Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (20 page)

Greasing his pistol with what oil he could get from marooned fish, Arc considered his next moves. He was staying warm under the bank of the creek in a hollow he had filled with leaves and other detritus gleaned from his immediate vicinity, but raw carp was getting old, and he did not want to use what ammunition he had on game. He would have to move soon. Otherwise he might get snowed in. And there were things he needed to do.

S
itting comfortably on the antique settee, good bourbon with ice in one hand, Occam surveyed the room and the people Angus called friends. His new acquaintance and fellow traveler, Bluehawk, had insisted he attend. A weekly gathering, full of excellent conversation, food, and drink was a tradition within the community of scholars, and the portly professor volunteered his home often. He and his wife relished entertaining and had a knack for making visitors feel at home.

Already Occam had been involved with many of the guests. To his left, sharing the opposite side of the settee, sat the stately and venerable anthropologist, Pearl. She was engrossed in a quiet conversation with the person sitting across from him, a man yet to be introduced but said to be newly returned from a long trip. Across the room, Angus and Bluehawk exchanged friendly banter with a woman speaking in a strange accent. The rest of the room contained locals interspersed liberally with foreigners but clearly a majority of academics. This was a crowd with a goal to learn and seek that learning in sharing.

Looking to his right and appreciating a woman who caught his eye, Occam felt the light touch of a hand on his arm. Turning, he found Pearl and her confrere’s eyes boring into him. Under the intensity of their gaze, he suddenly felt inclined to believe his invitation was more than casual.

“Master Stone, may I present my good friend, Franklin Banger?”

Occam noted the hard consonant used for the G. He stood to shake hands so they would not cross closely over Ms. Pearl.

The man introduced stood as well.

“Delighted, Master Stone. I have been blessed with an acquaintance of your expertise and have been anxious to meet you.”

There was a hint of the formal speech used in Roseburg in the greeting, and Occam wondered if this man was familiar with his home in some way.

“Well met, Mister Banger.” Occam was careful to pronounce the name correctly. “Perhaps we could dispense with formality, and you may address me as Occam.”

Banger smiled, a broad expanse of teeth in an inviting, friendly face.

“I shall, indeed, and you shall call me Frank.” He gripped Occam’s elbow with his left hand and a light pressure as they shook hands. Seating himself, Occam knew Frank and he would be friends.

The conversation turned to a short inquiry of Occam’s journey from the coast, Frank and Pearl expressing deep regret when they found that Occam had lost his wife in the terrible accident climbing the Rockies. Gradually the discussion moved to more technical things. Frank seemed very interested in Occam’s Trade and his knowledge of metallurgy. Without the Smithy’s knowledge, he had already purchased and inspected in detail some of Occam’s best work, and he now questioned specifics of what was evident in Occam’s artistry.

The more was said, the more the big Smith suspected there was more than a developing friendship intended in the discussion. While Frank seemed intent on testing Occam’s knowledge and expertise in metals, Pearl asked some penetrating questions about the structure of Roseburg’s Guilds and how they ensured the passing of skill to coming generations. More than once an answered question led to a quick glance of satisfaction between the two steering the conversation.

Finally Pearl seemed satisfied and made her departure, suggesting that there were others she was ignoring. Frank looked across the room and down at the empty plate in his hand.

“Why don’t we raid the pantry, Occam?” he suggested.

Realizing that his glass was empty, Occam agreed readily.

The rest of the evening was spent in polite small talk and humorous banter as the liquor and camaraderie flowed throughout the room. Although Frank and Occam floated about from one group to another and participated in a variety of conversations involving all manner of subjects, they seemed inclined to follow the same interests and touched base often with each other over the course of the evening.

Overall the Smith considered his invitation a valuable treasure. He and Bluehawk had bonded over the appreciation of good bourbon, and he had met a new friend. As well, he had not had such stimulating thoughts to peruse in many months. He had to wonder, though, what was Pearl interested in, and why had he really been introduced to Frank Banger?

Forcing his knee to bend in the healing process, Arc cared little that it could have been a bad decision. He was more intent on the ability to walk than on relieving future pain.

There was nothing keeping the injured man once he was confident in walking, and the last of the carp were days gone. He had found a deer carcass as he tested his leg, and he now strapped the stinking hide about his torso, much like a poncho, with his head protruding through a hole he had cut. The skin would help to keep his body heat in, as his shirt was little more than rags. Fortunately his boots were high quality and had survived being under water and filled with mud. Fish oil brought them back to suppleness, but they stank badly.

Making his way to the ancient roadbed of I-80, Arc looked to the west where he had come from. He had little thought of what lay in that direction. There was nothing calling him home, even though there were wives and children. Instead he turned his back to them and began his pursuit of vengeance. The road was long for a man on foot and even longer for a man crippled, but he would not succumb to his injuries, pain, or any outside forces. The only thing that could have kept him from his goal was his mind, and that had lost any thoughts that would have deterred him, filled with nothing but an abiding hatred.

