by Nathan Jones
He downed the rest of his glass in a couple quick swallows, hissing between his teeth. “And that was just the start of our problems . . . it was a death march, from Grand Junction to Wyoming, then turned back there by Sangue flooding the area. Following these mountains down into Utah and finally here. Lost more people than I brought safely to this valley by an order of magnitude, and “safe” is putting it generously considering the state we're in.”
Tom nodded; he'd heard from some of the folks Gray had led here about the ordeal they'd just been through. “Rock and a hard place,” he murmured, pouring the man another splash.
With a ragged sigh the sheriff looked at the whiskey, then solemnly poured it onto the ground. “For Grand Junction,” he whispered.
Tom nodded and poured out the rest of his own glass in tribute. “Rest their souls.”
“And those not granted the mercy of a swift death.” Gray abruptly turned and raised his glass, as if to fling it at the nearest tree in sudden fury. For a moment he stood frozen like that, panting, then with a sigh let his hand with the glass drop to his side and ran the other, shaking with weakness or emotion, across his face. “What I just went through . . . that was as much leadering as I want to do in my lifetime.” He stared down at his glass with an empty expression. “Honestly, it'll be a relief to not be the man everyone looks to for answers for a change.”
Tom could fully sympathize with that. He felt like a jerk for what he had to ask next, but he needed to know if the man was stepping away entirely; losing his leadership would be a serious blow to their efforts fighting Sangue, not to mention causing a lot of confusion among the Grand Junction refugees. “How would you feel about being the grizzled old sergeant, passing down orders from above and giving sage advice?” He hesitated, then decided the truth couldn't hurt. “I desperately need your experience, Gray . . . my own efforts to bring the fight to the bloodies haven't been going so well.”
“Not the way I hear it . . . aside from that one ambush that didn't work out, I'd say you've been bloodying their noses better than anyone could expect from a small, half-trained volunteer force.”
Tom appreciated the compliment, but what he really wanted to hear was an answer. So he waited patiently until Gray sighed in defeat. But before speaking, the older man tapped the bottle with his glass until Tom poured him a bit more. He downed it all with a businesslike hiss, then straightened and handed the glass back.
“Let me sleep for a few days straight and I'll get back to you on that. Thanks for the drink, Trapper.”
“Night, Sheriff.” Tom watched the man stumble away unsteadily, his thoughts grim. Then with a sigh he closed the bottle and headed back to the retreat, deciding to turn in early for once.
* * * * *
Tom woke up early the next morning to find his arm numb from Kristy sleeping on top of it.
Biting back a groan, he gently extricated it and tried to rub away the pins and needles. His wife hadn't commented on the smell of whiskey on his breath when he kissed her goodnight. Instead she'd just quietly curled up beside him on their bed, head on his shoulder with his arm around her. They'd fallen asleep like that, which led to waking up like this.
Once he could feel his hand again he put his arm back around her, gently running his fingers through her flaxen hair. It about took his breath away how much he loved this incredible woman, and he could hardly countenance that she loved him back.
She was eight months along now, give or take. The baby would be coming in no time at all, and the thought of her having it in this valley, with starvation rampant and Sangue circling ever closer, filled him with indescribable terror. There was nothing he wanted more than to protect his family, whatever the cost.
But somehow, he'd been saddled with protecting the entire remaining populations of two exiled towns. Arguably at the expense of the people he loved most; he dreaded the conversation he was going to have to have with his wife sooner rather than later, about a decision he'd made the moment he decided to bring the Grand Junction refugees in.
Kristy abruptly spoke in a groggy voice, startling him. “I don't care what tender thoughts you're thinking right now, if you don't stop tugging at my hair while I'm trying to sleep I'm going to bite your hand. I'm sleeping for two here.”
“Sorry,” Tom replied sheepishly, hastily pulling his hand away to rest on her shoulder and leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Although I don't think that's a thing.”
She mumbled grumpily and burrowed her face in his chest, voice coming out muffled. “Seriously, Tom. I love you and you're the light of my life, but either go back to sleep or go away so I can.”
Fair enough. He'd have his important conversation once she was up. Tom kissed her again and gently eased out of bed, reaching for his clothes. Behind him his wife shifted around, then lifted her head enough to shoot him a chagrined look through bleary eyes. “I didn't really mean for you to go away, honey. Come back . . . I'm awake now anyway.”
After a moment's hesitation Tom settled back down on the bed, and Kristy cuddled into his arms. For a few contented minutes they just held each other, talking quietly and enjoying the blissful peace of being together without any emergencies calling him away. It was probably a good time to say what needed saying, but he put it off to savor the moment.
Finally, though, his wife shifted around to look up at him. “Well, Tom Miller? Out with it.”
He gave her a surprised look. “What?”
“You've got that gloomy, resigned look you get when you've got something to tell me that you know I'm not going to like, and you're trying to find the best way to put it.”
Tom hadn't realized he had a look like that, although she wasn't wrong, of course. He sighed and decided to bite the bullet. “I'm thinking we're going to need to slaughter our livestock to feed the Grand Junction refugees.”
