by Nathan Jones
Brandon gave a short bark of laughter, not mocking but incredulous. “What?”
He squared his shoulders firmly. “You're going to need a real tracker out there, and we both know I can't teach you guys enough in just one more day of training.”
Brandon put his face in his hands. “Skyler . . . no, no, and heck no! Why are you even asking? Your mom would skin me alive just for talking about this with you.”
It always came back to that. “It's my choice to make, not hers. Besides, you're going to be fighting for your lives out there. You need all the help you can get.”
“It's every bit her choice to make, kid. I know you hate to hear it, but you're fourteen.”
“I'm fifteen in a few days!” Skyler said, louder than he'd intended to. He ignored the curious looks from the other skirmishers, glaring at his friend defiantly. Okay, it was closer to a week, but still.
“Have to be honest, your birthday won't really make much difference here.” Brandon put a hand on his shoulder, eyes pained. “Believe me, you'll probably have more than your share of fighting to do once you're older. That's the world we live in. Don't be in such a hurry to find it now.”
“What about those false trails you want to set?” Skyler asked, desperate. “I could do that easy, and it wouldn't involve fighting. And I won't come within a mile of any bloodies when you're skirmishing, I promise.” His friend's expression showed he wasn't buying it, wasn't even considering it. “Come on, I want to help! If you don't let me join you, I'll just go off on my own and do the same thing. Don't think I wouldn't.”
Brandon sighed, looking as if he wanted to put his face in his hands again. “Skyler, is that really what you want? Could you even do it? We're going to be shooting bloodies in the back while they're taking a dump, throwing grenades into their tents while they sleep. It's going to be the ugliest sort of fighting, the sort you couldn-”
He cut off, but he didn't need to finish because Skyler heard him loud and clear. The sort you couldn't do back at Joes Valley, with a camp full of drunken, passed out soldiers and a knife in your hand.
Skyler looked away, fighting down a surge of bitterness, and quickened his pace to leave the skirmishers behind.
The next morning, Brandon announced they'd only spend a few more hours on tracking. He seemed to have taken Skyler's words about the skirmishers' odds of learning the skill in a short time to heart, and was resigned to them having to learn as they went, and muddle along the best they could out there.
For the rest of the day, the skirmishers' leader wanted Skyler to teach them how to leave convincing false trails to guide the bloodies away from Camptown. Trails the skirmishers could even use to ambush pursuing soldiers if the opportunity presented itself, possibly in conjunction with the volunteers.
It wasn't as exciting as some of their other training, and more labor intensive. But whenever anyone complained, usually Neal, Brandon reminded them firmly that their number one goal was keeping Sangue away from Camptown.
Killing bloodies, and where possible taking their stuff, was just a bonus.
The eighth day since beginning training, the skirmishers prepared to set off. They weren't going out with the goal of finding and attacking any Sangue, at least not to begin with; instead, their first task was to bring what seemed like an absurd number of packhorses full of supplies, weapons, and ammo out into the areas they planned to operate in. Once there, they'd spend several days making hidden resupply caches they could visit later if need be.
The grim truth was that once the skirmishers left, they didn't intend to come anywhere near Camptown for a while. Not when there was the slightest possibility Sangue could follow them. Brandon was well aware the enemy was going to hate them and hunt them like no others, and they had to accept that.
Along with their guns, the skirmishers' leader had his people bring several bows and crossbows and most of their arrows. “I plan to pick out our best archers and have them spend as much time as possible practicing with these,” he told Skyler as he packed the arrows onto one of the horses. “There's a lot to be said for quieter weapons with no muzzle flashes, even if we'd have to be a lot closer to do much with them.”
“And for attacking Sangue camps, right?” Skyler asked. Trapper had discussed his ideas for hitting enemy camps extensively with them.
His friend nodded solemnly. “We'll also do night training while we're out there, practice hitting enemy camps and sneaking up and taking out sentries. I'd like to avoid attacking the bloodies at night where possible, since there's a lot that can go wrong with that, but it's hard to deny it's probably the most ideal time to catch them off guard. Especially if we can get into place before they set up camp, so we're not crashing around in the dark.”
With all the preparations made, there was nothing left to do but head out. Brandon offered Skyler his hand. “Thanks for the help, it made a huge difference.”
He hoped so. “Be careful out there. And come back when you can.”
The fifteen skirmishers set out to the south, the first area they planned to operate in. They left with heads held high, leading their laden packhorses, while a small group of volunteers and townspeople waved and cheered them off.
Once they were out of sight Skyler looked around the valley, which seemed impossibly small, and felt the enthusiasm that had rekindled during the skirmishing training fade to ashes again.
He jumped slightly as Trapper clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Back to training the defenders?” he asked carefully. “Logan and Teddy could sure use the help.”
“Yeah, sure,” Skyler said dully, allowing his adoptive dad to usher him towards the firing range.
Chapter Eleven
New Arrivals
Sangue had been strangely quiet since breaking off pursuit after the failed ambush. Tom had been dreading the scouts inevitably returning with news of squads once more inexorably searching in their direction, but so far it hadn't come.
