The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  So they ate, packed, and hit the road. As they had the day before, they made good progress, but there were no lighthearted conversations or friendly snowball fights today. The air felt clammy, and a thick layer of mist clung to the ground, making it impossible to see for more than five hundred yards. Thirty minutes into the march, Lyn Cho pointed to the east. “Look! Riders!”

  “And there are more to the west,” Hobbs added.

  “Okay, close it up!” Fry ordered, and they did. Not that Lora thought it would do much good if the horsemen attacked them. They had the advantage, so why not use it? Were they friendly? No, it seemed logical to believe that friendly people would come over and identify themselves.

  All the leavers had were questions with no answers—until they came to the steel bridge. There was nothing special about it except for the bodies hanging from the superstructure, two male and one female. It looked as though all three had been shot. And there, waiting at the other end of the span, were three riders. They were dressed in a combination of regular clothing and crudely sewn animal skins. All were heavily armed, and the one in the middle was wearing a football helmet decorated with a set of antlers.

  “Look!” Dero exclaimed. “They’re closing in on us!” and Lora saw that he was correct. Both columns of outriders had turned in on them and were approaching the highway. There was no avenue of escape—or that was what Lora though until Fry raised his assault weapon and fired. The bullets hit horses and men alike. Animals screamed and fell in a welter of blood. They were still in the process of dying when Fry waved the others forward. “Follow me!”

  They did, shuffling on snowshoes, as the man with the antlers tried to rise. Fry shot him again. “Take cover behind the horses!”

  Most of the leavers did so as the horsemen at the north end of the bridge came together into a single mob and trotted onto the bridge. Tom Jager, though, was standing with his weapon raised. “Kill them!” he shouted, and fired his shotgun. It was the first time he had done so, but the enemy was so close he couldn’t miss. A charge of double-aught buck caught a horse in the face and neck. The animal screamed piteously and reared up. That was when the rest of the leavers fired a ragged volley, and bullets tore into the horse’s belly. It went down, taking its rider with it.

  A member of the horde fired a pistol in response. The heavy slug hit Jager in the chest and threw him to the ground. Lora was frightened but knew the enemy had to be stopped. She elbowed her way over to the body, struggled to free Jager’s semiauto pistol, and held it in both hands. A man wearing a wolf skull on top of his head was hiding behind a dead horse. She aimed the weapon at him and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  The safety! The man with the wolf skull saw her and brought his rifle around. Lora felt a stab of fear as she thumbed the safety. Then she knew the pistol was ready to fire, so she did. Nine times.

  The first bullet struck sparks off the bridge deck. The second hit the horse. The third struck the man’s rifle, which spoiled his aim. He was in the process of recovering from the jolt when a slug nicked his left ear, another passed through his throat, and the rest went wide. His hands came up in a futile attempt to stop the blood, then fell away as he lost consciousness.

  As Lora was just starting to process that when Lou Martinez shouted a warning. “They’re attacking from behind!”

  She turned to look, saw that Martinez was correct, and wondered how many bullets she had left. A large group of horsemen was thundering in from the south, but as a leaver fired at them, Lora noticed that the men on the north side of the bridge were backing away. “Don’t shoot!” she shouted. “They’re friends.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true, of course, but Lora figured it was, and she feared what would happen if the leavers attacked potential allies. Fortunately her father had reached the same conclusion and ordered the group to stop shooting—and a good thing too, because as the riders from the south arrived, they passed between the leavers and took off after the barbarians.

  What ensued was not pleasant to watch. The pursuers uttered what might have been war cries and urged their horses forward. The barbarians split into small groups of two or three. Whether that was by design or the result of panic wasn’t clear. One thing was for sure, however: it was a bad strategy. The southerners rode them down. Some of the fugitives fought and some tried to surrender, but it made no difference. All of them went down, at which point riders went from body to body and shot the wounded. Lora heard a mournful voice and turned to look. “Oh, no! They killed Linda.”

  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
.

  Chapter Four

  Near Jackson, Wyoming, USA

  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.

  To his credit, the would-be victim threw himself to the right as a shotgun blast blew his chair to splinters. Tre fired the .410’s right barrel at the spot where the bandit should be and heard him swear. What with the spread and the long range, it was likely that only a few pellets had found their target. But the man on the ground pulled a pistol and got off three shots. They went home and a body fell into the firelight.

  Having revealed himself, Tre had gone from observer to target. He heard a branch break to his left, swiveled in that direction, and fired the left barrel. The bandit burst out of the brush just in time to take a full charge in the chest. This time the target was close enough to kill, and the man went down in a heap.