Kristy sucked in a sharp, almost alarmed breath. “That's our ranch, Tom. We can move to new pastures and build new barns, but you're talking about almost five years of hard work growing those herds. Hard work we won't be able to just replace with lavish spending, the way we could when we started out.”
Didn't he know it; finding someone willing to barter for precious metals these days was near impossible. “We'll keep the heifers and doe kids and the best milkers, since they're already helping with the food situation. That should be enough to start again when we get a chance.”
Kristy clearly didn't like even that half measure. “Even with how desperate those poor folks are, I trust we won't be slaughtering any horses?”
It was his turn to be shocked. “Of course not. That would be insane.” He held her a bit closer, looking into her sky blue eyes intently. “I was the one who pressed to take in those people, Kris. I did it because I knew we can't win this war on our own. We need Gray Tucker and his militia, or at least as many of them as survived.”
Her eyes softened, and she hugged him back. “Even if we slaughtered all our cows, goats, and even the horses, it wouldn't be enough to feed several hundred more people for long. This feels like a pointless sacrifice.”
Tom hesitated. “It's a temporary, emergency measure. I've got thoughts on what to do long term.”
“Thoughts for feeding over a thousand desperate people, in these isolated mountains, while at the same time constantly fending off Sangue attacks,” his wife stated more than asked, tone doubtful.
“Yeah, actually. But, um, you won't like what I have in mind.”
“Less than I like sending our livestock to the butcher's block? It must be something crazy.”
He sighed again. It was, but unfortunately he couldn't think of a better solution. After a few moments he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. Then he reluctantly reached for his clothes again. “If you're okay with this, I'm going to go talk to Brady about the logistics of using the livestock to feed as many mouths as possible.”
His wife nodded despondently, then caught his arm as he stood and used it to pull herself awkwardly to her feet as well. �
�I wouldn't say I'm “okay”, but I guess it needs to be done. Let's go.”
Tom blinked, staring pointedly at her protruding belly. “Are you sure? This job might get a bit strenuous, and you're looking about ready to pop.”
Kristy slapped his chest in mock outrage. “This is the miracle of life, Tom Miller!”
“I know.” He rested an affectionate hand on her belly and leaned in to kiss her again. “Which is why I want you well rested for it.”
“I can't lay in bed all day, and walking around never hurt anyone.” She reached for her own clothes. “Come on . . . we built this ranch together, might as well put it on the butcher's block together.”
They got ready to go and ate a hasty breakfast, then left Molly with Fiona and headed out to the corral. Skyler was already busy with chores, which was good to see; however he might be reacting to being confined to the valley, it hadn't stopped him from being hardworking and helping where needed.
He really was a good kid. Tom just wished they weren't in such an insane situation that was tearing the poor young man apart inside. He found himself wishing they'd been able to hear at least a bit of news about the Hendricksons, for Skyler's sake. He was sure their friends were fine, of course; it just would've done them all some good to know.
Speaking of their son, he'd worked just as hard to build the ranch as they had, and deserved to hear what Tom was planning for the animals. So after a questioning glance at Kristy, who nodded, he led the way over. “Skyler, we need to talk about-”
“Butchering the animals to feed all these people?” his son interrupted curtly.
Tom exchanged surprised looks with his wife. “That's right,” Kristy replied gently. “Are you okay with that?”
“Of course not. But it needs to be done, right?” Skyler looked grimly at the big dark shapes of the cows in the corral, many of them already up even at this early hour. “It's not going to solve any food problems, though.”
“No, it's not.” He took Kristy's hand. “It'll buy us some time to find another solution, though. I was actually going to bring up an idea with Mitchells and Gray when we went to tell them about giving them the livestock.”
“The idea you won't tell me?” Kristy said, a hint of reproof in her voice. “I can't wait to hear what sort of craziness you've dreamed up.”
Chapter Thirteen
Desperate Measures
“It's not as insane as it sounds,” Tom argued.
Mitchells, Gray, Brady, Kristy, and even Skyler were looking at him like it was every bit as crazy. “You want to attack Emery?” Mitchells demanded. “You told me that place was a fortress, occupied by at least a hundred soldiers. We've been having trouble with squads of twenty!”
“Well yeah, but we've got Gray's people with us, now. They took out eighty bloodies no problem.”
The leader of the Grand Junction refugees snorted. “With a machine gun that's almost out of bullets, now. Besides, I only had a few dozen of my militia with me when we fled, and less than that now. A bunch of half-starved people who've spent months running for their lives aren't going to make an army.”
Mitchells opened his mouth, but Tom hastily cut in. “Listen! We massacred the first Sangue group that came after us. Why? Element of surprise.”
Camptown's leader rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Which we've lost, since Sangue knows we're here now.”
“Have we?” Tom leaned forward. “All this time we've been on the defensive, attacking the bloodies that come after us. And most of our fighting has been to the north, in the direction of Highway 29. If we attack an enemy outpost to the south it'll catch them completely by surprise.”
“So you say,” Gray argued. “The thing about outposts, Trapper, is they're designed to withstand attacks. If we don't catch the enemy by surprise we'll be the ones getting massacred.”