There were no fresh tracks. The thought that he might have missed travelers as he lay waiting to heal in the watercourse was assuaged when Arc realized that no one had passed. He would have to find the tools to survive immediately. He needed food and water and was glad the weather had cooled so the latter was less necessary. He could go much further without water because of the cold. But his very real desire was a horse. Speed would get him whatever else he required.

He trudged on, the knee painful but of use.

A tinker’s wagon traveled a circuit among the communities in eastern Wyoming and the Black Hills. The elderly man, long widowed, had taken to the work in an effort to forget the woman he had lost to cancer. Once a prosperous owner of a trading post in what had once been Spearfish, South Dakota, he had sold out to a woman who agreed to keep his wagon filled at rock bottom prices and share in the profits. There was little profit, but the arrangement survived due to the matrimonial hopes of his supplier every time he returned.

Having visited the ranch west of Laramie, the tinker was headed to a thin trail that was soon to turn north and end up in Casper and then head to Gillette and back east to Spearfish where he would winter. The weather was getting cold, the snow was starting to fly, and he was considering a shortcut. The thought crossed his mind every year on this leg, but every year the weather held off, and he managed to get through. Had it not been for the few people expecting him, a tiny settlement in north Casper and a tribe that wintered east of Gillette, he would have had an easy decision, but as it was he decided to make his rounds. People were depending on him.

The fire flared as he spilled bacon grease from the pan cooking his evening meal. Masking the approach of the man in rotting deer skin, the aroma was making two mouths drool. The tinker felt nothing as the slug pierced his skull, perfectly centered in the back just above the spine. He tipped over into the fire, bacon spilling from the pan into the dirt.

Hobbling as fast as he could into the firelight, Arc pulled the body from the flames. He might need the old man’s coat. He put out the burning cloth with his hands. The bacon was of prime interest once the coat was extinguished. Arc picked the mass of hot meat from the ground and stuffed it in his mouth. The heat was hard to bear, but the famished man was used to pain, and he swallowed the flesh in one giant gulp, barely chewing. A coffee pot sat to one side, cooling and still upright, and a cup lay tipped over where the tinker had been crouching. The liquid soothed Arc’s throat and quenched his need for hydration. A hot, liquid belch rose up to escape his misshapen lips.

After a short time gathering his thoughts and to warm the fatigue from his limbs by the fire, Arc limped around the small, enclosed wagon with the utensils hanging in profusion about it. The wind had come up, and the exposed tin ware clattered and clanked in the breeze as it would if the cart was on the trail. The sturdy, old horse that pulled the contraption stood mildly by as Arc ran his hands over him. Then the gimpy, little man with the many scars climbed the steps in the rear of the wagon and disappeared within. Soon he was asleep in what passed for a bed.

The scent of fresh blood drew a big male coyote. He slinked close after surveying the camp from higher ground and found nothing moving. His experience with humans was from a distance, but he once found the entrails left behind from gutting a deer and hoped for something similar. The blood proved to be coming from a corpse, this time human, and there was another human snoring in the wooden-box-on-wheels. Wishing to investigate closer and maybe even steal a piece of meat, the coyote thought better of it and disappeared the way he had come. There were plenty of game animals in the night to be had, and with no stench of fire close to them.

Rising much later than intended, Arc suspected that his condition had forced him to sleep long in an effort to repair his body. He was correct. The hours had done him good. He felt better physically than he had. He wondered if it would be best to stay another day and rest, feeding his belly and his hatred. Now that he had food and a horse, he decided he had no schedule, so thoughts warred inside his head. Best to delay his decision until he took inventory of what he now owned and fill his stomach.

There were fresh eggs, more bacon, dried beans and apples, and tinned jams in the wagon’s small larder. An open bag of wheat flour, another of rough sugar, and some unopened jars of pickles were stored in latched cupboards above. And there was plenty of coffee. The dark brew was trade goods to be bartered along the trail, which was why there were fresh eggs.

Searching the rest of the wagon, Arc found ammunition, light tack, traps, whet stones, gun oil, tools, cooking utensils in abundance, a few books, and even some small toys and items of jewelry. There were two sturdy new coats wrapped in paper and stuffed into a shelf, and one would do for him to wear. The bottom chests along the sides were stuffed with hand-sewn quilts and bolts of fabric, one traded for the other and returning as finished goods.

Searching the exterior of the wagon, an old rifle was found under the seat on the floorboards. Appearing well used, it had not been cleaned properly for some time.

Breakfast became a priority as Arc’s stomach grumbled. The meat from last night had filled his shrunken belly, but the knowledge of more food was creating an insistent clamoring in his gut. He prepared his food in the unwashed pan, over a fire next to the tinker’s body.

