chapter One

John Moore hesitated in the doorway. Not for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The hallway behind him was scarcely less dim. And not to make the pre-entry visual investigation as he had been taught: search for signs of danger first, valuables second. He had already finished that. No, he paused because of the room's lone occupant, slumped in the far corner, though a little embarrassed at his trepidation. Said occupant had long ago lost the ability to harm anyone.

At last, he took a deep breath, stepped quietly into the room's palpable silence and strode to its center. He turned about, examining it carefully, except for that corner.

To his left squatted a large desk with a few objects from before the Last Days on it and a chair behind it. Among the objects, the uses of many which often baffled him, he recognized one of the machines people of those days used for reading books, researching information, communicating long distances, making purchases and many other wonderful things. They had called them "commcomps." Dust-shrouded shelves against the wall behind the desk bore cubes that had once held pictures that moved, vases that must have held plants and other objects for uses he couldn't even guess. He asked himself, as he often did, why those people needed all this _stuff_. Among the shelves' jumble though, he immediately recognized treasure of incredible value: pre-Last Days bound paper books.

Summer's lethargic silence permeated the room. Ancient dust blanketed everything, disturbed only where his footprints crossed an intricate rug. The dust and gloom diluted whatever color the room might once have had into a dim despondent sepia. A single beam of light split the darkness from a narrow gap in the only window's draperies, pointing a brilliant finger across the room to the corner he did not yet want to look at.

The dark did nothing to relieve the unrelenting heat, if anything more oppressive here than outdoors. Sweat formed on his face and neck as soon as he wiped it away with his handkerchief. The room smelled of dust and desolation. Perhaps the interiors of graves smelled like that. Dust motes danced in the bone-white shaft of light slicing through the draperies. He remembered, as a little boy, thinking of them as joyful, miniscule dancing fairies. These looked more like gleeful demons. His gaze, at last captured by their mad dance, followed the bright spear of light across the hardwood floor and the rug he stood on. It ended at the corner he had avoided seeing, at about the bottom of a grayish swaddled pile.

He looked up quickly to take in the whole figure at once. The crepuscular light and rotted clothing didn't hide its roughly human form. It huddled in one of those pre-Last Day chairs that adapted perfectly to the sitter's form (according to the older folks of course; neither he nor the other kids had ever sat in one that still worked). Having sat there for nearly thirteen years, it had long ago relinquished the last of its flesh but seeing entire human skeletons unnerved him. The pallid ivory of rib, femur or some other bone poking through the shredded fabric didn't bother him. Finally he looked at the largest exposed bone, the skull. It nestled in a tattered nest that might have been a sleeping robe's collar, leaning slightly forward. The open jaw and large black eye sockets gave it a look of perpetual surprise.

John had seen enough human skeletons to know that the heap of small bones lying in the lap had once been hands. That too few bones remained to form two complete hands suggested that tiny critters, long ago, had sought them for food. At least the house had protected its resident from larger scavengers like dogs or coyotes.

Among the remaining hand bones rested a device John recognized as a "reader" that the user could detach from the commcomp to take to another location. A little sadly, he recreated the scene in the room as it must have been all those years ago. The man – the skeleton's garment was almost certainly a man's night robe – had been sick with that horrible infection, Chou's Disease. It had killed nearly everyone on earth, including John's father. Knowing he drew near death, the man had decided to spend his last hours in the chair reading, or perhaps listening to music. At least until he grew too sick. The skull had stared sightlessly at the blank reader screen with the same quizzical expression for nearly thirteen years.

John turned and stalked over to the covered windows, determined to ease a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with heat, dust or darkness. He grasped the draperies on each side of the slit that admitted the mad little demons. The room had lain in darkness long enough.

" _John! I found one!_ "

John jumped and turned toward the sudden shout, still clutching the draperies. The corroded rod supporting them screeched in protest as it parted from the wall. The collapsing drapes rained ancient dust. Only a few deft back-steps saved John from envelopment by the filthy decomposing material and most of the dust. Sudden, blinding light banished the dark just as Rossi's shout had shattered the quiet. But not the heat. John yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. The handkerchief came away muddy. He sneezed.

The shout had shocked John especially because Rossi seldom spoke above a murmur. Rossi stepped in from the hallway holding up a story book for beginning readers. _What the hell_ , John thought.

Then he remembered and smiled a little despite his irritation. A few weeks before Rossi had asked John to teach him to read. At not quite thirteen years old, he had never taught anyone anything, let alone a kid older than himself how to read. He had no idea how to even begin! To gain time he had told Rossi they didn't have the right books. They had to wait until the gang's return to Coleridge Gardens in the fall. There he could look for the simple beginners' books he had first learned to read. At John's age, the stretch between the beginning of summer and next fall seemed a long time. He would think of something by then. Rossi might even forget about it.

That wouldn't work now, though. There Rossi stood with a beginners' book in his hand!

The usually dour Rossi said with an eager smile, "This book'll do, won't it, John?"

John couldn't disappoint him. "Yeah, that'll do." He brushed futilely at the dust on his clothes. That only made them both sneeze.

"For now, though," said Rossi, "we'd best finish scroungin this place. It's gittin late." Resuming his role of older-kid-in-charge.

John looked back at the immobile figure in the corner. The light had chased the dread from the room. The figure now looked just like what it was: a misshapen bundle of bones.

Rossi, of course, saw the skeleton as nothing unusual, just another object to search for truck, as they called marketable items. He had lived close to death his whole life, first as an orphan in a town that hated orphans, now as a member of a scrounger gang ransacking deserted towns and farms full of corpses. Rossi had been a baby before the Last Days so he, like John, had never known a world full of people.

But John had not been raised in the casual violence that Rossi found normal. He had been born during the pandemic that preceded the Last Days in a small isolated town. The survivors had wept over and buried those lost during his infancy so he had no memory of it.

Rossi followed John's glance to the figure in the corner and crossed to it. John watched in grisly fascination as the rotten clothing disintegrated in Rossi's hands. Some of the bones clattered to the floor. The skull toppled forward as Rossi pulled a strand of some kind over it, examined it closely and held it up triumphantly for John to see: a chain with a metal disk hanging from it. The figure of a man carrying a small burden had been etched on the disk.

"What is it?" asked John, unconsciously speaking softly.

"It's a medal." Rossi's spoke quietly too, but he always did. "I think it's St. Christopher, the guy Stony wears around his neck."

"Who's St. Christopher?"

"Some kinda god, I think. Stony says he pertecks travelers. I'm gonna ast Stony if I can keep him to perteck me." The gang generally held truck in common and split profits after selling it. One could, however, request to keep a specific object and deduct its value from his share of the profit, or "take". John would almost certainly keep one or more books as part of his take.

"Jackie has one too," said Rossi.

"Jack's is a cross," said John. "They call it a crucif – something."

The figure in the chair looked far less human now, just rotting threads clinging to a disarranged collection of bones, many of which now lay scattered about the floor. The skull gazed vacantly at John from approximately where the lap had been. St. Christopher hadn't done a good job protecting this guy. But then, maybe he hadn't traveled much.

"Let's git to it, John. Stony'd have our ass if he saw us fuckin around like this."

Scroungers considered it bad luck to dawdle after entering a deserted house. They believed some essence of the former occupants still hovered about. The shades, knowing they no longer needed their things, didn't mind newcomers taking whatever they wanted. Disturbing their final rest longer than necessary though, was a breach of etiquette, like a person overstaying his welcome at a friend's house.

Once started, under Rossi's direction, they moved quickly and efficiently. John had little experience but Rossi had worked for three years under the older gang members' supervision.

Next Rossi went to the desk. Ignoring the commcomp, worthless since its power source disappeared during the Last Days, he ransacked the desktop and drawers for once-trivial items, from paper clips to letter openers, and for the more valuable metal objects that clever smiths could turn into tools. His most valuable discovery lay in a bottom drawer, a full ream of paper. Instead of just dumping it into the bag with the rest, he set it aside. He would pack it among the last objects to go into the cart, wrapped and placed in the safest place. The irreplaceable and fragile nature of paper made this ream as valuable as everything else in the desk combined.

From the shelves, John dumped everything but the books into his bag, even stuff he didn't recognize – the older guys could throw away anything unsalable. As Rossi emptied the desk drawers, John filled them with books, stacked atop each other or, if space did not permit, on their spines (never the other direction as that, according to his mentor Matt Pringle, caused their rotting spines to deteriorate further). Bound paper books had been rare even before the Last Days; most books had been recorded on electronic devices like computers, commcomps, or small thin wafers reputedly containing thousands of books each, all unreadable since the death of the commcomps.

No experienced scrounger worked randomly so, after finishing the desk and shelves they searched the rest of the room in an orderly fashion: end tables, wall niches and around the skeleton, and found little else of value. The humid climate had mostly consumed the fabrics, including the draperies. That left the ungainly furniture and the lamps, made of the so-called "composite" materials, that could not be shaped into anything useful by tinkers or smiths.

Thanks to Rossi's expertise they stripped this last room of the house in short order. They carried the truck to the cart out front. After filling it they could afford to sit for a moment on the front stoop in the shade, exhausted more from the mid-afternoon heat than their labor.

After a time, Rossi said, "Time to dump this shit and head for the crick."

They stood, grabbed the bar on the front of the truck, as Stony called his carts, and pulled it down broken, overgrown streets to the stash hole, a partially collapsed house in the northeast corner of town. It only took a few minutes but in such a small town no place lay more than a few minutes from any other. They rolled it through the back door, across a landing and down a set of rickety steps to the basement. They took longer unloading than they should have because of the basement's coolth but finally returned up to the heat and light.

They went to the gang's hole-up on the west side of town, the second floor of a house that had been old even before the Last Days. They had found other houses in better condition but their boss Mitch hadn't liked them for either hole-ups or stash holes. Rival gangs would check them first as they themselves had done. Finding none of the guys there, they went out, crossed the back yard and the meadow where their mules grazed, and down sloping overgrown fields to the creek, a mile or so west of town.

The other two young guys already lay there in the shallow brown water of a bend shaded by willows, naked. Big Miller, strong and loyal if a bit slow in wit, sprawled against the bank, half asleep. His size had earned him his nickname. Little Jack Kincaid, seldom still for long, splashed around, whistling tunelessly. The string of cheap red glass beads holding the crucifix around his neck glittered in vagrant shafts of sunlight. Neither saw Rossi, approaching wraith-like through the willows. As an orphan Rossi had learned that the least-noticed kids lived the longest.

When, to the always skittish Jack Kincaid, Rossi seemed to suddenly materialize before him, he yelped in terror. Then he laughed and splashed water at Rossi and then at John when he broke through the willows. Miller woke up with a startled grunt.

"You assholes!" Jack laughed. You scairt the shit out a me."

"Then I don't wanta share the water with you, Jackie," said Rossi. But he stripped, as did John. They waded into the water and squatted in the marginally cooler mud where they would spend the day's hottest hours.

"Where's Stony?" asked John.

"Checkin his snares," said Big Miller. "Don't know where that old fart gits his energy."

After bitching to each other about the heat they lay quietly in the shallows, except for high-strung little Jack Kincaid. He described every item of that day's take, then speculated on its original use, a favorite topic among the young guys. They couldn't understand the pre-Last Days peoples' habit of cluttering their homes with so much stuff. Then he talked about the hunting trip he planned when they next took a day off to hunt. Boss Mitchell wouldn't let them use precious ammunition for hunting so Jack, starting the previous summer about the time John joined the gang, practiced with a clumsy homemade bow and arrows. Last winter he had used part of his take to buy a real bow and arrows. He had practiced all winter and continued now as time allowed. Despite the others' good-natured ragging and though he had failed to bag even a rabbit – which John occasionally did with his powerful slingshot – he vowed to bring down a deer before the summer ended.

