"You know, we haven't seen any sheep or cattle or horses around here. But the range has obviously been grazed. Until lately, at least," Ingolf said.
"There's stock in the corrals," Rudi said. "And a lot of horses. Hundred, hundred and thirty."
"That would mean fifty or sixty Cutter levies," Ingolf replied. "The Cutter soldiers are mainly Ranchers, or even Rovers"-which meant nomad, more or less-"not full-time fighters like the Sword of the, umm, false prophet. They get hives if they don't have at least one remount for every fighting man. It makes them feel pinned down."
Nystrup sighed. "We were always being surprised by how fast they could move, and how many men they could throw at us," he acknowledged. "It hurt us, and more than once."
"The Church calls them up to fight when they're needed," Ingolf said. "A ranch isn't like a farm-the old people and kids and women can keep it going pretty well for quite a while, at a pinch. Cowboys can make most of their own war gear, too, and their ordinary work is damned good training to fight."
"Besides the horses there were six or seven hundred sheep, maybe half that number of cattle," Rudi went on.
"Not as much as there should be," Nystrup replied. "I've never been here myself, but from the reports and the taxes they paid and the way it looks, this is good land."
Ingolf made a gesture of agreement. "I'd say what's likely happened is that a couple of ranches' or Rover bands' worth of levies hit the place just recently, on their way home. Some of them have already left with part of the stock. The ones there now plan to loot it bare before they leave-they're shorter on craft-workers than you Saints are and they're always short of tools and so forth likewise. I'd say they're about halfway through the process here in… Peekaboo?"
"Yes," Nystrup said grimly. "We counted on that, their being backwards, too much during the war, and on their absurd superstitions about gears and machinery." He looked at Ingolf shrewdly. "You have an idea?"
"Sort of. We have to know what's going on in there, and if we can get some supplies and fresh horses for your people, Captain. It would take a pitched battle to fight for them, and we're not in shape for a stand-up fight, and they outnumber us. But if we send in some people who can pass for… oh, I don't know, merchants from one of the Plains towns come West to buy up plunder, that sort of thing. There are a few places like that in the Sioux country, tributary to the tribes. Then we could buy what we need. Last I heard, the CUT and the Sioux had made peace."
"We don't have much contact with the Sioux," Nystrup said. "The CUT was always between us and them. Most of the Indians in new Deseret are… were… friendly and part of our Church. I don't think any of my people could fool the Cutters."
"Well, I've had a lot of contact with the Lakota tribes," Ingolf said, with a lopsided smile. "Mostly not too friendly, as in, contact with their arrows and shetes and tomahawks. That was my first war, when our Bossman in Richland sent men to help the Republic of Marshall fight 'em. And later when I was working for some traders in the Nebraska country, I rode guard on a caravan they sent out West, to Newcastle, and I got caught there for the winter. There was this girl
… anyway, I can't pass for a Sioux, but I think I could buffalo outsiders who'd never seen the place into supposing I came from that town."
Rudi felt a broad smile growing. "Sure, and that is an idea. You think it's possible?"
"Like I said, most of the Cutter levies are just cowboys, or a few are farmers or townsmen," Ingolf said. "Yeah, they believe in that crazy religion-or say they do, if they're smart, anywhere Corwin controls- and they're suspicious of outsiders, but they're just… men, otherwise. I saw a fair number the first time I was a prisoner of theirs; they let me out a bit once I'd convinced them I'd swallowed their line of bullshit."
"Well, if we were to try it, certainly you'd have to be one of our spies," Rudi said musingly. He looked around. "Their leader, in fact. I'd be another…"
Ingolf spoke again: "Three or four men would be the maximum. No less, though. Corwin makes a big noise about how safe their territory is for traders, but nobody travels with a lot of cash all by himself. And there should be a woman-a Mormon woman."
Rudi blinked. "Why?"
"Camo-cover, Rudi. We'd be refugee-traders as well as buying loot in general."
"Slaves, the Cutters call them, don't they? It seems a bit too honest for them."
"Refugees is the word out East, and some places allow that sort of thing; everyone's always short of working hands. Say four men and ten, twelve horses-we'd have the horses to carry stuff. We'd be pretty popular, too; coin's a lot easier to transport, and they'd want to change some of what they've taken into hard cash."
