Dandelion Iron Book One (21 page)

I figured Kasey was
gillian
, though it was wrong to stereotype her, and I had zero gaydar. Her hair was shaved short, but even if it were girly ’strogen long, her dirty brown Cartwright overalls would’ve made her look
gillian
. Kasey was an old hand, who had worked years and years for Dob Howerter in Lamar. I didn’t know why she was with us, or why Sharlotte would’ve hired her. My big sister was full-on New Morality, when it came to their stance on homosexuality. Me? I wanted to be, but I just didn’t know. The ARK had done some research on the genetic component of homosexuality. Their findings weren’t rock-solid, but they made me wonder, and I couldn’t be intolerant of someone ’cause of their biology. That simply wasn’t fair. But was it biological? The New Morality’s Kip Parson certainly didn’t think so.

Next came Allie Chambers, holding the reins to Christina Pink, Mary B, and Beck. Allie spoke in a hushed voice. “Until tonight, I’ve never heard of anyone seeing one of June Mai’s girls dead. I thought they’d be Chinese. But only one was. Whites and blacks, the others.”

Allie Chambers had also worked down with Howerter in Lamar. She had left ’cause of problems, though I wasn’t sure what they were. Allie had fire-red Irish hair, and after being sunburned so much, she was freckled completely brown and pink. She had a singing voice that broke your heart. Any song. Every time.

Kasey and Allie were new to me, but not Dolly Day Cornpone. She was legendary.

Living Juniper rough had aged Dolly Day—in her forties, she had an eighty-year-old woman’s face, blasted by sun, burned by wind, froze by snow, as lined and lumpy as pemmican. While her whiskey lasted, she’d take sips out of a little metal flask, which was prolly the most expensive thing she owned. Though she had done cattle drives for decades, she never stuck with the same outfit. I figured she’d drove headcount with every operation in the Colorado territory.

“I can work a rifle if I have to,” Dolly Day said in a rush. “When I was with Howerter, we got jumped by Mama Cass’ rustlers. We drove ’em back. I ain’t scared of no woman on this earth, not white, brown, black, or Chinese, but I’ll tell you what—them Wind River savages in Wyoming ain’t human. I believe they’re devil spawn, all of them.”

“You can’t say that, Dolly,” I said. “That’s racist. The Wind River people are people like us.”

“Ah, you’re young and liberal, but I could tell you stories, Cavatica Weller, that would curl your hair. Believe you me, if we run into them savages, we’ll all die, scalped, with our livers eaten out while we watch.” She left, guzzling water from her three-liter Ultra Gulp, another prize possession she had found in some derelict Gas N Sip on her travels.

I glanced at Micaiah, to gauge what he thought of our hired hands.

“Colorful women,” he said with a smile. Coaxed a smile out of me as well.

Before long, we found all of our horses and gathered up as much of our headcount as we could. With our chuck wagon chugging out front, we got Charles Goodnight moving to follow it. He wasn’t happy, but he was smart enough to know we meant business. We attached a sapropel lantern to the back of the trailer, so our tired, frightened herd could follow the light along with Charles Goodnight’s bell.

Fear dogged our every step. What if June Mai Angel saw us moving down the highway? She’d send in her outlaws, steal the boy, and kill us all.

At least I would die having kissed Micaiah. Problem was, not kissing him again might kill me as well.

Chapter Thirteen

It is the responsibility of everyone in this room to have themselves, their sons, husbands, brothers, and friends tested for viability. And continue to have them tested. And continue to encourage everyone to donate to the ARK. If we do not catalog and preserve Male Product, we are welcoming the extinction of our species.

—Tiberius “Tibbs” Hoyt
Blackpoole Biomedical Shareholders Meeting
November 5, 2032

(i)

I layered on every bit of clothing I owned, but still the midnight air chilled me. Fear of June Mai Angel deepened the cold.

Micaiah rode behind me, and though he only had a blanket, he never complained once. He adjusted himself frequently, and I knew what he was feeling—stiff back, aching hips, chafed thighs. Long hours in the saddle does that to a body.

I thought maybe we’d do Midnight Mass since we were up anyway. But no, we were on the run. Easter would have to wait.

The beefsteaks fought us, thinking it was time to chew cud and sleep, but we kept them moving by focusing on their natural leaders—Charles Goodnight and Betty Butter. If you could get them hoofing along, thousands of their brothers, sisters, and cousins would follow behind.