Then they heard a slight movement in the willows. Stony appeared, a small wiry man with white hair and beard and a patch over one eye.

"Hey, boys," he said, "got room for a old man?"

They greeted him. Miller moved over to make room, then said, "Hottest day yet, ain't it, Stony?"

"Yeah, only the middle a May and it's already hotter'n the hubs a hell."

Jack laughed. "The hubs a hell! It don't git no hotter 'n _that_ , Stony."

"Any luck with the snares?" asked Miller.

"Not this time. Got a vole and a field mouse. Don't reckon we're hungry enough to eat critters like that yet. We'll finish off the smoked fish tonight. I'll fix some corn bread. I found some nice mushrooms to go with 'm. Oyster mushrooms."

The boys made appreciative noises; they liked the way Stony prepared mushrooms, battered lightly in cornmeal and fried.

"Found us another stash hole too," Stony said. "I'll show you when we git back to work."

"Why so many stash holes, Stony?" griped Miller. "The one we got ain't nigh full."

"I tolja. If another gang finds one a our stash holes they ain't likely to look for more. The more stash holes you got the safer your truck is."

That didn't satisfy Jack Kincaid. "But Mitch hisself said they ain't been nobody here since the Last Days."

"That don't mean somebody _won't_ find the town. _We_ found it just a couple weeks ago."

"That ain't like you, Stony," Jack persisted. "You always tell us to look on the bright side a things."

Stony grinned his nearly toothless grin. "You got it half right, Jackie. Look on the bright side, sure, but expec the worst." He looked like he would have winked if he'd had another eye.

Stony stayed unaccountably cheerful for one with such bad luck. Though only forty when the pandemic struck, his hair had turned white nearly overnight. In subsequent years he had lost most of his teeth, leaving one cheek caved in. An infection had cost him an eye and he had lost an ear lobe in a bar fight. Unusually susceptible to colds and other types of sickness, no one, himself included, expected a long life for him. The devastating pandemic of 2072, Chou's Disease, had killed 80 to 90 percent of the earth's population. Civilization had crumbled so quickly no one knew the number for sure. Most of those who recovered succumbed to starvation, pestilence or violence. Stony therefore considered himself and all the other survivors, the ten percent, the luckiest people who had ever drawn breath.

"Wonder how the other guys is doin," mused Rossi. John wondered the same thing.

Jack laughed. "They's partyin in Nellie's Fair while we bust our balls. "They made a bunch a money off 'n the church truck and ain't even thinkin a us."

"They only been gone a week," said Stony. "They ain't even got to Nellie's Fair yet."

They talked in a desultory fashion, speculating about the other guys, discussing the heat and the upcoming evening's work. The shadows finally grew longer. Stony stood up and stretched.

"It's a mite cooler, boys," he said. "Let's go git some more truck. Big, I b'lieve it's your turn to see to the mules."

They would work until dark and return to the hole-up where Stony would prepare supper.

* * *

The gang had left its winter hole-up in Coleridge Gardens the first week of April to "go truckin." The two five-member factions consisted of men in their forties and fifties, the original gang members, and youths in their teens. They avoided the few farmsteads of one to a few families they saw. Farmers disliked scroungers because they found articles among the ruins that the farmers themselves might need some day. And no one trusted armed wanderers of any kind. They had followed the Sheridan River north and east for nearly three weeks to the Green Hills, a beautiful country of tree-clad ridges separated by flat creek bottoms, quite different from the gently rolling prairies around Coleridge Gardens. Matt Pringle, John's friend and mentor, told him that even before the Last Days fewer people had lived there than in the Coleridge Gardens area. Poor soils and new means of non-agricultural food production had gradually driven the farmers and businesses depending on agriculture away, except for a few stubborn hold-out farmers who cultivated the creek bottoms.

"A paradox of the late twenty-first century," Matt Pringle had said, "was that, even though the world population had doubled in less than a hundred years, population dwindled in lots of rural places. Most people lived in the cities. It's just the opposite since the Last Days. The cities are empty. Survival is easier in the country."

"The Green Hills are good scroungin grounds though," had boomed the deep voice of Lou Travis, Matt's best friend in the gang. "Got a lot a truck last time we came here. Hardly anyone's left here to use it and the Green Hills are off the beaten track for most scroungers."

But others had beat them to the first town they checked. From there they followed an unpaved road, thickly choked by tall grass, brush and saplings, to the east. The few isolated pre-Last Day houses and farm buildings they saw had either burned or nearly collapsed. On the second morning they crested a ridge and started down a wooded slope toward one of the flat creek bottoms. Red Leighton, the young faction's leader, suddenly raced back from where he had been walking point, to where Boss Mitchell led the column.

"There's a town over there, Mitch!" He grabbed the leader's sleeve. He was a tall skinny kid with orange hair and a thin, straggly, red-gold beard. When excited or angered, which happened easily with him, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his scrawny throat. "See? On the hill on t' other side a the crick."

Mitch's strained to see what Leighton had seen. His thick black brows nearly met over his nose in concentration. He stroked a beard the color and texture of steel wool. He finally said, "I do b'lieve you're right. I swear you got the eyes of a hawk."

They found the town relatively intact. Nearly every house contained the undisturbed remains of the former inhabitants, a good sign according to the older guys. It meant that no one had visited the town since the Last Days.

John didn't like to think of all those skeletons swaddled in rotting garments as a good sign of anything, particularly the small ones of children.

That afternoon, after a quick exploration of the town they set up camp in an old house at the northwest edge of town. Behind it a convenient meadow provided grazing for the mules. The ground floor of the house next door would protect the mules from wild dogs at night. The next day they started scrounging. The town's only two businesses had been a tavern and an automated convenience store, both undisturbed and full of truck. Deteriorating motor vehicles and the remarkably intact houses yielded hard-to-find tools and other valuable truck.

"Hey, Perfessor," Leighton asked Matt during a break, "Whatcha reckon they called this town?"

Leighton had nicknamed Matt "Perfessor" because of his previous career as a college professor.

"Well, from the names of businesses on the store windows I'd guess they called it Dumfrey." Heavy with sarcasm. He left unsaid, "as anyone who could read would see."

"Dumbfuck, hunh?" Leighton cackled. "What a great name for this dump." Unashamedly as illiterate as the other orphans, he took pleasure in baiting Matt.

The second day they found two churches, Pentecostal and Catholic, well-preserved with intact windows that had kept out the elements. The Catholic church contained the most valuable artifacts. The youths couldn't know their significance or value or even their names, the crucifixes, chalices, candlesticks and other things, the most valuable made of gold and silver. They pulled the pews aside. In the space thus cleared they heaped truck from both churches, even the hymnals, prayer books, vestments and such. Then Mitch said they should have a confab, a gang's more or less casual meeting.

Stony stood next to the gang's curmudgeon and self-appointed medic, Doc Garson.

"Now that we got it," said Stony, "where we gonna sell it? Coleridge Gardens' market's too small and they only got one church."

Doc Garson shrugged. "Melt down the gold and silver. Then we can sell it anywheres." A tall, slightly stooped black man with a long lugubrious face, a pessimist suspicious even of good fortune, yet he and the optimistic Stony shared a close friendship, despite their continual bickering.

Stony grabbed up a jewel-encrusted crucifix and shook it in Doc's face. "You'd take the jewels out a _this_ and melt it down!? The hell you will!" He had retained his religious views though he seldom spoke of them.

John also thought it a shame to destroy such beautiful objects but his opinion counted for little so he kept quiet. The other young guys, led by the vociferous Red Leighton, agreed with Doc. As usual Mitch didn't say anything. He would let everyone else speak first.

To John's surprise, since Matt had little use for religion, he said, "Stony's right. These beautiful artifacts should be saved for future generations. Let's make a deal. Spare these few pieces, this crucifix" (Jewels decorated its post and crosspiece. A large ruby gleamed where they crossed.) "and the chalice and candlesticks to sell to a church or some other religious collector, and melt down the rest."

"We don't know nothin bout sellin to churches," insisted Leighton. "But we sure know guys that pay good for metals to melt down, don't we, boys?" He grinned at the younger guys. Except for John, the others had belonged to Leighton's gang of orphans in Nellie's Fair which made their living chiefly by theft.

"Mitch could sell to the churches easy," said Stony. "He could sell ice cubes to Eskimos."

"What's a Eskynoe?" asked Big Miller.

"What good's all these books?" asked Jack Kincaid.

"Churches pay plenty for hymnals and such," said Stony. "Ain't many of 'm left."

All agreed to sell the objects of lesser value to churches but heatedly debated disposition of those made of precious metals. Mitch occasionally added a comment, such as, "Keep in mind how many churches are in Nellie's Fair. Lots of 'm are prob'ly short of crosses and cups and shit." "Yeah," grumbled Doc. "More churches than taverns." Gradually they edged toward Stony's and Matt's point of view. Under Mitch's subtle guidance, the gang finally reached a consensus: they would sell the major gold and silver artifacts intact. The rest would go to smiths who worked with precious metals.

"Maybe we can start a biddin war between the richest churches!" said Leighton, forgetting how hard he had fought for melting the precious metals down.

They unanimously chose the much larger Nellie's Fair over their usual market town, Coleridge Gardens. Their usual truck sold well enough to the rural folk at the Coleridge Gardens harvest market but they couldn't afford and had no use for expensive religious artifacts. The larger, wealthier town's many churches would bid their price up. Half the gang would take the goods there while the others finished scrounging Dumfrey. Mitch said he and Matt would go because of their negotiating skills and Lou Travis because of his stamina and intimidating size. Garson and Leighton would also go, leaving Stony to supervise the other boys, John, Miller, Rossi and Kincaid.

After the confab John asked Matt why he fought only for the more elaborate gold pieces and not all of them.

Matt said, "Those lesser gold and silver objects were cast cheaply and by the thousands. They don't have any great artistic merit and they're only plated with gold and silver or some lesser material that looks like them. When Doc sees how little the smiths offer for that stuff he'll take it to the churches. I couldn't see wasting my time arguing with him about it."

They spent that night in the church with the treasure even though, as Garson grumbled, no one had bothered it where it was for almost thirteen years. The Nellie's Fair contingent left early the next morning.

Chapter Two

Alicia felt another drop of sweat trembling at the end of her nose. It fell to her chin and rolled downward languidly; the heat made even her perspiration lazy. As it dropped to the sweat-soaked cleft between her breasts she felt another drop form in its place. Even this early, at dawn, nothing alleviated the heat, not even the shade of the low white pines they sat under. Her mother would expect her to start her chores soon but what the hell. She found the heat too enervating for any kind of work.

"This heat makes work a bitch," said Marianne beside her. She watched the men arriving to water the fields in the flat river bottom spreading west from the toe of the slope to the Grange River. The shriveled corn stalks stood no higher than they would have a month ago in normal years. Most of the wheat and rapeseed had blighted leaves and drooping heads. The cabbage, turnips, carrots and other vegetables' leaves showed as much brown as green. Even the weeds looked desiccated. The air shivered over the men and the shrunken river.