"We don't have any of the CUT's minting," Rudi mused. "Or any from farther East. Boise currency might do at a pinch, but not the Association's or Corvallis."
"The Sioux don't coin, but they do use gold and silver. A bar of gold's a bar of gold. And at the least we could buy up some folks and get them out to their kin, and enough supplies."
Rudi winced a little; he hated the thought of playing slaver even as a deception, but it was a legitimate ruse of war.
"I'll go if they need a woman," Rebecca Nystrup said.
Her cousin opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was good protective coloration. Rudi sympathized with him as he visibly suppressed the desire to say that she'd do no such thing-he could scarcely order one of the other women to do it, when his own kin had asked for the nasty, dangerous job.
"I volunteer!" Fred Thurston said.
"Sorry, Fred," Ingolf said. "You'd stand out too much."
Frederick looked at him blankly for an instant, then struck the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Right. Damn, I hadn't thought of that. We haven't gotten far enough away from Boise for people to just take me for myself."
Black folk were even thinner on the ground here in the interior of the Northwest than they were on the Pacific Coast-Mrs. Thurston was Anglo, but her husband's African strain was plain in her son, too plain for him to pass for Hispano or Indian.
And since his father had been ruler of Boise ever since he brought order out of plague and chaos in the first Change Year, the association of young black man and Prince of Boise -specifically, fugitive prince with a massive price on his head -would be all too likely, even for Cutter levies from beyond the Rockies. Their leaders at least would have some familiarity with local politics.
Rudi ran the rest of his band through his mind. They couldn't take any of their own women; Cutter females were close-kept, even more so than in the Protectorate back home. Which left…
"Edain… and Odard, I think," Rudi said. "Would Edain's accent pass? Or mine, for that matter?"
"Sure," Ingolf said. "You get all sorts of funny ways of talking in little pockets and backwater settlements, nobody can keep track of them all. These Montanans all sound like hicks with head colds to me anyway. You'll have to leave the skirts"-he grinned at Edain's bristle-"pardon me, the kilts, behind. Odard's OK too-you could pass for part-Injun, my lord Baron. Most of the folks who call themselves Sioux look pretty much like white-eyes these days, mostly because they are white-eyes, but the important families are likely to have the old blood."
Odard Liu nodded; his father had been half-Chinese, and it showed in his coarse crow-black hair, high cheekbones and the fold at the corners of his blue eyes. Father Ignatius had similar looks save for black eyes, courtesy of a grandmother from Vietnam, but his tonsure wasn't the only thing that made him too unmistakably a Christian cleric.
"Happy to volunteer," the Association noble said dryly. "Even ex-post-facto."
Mathilda snorted. "You volunteered for everything when you joined up, Odard."
He gave her a charming smile, and a courtly sweeping bow that went oddly with his grimy wool and leather outfit and shapeless floppy-brimmed canvas hat. Somehow it evoked the image of the impeccable court fashion he delighted in at home.
"That is most true, Your Highness. My sword is ever at my lady's ser
vice."
Ingolf made a passable imitation of the bow himself as she blushed and cleared her throat. He spoke briskly: "You can be the Injun prince, if you want, Odard. It'd be likely we'd have a chief's son along, if the local tribe where we came from were putting up part of the money."
"No time like the present," Rudi said, looking up; six hours to sunset. "We'll have to have a set of signals-"
"Stop right there, strangers!"
The words were backed up by half-a-dozen stiff horn and sinew horseman's bows drawn to the ear. Ingolf let his balance shift back a bit, and Boy halted between one pace and the next; his favorite mount had a lot of quarter horse in his bloodline, and would pass anywhere in the plains-and-mountain country. Rudi managed that as well, and Edain, which Ingolf had worried about-the younger clansman's horsemanship had improved over the past couple of months, enough to pass for a city-man from Newcastle. Odard had mastered the cow-country style too, and it was different from the long-stirrup Portland seat. At least he'd been brought up on horseback, which was something you couldn't counterfeit.
One thing that wouldn't pass was a Sioux who couldn't ride, he knew.