Arc pulled one of the handmade quilts from a cubby and tore pieces off to use as cleaning rags. Soon the old long gun shone as though cared for.

There was no saddle. He would have to ride without or drive the wagon. In thinking about it, He decided to stay until the next morning. His leg hurt, his belly ached from being filled, and the bed called to him once more.

Returning from town after leading a span of bulls in to pull a stump, Jody and Olivia relaxed as they shut the gate. The two bulls had wanted to romp when freed of their yokes, but Jody had calmed them firmly. These giant creatures could kill a man without trying. A simple toss of their enormous head or leaning against an object and pinning someone could be lethal. But a yank on their nose ring and a scratch could mollify them long enough to lead them to their pasture, and now they cavorted in giant, twisting leaps as they greeted their freedom in the warming day.

Watching the mud fly as the bull’s sliding hooves cut furrows in the soft ground, Olivia sent up a silent prayer of thanks to have a partner in Jody. The slight girl had more tough in her than many a man and yet could sooth these beasts with a whispered word and a gentle hand. She spoke bull, not only giving them direction but listening as well.

One of the pleasures the two women shared was watching the animals, leaning on the gate, and talking about what was going on in the bull yard. Olivia learned about pecking order and posture and gait, and Jody heard the story of the two men arriving from parts unknown with the giant seed stock to what they were selling.

Enjoying the sun and speaking of how the stump had risen from the earth, roots popping, without a significant strain on the animals, they could have missed the quiet whine that approached except for the splash of a tire hitting a puddle. They turned in unison and saw one of the three-wheeled contraptions from town slowing to a stop.

When the expedition gathered for community meals, all of the men seemed excited about the self-propelled carriages. They spoke of how odd it was that there was no animal necessary to move them, but what really excited them was the speed. These little machines with the single driving wheel in the rear and two steering in front could go twenty miles an hour for distances much farther than a horse could run.

All that Jody and Olivia cared about was that the men climbing out wore expensive clothing and were looking at the animals more than at them.

“Good morning,” came a softly spoken greeting from the passenger, followed by a friendly nod from the driver.

Returning the acknowledgement, each woman understood these men were here to do business. The women adjusted their focus in what way seemed best to maximize the outcome. Business had commenced.

After shaking hands all around, introductions made, it was clear only one of the men was a buyer. The other was a highly regarded employee who would provide advice.

Frank Banger broke away and led the others to inspect the animals. He had watched as they walked through town, his man Jered having spoken of them as he filled his boss in on what had transpired locally while he was away.

The two men were breakfasting in Frank’s favorite café when the animals ambled past, entering town. The yoked bulls created a stir that emptied stores along their route. Gulping down the remains of his second cup of coffee, Frank had laid enough money on the table to cover the bill and a substantial tip, and they left their just-served meal, still steaming, behind.

The demonstration of the team’s power was educational in many respects. Businessmen both, Frank and Jered hung back after following the rest of the crowd to where the girls attached the span to a stump. They watched, learning what they could about the beasts but also about the young women they would be dealing with. The younger one was clearly the leader, but the other was competent as well. They assumed rightly they were watching a partnership, much like the animals in yoke. Speaking casually and comparing notes, the two men turned about and followed the span back through town and reentered the café. Their plates had been cleared, and the waitress approached these men she knew well before they reseated themselves.

“I knew you would be back, so I put your plates in the warming oven. I’ll have the eggs refried and bring them out.” She winked, flirtation part of her strategy to improve her tips.

“And more coffee, please, Mandy. I think we’re going to need to be awake today.” Already Frank was weighing his options.

Jered knew the barn would house new animals tonight, as long as the price was fair.

Bolting the meal, the two jumped into the battery-powered three-wheeler. From a distance, as they approached, they watched the two young women as they turned their two charges loose.

On hearing the price asked, Frank knew the women were in full knowledge of what these bulls were worth. The price was high, but not so high as to be very far from reason. Suspecting the animals could be had for less, he considered what that figure would be and how it could be approached.

The men were respectful, unlike those attempting to purchase previously, and Jody respected them in return. When the offer was made, it was fair. But anything less than what was asked was money from the two women’s pockets, so she blanched as though insulted at first. It was all part of the game.

Three bulls followed Jered home as he rode the fourth, each chained in series to the other. On his return Banger and his tenant, Bluehawk, stood admiring the acquisitions turned into the paddock that had held the yellow appy stud. These animals would improve the stock in the area immensely, and Frank would benefit financially, but the little machine he had parked by his porch was destined to eventually replace them if he had his way.

As expected the sale of not just two, but four bulls to a man well respected in the community opened the flood gates of potential buyers. The remaining intact animals were sold within a couple of weeks and each for a higher price. Jody and Olivia had earned their keep and then some.