Coleridge Gardens lay behind and below the knoll they sat on. Across the river at a slightly lower elevation stood the ancient three-story hotel, Haas House. She thought it would look elegant except for the corny Victorian gingerbread on fascia and gables and the fake-looking columns holding up the porch roof. It had intimidated her when she was young. Now, at fifteen, because of its reputation, it merely disgusted her. Today the giant oaks surrounding it and its numerous outbuildings and corrals infuriated her by making the notorious place look cool and inviting. She watched the portly landlord, Bernie Haas, appear from a stable leading a horse pulling a cart bearing a barrel.

She nudged Marianne. "Looks like the whorehouse is out of water too."

They watched the landlord lead horse and cart down to the boat slip on which the hotel customers who came by way of the river beached their boats. He backed the horse and cart until the cart's wheels were half submerged in muddy river water and set the cart's brake handle. He filled a bucket from the river, poured water over his head and stretched his back. Even at this distance he looked tired.

Marianne giggled. "I don't know much about whorehouses, Alicia, but Bernie Haas don't look much like a man who'd run one."

"Well, he prob'ly wasn't old and fat when he came here twelve years ago."

"And prob'ly didn't have the bald spot. Who was the old lady who run the place then?"

"She didn't _run_ anything. It wasn't a hotel yet. It was just her and her husband's house. I think their name was Mason. During the Last Days Chou's killed Mr. Mason but she got well. Then Bernie Haas showed up with Chou's and she nursed him through it."

"He came from Kansas City didn't he?"

"That's what they say. Lots of city people tried to outrun the disease. He just stayed there after he got well, didn't know how to live on his own, to get food and stuff – city people didn't, you know. She had canned food and a garden and somehow they got by."

"Then it got to be a hotel somehow."

"Yeah, kind of by accident. Bernie's hobby had been brewing beer. At Ms. Mason's, as soon as he grew the right plants and found the right equipment he started brewing again. It was the only beer around so when people heard about it they'd drop by to try it. Pretty soon he learned to charge for it; the drinkers paid in meat and produce; he and Ms. Mason started eating good. Ms. Mason was a good cook too and that big house had lots of bedrooms. It just naturally got to be a hotel for people travelling up and down the river."

"And a tavern," said Marianne. "Even some guys from our teetotalin town slip over there sometimes. And has more hotel guests now than when I was little."

"Yeah, more people traveling nowadays. Scroungers, horse traders, tinkers, all kinds of hooligans. Some folks coming to our harvest market stay there. They do a lot of partying too. Especially since that scrounger gang started staying the winter."

"Yeah, you were kinda sweet on that boy, weren'cha?"

"John Moore? No! He was sweet on _me_. I don't hang out with that kinda people."

"You did hang with him last year though. Good thing your mom didn't catch you."

"I happened to see him at Reverend Gates' revival a couple of times, that's all. And I don't have to do _any_ thing my mother says."

They watched Bernie Haas fill the barrel with bucketsful of water.

Marianne asked, "Why didn't your mother invite Ms. Mason and Haas to move to Coleridge Gardens after the Disease? She moved everybody from Trevelyan."

"She tried." Alicia looked back over Coleridge Gardens, behind them. From their knoll at its northwest corner she could see most of its houses and ramshackle huts but very little of the Trevelyan ruins beyond. Her mother, Eleanor Coleridge, had been a realtor and land developer. She had added the Coleridge Gardens subdivision to the town before the epidemic and built some show homes but had trouble selling the lots. Eleanor, her husband Adam and two-year old Alicia lived in one of the houses and sold others to three or four other families. Occupied houses and show homes totaled fourteen houses. Then Chou's hit. Everyone in Coleridge Gardens except Alicia and her mother died, including her father, and most people in Trevelyan.

"Mother even had trouble convincing the Trevelyan folks to move here even though the houses were brand new. It'd be easier if we all lived together, she said. She'd help them. I think they were just too scared, too numb to know what to do. They'd spent all summer and fall fighting the disease, nursing some through it, burying so many of their families and others. Then mother had a good idea. She moved us into what would've been the community center..."

"Where you live now..."

Alicia nodded, "...and invited the old preacher to move into our house."

"Reverend Gates."

"Yeah. People used to think he was a kind of evangelistic crackpot. He'd never had much of a congregation. Then, the thing he had preached about for years actually happened: his apocalypse. And it featured a 'Holy Pestilence' like he said it would: 'punishment from a just but wrathful God.' All of a sudden it seemed like he was right. The whole town converted practically overnight. After he moved into our old house everyone followed him to Coleridge Gardens. Turned out, the fourteen houses weren't enough. A lot of people had to build their own houses and quick because winter was coming."

"That turned out good for my dad," said Marianne. "He learned to be a carpenter real quick. He built a lot of these houses, put windows and doors from Trevelyan in 'm."

"Yeah, he made a lot of fine looking houses."

"Yes he did. But what about Ms. Mason and Bernie Haas?"

"Mother was so busy getting everybody settled in she didn't get over to see them at first." Alicia didn't remind her that, after Trevelyan's people moved in, her mother had gotten busy appointing herself mayor and drawing up rules for everyone to follow. "The townspeople beat her to it. A group of them went to Haas House to demand Ms. Mason and Haas quit living in sin and marry. I bet that surprised 'm. Mother says Ms Mason was a good twenty years older than Haas so it's unlikely they had any sexual interest in each other. Ms Mason told them she was a good Christian woman and called their accusations ridiculous and repugnant. She passed on a few years ago but never, as far as I know, ever went to Coleridge Gardens."

"What did Haas say to them?"

"He told them to kiss his ass and threatened them with a pitchfork."

Marianne giggled. "Hard to think of that guy pokin 'm with a pitchfork. But like you say, he prob'ly wasn't old and fat yet."

The landlord had led the horse and cart up from the river. They saw him pour bucketsful of water on his extensive gardens, his apple trees and bushes of blackberries, raspberries and gooseberries. A woman with black hair knotted atop her head worked with him.

"She doesn't look like a whore," said Marianne.

Alicia shrugged. "Who knows? I don't know what whores look like. I heard that that one's a Gaian. I think her name's Carmella."

"The one that believes in the Little People and all that bullshit?"

"Yep."

Marianne looked back toward the fields and stood up. "I gotta go. There's my dad comin to water our little patch. I'm gonna help him."

Alicia also arose, but reluctantly. "Guess I'd better go too, see what kinda disaster's happening at home."

Marianne frowned at her. "You shouldn't fight your mom so hard, Alicia. You're lucky to have one." She turned and ran down the slope.

Of course Marianne's 'dad' was not her biological father. Nor was her 'mom' her real mother. Since approximately seven out of eight Trevelyan residents had died of Chou's Disease, only a single member of many families had survived. Only Marianne, at two years old, had been her family's only survivor, just as only her adoptive mother and father had been lone family survivors. Among Mayor Eleanor Coleridge's many tasks during the first few months after the Trevelyan folks' arrival had been, by cajoling, reasoning, begging or threatening, to form new family groups from the singleton survivors. Thus had Marianne's current "family" been formed.

Alicia had spent last night at Marianne's, and a little time at the knoll with her before beginning her own day's work. Scowling, she went east down the slope, between two of the houses her mother had built and onto the street. The day had barely started and a foul mood already enveloped her. She hated the heat. She hated that asshole Ronald; if she found him and her mother arguing when she got home she would just turn around and leave. She almost hated Marianne for lecturing her about fighting with her mother and even for having such great parents herself. She kicked a clod of asphalt the street had coughed up. Why didn't Curt and Dick take better care of the damn streets?

She reached the house, trudged up the front steps and hesitated just outside the front double doors, listening. No argument yet. Maybe Mother and Ronald didn't have enough energy to fight this early, or in this heat. She had never known what her mother had seen in that jerk, ten years her junior. Of course, she had been a baby when her mother married him, a little over a year after the pandemic had taken her real father, so it felt like he had always been here. Jaclyn had been born a year after his arrival.

One of the front twin doors burst open, nearly hitting her. Jaclyn bolted out and crossed the front porch, her dark pigtails switching right and left as she angrily swung her shoulders.

"Where are you going?" demanded Alicia.

"Why do you care?" shouted her little sister without slowing or looking back.

Alicia sagged, guilty. She and Jaclyn had been close, allies against her mother and Ronald. Alicia had caused their estrangement.

Now she even hated her _self_.

She ripped the door open savagely. God help Ronald if he said a single word to her.

* * *

Unrelenting, sweltering heat dogged Stony and the boys through the rest of May into June. Not a hint of rain clouds darkened the sky's shimmering humid haze. The occasional hot breeze merely raised dust to cake their sweat-slick bodies. Stony woke them to start work at the faintest first light; they dozed through the hottest part of the afternoon in the shaded stream and resumed work when the shadows grew long until it grew too dark to see. They could do a few tasks in the slightly more bearable time after dark by candlelight. They sorted truck into cart-sized or mule-sized piles for transport. Stony had constructed his inventions, the carts, from bicycle wheels, aluminum pipes and scraps of plastic sheeting. He fussed over them every few evenings, oiled and cleaned them, tightened parts here and there. He loved fixing things and working with his hands which he had had little opportunity to do, he complained, before the Last Days. Then factories spit out products that only robots or computers could repair. Confusingly, Stony called his carts "trucks." Some day, he said, he would develop a factory to build them for sale to other scroungers and farmers.

"What'll you call 'm?" hectored Red Leighton had hectored. "Truckin trucks to carry your fuckin truck'?"

"'Course not, you dumb ass. I'll call 'm 'Stonebuilt Trucks – Built to Last.'"

Though too shallow to swim in, the shaded creek made a good place to sit and talk or doze. Farther downstream in undisturbed waters, they caught bullheads and crappies. Kincaid practiced with his bow and arrows and went on a few (fruitless) hunting expeditions on the rare days they took off to gather food. John killed rabbits with his high-powered slingshot. Stony caught them in his snares. They found greens and berries in the woods and eagerly watched the apples, peaches and apricots ripen on trees in some back yards and the orchard by their hole-up. They seldom had to eat the dry tasteless pemmican they had brought and spent many pleasurable evenings after supper listening to Stony's tales and lies. Many afternoons, instead of lounging in the stream, John and Rossi toiled over Rossi's reading lessons in the orchard. Since John first had to teach Rossi the shapes and sounds of the letters, they both found the first lessons as difficult as John had feared. The slow pace frustrated Rossi.

By the end of June they had gathered enough truck to store in seven or eight widely separated stash holes, more than they could haul back to Coleridge Gardens. They hadn't completely stripped the town though; scroungers believed that not leaving something for the next gang would bring bad luck the next season. Free of work, they could do as they pleased until the others returned, but the enervating heat forced them awake early and down to the creek soon after breakfast.

John thought only he found the town's many skeletons disturbing until Stony announced, one morning after breakfast, that they deserved a decent Christian burial. The youths grumbled at first, not because of the chore's grisly nature but because of the debilitating heat. They excavated a huge common grave at the edge of town then began collecting the remains. The rotting rags that had been clothing usually failed to hold the skeletons together. Raking and shoveling the remains onto ad hoc litters to carry to the trench seemed, at last, thought John, to quieten even these orphans, usually inured to death's horror. Or maybe the heat made them too tired to talk. That evening, with the grave finally covered and Stony having said a few words over it, they stumbled down to sit in the creek. The dying sun turned the humid haze into a bloody curtain. No one spoke for a long moment.