Everyone in their party raised open hands in the peace gesture; except for Rebecca Nystrup, of course, but hers were handcuffed, with the chain looped through a ring on her saddlebow. The Cutters eased off on their draws, which was reassuring-it was all too easy to let a bowstring roll off your fingertips if you held it too long. An arrow in the face killed you just as dead whether it was intentional or not.
The leader of the patrol was in his thirties and looked much older, with a plainsman's wrinkles and a nose that had been damaged by frost-bite once, leaving part of a nostril missing. The others could have been his brothers, cousins, or even his son if you counted one in his mid-teens. Most of them wore simple boiled-leather breastplates with the Church Universal and Triumphant's sunburst on it over thin sheepskin jackets, though the leader had a mail-shirt instead, and their metal-strapped leather helmets were at their saddlebows, traded for broad-brimmed hats in the hot sun.
All of them had knives, tomahawks and heavy-bladed shetes at their waists, quivers full of arrows over their backs, and round hide shields and lariats hung from their saddles. And a powerful aroma, the harsh rank musk-sweat of men who lived on meat and milk and hadn't had occasion to wash themselves or their clothes lately, added to horse and leather and iron greased with tallow and the odor of lank straggly hair of various shades. Several had minor wounds that looked fresh but not immediate. Their equipment was well made and beautifully cared for, though, and their horses glowed with health and careful tending.
Ingolf held up his hands and smiled. "We're peaceful traders, men of the Dictations," he said.
Peaceful but too tough to rob conveniently, was conveyed by his looks and gear, and that of the men behind him. Swapping around among the nine comrades and the Mormon guerillas had given them suitable equipment, suitably varied. Even Garbh helped with the picture, her massive shaggy barrel-shaped head held low and showing her teeth just slightly at the strangers after Edain called her sharply to heel.
"You're of the Faith?" the leader said, his eyes probing. Over his shoulder: "Jack, Terry, backtrack 'em a couple of miles. Keep your eyes open and check there aren't any more. There's all sorts of buzzards circlin' around hereabouts."
Two of the Cutters reined around and galloped eastward down the remains of US 20, riding on the old graveled shoulders of the road to spare their horses' hooves from the cracked, frost-heaved asphalt that was breaking up in pale chunks. Ingolf went on:
"No, we're not of your Church, but we have permission to travel in the Church's lands by the Prophet's treaty with the Oceti Sakowin. We're out of Newcastle, which is an ally of the Seven Council Fires."
Ally meant pays the Sioux off so they don't raid, of course, but a man from there would use the polite phrasing. Ingolf nodded towards Odard, who managed to look haughty enough for a modern-day Sioux chieftain-something that came naturally to him-and stared over the Cutters' heads. People who didn't know Indians well tended to think they were impassive; in the Richlander's experience, they were as cheerful and chatty as most folk, unless they thought the occasion called for solemnity.
Which this does. But don't overdo it, Odard.
Ingolf went on:
"This is the worthy itancan "-which meant chief, roughly-" Wahuk'eza Washte, Good Lance."
Odard had insisted on that one when Ingolf ran him through a list of Sioux names, although the suggestions from the rest had started with Two Dogs Fucking from the twins and gone downhill from there.
"He's here to, ah, watch over his people's interests in this trading venture."
Odard lifted a hand with the palm out, made a surly grunting sound, and said the Lakota equivalent of Hello, how do you do?, as he'd been carefully coached:
" Hau kola! Doe ksh kay ya oun hey? "
To Ingolf's horror, the Cutter leader raised his hand in a similar gesture and replied:
"Hau kola! Wakantanka kici UN."
Which meant Hello, and may the Great Spirit bless you, and just about exhausted Ingolf's knowledge of the language as well unless you counted swear words and phrases you learned on campaign, like Reach for the sky!, Where are the warriors? and Give me your money/horse/weapons/food.
Sweat broke out on his forehead, prickling through the coating of dust; this wasn't fair. Most of the people who rode with the tribes and called themselves Sioux didn't actually speak it, apart from a few words they threw into the more usual English to sound authentic-the same reason they tended to go in for leather and beads and feathers even more than the tribesmen with more of the old blood. To run into a non-Indian who actually knew the language when their own pretend-Indian didn't would be…
Just like the rest of my luck since I first met Kuttner. Like meeting Saba and having her die the same night.