As for my horses, they looked to Puff Daddy, who thought he knew everything, but I’d schooled him to know better. As long as I kept Puff Daddy trotting, the other horses fell into line. Still, my ponies kept giving me these long looks, like they were begging me for mercy. “Sorry, boys and girls,” I said, “but if you wanna keep with Christian folk, you’ll have to keep on keepin’ on.”

Despite our good animals, it was rough going. Lucky we had a three-quarter moon for most of the night as well as a road—the weedy cracks of I-70’s hastily poured patchwork of concrete, gravel, and ground-up plastic.

I could tell we were getting closer to Denver, more signs of decayed civilization, haunted strip malls, and holes where houses had been. Even the studs were gone, burned in an ASI attachment for some salvage monkey.

The moonlight’s glow made the landscape ghostly, but when the moon fell behind the mountains, it got so storm-cellar dark, we finally had to stop.

Not sure if Aunt Bea served up an early breakfast or late dinner, but in the wee morning hours, we were eating cold beans when Wren, Pilate, and Petal rode up. Their eyes were like dead coals in their faces.

Pilate had his big stormy-colored Arabian stallion, Windshadow, a king’s horse if there ever was one. Petal rode Lambchop, a gentle-eyed palomino quarter. She was a golden-coated princess’s pony, complete with a mane and tail the color of fresh snow. Wren was still on Mick, who clicked his teeth on his bit, wanting to rest and hating the night.

Our people left to go round up stragglers. Sharlotte stayed with Micaiah and me, to see what our security crew had to say.

Only no one said anything for a long time. Not even Pilate. He sipped from his Starbuck’s mug and munched on a cheap, unlit cigar. Petal’s chin was on her chest—she wasn’t sleeping, but something was wrong with her. What was her sickness anyway? Narcolepsy?

Wren crouched on the ground, messing with her sapropel lamp so we wouldn’t have to talk in the dark.

“Come on. Out with it,” Sharlotte prompted.

Wren stood. “We got bad news.”

“Not a surprise.” Sharlotte sighed. “How bad?”

Pilate took a deep breath before he spoke. “Actually, we have all sorts of news. We have bad news, good news, better news, and evil news. Which flavor do you want first?”

“No games, Pilate. Just tell us.” I wasn’t in the mood for Pilate’s wit. My brain was rusted from no sleep and charred from fear.

He took the cigar out of his mouth to spit tobacco bits. “June Mai Angel has an army. It’s bivouacked about five klicks east. We got there just as the zeppelins showed up, which thank God, hadn’t been there before or they’d have seen all the explosions. Long story short, I think she’s going to take Burlington.”

“What do you mean, take?” Sharlotte asked.

“Take, as in conquer, as in eighth grade social studies. Genghis Khan took Peking. The Visigoths took Rome. The kind of army she has, well, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen in the Juniper. Explains the IDs. Really, it’s like something straight out of the Sino.” His voice got stuck, and he had to clear his throat.

My head seemed to float off my shoulders as I thought about my bedroom back in Burlington. I could imagine ninja outlaw girls fingering through my blue ribbons and stealing my candles.

“Is that the evil news?” Sharlotte asked.

“Well.” Pilate smiled. “That’s actually the good news.”

Wren weighed in. “And the better news is that we think we killed every outlaw they sent to get Micaiah’s zeppelin. So at this stage, June Mai Angel might not know we’re out here.”

Pilate took over. “But we have to keep moving. Come morning, June Mai’ll send a unit to look for their Cargador and horses. If we’re lucky, they’ll follow the false path we made for them. If we’re not, they’ll see the mess your headcount made of the ground, figure out someone else is out here, and follow the cattle tracks right to us. Wren would just love to fight the whole army, but I’m not going to unleash her on them like that. I have some ethics left.”

Wren grunted. “Still say we should sell the boy.” She gave Micaiah a toothy grin so malicious I had to step in front of it.

“Okay, so what about Micaiah?” I asked. “What does this mean for him? We’re not going to sell him.”

“Ah, the evil news,” Pilate said wearily. “The boy from the sky comes with us.”

“How is that the evil news?” I asked.

Micaiah answered. “They can use me as a bargaining chip with June Mai Angel or any other Outlaw Warlord. Don’t take our cattle because here’s a viable boy. A rich, viable boy.”

“Damn, Johnson, you’re pretty smart,” Wren laughed. “I think I might love him as much as Cavvy does.”

“Shut up, Wren!” I said in a huff.