Then little Jack Kincaid said, "So all them folks we just buried died a that sickness, that...?"

"Yeah," said Stony. "Chou's Disease."

"Why did it come and kill 'm all, then just... just stop and go away?"

"After it ran out of people to kill in a place," said John, "it just kind of died out itself."

"Not ever'body died," Kincaid persisted. "Like Stony here. And us."

"No, some people didn't even get it," said John, "and some lived through it. My mom did, but she died of something else when I was little. It killed my dad before I was born."

"Where'd it come from?" asked Big Miller.

"Nobody knows for sure. Probably some bacteria that got too strong for medicine."

Stony was frowning. "That's what some folks b'lieve, John – I'm sure Matt told you that – and some blame it on terrorists – God knows there was enough a them around – but others figger our Maker done it. He watches over us. When we fuck up too bad He punishes us to bring us back to the righteous path. We was astrayin from the Word. We followed the false path of Techne. God showed us we'd gone too far."

"I don't unnerstan this 'techne' stuff," said Big Miller.

"Techne is what scientists and such-like people invented to explain how the world works. It's altogether differnt from what the Holy Scripture tells us. Techne came to be modern-day idolatry. They got so edjicated that reg'lar people didn't know what they was talkin bout. Before long they had all the money and all the power while most of us didn have shit. Then God got fed up, used Chou's Disease to git rid of techne and set us back on the righteous path. It's been a purty tough lesson He give us but we'd best not forgit it."

"What happened to all these techne folks?" asked Miller.

"Those people are called 'technics.' They lived in the cities. God wiped out the cities first, some say cause most technics was there."

"But some folks got out a the cities," said Jack. "Like Matt and Lou. Didn't some a them technics git away?"

Stony snorted. "A few of 'm prob'ly did. If so, they had sense enough to keep their mouths shut. They wouldn't last long round some people." He glanced at John as though daring him to challenge him.

John kept quiet. He knew Stony considered Matt and Lou marginal technics, Matt a college professor that spread the gospel of techne to youngsters and Lou a civil engineer who somehow used techne in his work. Though he got along well enough with Matt and Lou he probably did so with reservations.

A few stars had winked on in the darkening red western sky.

"I'm gonna turn in, boys," said Stony, as he pulled himself out of the water and reached for his clothes. "If anybody's hungry they's smoked rabbit and blackberries on the porch."

Big Miller and Jack Kincaid soon followed Stony to the hole-up, leaving John and Rossi alone.

"Sometimes there's outbreaks of Chou's in Nellie's Fair," said Rossi, "but people don't die of it very often. I had it when I was little. Never wanta be that sick again. Wonder if it'll come back some day – the killin kind?"

"Nobody knows," said John. "I was born when it was dying out. Mom said I didn't get it."

The enormity of that fear made them quiet.

* * *

Stony and the boys spent the next couple of days quietly, subdued by the burial detail and the grueling heat. But the exuberance of youth gradually lightened the boys' moods and Stony found it infectious. With Miller's help, Stony started building another cart. Though slow in some ways, the big kid had an innate mechanical dexterity. John and Rossi resumed the reading lessons. Rossi progressed much more quickly now. He had finished the children's book and stated another. The lessons brought them closer together but the dark, secretive Rossi could only be drawn out so far. One day as they walked down to the creek John asked him why he had only one name.

Rossi sullenly and kicked through the dust silently for a moment. Finally he mumbled, "Nobody don't need more 'n one fuckin name," and turned abruptly back toward the hole-up.

Early one afternoon everyone but Kincaid sat in the shallow bend. Jack suddenly erupted through the willows with a fey shout. "C'mon guys, I need help! I got me a deer!"

And indeed he had. A young buck, further up the creek, apparently headed there for a drink. Jack had tried to gut it. His excitement kept him from noticing Stony's frown at his inept job. Stony didn't criticize the boy; he even complimented him. Then he showed the boys how to hoist the carcass into a tree and the proper manner of bleeding and gutting it. They spent the afternoon roasting what they needed for the evening and smoking the rest. That night they ate until they were stuffed and talked for a long time. They listened to the hero Kincaid's tale of the hunt over and over. His prowess increased with each telling and everyone praised each version.

Many years later, John learned from studies of hunters' habits, modern and from time immemorial, that he had shared the experience of countless forebears: listening to the successful hunter's boasts and cheering on his embellishments.

Also in years to come, John remembered that summer, despite the heat, despite the mass burial, as one of the best of his life up to that time.

* * *

The Nellie's Fair guys returned two days later with pockets full of Nelson dollars, usually called nellies or ens, the town's currency, and a few supplies. The first night they enjoyed one of Stony's fine meals, mostly gathered in the wild: bluegill tempura as a kind of appetizer; a salad of water cress, finely chopped wild onions and ground walnuts; bread made from acorn flour (made edible by grinding the nutmeat to powder and soaking to remove the tannic acid); and for the piece de resistance, a brace of wild hares stuffed with wild Jerusalem artichokes, apples and hickory nuts, roasted with peeled artichokes. Before, during and after the meal they enjoyed some of the best whiskey scrounged from the Dumfrey tavern. The next day they recuperated from the trip (those who had gone to Nellie's Fair) and their hangovers and packed the truck.

The following day they started back to Coleridge Gardens. Mules pulled Stony's four trucks. The other mules carried truck and gang-scratch, what scroungers called their camping and cooking gear. Each man carried his personal gear in a scratch bag slung over one shoulder and a folded poncho, which they used as bedrolls in the heat of summer, over the other.

* * *

To minimize the unpaved roads' choking dust they wore bandannas over their noses and mouths and Mitch ordered the caravan to spread out. Doc grumbled that they looked like a pack of goddamn lost gypsies. They and the mules suffered less on the paved roads. Albeit cracked and buckled, the paving allayed the dust and minimized the brush and saplings that clogged unpaved roads. Civil engineer Lou Travis explained how nature gradually digested the paved roads. Freezing and thawing split asphalt paving into a scale-like pattern called "alligatoring." Moss and lichens settled into the miniscule crevasses and pockets. Water from rain and snow-melt expanded when it froze to create new cracks. They widened enough to admit roadside weeds like burdock, ragweed and curly dock. Small shrubs and saplings sprouted from the cracked, rotting paving now, over a dozen years after the Last Days, in a process Matt called "ecological succession."

They stopped only for one day to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of their youngest and newest member, John Moore.

They reached the Sheridan River bridge one day in mid-afternoon. Several hours of daylight remained but they and the mules were worn out. Besides, Coleridge Gardens lay only a day and a half away and the market didn't start for almost a week. Only big Lou Travis seemed unfazed by the travel and the heat. They unhitched the cart-mules and unloaded the others. The boys led them to the river to drink. The older men sprawled in the shade of one of the huge signs called "billboards" beside the road. When the boys returned they tethered the mules where they could crop the sere, yellow summer grass and joined the men.

Little Jack Kincaid studied the sign's blank face for a while, then said, "Perfessor, tell us again bout these here billboards. It just don't seem _natcherl_ that they could talk."

The boys referred most pre-Last Days questions to Matt because of his, to them, limitless knowledge of that time. And though kids in general bored Matt he enjoyed explaining things so they had little trouble getting him to expound.

"Well, that's what they were programmed...," he started, but paused at Kincaid's bewildered look. "uh, designed to do. They'd show an illustration of whatever they were advertising. Then, when a car moved along the road in front of the sign the motion activated the illustration. It became a moving picture accompanied by talking or singing to describe the product or upcoming sporting event or new video or whatever. If your car had the right audio equipment the billboard sounded like it was sitting right beside you." Matt winced at the memory. "I had my car's audio components taken out and listened to my commcomp."

The youths listened intently. None interrupted for clarification of unfamiliar terminology, mostly to avoid Matt's withering impatient glare, and Leighton to pretend indifference.

"They could be a pain in the ass, okay," said Stony. "Specially when you was in a city and the damned things crowed at cha from ever angle."

Doc Garson frowned and nodded at Lou. "It was engineers like him that come up with the goddamn things."

Lou shook his head, rumbled in his deep voice, "'Fraid not, Doc. I was a different kind of engineer. I designed the roads you drove on and the pipes that brought you water and carried your shit off."

"Well, you engineers all went to the same colleges."

Lou smiled slightly, but said with an edge to his voice, "I don't know about you, Doc, but I was glad the doctor that took my appendix out had a medical degree."

Doc looked embarrassed as he mumbled, "Sorry, Lou. I don't mean nothin agin you."

"I know, Doc. Forget it."

Berating higher education bewildered John. Why would anyone be against learning?

They took turns bathing in the river, the older men first while the youths watched the mules and the truck. Most meals on the way back had been smoked meat and dried fruit to save time but that evening Stony prepared a rabbit stew. As usual, they complained about his cooking but left not a morsel.

Not long after dark, except for whoever stood watch, they settled down for sleep. Since Mitch least trusted the younger ones to stay awake during the wee hours he had them stand the early watches. John, the youngest, took the first. He would wake Rossi when he started feeling sleepy. Tired but not sleepy, he felt invigorated by the evening's slight respite from the heat.

He paced the camp's perimeter, paused by the mules to rub the noses of those who snorted greetings, then went around the sleeping or soon-to-be sleeping scroungers – quietly, quietly – thence along the road. He heard only cicadas in the trees and small animals hunting or settling in for the night. As he passed the billboard he thought how funny it would be for its long-dead energy source to awake it squawking in the middle of the night to scare the shit out of the sleepers. The billboard also reminded him to wonder, as he so often had, what the road had looked like before the Last Days. He found it hard to imagine automobiles, now lifeless rusting hulks, racing up and down it. And these old guys living in houses full of wondrous gadgets and mysterious crap and living amid throngs of people instead of all this emptiness.

He went down the bank to the river to watch the reflected sliver of moon dance with the stars in the water and listen to the raspy _barrumph_ of unseen frogs. Then back around again. Silently, silently, remembering making his rounds in his first days with the gang, how Mitch would jump out of nowhere to shush him quiet. When John believed he moved like a shadow! Mitch was small, hunched and subtly misshapen, his black brows habitually drawn together in a frown, bearded like all except for the youngest boys. Never harsh, loud or unfair, the leader nevertheless intimidated John, perhaps because he seldom showed emotion or shared his thoughts with anyone.

When John again approached the river he saw a man seated there gazing over the water. The long sloping back identified him as the gang's chief grouch, Doc Garson.

He crept down across the slope, still silently demonstrating his stealth, but stopped just close enough for his shadow to nudge its way into Doc's peripheral vision. He had learned not to approach the older guys without warning. Doc turned to look at him for a moment, his expression invisible in the faint moonlight, then looked back toward the river. John continued down the slope and stopped beside him. Doc, who didn't hide his dislike of the younger gang members, also intimidated him a little.

"Uh, Doc?" Doc looked up at him. This close, John _could_ read his expression, a glower of impatience.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, sorry, Doc, uh, I don't want to piss you off."

"You already have. Whadda y' want?"

John said quickly, before Doc could order him away, "What do you and Stony and some others have against colleges?"

Doc looked back over the river, silent so long John began to think he had been dismissed. Finally Doc said quietly, "The colleges is what taught techne and made the technics. Some folks, like Stony, say God sent this disease but that's bullshit. Some say that Chinese motherfucker 'discovered' the disease. That is too. The news always talked about scientists clonin things, makin new stuff in their labatories. Some technic bastard _made_ that disease, maybe that Chink. It got away from 'm, got outta the labatory. Maybe by accident, maybe on purpose; don't matter. Either way, it damn near killt us all."

