The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  So, based on the accounts Lora had heard from the others, she knew what to expect, which was a series of questions focused on her work experience. That wasn’t too scary, although any exposure to Mrs. Voss came with some risk, so Lora had butterflies in her stomach as she was ushered into a tent large enough to sleep six people.

  It was like stepping into another world. A neatly made cot sat against the left wall. A small stove and a pair of matching trunks occupied the other. And there, placed at the center of the room, was the folding desk that Lora had heard about. It was made of highly polished wood and equipped with brass fittings, and the top was covered with green baize. There were three objects on the desk, and they were aligned with military precision. The collection included a pearl-handled Colt .45, a beautifully made fountain pen, and a leather-bound notebook. Behind the desk, seated on a folding chair, was Mrs. Voss. Her eyes were dark. “State your full name.”

  “Lora Larsy.”

  The pen made a scritching sound as it moved across the page. The eyes came up again. “You’re the one with the little girl.”

  “No.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No, ma’am,” Lora said. “That’s Sissy. But I carry her daughter sometimes.”

  A hanging lamp threw a monstrous shadow onto the wall as Mrs. Voss made a note. “But, if memory serves me correctly, you can read.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s rare these days,” Mrs. Voss commented. “But the ability to puzzle out a few words is not the same thing as being able to read a book. Let’s see how good you are.”

  So saying, the older woman opened a drawer, removed a book, and handed it over. Lora looked at it. The title was Atlas Shrugged, and it had been written by an author named Ayn Rand. “Open it,” Mrs. Voss said. “Open it and read to me.”

  So Lora opened the book and read the first paragraph her eye fell on. “‘Her leg, sculptured by the tight sheen of the stocking, its long line running straight, over an arched instep, to the tip of a foot in a high-heeled pump, had a feminine elegance that seemed out of place in the dusty train car and oddly incongruous with the rest of her. She wore a battered camel’s hair coat that had been expensive, wrapped shapelessly about her slender, nervous body.’”

  Lora looked up. “Good,” Mrs. Voss said approvingly as she took the book back. “Very good. Who taught you to read?”

  “My father,” Lora replied. The answer was partially true and allowed her to omit any mention of the Sanctuary.

  “We’ll be in Star Valley the day after tomorrow,” Mrs. Voss said. “That’s where the Voss family farms are located. Work hard, behave yourself, and who knows? My son needs overseers who can read and write. And they live quite comfortably. Keep that in mind. Dismissed.”

  • • •

  The city of Jackson appeared to be empty of life as the column passed by it and continued south. The lead merc was carrying a blue flag with a yellow “V” on it by then, and the effect was quite noticeable. People came out of roadside inns to stare. Slower traffic pulled over to let the column pass, and men touched their hat brims as Mrs. Voss rode by. The typical response was an infintesimal nod of acknowledgment, but there were times when she would address such a person by name, or even paused to chat.

  But on more than one occasion Lora saw bystanders make rude gestures when they thought they could get away with it, so she sensed that a lot of the respect Mrs. Voss received was based on fear rather than affection.

  And that was evident as the column entered the fortified town of Alpine without being required to pay the toll posted just outside town: “One Bullet per Person.” That’s what the sign said, but not for Mrs. Voss, who rode through the gate as if it wasn’t even there.

  Not only that, but Buck Benton, the unelected mayor of Alpine, hurried out to greet Mrs. Voss in the friendliest possible way and proceeded to invite her to dinner. There were no such pleasantries for the slaves, of course, but they were allowed to bed down inside a city-owned warehouse, and that amounted to a luxury after so many nights in the open.

  They rose early the next morning, ate a meal of steaming-hot porridge, and set off. It wasn’t long before they passed a well-maintained sign that said, “Welcome to Star Valley, the home of Voss Farms.”

  It was silly, Lora knew that, since a slave is a slave. But the prospect of arriving at the column’s final destination filled her with a sense of dread, because once there, she sensed there would be no escape, nothing to look forward to each day but the next meal and a chance to rest at night.

