William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

Lora remembered Linda Lemo as one of the people who would barely speak to her, but she still felt sorry as Fry scooped her body up and carried it to the south end of the bridge. It took two men to do the same with Jager. The price of victory had been high.

One of the riders came back across the bridge. He was bareheaded in spite of the cold and dressed in beautifully crafted buckskins. His hair was long and worn in two braids, both of which were decorated with feathers, and when he slid down off his horse, Lora saw that he was well over six feet tall. She guessed he might be in his thirties, but it was impossible to be sure. “You are on Blackfoot land,” he said solemnly, “and you are welcome here. Please accept my condolences regarding the members of your party who were killed. As you saw, the Blood Kin murdered three of our people as well. They, like many others, were on their way to our annual powwow.”

“Blood Kin?” Nix inquired.

“Yes. That is what they call themselves,” the Blackfoot replied. “They drink the blood of animals as a way to acquire animal virtues. That’s nonsense, of course, but it binds them together, and that makes them even more dangerous.”

“I see,” Nix said. “My name is Harvey Nix. And you are?”

“My birth name is Luke Twolakes.”

Lora got the impression that Twolakes might have other names but preferred to keep them to himself. The two men shook hands. “Thank you,” Nix said sincerely. “I fear that if you and your men hadn’t arrived when you did, we would be dead.”

Twolakes nodded. “You are welcome. The Blood Kin know about our annual gathering and often prey on those headed to the powwow. Small groups are easy to attack and carry items they hope to trade. My war party was sent to secure this section of the highway. Where are you headed?”

“South,” Nix said. “We’re hoping to find an agricultural community that will take us in.” Lora took note of the fact that Nix had chosen to omit any mention of the Sanctuary or the seeds.

“I know of several,” Twolakes said, “and one that might be of particular interest. But first we must take care of our dead.”

Having stripped the Blood Kin of everything useful, members of the war party cut the bodies of their people down and laid them across empty saddles. The horses could smell the fresh blood and were skittish.

Lora noticed that the warriors were dressed in a mix of regular clothing and deerskin garments. Some of them were armed with guns and some carried high-tech bows.

After a short meeting, it was agreed that all five dead bodies would be taken out into an adjoining field where a huge oak tree stood. Its branches were spread like welcoming arms and ready to receive the freshly cut saplings that were laid across them. Then, once the Native American bodies had been wrapped in blankets and bound with cord, they were placed on the platform. It was, Twolakes explained, the Blackfoot way.

Meanwhile two graves had been dug twenty feet away from the tree. Once they were ready, Jager and Lemo were lowered into them. As dirt was shoveled in on top of them, Tim Hobbs said a few words. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God in his great mercy to take unto himself the souls of brother Jager and sister Lemo, we therefore commit their bodies to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”

There was a moment of silence followed by the flutter of wings as a black crow landed on one of the bodies in the tree above. It uttered a strident caw, ruffled its feathers, and eyed the humans below. Lora shivered and snow began to fall.

After hiding the cache of weapons upslope from the cell site and napping through the day, Tre faced an important decision. Should he stay in the metal shed that night or hit the road in spite of the attendant dangers? A wan, barely seen moon helped make up his mind. There wasn’t a lot of light, but the snow seemed to amplify what there was, making it possible to travel, and it would be good to put some distance between himself and the highly visible shed.

So Tre hurried to prepare a hot meal, ate it, and put all his belongings in the pack. Then, with the .410 in its holster, snowshoes on his feet, and a trekking pole in each hand, he set out. Traveling was easier now thanks to the downhill slope and the fact that he wasn’t burdened with the heavy gun case. But with a pack full of books and canned goods, Tre knew he would soon start to feel the strain. He wasn’t about to jettison anything, however, so all he could do was tough it out.

Once on the highway, Tre turned south. The tracks he had seen earlier were still visible and could serve as a guide. The only sounds were the crunch of his footsteps, the swish of fabric as he moved, and the rasp of his own breath. He had a companion, though, and that was fear. Anything could be hiding along the side of the road waiting to attack, and bandits were as common as fleas. But, Tre reminded himself, waiting next to a highway hoping someone would come along in the middle of the night wasn’t much of a strategy. So why was he scared? Tre smiled grimly, paused to listen, and couldn’t hear a thing. The march continued.

The next hour passed without incident, but as Tre arrived at the top of a long slope and paused to rest, he heard a primal howl. Seconds later it was echoed by more howls and he felt his blood run cold. Wolves? They were common and could be dangerous. But Tre feared a pack of feral dogs even more. Unlike wolves, they knew all about humans and were attracted to them.

Tre looked up at the sky. Scattered clouds were drifting across the moon, which would set soon. That, plus the possibility of a run-in with a pack of dogs, suggested that he hole up till morning. But where? Someplace with a door would be nice. All he could do was push on and keep his eyes peeled.

So as Tre made his way down a gentle slope onto a flat stretch, the quickness of his movements reflected a new sense of urgency. Slide-step, slide-step, slide-step. All the while wondering if he would see the sudden rush of furry bodies and hear a chorus of deep-throated growls before the dogs attacked. He would fire the .410 and the revolver as well, but there would be too many of them and he would go down. Tre remembered the shed, cursed his decision to travel at night, and eyed the road ahead.

That was when his nostrils detected the scent of wood smoke and the situation became even worse. Humans were in the area, so there was another type of predator to worry about.

Tre continued to advance but more slowly now. What lay ahead? The bandits he had dismissed earlier? That would serve him right. Then he heard a snorting sound, followed by a muffled voice, and threw himself off the highway. There was no time to do anything more, so he lay perfectly still as three men on horseback rode past. Surely they would see Tre, stop, and blow his brains out. But no, they passed him by.

Once the riders were gone, Tre stood. Moving quietly, he left the verge of the road for the trees. Maybe more riders were on the way and maybe they weren’t, but he didn’t plan to hang around to find out.

The trees took Tre in, and he was looking for a place to hole up when he saw a flicker of light. A campfire, probably, and a dozen steps confirmed it. A crackling fire was visible in the middle of the clearing, and a large wagon could be seen in the background. A man was seated by the fire taking occasional sips from a mug.

Tre looked around. Where were the horsemen? Had they continued south or were they closing in? It doesn’t make any difference, Tre told himself. The first rule of survival is to mind your own business.

Tre heard a horse nicker and shouted, “Behind you!” That was stupid, of course. But a smart person would have been back in the shed.