Doc turned to glare at John through the dim light. "Don't git me wrong, kid. I got nothin agin Matt and Lou. They's good ol' boys and they been good for the gang. They didn have nothin to do with that disease. But they was technics, sure as we shit ever mornin, and we're better off now that them schools is gone."

Doc turned back to gaze out over the water. Then he said, "I got sick before my wife and never seen her agin. She died while I was recoverin, right down the hall in the same hospital. Ever'body else I knowed died too and now I'm stuck with these assholes." Without looking back he waved a hand in the direction of the sleeping gang.

After a moment John turned quietly away. On his next round Doc was gone, perhaps waiting for sleep on his bedroll. John had never thought of Doc losing all those he loved, but of course he had. As had all the survivors.

Chapter Three

Alicia's rebellion had begun a couple of years before when she told her mother she wanted more autonomy. Eleanor had allowed her to move from the family apartment in the back of the house into one of the two vacant rooms on either side of the front door that had been intended for use as offices. From it she could see the front outdoor portico through its front window and inside it opened on the reception hall, as her mother called the large central room. Most importantly this morning, she could also see her mother's office at the rear of the reception hall, which she now watched through the tiniest possible opening of her door. Its closed door concealed an inexplicable meeting between her mother and Reverend Gephardt, the young preacher who had replaced the recently deceased Reverend Gates. What could it mean? The Mayor had never hidden her dislike of him.

At last the office door opened. Gephardt appeared first, tall, handsome and immaculate in his dark suit, smiling slightly. While staring, unblinking, at her mother who said something from inside the room that Alicia could not understand, his attention seemed to be elsewhere. When the Mayor appeared her expression, as they shook hands, betrayed a bit of contempt. Or maybe Alicia had imagined it. She soundlessly edged her door shut. But not before Gephardt had turned his unblinking gaze directly at her as if to let her know he had been aware of her attempted eavesdropping all along.

That couldn't be. Her imagination must have deceived her. But she leaned against the closed door until she heard Gephardt close the outside door behind him.

Then she opened her door and stepped into the reception hall. Its opening allowed a light breeze to stir her front window's curtains. As a small child, the reception hall's great size and unadorned walls had intimidated her. Its only furniture, the long table and chairs on the low dais at the back, gave it a stark, forbidding look. Her mother stood in her office's open doorway behind the dais, her arms folded and an ironic quirk at the corner of her mouth.

"I know you're dying to know what that was all about, Alicia. Come here and you'll be the first to know."

In contrast to the reception hall the Mayor's office was full of filing cabinets; bookcases stuffed with books on arcane pre-Last Days subjects: law, architecture, engineering, science, mathematics, art; shelves with artifacts from that far-off time; pictures on the wall, including one of Alicia's father, a sandy-haired man with a cold smile. Though her mother seldom spoke of him Alicia thought they looked well-suited. She had organized the many furnishings so well they gave no sense of clutter. It struck Alicia that her mother's mind must closely resemble the room: full but with everything neatly in its place.

Her mother motioned for her to sit and took the chair behind the desk.

Then she said, "As you know, Grover Gordon has been the town secretary for many years, far too long. Yesterday I relieved him of that post."

The Mayor's ownership of all land within the town made government unnecessary. Yet, at all public meetings, hearings and celebrations, Grover Gordon had sat with the Mayor as the town's secretary and Reverend Gates as the town's spiritual leader. Of course, since Gates' death Gephardt would necessarily replace him at public events. Alicia didn't understand why her mother told her all this. She had no interest in it and the heat made it difficult to pay attention.

"The position of town secretary is of utmost importance. A lot of the citizens' money comes through the Mayor's office. They pay into the emergency fund which supports them in case of floods, famines or other disasters. The rent money we collect for the stalls at the markets belongs to them." Would her mother ever get to the end of this? "They must have a representative, one of their own people, to make sure that money is used appropriately, to repair streets, pay the town employees, and so on."

"But – but if the job is so important why did you fire Gordon?"

"Because I caught him stealing. Several families told me he collected more emergency fund money from them than he disclosed to me. One of them might be mistaken or even lie, but not all eight or ten I questioned. I told him I wouldn't take any punitive action against him if he paid back what these people say he'd stolen and quit the job. He did so, most grudgingly of course. God knows how much he stole before I caught him."

"Then what will you do about –" Suddenly Alicia knew the subject of the meeting with Gephardt. "You've replaced him with – with that..."

"Yes, I just now retained Reverend Gephardt for that position. He will collect the donations to the emergency fund and the market stall rents."

"But why _him_ , Mother? You don't like him any more than I do."

The Mayor sighed. "At this period of your life, dear, you don't like anyone. I chose him for several reasons. He already sits in on town meetings as the town's spiritual representative. Also, in times like these when everybody turns to religion..."

" _You_ didn't turn to religion."

"...when _most_ people turn to religion, they tend to trust their ministers. He already sits at the table when we collect stall rents so it'll be handy for him to collect house rents and emergency fund contributions. People already trust him with their church tithes so his handling of the town's money will seem natural. A lot of farmers who subscribe to the emergency fund live quite a distance from Coleridge Gardens. Since Gephardt rides up and down the river proselyting he'll be a natural to collect for the fund from them."

Alicia rolled her eyes. "He's a phony, Mother! He preaches that we have to live according to God's laws or face eternal damnation while he does as he pleases, like sleeping with that Anderson girl."

"Reverend Gates hired Angela as their housekeeper and she stayed on after he died."

"Mother, she was four years older than me in school. She slept with every guy there."

"Whatever Gephardt and Angela do is their business. It doesn't affect his ability to collect money or save souls. One last thing: The harvest market starts a week from Saturday. It's been so dry this year the crop yield has been anemic to say the least. When Gephardt collects the emergency fund donations this week I told him to only ask for half because of the drought."

When her mother stood to dismiss Alicia, she got up and left without comment. The heat wasn't conducive to arguing or pondering controversies.

* * *

That night Alicia slept so fitfully in the heat that even a small sound from outside her open window awakened her. She slipped from the bed and crept to the window. Someone sat on the steps of the portico. Her mother. She went out, crossed the reception hall and slipped out through the front door. Her mother looked up, face wan in the dim moonlight. "Hello, dear."

Alicia sat beside her. "What's wrong?" It was after midnight, late even for her insomniac mother.

Her mother picked up a cup, sipped from it. The smell of whiskey surprised Alicia; her mother seldom drank except for an occasional glass of wine with meals. "It's Jaclyn. She isn't home yet."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"Your sister's behavior isn't your fault, dear."

But it was.

Though four years different in age the two had forged a close relationship when younger. They played games together, collaborated in proscribed activities, formed alliances against their mother's cold detachment and Ronald's unconcealed dislike of them. Jaclyn had been high-spirited and unpredictable but not bad. She loved Alicia unreservedly and followed her everywhere. Then, about two years ago, along with Marianne, Alicia discovered boys. She found her kid sister tagging along a nuisance. Her cold treatment of Jaclyn finally drove her away. But she succeeded more completely than she intended. Jaclyn spent little time around the house and seldom spoke to Alicia or their mother.

Finding the few boys near her age boring, her rebellion against her mother and estrangement from Jaclyn began to feel pointless and hollow.

She slipped her hand over her mother's. It had been a long time since they had touched.

"She's been out late before, Mother. She'll be home soon."

Eleanor squeezed Alicia's fingers a little, sipped from her cup but said nothing. They sat on the portico steps for a long time.

* * *

The next day the gang came to the dense, second-growth forest on their right that would accompany them to Coleridge Gardens. Fields of wild grasses, great feeding places for rabbits, opened on their left. That evening they camped under the forest's boughs, away from the road. Stony made pan bread to go with the last of the smoked venison and a salad of wild greens.

Leighton reminded them that by this time tomorrow they would have bathed in Bernie's bath house. Gang tradition required that someone point out this obvious fact.

"And," said Doc, "Our ulcers'll heal from Stony's cookin." Another tradition, always spoken by Doc, always followed by Stony's response: "You'll be whimperin for one a my stews before the week's out."

"We'll soon be washing the dust out of our throats with whatever wonderful brew Bernie has awaiting us." This, as always, from Lou Travis, the gang's authority on beer. This year he added, "Though, like as not, it may be one that our own master brewer stored to age in the basement before we left." He grinned at John and winked.

John smiled, pleased with the compliment. He had spent last winter at the gang's winter hole-up, Haas House hotel, before the gang had accepted him, learning the brewer's art. By spring the landlord Bernie Haas had virtually turned the brewery over to him. Lou might be right. The maibock John had casked to lager just before they left had matured a month ago. Some of it might be left. Bernie had promised John he could brew this winter also. The vagaries of scrounging had kept him from thinking of zymurgy over the summer. For the last few days he had thought of resuming it with eager anticipation.

That night he didn't realize he had fallen asleep until a thought jarred him awake, something to discuss with Matt tomorrow. When he heard Matt's quiet cough he got up and went over to join Matt who stood by the banked embers of the cooking fire. Matt nodded, didn't chide him for not being asleep as other adults would have. He liked Matt, among other reasons, for treating him more like... well, not like an adult exactly, but at least not like a child.

He whispered, "Something I'd like to know, Matt."

"Yes?"

"Doc told me that people, uh, scientists, created Chou's Disease in their laboratories. And it got away from them. And that started it. Is that possible?"

"I suppose anything's possible but that isn't likely. No one'll ever know for sure – people died too fast for scientists to find out exactly what happened – but it's more likely that the disease mutated from existing bacteria." Matt had unconsciously lapsed into his lecturer's mode.

"Why does Doc blame the technics?"

Matt motioned John to follow and took the rough trail they had cut through the brush. At the highway they sat on the shoulder, shadowed by the trees. Light from the young moon and the myriad stars transformed the ruinous road and its miniature forest into stark bone-white accented by black shadows.

"We can talk here without waking the others," said Matt. "Doc blames the technics for so much of the world's misery that he figures they must've also, somehow, introduced Chou's Disease."

"Why does he hate the technics so?"

"To understand that you have to know a little about life before the Last Days. Most of the world shared pretty much the same culture. Some people had more money than others, some countries were richer, but people came to wear the same clothes, listen to the same music, drink the same booze. Their tendency to speak the same languages made lots of the minor ones disappear. There were something like 6,700 languages in the year 2000. Barely half that many lasted by the year of the Last Days. Over half the people on earth only spoke eleven languages."

"What were they?"

"You _would_ ask that." He hesitated. "I probably won't remember. Well, there was Mandarin Chinese, Spanish and English. And French, German and Russian and Japanese. And Arabic and Hindi. How many is that? Let's see... only nine. Oh, yeah, Portuguese makes it ten." He thought for a moment. "Damn. Sorry. That's all I remember.

"Anyhow, some pundits began to warn that the world culture was in decline. Others said that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; it had outgrown its purpose and needed replacing. Be that as it may, one of its characteristics remained alive and well: science and technology, which non-scientists lumped together under the term, 'techne.' Its progress in the twentieth century had dramatically eclipsed that of the nineteenth. That was nothing compared to advances in the twenty-first. Scientific knowledge had long ago outpaced the layperson's ability to grasp. The ones who profited most from techne were the leaders of finance and industry, leaders of the multinational corporations that produced everything from pharmaceuticals to power plants. In time the frustrated masses lumped the corporate leaders in with techne. Of course, the leaders didn't care. They controlled most of the world's wealth and power. Some multinats had bigger budgets than most countries.

