Mountain Man (Book 5): Final Stand [Last Ditch]

by Jones, Nathan

  “And feeling things that strongly doesn't make teenagers rebellious?” Gray asked dryly.

  The trader waved that away. “Trapper, we've all heard that kid having shouting arguments with you and his mom about wanting to defend the people he loves. Imagine that you felt that desire to protect your loved ones enough to scream at your parents, the people you love and respect the most, trying to make them understand.”

  Tom flinched, thinking of his own parents, and the regime they'd taken the side of in his hometown during the shortages before the Ultimatum. Of his own shouted arguments with them, trying to convince them that what they were doing was wrong. “I want to protect my family pretty blasted hard,” he snapped, trying to keep the heat from his voice.

  “No less than your son does,” Brady shot back. “And because you feel it so strongly, can you imagine letting anyone, even those you love and respect most, keep you from doing it? Then accept that as a teenager he probably feels that ten times harder.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it, pondering that.

  “You've kind of put him in a bind,” the trader continued relentlessly. “He can't do what he feels he has to without disobeying his parents and even breaking promises. That's got to tear him apart. Eventually he might decide he's only got one option, to do what he can. What no one can stop him from doing.”

  A solemn silence settled over the small room. Tom finally cleared his throat. “You might be right on a lot of those points. But you're wrong about one thing . . .” he turned for the door, jamming his hat onto his head, “I'm going out and bringing my son home.”

  “Now hold on a second, Trapper!” Mitchells protested, hurrying to cut him off. Tom paused, scowling, but the former sheriff stood his ground. “I know you're worried for your boy, and it sounds like you've got good reason. But you are in charge of defense of this valley, and now's not the time to be running off.”

  Tom struggled not to let his worry and impatience show. “You and Gray can handle things here. Did it well enough while I was chasing away those riders.”

  Camptown's leader ground his teeth in frustration. “Be smart about this. You've got no idea where he even went, and there's a lot of mountains out there for him to disappear into. It won't help anyone to go wandering off blindly, hoping to run into him. On the other hand, if you organize properly, have the scouts and sentries keep an eye out for him, get word to Gerry and Gray's teams of skirmishers as they come in, you might actually have a hope of finding him.”

  “Those are all good suggestions,” Tom agreed. “I'd be obliged if you'd do them for me while I'm out looking in the spots he's most likely to be.” Mitchells threw up his hands, face darkening beneath his battered old cowboy hat, but Tom continued resolutely. “It's my son, Parley. I need to go find him, bring him home safely, or I can't call myself any sort of father. I'm trusting my family to your care while I'm gone.”

  After a few long seconds the sheriff's shoulders slumped. “You know I'll have our people keep an eye out for your son, Trapper,” he said quietly. “And I'll look after your family and the rest of the valley. But I think you're leaving when we need you most.” In spite of that he held out his hand, offering Tom a crushing handshake. “Find him quick and get back here, before the bloodies bury this region in soldiers and stumble across Camptown by pure luck.”

  Most of the others stepped forward to also offer him their best wishes. Including, surprisingly, Jonas, who hadn't seemed all that interested in making friends the few times they'd worked together, including the last several days hunting the riders. Tom gave everyone a last nod, then strode outside and hauled himself back into Horse's saddle.

  In his haste he hadn't even considered asking Gray and Mitchells to look for Skyler, so taking the time to talk to them had been good for that reason. And it turned out to be good for another reason, since it had delayed his departure long enough to run into an unexpected arrival.

  Coming from the northwest, where the bowl valley meandered down to a larger valley below, he saw a figure trudging along who looked as exhausted as he felt. It was Meredith Ellison, one of the women Skyler had rescued from the Sangue camp at Joes Valley Reservoir.

  She'd been out skirmishing with Brandon, which was why Tom immediately nudged his horse aside to meet the young woman. “Mer!” he called, hopping down from the saddle as she slowed to a weary stop. “What's going on? Are the skirmishers with you?”

