William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

“And if they refuse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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