He could only assume the enemy was too occupied getting Highway 29 back up and running to keep searching the mountains for an elusive group of enemies. That, or maybe they'd hit another even bigger patch of resistance somewhere else and had their hands full dealing with it.
Whatever the reason, he nearly had a heart attack the day after Brandon's skirmishers set out to begin their work. Mel Carver, who'd been with the scouts keeping an eye out northwest of the valley, came thundering back into Camptown in the early afternoon, nearly throwing herself off her borrowed horse to breathlessly give him news of hundreds of people heading south into their area.
Tom's heart rate steadied when the young woman went on to add that the hundreds of people looked to be a refugee convoy, and one that was seriously bad off. “Derry tells me they're an unorganized mass, almost no scouts he could see out watching the area around them. Most of them are struggling just to put one foot in front of the other, and while they're not exactly leaving a trail of bodies behind them, he did observe a family stopping long enough to bury a loved one.”
Refugees, from up north? Did that mean Sangue had managed firmer control up there than they were managing in these mountains, forcing people to flee? “How'd they get past Highway 29?” he asked.
Mel shrugged. “No idea. But Derry says they're about two days out from Camptown at the pace they're setting, although from the direction they're headed they'll probably pass us by well to the west.”
Assuming Camptown wanted them to pass by. But what was the alternative, inviting hundreds of people in? The displaced Emery townspeople were already reduced to eating bugs and eagerly waiting for the scrub oak acorns to grow big enough to harvest to give them some hope of food storage through the winter. Brady kept pestering Tom to think about “selling” the town in exile his livestock to butcher for meat, at least a few of them.
There was no possible way they could take in another group. But at the same time, Sangue had proven that one good push from them would probably blow past any resistance the volunteers could raise, leaving the invaders in a
position to attack the valley.
The grim truth was, Camptown didn't have the numbers to defend the place on their own. At which point Tom supposed the question was: which would kill them first, starvation or bloodies? Either way, he wanted to at least get a look at this group, find out what he could about them.
First things first, though, he needed to talk to Brady and Mitchells, see what they thought.
“Good job,” he told Mel. “Take your horse back to Brady, and tell Jenny to ride back out to join the scouts as quick as she can to replace you. Then get some rest.”
The young woman snorted as she wearily climbed back onto her horse. “Rest? I've almost forgotten what that is.”
Hadn't they all.
The meeting with the two town leaders didn't start well, considering that what they were doing when Tom found them was going around to each person in the new town and tallying their food supplies. The best way Brady could think of for assessing the entire population's food situation going forward.
From the expressions on their faces, that wasn't a good situation. Which was why both looked even more sour as he explained the scouts' sighting of hundreds of refugees headed their way. “It never rains but it pours,” Brady groused.
“I assume you came around to discuss how best to send them packing?” Mitchells added.
Tom hesitated. “Just wanted to point out the enemy of our enemy is our friend.”
“Hundreds of new “friends” will have us starving within the week,” Brady shot back. “Please don't tell me you're actually considering taking them in.”
“I'm considering going out to see what things look like with this group.” Tom leaned forward intently. “Sangue's not going to be occupied clearing Highway 29 forever, and we barely fought them off the last time. If these refugees have a few hundred fighters with them, that could mean the difference between winning and losing the next time the bloodies come around.”
“And we can enjoy the victory as we all starve together,” the trader said, refusing to budge.
Tom tried a different approach. “If we win decisively we can loot the bloodies, take their supplies. And if we can defend more territory we can hunt, trap, and forage in new grounds, giving us access to more food. Our situation isn't much better than that of these refugees, and if we have the ability to pull through with enough effort then they can manage it too, working alongside us.”
Brady opened his mouth, but Mitchells spoke up first. “I can see where you're both coming from,” he said reasonably. “Trapper, you want us to win against the enemy that wants us all dead, and for that we need numbers. Brady, you want us to survive the winter.”
“Actually, I'd kind of like to do both,” Tom cut in mildly. Brady snorted and nodded his agreement.
The sheriff gave them both irritated looks. “Anyway, we could argue the merits of both positions until the cows come home. Or I can head out there with Trapper and check out the situation with these refugees. Whether they'd actually be able to help us fight, as well as hold their own well enough to justify the cost of helping them.”
Brady couldn't really argue with that, so Tom and Mitchells gathered up a dozen volunteers on horseback and headed out. That wouldn't be enough people to defend themselves if these refugees turned out to be desperate and unfriendly, but since they were just checking out the situation Camptown's leader didn't intend to make contact at all.
Skyler hung around the edge of the gathering group, and Tom was half afraid his son would beg to come along. But he didn't, just watched forlornly for a while before walking away without even saying goodbye or wishing them luck. Tom said his hasty goodbyes to Kristy and Molly instead, then cut everyone else's goodbyes short and called for the group to head out.
Following Mel's directions, they headed almost due west, nearly to the edge of the area patrolled by the far scouts. It took a little over a day, angling to time their travel with the refugee group moving at a slower pace to intercept them, before they met up with Derry and his scouts who were still trailing the hundreds of people.