  Like it or not, the march took her through Etna, Thayne, and Turner, so that by the time the orange-red sun was hanging low in the sky, the column had arrived in the hamlet of Grover, which, according to one of the mercs, was located north of the larger and much more populous town of Afton.

  The countryside was mostly open, surrounded by low-lying hills, and still home to pockets of shadowed snow. Clusters of trees dotted the verdant landscape, and cattle could be seen grazing in some of the fields. But what caught Lora’s eye were the greenhouses. There were hundreds of the glassed-in structures all laid out in tidy rows, and as the column turned left off the highway and passed beneath a sign that read, “VOSS FARMS, STATION 2,” she understood how the Voss family had been able to prosper in spite of the long, snowy winters. They, like the residents of the Sanctuary, grew their crops indoors—and on an enormous scale.

  An arrow-straight road led between the well-kept hothouses toward a defensive wall and an open gate. Lora could see what she assumed to be slaves coming and going from the greenhouses and noticed that none of them were looking her way. Why was that? Because looking was frowned on? Because the sight would make them feel uncomfortable? Or because such sights were so commonplace they weren’t worth taking notice of?

  The questions went unanswered as Mrs. Voss led the column through the gate and into the compound beyond. And there, directly in front of them, stood a large man with a shaved head. He bowed to Mrs. Voss and said, “It’s good to see you, ma’am . . . We missed you.”

  But like the rest of the slaves, Lora was only marginally aware of the man, the two-story house in the background, and the outbuildings all around. Their eyes were focused on the wooden platform behind the bald man, the gibbet mounted on top of it, and the corpse that dangled there. They were home.

  Chapter Nine

  Near Afton, Wyoming, USA

  Crow claimed that the raid on the food caravan was a partial success because the gang had been able to kill half a dozen mercenaries. But, given the cost, no one believed it. And that included Crow, judging by how withdrawn he was.

  For his part, Tre had given the raid quite a bit of thought and had arrived at two conclusions. The first was that an L-shaped ambush would have been more effective. Had some of the gang been positioned behind the fallen trees, firing straight into the column, they might have been able to trap the mercenaries in a killing zone.

  However, according to Tre’s analysis, the mercenaries would have still been able to fight their way out of the trap, thanks to their superior firepower. That led to the second realization. If the gang wanted to defeat Voss, they would need better weapons. But how? They couldn’t steal what they wanted from Voss. They’d have to look elsewhere.

  Thus began the research project that consumed all the time when Tre wasn’t assisting Knife, standing guard duty, or performing chores. That meant long hours in the so-called library. It was a joke, really, since very few of the bandits could read and the books, some of which were strewn about the floor, were an unorganized mess.

  According to Bones, the books had been taken in various raids and, based on a standing order from Crow, placed in the room where Tre found them. And because most gang members couldn’t tell which books had literary merit and which didn’t, they brought everything back. That included novels, scientific references, car manuals, phone books, collections of recipes, and at least one pop-up dinosaur book, which Tre enjoyed.

 
; But ultimately the volume of most importance was a bound journal, which according to the neat printing on the front page, was the property of Minda Marley, a woman who, in addition to being a captain in the National Guard, had been an assistant professor of history at the University of Idaho.

  The first half of the journal consisted of touchingly personal writings about her feelings for her husband—and notes having to do with a paper she hoped to write once the civil war ended. One entry in particular caught Tre’s eye. “At this point both sides have racked up some impressive victories and therefore believe that the war is theirs to lose. But I fear that by the time the last shot is fired, there will be nothing left to fight for.”

  As interesting as such musings were, the real jackpot was located at the end of the journal and was written in the style of a military officer rather than that of a history professor. “2014-2-12. PLACED IN COMMAND OF A PLATOON OF MP’S. ENEMY ARMOR CLOSING FROM THE SOUTHEST. RCVD. ORDERS TO TRANSPORT WEAPONS FROM NAT. GUARD ARMORY/BLACKFOOT TO MOUNTAIN HOME AFB. IT’S GOING TO BE TIGHT.”