Pilate took out his torch lighter, clicked it on, and held it to his cigar. “I heard your story, Micaiah. I was never much for Vegas. All that sin in one place. Sin should be spread around. What’s your last name?”

“Carlsbad.”

At least he got his fake name correct twice in a row.

Pilate got biblical. “Micaiah, son of Imlah, and I quote, ‘As the Lord liveth, what the Lord saith unto me, that will I speak.’ Book of Kings. Four-hundred false prophets and only Micaiah spoke the truth. What truth do you have for us?”

“If you can get me to Nevada, I can make it worth your while. My mom can offer a substantial reward, more than you’d get for selling me.” The boy shivered under the blanket draped across his shoulders, eyes bright on Pilate.

“How much?” Wren asked.

Micaiah let all our attention fix on him before he answered. It was like he was used to the stage. Was he an actor?

Finally, he spoke. “So on a good day in Hays, you’d get about two thousand dollars for one of your Herefords. An average cow weighs about six hundred kilograms. CRTA qualified beef is going for a dollar and sixty-six cents per half-kilo, that about right?”

No, he wasn’t any kind of actor I’d ever heard of ’cause no actor would know about Hays cattle prices.

“How many head of cattle do you have?” he asked no one in particular.

Wren answered. “Well, before we got shot up, we had three thousand. Of various shapes and sizes.”

“For a total of six million dollars. My mom could cover that,” Micaiah said.

“Talk about a false prophet.” Wren rolled her eyes. “This kid is telling us stories, none of them very true. Well, maybe June Mai’ll listen.”

Sharlotte stood motionless, silent, face hidden like always by her hat.

Was Micaiah telling us lies about such money? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t believe any boy was worth that much money.

I breathed in—the smell of the Pilate’s cheap cherry-flavored cigar mixed with the cold wind on the sagebrush. I wanted to either rush home to stop June Mai Angel or run away to Nevada with Micaiah. He wasn’t being completely honest with us, but my soul knew it was God’s will for us to help him. Maybe we’d be rewarded in the process.

“Money or not, we won’t give him to Outlaw Warlords,” I said. “I won’t allow it.”

I was ignored.

“Tell us the rest if there’s more to tell,” Sharlotte demanded.

They all went on like I hadn’t said a word. Made me madder.

Pilate exhaled smoke, then bent and drew a square in the ground with a stick. Etched a star right in the middle. “That’s Denver, corporate headquarters of June Mai Angel and her conquering army. We simply can’t go through her capital city.” Next he drew a bad outline of an airplane north of the star. “That’s DIA, the old airport.” Then a bad stick-figure cow to the east of the star. He tapped the cow. “That’s us. Our original plan was to avoid Denver and cut up past the airport and head north. Well, June Mai Angel has units camped around DIA. And she has units camped behind us, to the east. That’s where the zeppelins are. Can’t go west. Can’t go east. So we either go south and skirt the Denver suburbs, which would add a week or more to our itinerary, or we turn north and try and sneak past her. Should be easy. We’ll just put a couple hundred cattle under each of our coats and pretend we gained weight over the holidays.”

Sharlotte exploded. “Can’t you be serious for five seconds, Pilate?”

“How come no one wants to sell the boy?” Wren asked in a huff. “Y’all don’t get it. Let June Mai have the ranch! I wouldn’t bet on any rich mama in Vegas, but hell, we could live like queens if we sold him to some people I know in Amarillo.”

The bickering and fighting started, but I knew what we needed to do.

“We should continue on west,” I murmured, studying Pilate’s drawings. “Go right down I-70 all the way to the mountains.”

I figured I’d be ignored again, but Pilate shushed the others. “Wait, Cavatica said something. You want us to go through Denver? Really? It’s been years since anyone has walked down Colfax and made it out alive. A few people tried a Denver colony after Pretty Myra disappeared, but then June Mai showed up on the scene.”

All eyes fell on me. My words came out shaky. “Well, I reckon our only hope is to do what June Mai Angel won’t never expect. No way would anyone walk their headcount down I-70 through her capital city in broad daylight. You’d have to be suicidal. Or so she’d think.”

A wide smile spread across Pilate’s face. “Cavvy has a point. June Mai is busy now with Burlington. Maybe Denver is empty. Even if it’s not, I bet she wouldn’t want to fight her war on two fronts. And there will be a war. Burlington’s militia doesn’t stand a chance, but when Howerter hears that his ranches are in trouble, he’ll hire every gun in the territories and send them in as reinforcements.”