Robert Adams - Horses of the North

As he packed away the precious notes of the departed doctor, he thought of how much, how very much, the man might have been able to explain to him of their shared affliction, if only he had known of it. He even thought of immediately mounting up and riding out in pursuit of Bookerman, but then he recalled just how many men, women, children and domestic animals now depended solely upon him, upon his leadership, for their continued survival, and knowing the thoroughness of the German, Milo did not think that he would leave an easy trail to follow. Running him to ground might well take weeks, months, if he could catch up to him at all in totally unfamiliar territory.

If only Bookerman had spoken his suspicions months ago, even weeks or mere days ago, then told of his own, identical experiences, rather than imparting it all in a letter intended to be read after his departure.

“Who was it,” thought Milo Moray morosely, “who said that ‘if only …’ were the saddest words in any language?”

Arabella Lindsay’s small freckled hand gently squeezed Milo’s bigger, harder hand in sympathy as she beamed, “Oh, my poor Milo, you must have been so very disappointed. Perhaps, for your peace of mind, you should have ridden out after that man, no matter how long it took you to find him. But I, above all others, save maybe Father, can understand why you did not, why you felt that you could not; duty is an exceedingly hard taskmaster, I well know. But it is a shame, nonetheless, for a man or a woman should live around, near to, his or her kindred, not always alone among those different from him or her.

“You never have found, never have come across others like yourself, then?”

Milo sighed, then beamed, “No, although when I learned to use my own telepathy and to help to awaken that dormant trait in other men and women, I assiduously delved their minds in search of certain signs that Bookerman had noted in the margins of some of the pages of the books he had left me. I delved vainly, however; I never found any of the signs in the minds of those around me.”

“And mine, Milo?” Arabella questioned silently. “Have you delved my mind, too?”

“Yes, my dear, it’s become automatic with me. But you are human, just like all of the others, pure human.”

She smiled. “I am glad, Milo. I deeply sympathize with you, but even so I do not think I could bear the long, searching loneliness of being like you. I could not bear to watch while my little cousins and all of my onetime playmates grew up and grew old and finally died and I remained the never-changing same; I think that I should go mad rather quickly. That you have not done so, and that long ago, shows, I think, the immense strength of your character and mind and will. If anyone can end this deadly enmity between the prairie rovers and the people of the fort and the station, I think it must be you, and I cannot but agree with Father that God and God alone must have sent you to us in our time of greatest need.”

The identities of the MacEvedy Station farmers who had chosen to accompany the departing battalion for the nomadic, herding, hunter-gathering life offered by Milo Moray were no longer secret; they could not be, for with the invaluable aid of clan smiths and wainwrights, the farm wagons were being transformed, rebuilt into commodious carts like those of the nomads—with shorter bodies, higher wheels and stronger axles and running gear.

In the cases of the soldier families, carts were having to be built from scratch, using seasoned wood stripped from some interior parts of the fort itself, and from the dismantling of frame outbuildings, the hardware being fashioned of steel from the mortar tubes and baseplates and from the ancient 75mm guns.

When first it had become apparent that more ferrous metal would be needed were the battalion families’ carts to be done properly and the colonel had ordered that the necessary steel be stripped from the last remaining intact source, the director and his son had come bursting into Ian’s office at the fort, the elder MacEvedy white-faced with rage.

“Now dammit, Ian Lindsay, have you completely lost your mind?” he had shouted. “A squad of your men and some three or four of those godless, heathen nomads are at this very minute dismantling one of the cannons, and they refused to stop it when I ordered them to desist, attesting that it was you who said they could. If you strip us of the two cannons, then how can those of us who still are sane put the fear of God into the plains rovers after you and the rest of those lunatics you lead are gone? The mortars are very short-ranged, and I have not yet figured out just how the catapults and spear-throwers are supposed to work.”

There was no longer any trace of either respect or friendship left in the officer’s gaze or voice when he answered. “You’ll no longer need worry yourself about the tension-torsion weapons, for they’ve been broken down for the timbers, rope and hardware, and the spear-throwers, too. The mortars have gone to the forges by now, and both of the cannons and their carriages are on the way. If it develops that we need more metal, the rifles will follow.”

Grant whimpered, but his father demanded in heat, “And just how are those farmers and their families you and your damned troops are deserting here supposed to defend themselves against the next pack of rovers who come along if you choose to selfishly destroy all of the real weapons?”

Ian smiled coldly. “You no longer bother to keep abreast of what’s happening in the station, do you, Emmett? There aren’t going to be any people left in the station or the fort, with the exception of you, your son and Falconer and his family. Why, even your own daughter, the Widow Dundas, has asked if she might accompany us, and I have gladly welcomed her; she’ll travel with Arabella and me until one of my officers gets around to marrying her.”

“But… but… but…” stammered Grant, looking to be on the verge of tears, “but without Clare in the house, who will … will cook for us and … and wash our clothes and make up our beds and dust and … and everything?”

Lindsay snorted in disgust. “Why, Grant, you’ll just have to start caring for yourselves … unless you can cozen Mrs. Falconer or her daughter into keeping you both in the style to which you have become accustomed.”

“But … but … but … Father and I are just too busy running the Station to … to …” sniffled Grant.

“Why you brainless, ball-less young ninny,” snapped Lindsay. “Can’t you understand plain English? There’s not going to be any station to administer. All of the farmers are going with me and the nomads, everyone, excepting only you, your father and the Falconers.”

“But … but … but you … you can’t, Godfather!” Grant sobbed, his tears beginning to come in floods. “Without you to … to take care of us, without the farmers to grow food, without even … even Sister Clare to … to cook and keep the dust out of the house, we’ll… we’ll all die! You … you just owe it to us to stay here and keep us all safe.” He ceased to speak then, giving himself totally over to gasping, shuddering sobs of mindless terror.

“My God, Emmett,” rasped Lindsay, “for all your other faults, you are at least a man. How in the name of all that’s holy did you and Martha Hamilton ever manage to produce a man-shaped thing like this? Get out of my office and out of the fort, and keep out of my affairs, both of you! I’m sick unto death of the sight and the sound of you!”

On the next Sunday following that meeting, the few older people who had attended divine services arose and slowly filed out when the Reverend Gerald Falconer cleared his throat to commence his sermon. Their departures left only the station director, his son and Falconer’s own family, less his eldest daughter, Megan, who had earlier in the week surreptitiously moved into the nomad camp and sent back a note declaring her intention of there remaining and of leaving with the battalion.