  She grimaced. “Guess that answers the question of whether Brandon's been able to get word back here,” she said. At his questioning look, she quickly explained the situation with ambushing the Sangue squads at the eastern edge of the mountains, and getting separated from the others.

  “Last I saw they were leading the bloodies on a merry chase southwest,” she finished grimly. “I had a couple horsemen and a dog on my trail for a while, so I had to swing far north.” She grimaced. “That was a nightmarish few days, I'll tell you what. But I lost them after I managed to shoot the dog and went into some rough terrain where they couldn't easily follow on their horses.” After an almost guilty hesitation she shot him a wary look. “I made sure I'd shaken them before ever heading back to Camptown, I swear.”

  He nodded absently, eyes turning to look out across the mountains east of them. Skyler was already gone, so Mer wouldn't have been able to tell the kid where Brandon was, or at least had been and should be now. Still, if his son was heading east to check the skirmishers' last known location, he'd encounter either Sangue scouts pursuing them, or their trail leading the enemy away.

  Actually, this could be a good thing; Skyler would be off chasing trails for the next few days to catch up with Brandon, while Tom could head in the direction the skirmishers were going and intercept them.

  Even with the kid's lead of a few to several hours, depending on how early he'd started out, Tom might be able to get to Brandon before him. He could be waiting for the rebellious little skunk when he arrived, drag him back to Camptown by the ear.

  Or at least, sit his son down and have a serious talk with him, try to figure out some way Skyler could contribute to the fight without haring off on his own to hunt bloodies in the wild and getting himself killed. Some compromise that would probably leave both Skyler and Kristy furious at him and sullen with each other, but unable to agree on anything better.

  He'd just had to marry into the most stubborn blasted family in Utah, hadn't he? Sighing, Tom turned back to Mer. “I'm guessing you came back so you could find a way to rejoin the skirmishers?” She nodded. “Well it looks as if I'm going after them myself . . . I know you're probably dead on your feet, but if you want you can grab a horse and come with me.”

  The young woman's brow furrowed. “Why you looking for them?”

  He shook his head grimly. “Chasing a runaway.”

  Her expression of exhaustion sharpened into sudden interest. “Skyler?” He nodded, and she snorted in disbelief. “That kid . . . I owe him my life, and I'll always be in his camp for that. But even so, he needs a few good thwacks with a belt from where I'm standing.”

  Tom couldn't help but be amused by that, since Mer was only a couple years older than his son but acted like there was a vast gulf in age between them.

  Then her face clouded with sudden pain. “Although it's a bit hypocritical of me to say so, since if he hadn't bucked authority and snuck into that camp I'd still be-” she cut off with a violent shudder, looking away.

  Tom looked away too, respectful of the haunted look in her eyes; he'd seen it from plenty of friends, courtesy of Sangue. A reminder that in spite of the girl's youth, she'd experienced more than her fair share of the world's horrors.

  After fifteen seconds or so the young woman took a deep breath and turned back to him. “Anyway, what's he up to now?”

  “It looks as if he intends to go out skirmishing,” Tom replied grimly. “Speaking of which, I don't supposed he mentioned any of his plans to you when we were attacking Emery, did he?”

  Mer stiffened, dis
belief turning to complete shock. “Wait, he was at Emery?”

  Well, Tom supposed that answered that. Although her not knowing wasn't really too surprising, since Brandon's skirmishers had stuck with Brady to escort him and then cover his trail, while Skyler had laid low up until he saved Tom and Gray and his militia fighters the next day. So he quickly filled her in on what had happened in Camptown since the skirmishers had last had a chance to touch base.

  Once he finished, she wearily rubbed at the side of her forehead. “So he snuck his way into that mess down south, and now he's running away? Forget a few thwacks, you need to drag him behind the woodshed and really tan his hide.”