"The scientists were to blame for their own censure to some extent. They didn't communicate their knowledge very well. The knowledge gap grew wider because higher education cost too much for most people. And there was so much to learn in every branch of techne that the older 'classical' and 'liberal arts' educations went the way of the dinosaurs. That was tough for teachers like me. I taught English literature and other liberal arts courses.

"The number of under-educated and illiterate non-technics, usually under- or unemployed, grew. And grew. Their distrust of the technics wasn't always without cause I'm afraid. They rebelled in ineffectual ways. Some proudly flaunted their inability to read. The irony there was that the technics had created a world where literacy was almost unnecessary. Remember the talking billboard? Televisions, commcomps, kitchen appliances, automobiles, robots of different kinds, they all obeyed verbal instructions, and answered in kind, even public transportation systems. You could access newspapers that read the news to you and some restaurant menus even recited their bill of fare. Speech further separated the two groups. Angry non-technics responded to scientists' technical vocabularies by creating underclass dialects. They even revived accents they believed came from times before technology had debased moral values."

"Like the way Doc and Stony talk? And Leighton's guys?"

"Yeah."

"So Doc and Stony and Mitch are non-technics, and you and Lou are technics, or anyhow sort of, but they still think you're good guys. Doc told me so."

"Yeah, people didn't fit into the two categories as neatly as I made it sound. They think Lou and I are okay because we're kind of in between. We didn't do the high-tech things they blame for making their lives miserable. I only taught technics-to-be and Lou designed things they used every day like roads and sewers. And we don't speak some high-falutin accent. Mitch was in between too, a non-technic that got certified to work on automobiles in a technical school. By the Last Days he had his own shop and made a decent living for himself and his family. Stony and Doc though, I don't think they had much education or very regular jobs."

"How did they make a living?"

"The government had programs that paid a basic minimum income to people with little or no work. Some people felt embarrassed living on the dole. I think Stony and Doc did.

"Chou's Disease was the most horrendous tragedy in history. It'll haunt us survivors to our graves. We all have to deal with it in our own way. Stony does by believing a righteous god punished us. Doc blames the technics. Some people think terrorists released biological agents."

"And what do you think, Matt?"

"It wasn't a pissed-off deity, of course." Matt thought it over for a moment. "In a way maybe the technics _did_ cause it. But not in the way Doc believes."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember how we discussed natural selection?"

"Yeah, that's when critters change because conditions around them change?"

"Hey, you _do_ listen to me sometimes." John heard the smile in his voice. Matt resumed his pedantic style. "Natural selection is the process by which species either adapt to changes in their environments and perpetuate their kind or are destroyed by the changes. In the early twentieth century, scientists developed a new weapon to fight bacteria: antibiotics. But its use didn't expand significantly until the mid-twentieth. It seemed like bacterial infections would be a thing of the past pretty soon.

"But they underestimated bacteria.

"They live every place on earth that has a little water: in the air, the water, the ground, deep-sea thermal vents, specs of dust, melting snow, even _within_ the earth, in rocks miles underground. Some even thrive in environments poisonous to most life forms, like arsenic-rich ecologies. They love filth. I've told you how creatures in nature participate in arms races. When prey becomes faster or develops camouflaging coloration predators develop more acute senses or learn to hunt in groups. Bacteria like rotting food for example, and that's how we started our arms race with them: preserving food to kill them. We cooked, salted, smoked, pickled and froze it. We didn't know we were fighting a war in those days. We thought of spoiled food as a natural phenomenon like the rain and sun. Bacteria live in our bodies too, by the trillions. They invade us moments after birth, stay with us all our lives and cause our decay after death. If you could weigh all the biomass on earth over half of it would be bacterial."

John shivered to think of all those foreign bodies in his own.

"Scientists mistakenly disregarded the effect of natural selection on bacteria. But they're ancient. They evolved by natural selection for billions of years before the atmosphere was even breathable by any modern life, at least three billion years before the first multi-cellular life form. After all the ecologies they had adapted to they could write the book on natural selection. Bacteria quietly, tenaciously and persistently developed new defenses to against antibiotics."

"Couldn't they come up with new medicines?"

"They did at first but bacteria adapted and changed too fast for them to catch up. Given a nutritious environment, a bacterial population doubles every 20 minutes. Say an antibiotic attacks a population of malignant bacteria and kills all but one cell. The survivor divides into two individuals in twenty minutes, then into four, then eight and so on. And most of the newcomers are resistant to the antibiotic. I ran the numbers once. In twelve hours the population rises to almost 70 trillion individuals."

"Wow!"

"Yeah. Pharmaceutical companies began to drag their feet in finding new antibiotics. Why spend a billion dollars in research for a drug that becomes useless because of one mutated bacterial cell? It was more profitable to go after sexier diseases and there were indeed some great medical advances: vaccines and cures for cancer, ways to grow organs to replace diseased ones. Scientists and non-scientists alike grew complacent. After all, bacteria had never gotten completely out of control. We humans gave up the arms race but the bacteria didn't. A few scientists realized how tenacious they were, how dangerous. Nobody listened. Then, in 2072, came the most malevolent superbug of all. Chou's won the ancient arms race.

"And that's how the so-called 'technics' may have made Chou's Disease possible."

Matt stood up, stretched and yawned. "I need to check the mules before I wake Mitch to spell me. We'd better get a little sleep before dawn."

John suddenly realized how tired he was. They started back to camp.

"Bengali," Matt said abruptly.

"What?"

"Bengali. That's the eleventh language."

* * *

Late the next morning they passed the ruins of Trevelyan on their left, then Coleridge Gardens and finally the fields and gardens in the Grange River bottom. The forest continued unbroken on their right to the river. Then they crossed the Grange River bridge. Massive Haas House stood south of them like a feudal lord amidst its smaller subservient outbuildings and corrals, all ringed by stately oaks like stalwart warders. They were home., or as close to a home as perennially itinerant folk can have.

Haas House's public rooms – bar, dining room and game room – and the kitchen occupied the first floor with guest rooms on the second. Bernie and his women lived on the third. The gang would take their usual second-floor lodgings.

Except for John Moore. As a member of the hotel's staff he warranted a semi-private room shared with another staff member: a carriage house apartment over what had once been a two-car garage shared with the stable boy, Joey. Obtaining the job with Bernie had been serendipitous for John. He had arrived at Haas House with the gang but they had not yet accepted him as a member. Since each member had to provide his own scratch, for John to join he needed a job to raise money to buy it. As it happened Bernie's staff lacked a member. When John petitioned him for a job Bernie hired him as apprentice brewer despite his youth. Now Bernie considered him an indispensable staff member for the winter.

Bernie's staff included three women who served on the household staff, the stable boy Joey and two stout young farmers who worked only during the harvest market. John felt shy around the women at first though he soon grew comfortable with Carmela de la Paz, the oldest, Bernie's favorite and his second in command. She kept track of inventory, planned meals and supervised the other women. She was slender and supple as a willow with a cascade of black hair and liquid brown eyes. She moved through the densest crowds of drinkers or diners with sinuous ease. Her grace and kindness made guests feel welcome.

The two younger women, in their low-cut chemises and swishy skirts, because of the new awkward sensations women caused, fascinated him. Lovey, the youngest and most flirtatious, got her nickname from her name, Lovella, and her penchant for calling people "Love." Always ready with a lewd smile, she made licentious remarks that John often didn't understand. Sometimes their meaning struck him as he fell asleep, making him blush and smile. Dovey, from Davonna, older and more voluptuous, possessed a more subtle sense of ribaldry. Her smile, while as ready as Lovey's, hinted at hidden pleasures that Lovey wore on her sleeve. For some reason John found the gap between Dovey's front teeth especially sexy.

The two young farmers Luke and Jake, raised and sold their major crop, barley, to Bernie, a basic ingredient of his beer. Their growing season ended by the time of the harvest market. In the couple of weeks before they had to start winter preparations they worked for Bernie, helping Joey with the guests' animals, bouncing in the bar or anything he needed. Their youthful energy and rough humor made them popular with guests and household alike.

Two additional members had joined Bernie's "family" in the gang's absence. Over a year before, the youngest of Bernie's women, Millie, had run off with a scrounger gang. The leader had abandoned her after she became pregnant. Ashamed, half-starved, five months pregnant and fearing Bernie's rejection but with nowhere else to go, she had returned. Bernie and his household welcomed her warmly and Carmela nursed her through the baby's birth, just a month before Mitch's gang's return.

Bernie married Millie within a week of her return, hoping the townspeople hadn't noticed exactly when she had come back or her advanced stage of pregnancy. She named the little boy Bernhard after his "father." A shy, pretty, diminutive girl of seventeen or eighteen, Millie had a pixie's face surrounded by a cloud of pale blond hair. She didn't seem the type to run off with a scrounger gang to John. Most days she brought the baby down to the public room or kitchen where the women cared for him while they worked. Though Bernie chided them for shamelessly spoiling him he was the worst offender.

John didn't understand why the townspeople feared and hated Haas House. To him, among all the places he had been, only it felt safe and secure.

Chapter Four

Alicia seethed as she bathed and dressed, today in blouse and skirt instead of work-day shirt and trousers. She hated this first day of the harvest market the worst. The boring opening ceremony consumed most of the morning, beginning with a prayer thanking God for His bounty – though the drought had sharply limited that year's bounty. No stumbling through the opening prayer by senile old Reverend Gates this year, though she didn't look forward to Gephardt's fiery prayer threatening the advent of Armageddon. She considered herself the kind of Christian who followed the kindly Jesus described by her Sunday school teacher Miss Ellen, not one who worshipped the dreadful God of Paul Gephardt. She wished her mother would just put an end to the ceremony but she had said Reverend Gates had started it and people had come to expect an official opening. Besides, the harvest market also served as an important social event – some distant farm families otherwise seldom came to town.

Following those ceremonies would come the custom Alicia hated most, her mother's promenade through the market to greet the merchants and select an item from their goods. She hated the market's filth and the disreputable people who rented its stalls. The practice had started during the first harvest markets soon after the Last Days. The market had no stalls then and no money. People displayed their trade items on spread-out blankets or tarps and exchanged them by barter. The Mayor only obtained gain from the market in those days from its participants' "gifts." Then as now, only after the Mayor finished at a stall could it open. Alicia, Jaclyn and Ronald had to accompany her, her mother said, because of the increasing importance of families since the Last Days. Survivors of fractured families felt reassured seeing their leaders' families intact.

If they only knew, Alicia thought, starting toward the kitchen for breakfast, the truth behind this "intact" family. Mother and Ronald hated each other, Alicia hated Ronald, and Jaclyn hated them all.

After the market foolishness finished, about mid-afternoon, she would participate in something potentially worse. Marianne had arranged a picnic for the two girls, Marianne's boyfriend Donnie Hicks and some guy from a farm up north along the Grange River that Donnie knew. Donnie, a true numbskull, tended to associate with others of his ilk. Alicia was in no mood for Donnie and one of his moronic friends.

The family turned meals they all shared into silent, grim affairs. She braced herself for breakfast but found only Jaclyn at the kitchen table eating oatmeal porridge and toast. Surprisingly well-scrubbed, Jaclyn wore her best dress instead of her customary ragged shorts and wore her hair down, free of the usual pigtails and well-brushed. This seemed even more amazing because she had spent the last week grounded for staying out so late. Alicia stopped in the doorway and looked at her in surprise.