  The next entry was dated February 13th. “THE TRUCKS ARE TOO DAMNED SLOW. THEIR HUMVEES ARE CLOSING IN. THEY HOPE TO ENGAGE AND HOLD US FOR THE HEAVIES. NO CHOICE. MASSACRE ROCKS. BURY AND RUN.”

  And that was all. The rest of the pages were blank. There was no way to know what happened to Marley after that—or who had the journal before it wound up in the mine. Fortunately a book on the history of Idaho was included in the newly reorganized library, so Tre was able to look up “Massacre Rocks” and learn more about the rock formation also known as the Gate of Death or the Devil’s Gate, all names that the westward-bound pioneers had given to the narrow passage fearing that the Shoshoni Indians might ambush them. And in fact there had been a fight back on August 9, 1862, east of the rocks. Ten settlers were killed.

  Tre stared at the picture that accompanied the article for a long time. It showed a cluster of weather-worn rocks, one of which stood head and shoulders above the rest. Was a large cache of arms buried at the foot of it or somewhere nearby? There was reason to think so, but no way to be certain. So should he return the journal to the library or take it to Crow and make his case?

  Five days had passed since the disastrous attack on the caravan, and the bandit leader was still moping around. Maybe Crow was ready to listen or maybe he was so depressed that it would be impossible to break through. But in the final analysis, Tre had nothing to lose. Crow would respond or he wouldn’t. If he failed to take the opportunity seriously, Tre planned to slip away and return to the Tangle.

  So he made his way up to Crow’s quarters with Marley’s journal clutched in his hand. There was no door, so all he could do was pause outside the entrance and call out. “Crow? Have you got a minute?”

  The reply was gruff. “Who is it?”

  “Tre.”

  There was a pause. “Come in.”

  Tre entered to find that the room only partially lit, cluttered with partially eaten plates of food, and badly in need of cleaning. Crow sat with his back to both the lamp and the door. He made no effort to turn and look. “What do you want?”

  Tre struggled with his answer. He wanted to live Crow’s fantasy. He wanted to take Star Valley away from Voss and give it to the people. But that would require a leader, someone who could emerge from the dark hole he was living in long enough to get things done. But he couldn’t say that. Not to Crow, not to anyone, because to do so would require thousands of words. So Tre said what he could. “I know where a large cache of weapons is buried.”

  There was another moment of silence. The chair made a squeaking noise as Crow turned around. Tre was shocked by what he saw as the light fell on the other man’s face. There were dark circles under Crow’s eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and he looked ill. “You what?”

  “I know where a large cache of weapons is buried. It’s here . . . in this journal.”

  Crow held out a hand and Tre gave the journal over. A match flared, a second lamp was lit, and more shadows danced on the walls. “I marked the relevant pages,” Tre said helpfully.

  Crow chose to ignore the comment as he opened the journal, read the first couple of pages, and began to skim. That left Tre with nothing to do but stand and wait. Finally, after what might have been five minutes, Crow looked up. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the library.”

  Crow frowned. “So you don’t know anything about it.”

  “No.”

  “But you believe the weapons are there? Buried at Massacre Rocks?”

  “We know the armories were looted. But this stuff was buried. So it’s different.”

  “But what’s to say that Marley didn’t come back and dig it up later?” Crow demanded.

  “The journal ends.”

  “So you think Marley was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And all of her troops?”

  “Yes. The enemy was closing in on them. That’s why they buried the weapons.”

  Crow considered that. “You read the journal, so maybe someone else did too.”

  Tre shrugged. “That’s possible.”

  Crow frowned. “Why? Why are you pushing for this?”

  “Because I want you to do all the things you said you would do.”

  Crow’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a pain in the ass. Have I mentioned that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Pass the word. We leave in the morning.”

  With the possible exception of Freak, who never knew what was going on so far as Tre could tell, the rest of the gang was glad to hear the news and began to prepare. Rumors flew, and most of them were false, a fact that became painfully obvious when Hog spoke to Tre at dinner. “I heard you found a map!”