Derry didn't have much to report, other than that the group had buried a few more people and spent a lot of time foraging as they traveled, almost as if they had no destination in mind. Which didn't surprise Tom, seeing as how there wasn't any real destination for them to make for in these mountains to the south.
At least until they reached I-70, which wasn't exactly a road any sane person made for; it was surely closely patrolled by Sangue at this point.
He had the scout lead him and Mitchells to a vantage where they could see the group, up on a slope overlooking a broad valley with lots of meadows and aspen groves that were easy to travel through. Not terribly defensible or good for hiding tracks, but at Tom's first sight of the mass of humanity sprawling out across the open spaces below, he couldn't blame them for taking the path of least resistance.
Back when he'd first seen the townspeople fleeing Emery, he'd thought they were weary and dispirited, the definition of human misery. But now, as he watched the pitiful column of refugees from who knew where struggling for every step, he gained a tragic new insight into suffering.
He'd never seen a more literal application of “dead on their feet” than the poor men, women, and children below. Skeletal, their clothing ragged and filthy, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, stumbling with every step but forcing themselves to continue at all costs.
As if only the horror of what they were fleeing could match the horror of their current miserable existence.
To say he didn't think they could make it another step was an understatement; the fact that they were still moving at all seemed impossible, a feat of determination or desperation beyond anything Tom had ever experienced, even with all the hardship and grief of his own life. Something he'd probably never be able to understand or appreciate unless he suffered it himself.
Mitchells swore softly. “I've seen a lot of misery since the shortages began, especially after the Ultimatum. But I don't think I've ever seen a sorrier sight than this.”
Tom nodded grimly. These people obviously needed help immediately; it wasn't an exaggeration to say the slightest delay on their part might mean life or death for some of them. But at the same time, the sight of so many skeletal people and the grim reality of Camptown's own food problems couldn't be ignored.
If they were unwisely generous, even to those in such desperate need, it might be his own friends and neighbors looking like those poor souls below before long.
He moved his binoculars along the column, looking for some hint as to who these people were and where they'd come from. He spotted a couple men coming over the ridge at the back of the group, scouts carrying weapons. Another group of men struggling to shift small handcarts across even the easy terrain of the valley below also had a disciplined look about them. There were others moving along the column, chivvying everyone to keep moving and stepping in to help where needed.
And at the head of the column, behind another sorry screen of scouts, a handful of men walked together. They were older and grimmer, with the weight of the world on their shoulders look of leaders about them. Especially the man at the front, who was-
Tom froze, squinting closer at the haggard gray features peeking out from under a tattered hat. What was visible beneath a scrubby growth of iron gray beard, that is. He was almost unrecognizable in his current state, but still a familiar enough face Tom would know him anywhere.
Gray Tucker.
“How the blazes?” he whispered, ignoring Mitchells's curious look.
His first view of Grand Junction's sheriff was such a shock it was almost impossible not to stare for a few seconds, ignoring all other considerations. Gray had always seemed larger than life, a lawman able to keep peace in a major trade hub, and along all the trade routes leading to it for a hundred miles in every direction. A man who somehow got to know every face that came through his city, and most of the names too. And when Sangue came to threaten his city, he'd seamlessly switched from sh
eriff to militia leader, fighting the enemy tooth and nail for years without giving an inch of ground.
Tom considered him a friend, and felt more than a little pride in the fact that the sheriff seemed to respect him.
But now Gray was shrunken, looking aged decades by his ordeals, and wasted away to just another of the filthy, ragged refugees fleeing from the war they'd lost. He was so beaten down by exhaustion and deprivation that in spite of his obvious desire to present a strong image for the people following him, he barely had the energy to hobble forward fast enough to stay at the head of the column.
But now matter how wasted away and dispirited he looked, that was still Gray Tucker. “We're going to help these people,” Tom announced, lowering his binoculars.
Mitchells stared at him incredulously. “And what exactly makes you think that? Just because it hurts the soul to look at them, that doesn't mean we can reasonably-”
Tom pointed, interrupting him. “You see who's leading them? That's Sheriff Gray Tucker, leader of Grand Junction's militia. Don't ask me how they got here, but those are the Grand Junction survivors Jenny's group was traveling with, before they split off to head into Utah and ran afoul of the bloodies.”
Camptown's leader grunted; he'd met Gray a time or two, and after a few moments of looking closer through his scope he grunted again. “Well I'll be, that ragged scarecrow is Gray.” He panned his scope across the line of refugees again. “How's that possible, though? I thought Jenny and the women with her told you this lot was traveling north through Colorado into Wyoming.”
“Plans must've changed between then and now.” Tom shifted impatiently. “The important thing is that's Gray Tucker, with what's left of the militia that fought Sangue off for more than four years. Tell me one group out there who we'd be better off inviting to join us than them.”
“I don't see much in the way of a militia,” Mitchells argued dubiously. “Just a lot of starving families dead on their feet. Only so many more mouths to feed.”