  “Guess I'll figure out the parenting once I find him,” Tom said, motioning for her to hop up on Horse so they could head back and pick up another mount for her. Exhausted as he was, he could walk a little farther to give the poor girl a chance to rest some more. “Sooner rather than later, if possible.”

  Before the headstrong kid got himself killed.

  Chapter Three

  Warm Welcome

  When the gruff sergeant from the group of soldiers that had intercepted Lisa's family had talked about New Bozeman, she'd kind of pictured it as being a lot like Emery. Except, well, new: roughly built cabins like people had been building in Camptown, and freshly plowed fields struggling to eke out a first crop, and refugees settling in to try to start a new life.

  Well, the refugee part was true enough, but with everything else she'd been dead wrong.

  New Bozeman was huge. Thousands of people, at least. Maybe nothing like Grand Junction had been, but compared to any other settlement she'd seen, all scratched out of whatever inhospitable terrain was left outside fallout zones left behind by the Ultimatum, it was a bustling city. So much so, in fact, that the hundreds of refugees lined up at a checkpoint outside, being painstakingly processed by soldiers like the Northern League ones who'd pointed her family this way, seemed like a small crowd in comparison.

  And the place had cars, and streetlights, and other signs of technology that Lisa had actually never seen before, outside of junked ones in ruins. And the few electric lights Grand Junction had been able to scrape together, of course.

  But a city planned and built to include that technology, rather than having it haphazardly added on here and there, was something Lisa had only had described to her by her parents, who'd lost that world before she was even born. And of course the soldiers had their guns and radios and everything.

  It still wigged her out a little to see working vehicles and not feel a spike of terror at the Sangue monsters who had to be driving them. Or at least, not quite as much terror, and only until her rational mind could take over and remind her that these vehicles were friendly.

  She hoped.

  Her dad led the way, wary hand on his rifle, ready to meet any threat they might encounter on the approach to New Bozeman. Or in the Northern League city itself, if it wasn't as friendly as it seemed; her mom was especially fearful that in spite of the friendliness the soldiers had shown them. She seemed convinced that the moment they arrived at this place, their livestock would be stolen from them and they'd be lucky if that was the worst that happened.

  Lisa didn't think so. Or at least, she hoped that wouldn't happen. After all, they'd encountered some more soldiers on the border into Northern League territory, and those men and women had been polite and respectful and even helpful as they pointed her family along to their destination a few days away.

  Still, precautions were always a good idea; some of those refugees might be desperate enough to try something, after all, even though they were within view of the checkpoint.

  With her dad ready to intercept trouble up ahead, that left her and her mom, who was holding her four-year-old brother Bryant in the saddle in front of her, to herd the livestock. Although they also held their weapons ready.

  Thankfully, none of the refugees waiting to be let through the checkpoint seemed inclined towards cattle rustling. Or at least, not within stone's throw of a bunch of soldiers. And of course the entire group of refugees didn't immediately turn and come howling for their blood, the way Lisa's mom had seemed to fear they would.

  Her family certainly drew plenty of attention as they came into view and approached at the meandering speed of weary livestock, and she saw a few hungry stares. Some more hungry than she would've liked, truth be told, but nobody tried anything.

  That didn't stop her dad from stopping them a fair distance away from the huge crowd, looking a bit at a loss about what to do next. He obviously wanted to get in line, since cutting ahead just because they had animals was bound to irk those already waiting.

  At the same time, any drover with five minutes of experience or a lick of common sense knew not to bring livestock close to crowds. The animals would get antsy, liable to bolt in all directions, and then it was no end of effort to get them back together. Even at this distance, the herds were already showing signs of nervousness at so many people nearby. Especially the goats, who were sneaking away behind the safety of the larger horses and cows. Lisa moved to cut them off, but this situation was going to get irritating at this rate.

  Thankfully, some of the soldiers at the checkpoint took pity on them; maybe they knew enough about livestock to know that they didn't mix well with large crowds, and wanted to sort out the potential problem before dozens of horses, cows, and goats scattered into what already looked to be a chaotic situation in the line, further adding to the confusion.