He hid a shudder; priests had told him-including ones he respected-that there was no such thing as fate, that there was only a man's choices and the will of God. But there were times when he thought he was cursed, and not only him, but anyone he cared for. Rudi's hand made the smallest of gestures towards the hilt of his borrowed shete. But if it came to a fight, they'd almost certainly die. Ingolf forced himself not to gasp with relief when the Cutter chieftain smiled and went on:
"The Prophet says we're to treat all you of the Seven Council Fires as brothers, now that we're at peace with the Lakota tribes. May you come to the truth of the Dictations! I'm Jed Smith, Rancher of Rippling Waters in Havre District, and these're my kin and my riders."
Upper Missouri River, Ingolf thought. Damn, that's pretty close to the frontier between the CUT and the Lakota. Just our luck. A long way North of Newcastle, though, thank the saints!
Then Jed went on casually: "You'd be kin of the mayor down in Newcastle?"
"Larry McAllister?" Ingolf said, feeling the beads of sweat start up again.
Thank God I actually stayed there and not so long ago!
Aloud he went on, equally relaxed: "No, but my father's a good friend of his-he sponsored us when Dad moved in from Casper, right after the Change."
Good friend and sponsored meant someone who got protection in return for favors and political backing… which in Newcastle involved showing up with your shield and shete from time to time.
What did Father Ignatius say… right, client and patron.
Jed Smith nodded, satisfied. Ingolf made the introductions under their assumed names. The Montanan went on:
"What're you trading for? Doesn't look like you have much to trade with, unless it's the crowbait remuda you got there or-"
He indicated Rebecca with a jerk of his head, though he'd politely kept his eyes from her face; the girl was in ordinary overalls, but had a CUT-style kerchief hiding most of her fair hair. Ingolf smiled back and indicated her with a salesman's sweep of his hand:
"No, we're buying and we're paying in bullion. Anything you brave soldiers of the Chu
rch might have picked up. Cutlery, cloth, wine-"
"No chance of that here! The misbelievers don't drink it, or even beer or whiskey or applejack. I haven't tasted wine but once myself-traded West from Iowa."
Ingolf nodded. "But mostly we're buying refugees, like this girl here. Skilled workers, if we can get them. Slaves, you say, don't you, instead of refugee?"
Jed nodded. "That's the word in the Dictations."
Just then Jack and Terry rode back up. "Same horses for miles back," one of them said, pointing behind him with his bow. "We checked on the hoof marks. Nobody joinin' or leavin'."
The other scout spoke to Ingolf:
"But they had good stock and tools here. They make stuff you wouldn't believe was new instead of salvage. And plenty of right pretty gals, too, even if they're sulky. We kilt all the grown men, o' course."
Ingolf sighed as if he'd been expecting that and regretted it. Even if his regret wasn't for the reasons his audience assumed, he had expected it. Ranchers didn't need masses of field labor, and a man you couldn't trust to ride the range alone and armed was useless as a cowboy. Women did most of the processing work on a ranch, though-tanning, leather-working, weaving, milking, whatever-and they were easier to keep. If nothing else their children pinned them down, and by Cutter custom the children were free if they took the Church Universal and Triumphant's faith when they came of age.
"Shut up, Jack, y'damned pup," Jed said crossly; at a guess, he was afraid his subordinate would lower prices by prattling about how much they'd gained. "You run your mouth too much."
In friendly wise he went on: "That's a nice one you picked up there, Mr. Vogeler. Lively in the bedroll? She's quite a looker, yes indeed. How much did you pay for her? Get her from someone heading home?"
"That's right. Don't know what she's like in the sack," Ingolf said casually. "Yeah, she's easy on the eyes, but she's also a good weaver, cloth and rugs both, and a cheesemaker, which is what I was looking for. Refugee ass… slave, you folks say… is cheap and looks don't last, but good cheddar cheese or cloth always fetches a price. We paid forty-five dollars for her, cash money-weighed out silver, that's easier than coin for big purchases."
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