Jaclyn glared at her. "What are _you_ looking at?"

Alicia forced down a smart-assed comment about her unaccustomed grooming. Jaclyn would turn anything she said, even a compliment, into an argument and Alicia already had a bad mood.

"Nothing." She continued into the kitchen, spooned oatmeal into a bowl and poured a cup of tea from a pot Sissy had left steeping. "Where's Mother and What's-his-name?" (Her nicest term for Ronald.)

"I heard them have a big holler-fest and Ronald stormed out. I haven't seen Mother yet but she yelled at him that he'd better be at the opener."

Jaclyn finished eating, put her bowl in the sink and left. In this house Alicia relished most the moments she spent alone.

* * *

Ronald did indeed join them on the wooden deck at the market just before the celebration started. He sat stiffly between the Mayor and Reverend Gephardt. Alicia and Jaclyn sat on their mother's other side. To Alicia's surprise and relief, Gephardt's prayer contained no mention of apocalyptic terror. For the hymn that followed, always somehow related to the harvest, the church choir led them in singing "Bringing in the Sheaves." Gephardt's mellifluous voice made the public announcements, if not more interesting, at least less irritating than Gordon's nasal monotone. Her mother limited the final address to two or three terse sentences. She always kept the welcome speech, which closed the ceremony, mercifully brief since she claimed to dislike the ceremony as much as Alicia did.

At last Alicia, along with her mother, Ronald, Jaclyn and young servants Sissy and Merle, passed through the market. They stopped at each stall for a brief word and selection of some minor item. The Mayor, always a bit aloof, had been more so the last few months, Alicia believed, because of the drought and worry about Jaclyn. Today she seemed especially remote. So keenly, and she hoped surreptitiously, did Alicia observe her mother that she hardly realized when they passed into the stalls segregated for itinerant scroungers and traders.

At one of the stalls she saw the boy she had sat with uphill of the revival last year, John Moore. She caught his eye, smiled at him, but he turned away quickly. She had wanted him to like her and thought he did. He had seemed nice for a scrounger, not nearly as cocky or dumb as the local boys, even kind of shy. Of course he might be gay. Wasn't his gang all men? When they moved on to the next stall she forgot him.

After finishing at the market the small cortege returned to the house, except for Ronald who disappeared to wherever he went during the day. Sissy and Merle carried a load of goods from the market and would return for the rest. Alicia and Jaclyn changed into their everyday clothes and left. They walked together, each isolated by their own thoughts, toward Bridge Road where their destinations would diverge.

All at once Jaclyn said, "He's pretty cock (a high compliment among Coleridge Gardens' adolescents), isn't he?"

"What? Who're you talking about?"

"Don't say you don't think so too. I saw you smile at him." When Alicia still looked nonplused Jaclyn said, "John Moore, you ninny! He likes me better than you though. When I get big enough I'm gonna make him take me scroungin. We'll see and do all kindsa cock stuff. I might even come back and tell you about it sometimes."

Alicia stopped, put her hands on her hips. "Jaclyn, he's almost my age and you're still a little girl." At least she now understood why Jaclyn had dressed up: for John Moore!

"I won't always be little. You're just jealous. John Moore and I prob'ly won't even come back to see you after all. Or Mom either." She had pointedly not even mentioned her father.

"John Moore doesn't care about you, little gnome, or any other girl. He's gay."

Jaclyn glared fiercely and flew at her, slapping with madly flailing hands. "He's not gay! And I'm not a gnome."

Alicia grabbed her wrists and laughed. "Whoa, whoa. Hey, right. You're not a gnome, but my little girl." The latter had once been Alicia's affectionate nickname for her.

Jaclyn wrenched away and stepped back. Her chin trembled. She shouted, "I hate you, you bitch!" and raced away to hide her tears from Alicia.

Alicia bit her lower lip. She had meant her teasing as a joke, even maybe as a way of lessening the gap between them. Instead she had made it worse. She couldn't pursue Jaclyn to apologize because of the damned picnic. She went down from Bridge Road to the river. Marianne had chosen a site on the east bank of the Grange north of the bridge.

* * *

Much later, in the gloaming, Alicia stormed along the bank, slipping in the mud where the trees and undergrowth forced her too close to the river. The picnic had turned out worse than she had even believed possible. Part of the fault, admittedly, had been her lousy mood. But the boys' drunkenness had certainly _not_ been her fault. They had started on a jug of hard cider that morning during the closing strains of "Bringing in the Sheaves" and opened another at the picnic site before she arrived. Alicia had noticed Marianne's barely concealed fury at their inebriation as she introduced her to Donnie's friend, Clifford something. Nor was Clifford's stupidity her fault. At first Marianne had interrupted the boys' crude jokes with forced-lively conversation to draw Alicia into the conversation. When Alicia finally responded to some of Clifford's puerile comments he at first mistook her answers as flirting and then, after a few pulls at the cider jug, as insults in some way. Marianne moved over to sit between them, talking inanely to distract Clifford from his anger as she passed out food. Eating seemed to sober the boys up a little until, after the food was gone, they finished the second jug.

When Marianne and Donny disappeared into the trees, giggling, promising to return soon, Clifford moved closer to Alicia, with an expression he believed looked flirtatious, which seemed to Alicia more like an indication of gastric distress. Suddenly he lunged at her. She pushed at his chest with both hands, almost gagging at his alcoholic breath. Though a tall youth hardened by rough field work, and ardent enough, adolescence and alcohol made him gangling and clumsy. That and her wrath enabled her to push, squirm and finally wriggle free. Cursing, he lurched to his feet and stalked toward her. She rolled onto her back, pulled her knees up to her chin and kicked as hard as she could. Her feet caught him in the stomach. He staggered backward, wild-eyed, arms wind-milling in vain to recover his balance. He splashed heavily into the river.

She got up and stomped ferociously down the river, away from the sounds of Clifford's yelling and splashing.

Now, muddy, bramble-scratched, hair and clothes in disarray, she came in sight of the bridge over the Grange. She forced aside her rage. She had to clean up before anyone saw her, especially her fastidious mother. She crouched upstream of a thicket that hid her from the bridge, dipped her handkerchief into the muddy water and began to wash her face and hands. She would have to remove her shirt to wash the dirtiest spots and then see to her hair...

She heard the crackle of brush and people speaking quietly part way between her and the bridge. She scooted her butt farther up the bank for concealment and, very quietly, parted branches of the thicket just enough to peek through. A middle-aged woman with long black hair and a young girl exited the forest and followed the river bank toward the bridge. Both carried filled net bags made from woven plant fibers. They spoke so quietly she couldn't understand them but she recognized the girl's voice: Jaclyn! What in the world was she doing here and who was the woman?

They stopped on the bridge where it was lighter than under the trees. The woman spoke to Jaclyn, then leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. Jaclyn hugged her and they parted, Jaclyn going toward town and the woman in the other direction. Toward Haas House. Alicia recognized her as the woman who had helped Bernie Haas water the garden, the Gaian, Carmella.

What had Jaclyn and the Haas woman been doing together? – perhaps Carmella had instructed her in heathen religious lore – but what did their bags contain? Maybe herbs and other plants for weird pagan rites. Alicia hadn't paid much attention to what people said about Gaianism. Though it was probably harmless enough, thinking of Jaclyn participating in such rubbish saddened her. Between Gaian superstition and Gephardt's Beast, Jesus sure had a tough time of it nowadays.

Then she thought of Marianne and the others. They would come back to town this way. Though not eager to return to a home that had all the charm of a tomb, she had to avoid them. She scooted back down to the river to finish cleaning up.

Clifford must be really cold after his dunking in the river. She couldn't help but smile. That alone kept this from being the worst day of her year so far.

* * *

The gang hung around the stall Saturday morning to avoid the boring opening ceremonies, awaiting the Mayor's visit. Because of her beautiful blond daughter, John would be glad to have it over. Last fall she had pretended to like him, then rebuffed him. They had sat together atop the west slope of the town listening to Reverend Gates and then his young acolyte, Paul Gephardt, preach at the harvest revival. She had asked him to walk her home after the service but when he started to do so she said he couldn't. Her mother didn't approve of _his_ kind, a _scrounger_. The Mayor only put up with scroungers, she said, for the goods they brought to town. He still felt embarrassed and angry at her.

Finally the Mayor's retinue arrived and there she stood. For some reason Alicia smiled at him. As he turned away, confused and embarrassed, he noticed her little sister Jaclyn making faces at him when she thought nobody saw her. The Mayor seemed to take a long time selecting her "tribute" as Doc called it before leaving.

After the stall opened the boys left. Except for John who stayed a while though to visit other scroungers and local merchants. The merchants tended to be friendlier toward scroungers than most Coleridge Gardeners. Some of their gossip disturbed him though, particularly that against Gaians. He even heard Carmella's name specifically. A greengrocer said she danced in the woods with the Little People, supernatural beings the Gaians believed had come back to live in the world now that so few people remained. A chandler said it wouldn't surprise him to hear she romped with Satan himself in those woods.

* * *

Other visitors to the market had arrived at Haas House before Mitch's gang, two scrounger gangs John remembered from last year and a blacksmith and a horse doctor traveling together. The next day, Sunday, the market remained closed. No business took place on the Lord's Day. The Pike County Dykes arrived, so-named because some came from Pike County, Missouri and consisted of six females, though with only one pair of lesbians. After Matt resumed a relationship with their boss, Annie Austin, that had begun the previous winter John didn't see much of him.

Later in the week, John asked Bernie if he expected any other gangs.

Bernie frowned. "Another guy used to come but we didn't see him last year so maybe he's not around any more. Hopefully, someone shot him. He's too cheap to rent a room. We just take care of his horse and truck. He eats and drinks in the bar, then he and his kids sleep under the bridge. He used to join the poker players till I caught him cheating."

John and the younger guys had little else to do except for keeping the stall full. Most people running the stalls, scroungers and locals alike, remembered John from last year, though now they, especially the scroungers, treated him differently. They had seen him as an outsider and a child last year. Now that he had gone trucking he had joined their ranks.

John mostly worked at brewing and doing other chores at the hotel. He enjoyed practicing the new skills required by brewing: careful measurements, precise timing and arcane terminology such as "sparging the wort." His spent his most content and satisfying times in the long hours alone, immersed in the heavenly smells of boiling malt overlaid with the delicate herbal accents of hops.

It rained a little on the second Wednesday of the market, too late for the already-harvested crops of course, though everyone welcomed the easing of the enervating heat. It stopped in mid-afternoon as John swept the front porch. Sounds of grinding metal-shod wheels, shod hooves and creaking leather harness made him look up. A large cart with high wooden sides, covered with a ragged, tautly-drawn canvas, entered the graveled clearing. A big palomino mare pulled it, so thin her ribs showed. She plodded slowly with her head down, agonizing over each step. A thin, stooped old man walking beside the poor beast screeched imprecations and swatted its side with a willow wand. He wore a tattered, filthy, much-patched raincoat but no hat. His bald pate seemed to taper upward, almost cone-like. The fringe of long gray hair surrounding it hung in long greasy ropes resembled the fringe on a jacket. Smaller figures trooped alongside the cart, three boys who looked as underfed as the horse. The largest led the horse by a rope attached to its halter. Two smaller boys followed the old man. Man and boys alike dressed in rags.