  Tre was fumbling reloads into the shotgun when the man in the clearing shouted at him. “Climb a tree! Do it now!”

  Climb a tree? What for? Tre was going to ignore the instruction when the man blew on a horn. The sound prompted a chorus of howls and sent a chill up Tre’s spine. He dumped the pack and was in the process of shedding the snowshoes when the first animals came ghosting through the trees on the far side of the clearing.

  His heart was in his mouth as he climbed a ponDerosa and the dogs caught his scent. They surged his way, and it was only a matter of seconds before they were jumping high into the air, jaws snapping, as they tried to bring him down. Fortunately he was too high for them to reach.

  The attack came to an end as a shrill whistle sounded and the dogs turned away. That was when he heard the man say, “Find them! Kill them!”

  Tre remembered the third rider at that point and wondered where he was. The dogs began to sniff around the edges of the clearing. Then one of them produced a joyous bark and took off. The rest followed, howling as they ran.

  “How many?” the man shouted.

  “One left,” Tre replied. “He may be on horseback.”

  “The dogs will get him,” the man said confidently. “Come on over.”

  Tre dropped to the ground, paused to retrieve his empty brass, and slipped two fresh shells into the .410. Then it was time to pick up his gear and carry it to the fire. He was only a few feet away when a chorus of howls was heard, followed by the screams of a horse.

  The man who stood waiting for him was dressed in a grubby business suit and a pair of high-heeled cowboy boots. The jacket was brushed back to expose a Colt .44 Magnum revolver. His right hand was dangling near the butt.

  Both men turned to look as three shots were heard. They were followed by a scream. Tre thought it was from the horse but couldn’t be certain. “They’re after the horse’s legs,” the man explained. “Then, once they bring it down, they’ll kill the rider.”

  Based on the man’s matter-of-fact statement, Tre got the impression that this wasn’t the first time the dogs had been sent to kill a horseman. “And then?”

  “And then they’ll have dinner,” the man said. “My name’s Charlie. Charlie Winthrop. And you are?”

  “Tre Ocho.”

  “Glad to meet you, Tre. Real glad. The dogs were out hunting when you showed up. And a good thing too—since they would have torn into you otherwise. How did you wind up next to the clearing anyway?”

  Tre knew what was going through the other man’s mind. Maybe Tre had been with the bandits and turned on them, or maybe he’d been planning an attack of his own. So Tre told him how he’d been overtaken on the highway, entered the woods, and happened across the clearing.

  Charlie listened intently as he stared into Tre’s eyes. “Sounds like both of us were lucky. It could have gone differently. I figure they followed the wagon tracks down from Jackson. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Then why travel with a wagon?”

  “‘Cause I haul my medicine on it,” Charlie said. “Now, let’s tidy up. I reckon the body in the bushes belongs to you—and the other one is mine. Course, you winged him, so maybe you see things differently.”

  Even though Tre knew that stripping bodies was nece
ssary in order to survive, Charlie’s emotion-free pragmatism bothered him. His mother was right. Bit by bit, humans were losing their humanity. “No, he’s yours. Like you said, I winged him, but that’s all.”

  Charlie nodded approvingly. “Good. Then we need to find the horses. There should be two of them, right?”

  There it was again. A hint of doubt. If there were three horses, that would indicate that Tre was one of the bandits. He nodded. “Yes, two horses.”

  So they parted company long enough to take what they wanted from the dead bodies. Tre wound up with an ancient lever-action .30-30, a handful of ammo, and a hand-forged Bowie knife. Not much of a haul. Charlie didn’t say what his pickings were like, but Tre figured they weren’t much better.

  The moon was long gone, so Tre produced the flashlight he had taken from Bob. As expected, the horses were tethered a few hundred yards away next to the highway and according to Charlie were in bad shape. Tre didn’t know much about horses, having never owned one, but suspected that Charlie was laying the groundwork for an advantageous deal. That theory was confirmed as they led the animals into the firelit clearing. “Tell you what,” Charlie said. “I’ll buy your animal if you’re willing.”

  Tre took notice of the way in which Charlie had already assumed ownership of one horse but let it pass. The problem with owning a horse was that he would be forced to feed and defend it. But he didn’t want to give the animal away either. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I could sling my pack on it.”

  That stimulated a litany of complaints about horses. “The only reason I have them is because of the wagon,” Charlie explained. “Otherwise I’d be happy to walk.”

  “You make some good points,” Tre allowed. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll sell my horse for one hundred and fifty rounds of .45 ammo plus a ride to Alpine.”