William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

Tre followed the other man’s instructions to the letter and felt a sense of relief as Blue ambled away. But he was replaced by another dog, and another , until every member of the pack had his scent. Then they went to lie, sit, and nose around the fire. “There,” Charlie said as he gave Tre two boxes of ammo. “You’re a member of the family now… and truth is that it will be good to have someone riding shotgun. And I mean a real shotgun. Not the .410.”

That was how Tre came to know Charlie Winthrop and was able to ride all the way to Alpine. They traveled during the day because, as Charlie put it, “most of my customers are holed up at night, and I like to see ‘em coming.”

The product, which Charlie referred to as “medicine,” consisted of various plant extracts, secret flavorings, and a high alcohol content. About twenty percent, to be precise. The latter was what Charlie called “the active ingredient.” All made in a distillery “up north.”

Tre tried some of the brown liquid and spit it out. Charlie laughed. “It takes some getting used to. Plus Mother Hubbard’s Blood Tonic and Painkiller is meant for grown-ups.”

So with two horses pulling the wagon, two following behind, and more than a dozen dogs ranging along both sides of the highway, the four-wheeled conveyance rattled along. The weather was relatively good for once, and riding on the wagon made for a pleasant break, especially given the weight of Tre’s pack.

Every now and then they would come to a hamlet, and when they did, Charlie would pull over. If it was lunchtime they would eat. If it wasn’t they would start a fire and wait. During such interludes, Charlie would deploy a long length of chain and fasten most of the dogs to it. Blue and a couple of others were spared that indignity and allowed to roam free. It was an effective deterrent.

Then in ones, twos, and threes the customers would appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Typically they paid with .22s, .38s, or whatever they had. Sometimes they offered a dozen eggs, part of a smoked ham, or a hunk of jerky. And when they did, Charlie generally took them up on it, because that was how he got his food. And Tre, who was armed with a twelve gauge, stood guard.

It was during one such stop that Tre managed to trade the .30-30 for a loaf of freshly baked bread. He split it with Charlie and they ate it in a single sitting with generous dollops of strawberry jam from the old man’s larder. It was the best meal Tre had eaten in a long time.

Eventually the Palisades Reservoir appeared off to the right side of the road. Tre knew that it was the result of a large dam a few miles to the south. There was a power plant there, or the remains of one, since it had gone offline before he was born.

Sunlight sparkled on the water, and a scattering of fishing boats could be seen out on the reservoir as the wagon rattled along. Not long thereafter, the partnership with Charlie came to an end when the wagon crossed the bridge into Alpine and paused to pay a three-bullet toll. Unlike so many places Tre had seen, Alpine could still claim an identity thanks to the presence of the palisade-style fort the citizens had built there. It was big enough to house all the locals in an emergency, strong enough to withstand small-arms fire, and surrounded by all sorts of obstacles. That was the good news. The bad news was that residents had to join the militia, had to tithe a month’s labor each year, and were beholden to Buck Benton. He was the son of Brett Benton, who was widely credited with fortifying the town thirty years earlier, all of which explained why Tre hadn’t applied for citizenship. He liked being free even if freedom came with a lot of risks.

All the dogs were chained up in accordance with Alpine’s rules, and they weren’t happy about it as the two men parted company. “You could come to work for me,” Charlie offered as Tre shouldered his pack. “Once I sell out, I’ll head north and take two months off. You could do the same.”

It was a generous offer, but Tre was looking forward to going home. “Thanks, but no thanks. Take care, Charlie. You’re okay for an old man.”

Charlie grinned. “And you’re okay for a fifteen-year-old punk.” Both laughed.

Tre turned his back and made his way down the busy street. He saw people bringing their produce into town—rarely more than a basket or two. Just what they could grow in a makeshift hothouse. There were predators too. They stood alone or in small groups, scanning those who passed by. Looking for what? A wealthy target? A potential client? Tre was careful to give them a wide berth.

Girls could be seen as well, always with someone else, because it would be dangerous to venture out alone. And Tre couldn’t help but wonder about them, even though he knew they were forever out of reach. The mere thought of trying to talk to such a creature was terrifying.

Tre followed old Highway 89 out of town and headed south. His plan was to pass through the hamlet of Freedom and follow 34 into Idaho. His home, which he called the Tangle, was a few miles south of Wayan, a community in name only. The hike would take the better part of two days. But thanks to the mild weather, Tre could strap the snowshoes to his pack, and that allowed him to move more freely.

A good deal of commerce flowed through Star Valley, so Tre saw people coming and going. Some rode horses, but most were on foot, and it was necessary to keep an eye on them lest he fall victim to a quick stab and grab. To that end, Tre was careful to check his back trail frequently—and to leave the highway when people threatened to overtake him. The key was to wait until a curve hid him from view. Then he would make for a grove of trees and stay there until the other travelers passed him.

Even with such interruptions, Tre made good progress and passed through Freedom just before sunset. There was a fortified inn, but he had no desire to sleep on a bedbug-infested mattress so he passed it by. Tre had traveled the route many times and usually spent the night at the edge of a fallow field not far from a small stream. A thicket of trees helped screen him from the highway and made a good windbreak.

It took less than fifteen minutes to start a fire, put a can of stew on to heat, and pitch his tent. After a hot dinner, it was time to clean up, brush his teeth, and hit the sack. The rain began with a gentle tap, tap, tap, and soon escalated into a gentle roar. And that was fine with Tre, since foul weather was likely to keep the bad guys at home. So with one hand on the .410 he drifted off to sleep.

After a relatively good night’s rest, meaning one in which he allowed himself to sleep two hours at a time, Tre rose to discover that the sun was out. It went a long way toward lifting his spirits as he rekindled the fire, boiled a large quantity of oatmeal, and sprinkled some of Bob’s brown sugar on it.

Once breakfast was over, Tre broke camp and began the last leg of his journey. Highway 34 ran between the Caribou and Webster mountain ranges. Some of the hillsides were bare, while others were forested. The road snaked back and forth between them as it crossed rivers, curved around lakes, and led him steadily upward. But the scenery was gorgeous and even the weight of Tre’s pack couldn’t stop him from enjoying it.

He walked all day, pausing only for lunch before starting downhill. He saw very few people, only one of whom was worth taking note of. He was riding a large tricycle with a cargo area in back, and that was intriguing. Tre figured he could build one, and unlike a horse, it wouldn’t have to be fed! There was a downside, however, as such a vehicle could attract the wrong sort of attention.

Finally, just short of Wayan, Tre turned onto a dirt track that led south. Five minutes later he left the path for a copse of trees. Tre was pretty confident that he hadn’t been followed but forced himself to check anyway.