  “No, it’s a journal.”

  “Whatever . . . The main thing is that we’re going to have rocket launchers! That will even things up.”

  Tre sighed. His attempts to tamp things down had met with very little success. His reputation and standing in the group were riding on what they did or didn’t find at Massacre Rocks. If they failed to find any weapons, he would take the heat instead of Crow. Having been forced to accept that, he took the plate that Hog offered him. “Yeah, rocket launchers would be nice.”

  They left early the next morning, made their way to the meadow where the horses were grazing, and saddled up. Then, with Smoke and Fade leading the way, the rest of the gang followed. Crow came first, followed by Bones, Hog, Tre, Freak, and Knife. As before, Patch and Slick remained behind to guard the hideout.

  A complex network of trails led them down to Highway 89, where they took a break and waited for the scouts to return. When they did, Smoke was carrying a flyer, which according to a traveler she had spoken to, was identical to others posted up and down the highway. The words “WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE” were printed across the top. Then, in smaller print, it said, “1,000 rounds of .45 ammo will be paid to the person or persons who capture, kill, or provide reliable information leading to the apprehension of the murderers depicted here.” It was signed, “Luther Voss.” There were three drawings, all of which were pretty good likenesses. Crow laughed when he saw his face and handed the sheet to Bones. “Pass it around.”

  Once the sheet of paper made it to him, Tre was shocked to see his face sandwiched in between Crow’s and Knife’s. At least one of the mercs had a good memory. Suddenly, like it or not, Tre was committed in a way he hadn’t been before. Yes, he could still return to the Tangle, but it would be as a wanted man. That would make it much more difficult to survive on his own. “It looks like you,” Knife said. “Ugly as hell.”

  So knowing that people were likely to recognize them, the gang was careful to bypass the fortified inn located in the hamlet of Freedom and rode west. As they did so, Tre was very conscious of the fact that Highway 34 was going to pass through Wayan and very close to the Tangle. Part of him regretted the decision to join the gang and wished he could return to his previously solitary life. But he had a purpose
now, something worth fighting for, and knowing that made him feel better.

  Having hiked the highway many times, always on the lookout for bandits, Tre enjoyed the feeling of invulnerability that went with being a bandit. Still, there was plenty to worry about because he knew that fifty mercs could be waiting around the next bend. If they were, the fight wouldn’t last very long.

  The group arrived in Henry, Idaho, by nightfall. Although there was no town to speak of, they found a beautiful camping spot on the shore of what Crow’s much-abused map said was the Blackfoot Reservoir. As Tre looked out across the perfectly still water, he saw two conical mountains. They were almost entirely bare of trees and reflected in the reservoir. The sky was a deep shade of lavender and the stars were coming out. That was when Freak appeared at his side. “Balloon.”

  Her hand was small and seemed to crawl into his. Tre felt an urge to put an arm around her shoulders and to kiss the lips that seemed to be waiting for that very thing. But then he remembered what Crow had told him. “Freak isn’t ready for a boy-girl relationship.” So he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and let go. “Balloon to you too,” he said, and went off to gather wood.

  Tre stood sentry duty for two hours, but the night passed without incident, and they got under way the next morning. The sky was gray and it was raining, so Tre felt thankful for the flat-brimmed cowboy hat and poncho-style rain slicker that covered him and most of old Willie’s saddle. Thunder rolled as the column followed the east side of the reservoir south, and occasional sticks of lightning could be seen on the horizon. It was, as Hog put it, “a crappy day.”

  The plan was to ride south to Soda Springs, follow Highway 30 west to Interstate 15, and take Interstate 86 to Massacre Rocks, what Crow hoped would be a two-day ride. After an hour or so, Tre was standing in the stirrups to relieve the pain in his knees when he saw Smoke round the gently sloping hill off to the right and gallop their way. The scouts always departed first and typically stayed well ahead of the column all day. So why was Smoke coming back?