  Two men approached casually, taking no action that would spook the animals, and talked to her dad for a few minutes while Lisa and her mom focused on keeping the livestock from wandering. Then one of the soldiers raised a radio to his lips and spoke into it, not quite loud enough for her to hear what he was saying.

  After half a minute or so of conversation, the man motioned to her dad and started off at a brisk walk, the other soldier keeping pace. Her dad, in turn, motioned for them to follow, and whistled and wheeled his horse to get the herds moving to the west, away from the refugees and the checkpoint.

  Before long Lisa realized they were moving away from New Bozeman as well, and with a surge of concern wondered if there was a problem. If so her dad didn't look worried, although her mom certainly did.

  As it turned out, the soldiers were just leading them to a nice pasture a stone's throw from the city, where they apparently had permission to graze their livestock.

  That was a nice, familiar task, one Lisa could practically do in her sleep, and it calmed her nerves while they waited for someone to come process their request to enter the Northern League as refugees. She even had plenty of time to gawk at New Bozeman, admiring the clean, modern buildings and well fed, happy looking people, and trying to spot new and interesting technologies.

  Before long two vehicles drove up to the pasture, one the usual League military truck painted in the standard grayish-gold color, the other a formidable looking car that even Lisa, who had no real knowledge of vehicles, knew looked nice enough it had to be carrying someone important.

  She supposed their herds, humble compared to the Miller family's, were still large enough to warrant a warmer welcome than most destitute, desperate refugees received.

  A few more soldiers piled out of the truck and car to join the two who'd escorted her family. They were obviously an honor guard, given the clear deference they gave the older man who finally emerged from the car. He was probably in his 40s, tall and rugged looking with neatly trimmed graying hair, and wearing some sort of dress uniform similar to what the other soldiers wore but fancier, with a few medals and a rank insignia she didn't know.

  It wasn't a mystery for long, since the officer immediately approached her dad and offered his hand. “Major Crenshaw,” he growled.

  “Bob Hendrickson,” he replied, shaking the older man's hand firmly, then motioned back towards where Lisa and her mom were still keeping the herd in check. “My wife Vicky, daughter Lisa, and son Bryant.”

 
Crenshaw did a bit of a double take at the sight of her brother's light brown skin, courtesy of his unfortunate origins, and then at her parents' comparatively pale complexions. But he didn't comment on it, simply turned towards the livestock.

  “Well, I'm not going to beat around the bush,” he said, tone brisk. “Most folks we get coming north fleeing the Panteras don't have much more than the clothes on their backs, so anyone who can fend for themselves is a welcome sight. Needless to say, the Northern League offers your family its hospitality.”

  “Thank you,” her dad said. “Panteras what you folks call Sangue up north?” Lisa nodded wordlessly at that, also wanting to know.

  The major shrugged. “Sangue are part of the Panteras, or Panthers, regime. Sure, Panteras gave themselves a pretentious mouthful of a name once they seized power, but everyone still calls them that, even their own people.” He shifted impatiently. “Don't worry, you won't have too much trouble finding someone willing to tell you what information we have on the enemy. Later.”

  “Later,” her dad agreed. He shifted uncomfortably. “Since we're not beating around the bush, what, ah, sort of taxes will the League be asking for?” He looked a bit resigned as he asked the question, and Lisa could understand why; even if the soldiers had been polite enough to not just steal their animals, the League was in the middle of a war and needed supplies.

  Their price of entry into New Bozeman might end up being most of their livestock after all.

  Crenshaw blinked. “The normal amount for all citizens,” he said slowly. “Usually deferred for new arrivals, at least assuming they're not well off and are having the expected trouble getting their situation sorted out.” He glanced at the livestock with a slight smile. “Doubt you'll be able to argue that point, but taxes aren't due until fall.”