"There's the missing 'guests' I told you about," said Bernie contemptuously. Watching the group had distracted John so much he hadn't noticed Bernie's approach. "Charley Murdoch. Nobody shot him after all. He's late, usually gets here before the weekend. Help Joey with this group, John. Feed the horse a bigger measure than usual. Rub her down really good and give her a couple apples outta the root cellar." That surprised John. Bernie seldom shared his apples with any of his guests let alone their livestock. "Her name's Goldie. treat her well. And the kids too if you see 'm, though you prob'ly won't."

The squalid caravan stopped before the porch. Murdoch grinned up at Bernie through his tangled beard, head cocked to one side so he could look upward from his stooped position. He displayed a few yellow stubs of teeth and cold eyes of a disconcertingly similar color. The long strands of yellowish-gray hair and beard hanging down over his shoulders and chest streaked his colorless raincoat with dark greasy stains.

"So, lan'lord," he said in a raspy voice, "Y've got a place f' mah wuthless nag an' mah priceless cargo? As always I'll find a place f' mah wuthless awphans out unda the bridge." He turned to the two boys behind him and said, "Git up heah, asswipes! Greet the lan'lord like y' got some sense." He turned back to Bernie and shook his head. "These kids nowadays."

"Didn't think I'd see you this year, Murdoch," said Bernie coldly. "Market's half over."

"Didn make it las yeah with all the trouble in Columbia. Damn neah didn this yeah with this wuthless fuckin nag an these wuthless fuckin kids." He turned to the three boys now standing beside him, though at a cautious distance from the willow wand. He gave them a look of disgust and turned toward Bernie. "Got me a new 'n, Bernie." He switched the wand toward one. The boy was a little smaller than John but looked somewhat older. "A little nigguh boy. Had to replace that 'n what run away. This 'n come up to the house last winter starvin an freezin. Just in time to go truckin this yeah. Lucky, hunh?"

The cold smile, looking permanently affixed, never left the old man's face. John saw the "new" boy look at the old man with unconcealed hatred. Murdoch glared back at him, a peculiar expression since the grin never faded. The other boys didn't look up from the ground.

"He's a little uppity yet," said Murdoch, idly tapping the switch against his thigh. He'll be in bettuh shape come next yeah." His yellow gaze whipped suddenly to John, giving him a start. A calculating look, as though he pondered adding John to his entourage. John shuddered inwardly. "See you got a new 'n too, lan'lord."

"Yep, and he's working out great." Bernie put a reassuring hand on John's shoulder. "Ready for us to bed Goldie down, Murdoch, and put your truck away?"

The old man nodded, then ordered the boys to stow the truck and head over to the bridge. He followed Bernie into the house. "Travelin makes a man's throat pow'ful dry, Bernie. I might have a drop and a bite afore I turn in."

Joey had slipped onto the porch as unobtrusively as possible while Bernie and Murdoch spoke and hugged the wall as though hoping to become part of it. Murdoch's boys stored the cart and its truck in one of the truck sheds while John and Joey fed and rubbed down the exhausted mare. Joey told John that Bernie wanted them to give Goldie special attention because of her sweet temper and Murdoch's bad treatment of her. Bernie figured she would follow the fate of Murdoch's two previous horses, death through starvation and mistreatment. Goldie rubbed her nose under John's hand until he petted it.

"She's a sweet thing," he said.

"Yeah. If she uz a cat, she'd purr," said Joey, bobbing his head and grinning his continual vacuous grin. The differences and similarities between Joey's and Murdoch's grins struck John with a kind of horrible fascination.

Bernie had found Joey wandering around in the woods as a little boy of ten or twelve, mostly naked, cold and starving, and brought him home. At first Bernie and his household terrified Joey so much he wouldn't eat or sleep. He lived in Haas House for two years before he spoke a word. Last year John had had difficulty engaging Joey in conversation. Only after patient persistence did he elicit simple responses from him. This year Joey managed to talk more when alone with John. He even seemed to have missed John. Still excruciatingly thin, he ate little despite Bernie and the women's encouragement. Sometimes he still woke John by crying out in his sleep, after which John talked him gently back to sleep. John wondered what had happened to him during the years before Bernie found him. Death by Chou's Disease hadn't always been the worst thing that happened to people during the Last Days.

When they finished with Goldie, John started for the bar but hesitated when he saw Joey go toward the bridge. "Where you going?" he asked.

"To visit Murdoch's boys," said Joey, grinning, head bobbing. "Charley Five and Charley Six and that new 'n."

"What weird names! Charley Five, Charley Six?" John caught up with Joey.

"Yup, yup." Head bobbing frantically, habitual grin fading, Joey looked back toward the house uneasily. "C'mon, fore _he_ comes." Scurrying in his ungainly way, Joey explained in terse phrases how Murdoch had named the orphans he found (or, some claimed, _bought_!) after himself, Charley, with a number assigned to indicate the order in which he had acquired them. Joey had never met the first boys, Charleys One through Three, though he understood that some had died and some had run away. He had known the fourth. He had run away last year while trucking. Every time he arrived at Bernie's, Murdoch made his kids (always boys) camp under the bridge while he ate a big meal and downed beers and whiskeys in Bernie's. Joey always visited the boys before Murdoch joined them.

They found the two Charleys huddled together under the bridge. The new boy sat apart from them. Charley Five, a big pale-faced boy, had led Goldie. Small, frightened Charley Six kept his eyes down and wouldn't look at Joey and John. The new boy regarded the newcomers with sullen suspicion. Joey squatted in front of them so John did too.

"Hey, Joey," said Charley Five with a forlorn smile. He languidly raised a fist which Joey struck with his own. Charley Six greeted Joey in the same way, barely raising his eyes. Joey said, "This 'ere's John," and John raised his fist as seemed indicated. The two Charleys tapped it and John held it before the third boy who, arms folded, pointedly ignored him.

"'At's the new kid," said Charley Five with a malicious grin. "Charley Seven. He jus don't know is name yit."

"I ain't no fuckin kind a Charley," said the boy. "And I ain't no nigger. I'se Eye-talian."

Charley Five laughed and even Charley Six allowed a grin. The fifth Charley said, "If'n Murdoch says you're a nigger, why then, you're a nigger."

Hearing the term "nigger" surprised John He knew it from reading Mark Twain, but his teacher Maude had called it an anachronism, a word no longer used. Nor did he know what "Eye-talian" meant. The boy had darkish skin, brown eyes, and curly dark brown hair. Not knowing what everyone else took for granted frustrated him. He had always believed he'd know what adults knew when he became one, but even these kids knew more than he did.

"So what _is_ your name?" John asked the boy. "Mine's John Moore."

He glared at John. "Why do you give a shit what my name is?"

John shrugged. "Everybody's gotta have a name."

The boy relaxed a little. "Yeah, I reckon so. My name's Wes."

Then John noticed Joey getting nervous and agitated. His head bobbed faster than usual, his eyes were distended and his grin had become a rictus. John knew Joey couldn't bear even the slightest semblance of conflict. The kid named Wes seemed to be agitating him. He stood up and said gently, "Let's go back, Joey." He said good-by to the Charleys and Wes.

Joey said, "Uh, uh," got up, and followed John out from under the bridge. They passed the garden and chicken coops and went in the back door to the kitchen to wash up for supper. In the bar, John found that Murdoch had just left for the bridge; they had left it just in time.

* * *

When John helped pull a loaded cart to the stall the next morning he saw Murdoch and his boys stocking one a few stalls away. They had all bathed, presumably in the river's shallows. Murdoch had shed the filthy raincoat and wore serviceable trousers and shirt, patched and faded but clean, and the same cracked colorless shoes as yesterday. All three boys wore relatively clean but incredibly ragged clothes, some garments held together by twine. All wore twine sandals so ragged he wondered how they kept them on.

When he returned in late afternoon after finishing work, he found Murdoch's stall to be busier than any other. He peered from the edge of the crowd to see what attracted people. And saw an amazing array of products: bags of oddly-shaped nuts, a bowl holding a few for display; heaps of reddish brown strips of bark; stacks of highly polished wooden bowls, goblets, and cups. John had never seen dinnerware like it. The swirled grain of their wood looked like living creatures that had frozen in place as they squirmed to get free of the tree. A table contained sandals made of twine like the ones Murdoch's boys wore and balls of the same kind of twine. Murdoch's sales patter described the items. He called the strange nuts peanuts, which John had heard of but had never eaten any. People made tea from the aromatic bark of the reddish sassafras roots. John had drunk it and liked it. The great Ozark craftsman, Odie Griffin, said Murdoch, made the wooden dinnerware so distinctive by crafting it from it from oak burls. In fact, Murdoch said, all the goods on display came only from the Ozarks, some district far to the south. Even the sandals and the twine used in their manufacture came from some mysterious plant fiber found only there and woven by a process known only to someone named Frannie Slocum. Only he, Murdoch boasted, knew of these unique products so only he could make them available to the fine citizens of Coleridge Gardens.

"Don't fo'git the peanut buttuh, Miz Anderson," Murdoch said to a woman in the crowd. "You git that evah yeah an' I got plenty in the cart heah. If y' got the empty pot fum last yeah, you can give it back and won't hafta pay fuh nother'n."

A Ms. Swenson bought a wooden bowl carved by the talented Odie Griffin. "Now I got a whole set a his bowls and goblets and cups," said the delighted Ms. Sorenson.

"Next yeah," said Murdoch, "Mastuh Craftsman Griffin 'tends to add a whole new line a plates an' plattuhs. Y'll shuh want a set a them now, woncha?"

"Oh, yes. It's too bad they're so expensive, but I can surely afford one or two a year."

The sales continued briskly. Murdoch accepted only nellies, from which the locals usually parted grudgingly because of their scarcity in Coleridge Gardens – as evidenced by the widespread bartering at the market – though his truck was so unique no one seemed to mind.

As people made their purchases and left, John edged ever closer to the front, clutching a nellie in his pocket, intending to buy some peanuts.

"Well, if it ain't the lan'lord's new brat." Murdoch leaned toward him. Though, because of his stooped posture he was scarcely taller than John. The boy nevertheless found the perpetual yellow-toothed grin and the leering yellow eyes disconcerting. Today the old man's expression seemed even more malevolent.

"Bernie says you're doin well theah, hunh boy? You look well fed. Bet he gi's you money a your own. Burnin a hole in your pocket I bet. Well, you too young to have money of your own, boy. You come long wi me faw a spell, I'll work that fat off'n your bones. But sense you heah wi money runnin out your ass, what'll it be, boy? Pair a these heah sandals? Naw, you too good faw sandals. You got reg'luh boots. How bout peanuts? You rich boys allus like peanuts to show off to your li'l frien's."

"I—I don't want anything," said John. "I'm just looking."

Murdoch's look turned more hostile. "Well, then beat it, kid. I got payin customuhs heah. I don need no deadbeats wi' no money."

John gladly left, a little spooked by the old man and more than a little angry.

# # # #

About the Author

Jim LeMay is originally from Missouri, the land of Mark Twain, Yogi Berra, Walter Cronkite, Edwin Hubble, Robert A. Heinlein and many other worthies so he knows his characters well. He has engaged in many of the vocations and avocations practiced by them – homebrewer, bartender, waiter, land surveyor, civil engineer, land developer – and in some they have not: newspaper man, artist and others best forgotten. Jim now lives in the Denver metropolitan area. Contact him at: jimlemaybooks@gmail.com