That was true enough, unfortunately. “Do we have a choice?” Tom said quietly. “The bloodies are using Emery as a staging area. They've got supplies there for hundreds or even thousands of people. We need food if we're going to survive another week without dropping to starvation level rationing, even with the livestock I'm donating. Besides, we know Emery as well as they do. It's our turf . . . we can find the best way to effectively attack it.”
The two former sheriffs looked at each other grimly, then back at him. “We can try hitting supply convoys, maybe,” Mitchells said. “But this idea is suicide, Tom.”
“If we hit a single convoy coming out of Emery the element of surprise is lost,” Tom replied. “We need to hit the big target first, with everything we've got.” He could see neither of them was convinced, so he tried a different tack. “Okay, how about this? We'll want a staging area ourselves, and my ranch is half a day's ride from the target. I know that place inside and out, and I guarantee I can get a group in there at night and wipe out any bloodies occupying it before they can raise the alarm.”
“You think being able to take out a couple dozen Sangue at your place will embolden us to attack a military outpost?” Gray asked skeptically.
“It'll give you an idea of what a surprise attack at night can do. If it goes well, we can talk about hitting Emery. If not?” Tom shrugged. “We head home, hope we can manage to hit some supply convoys and they'll have enough to feed a thousand starving people.”
“He's not wrong that we don't have a hope of surviving the winter without doing something drastic,” Brady said quietly. “We were stripping the mountains bare even when it was just us Emery folks, and precious little of that was going into winter storage. Insane as this sounds, it might be our only hope of surviving until spring without losing three quarters of our people, without Sangue needing to lift a finger.”
A grim silence settled with that announcement. Everyone who knew the cautious trader had an inkling of just how dire the situation must be if he was pushing for them to attack.
Mitchells sighed. “We do need food, and it's possible the bloodies won't expect an attack on Emery. How often has anyone actually had the guts to hit one of their outposts during this invasion of theirs?”
“Not often, because it's insane,” Gray shot back. Then he sighed. “Starving people don't have the luxury of options though, do we? Before you guys took my people in, I was fully ready to seek some sort of meaningful death by raiding Sangue convoys until they finally hunted us down. This is slightly less suicidal than that.”
That wasn't exactly the enthusiasm for his idea that Tom wanted, but it would have to do. “Let's get planning, then,” he said, pulling out a map he'd drawn of the occupied town and surrounding area. “Emery is our home, so let's take advantage of that familiarity.”
Hours later, after an exhaustingly thorough planning session that would hopefully put everyone to work either foraging, building shelters, or training and preparing for a major fight, as well as trying to plan out that fight itself, Tom finally set out with Brady to round up the livestock they were going to butcher. There was some good news there, as the forward thinking trader had agreed about not slaughtering any of the milk producing animals, at least not unless they dried up, since the long term benefits of that milk outweighed the short term gain in meat.
Kristy had left a while ago, weary enough to cave to his insistence that she go and rest, but Skyler had stuck around. Which was good, since he was a big help moving the livestock they were going to slaughter to town, where they were kept in hastily built enclosures while Brady and several men from both camps prepared to harvest the animals for everything edible.
Including the less appetizing stuff that was usually cast off during butchering; in a camp full of people willing to eat bugs, even blood, less appetizing organs, marrow, and soup bones could find their way into cooking pots.
Tom left the Emery folk to the task, heading out to talk to his squad leaders among the volunteers and broach the idea for an attack on Emery. Due to the urgent need for supplies, and the chance Sangue might change up their plans for the area after losing eighty soldiers, Tom and the ot
her leaders had agreed they should make the attack soon, even in as little as five days. He'd spend those days training his volunteers for a stealth approach on the town at night, while Gray would spend the days making sure his militia had proper meals and rebuilt their strength.
Skyler tagged along with him to talk to the leaders as well, something the teenager usually wasn't all that interested in. Which was why Tom wasn't exactly surprised, more weary, when as they walked his son began pleading his case for going along on the attack to Emery.
“Still no,” he replied firmly.
“I was in there listening you tell the others we'd need everyone we can get for an attack of this scale,” Skyler protested. “If not for the attack itself, then out scouting around Camptown while most of our fighters are gone. I can go along as a lookout, or guide a group to where they need to be. I could even watch the horses.” Tom opened his mouth, and the teenager continued firmly. “Who knows the ranch better than me? We can't afford for the attack there to fail, if we want to have any hope of catching the bloodies by surprise when we hit Emery. You're going to need my help.”
“No one's arguing you wouldn't be useful, son. But I promised Kristy I wouldn't put you in any more danger, promised myself, and I'm sticking by that. You can stay and keep training the defenders, be ready in case you're needed as a last resort.”
His son glowered at him for several long seconds, mouth working around more arguments he likely wanted to make. Then he shook his head and stomped off.
* * * * *
Skyler understood.
He understood it was his adoptive dad's job to look out for his safety, even if it wasn't the best choice for the volunteers, Camptown, or the bowl valley. He understood his mom would never be okay with him going out to fight, even if he waited until he was as old as Trapper. She'd never agree to letting him put himself at risk, and it was a mom's job to worry.
