The Quest: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 6 (21 page)

-47-

     About a mile and a half east of Castroville was a faded billboard that rose a good forty feet off the ground.

     It was nondescript, and not a bit unlike thousands of similar billboards which decorated both sides of the highway for hundreds of miles.

     This one touted a place called “Helen’s Country Restaurant” with a faded and peeling sign.

     Nobody paid much heed to the billboard these days. Helen’s, like every other restaurant, closed its doors on the day of the blackout and never reopened them.

     Now the old tired billboard served a new purpose.

     It marked the spot where, a quarter of a mile due north in heavy woods, Tom and Randy helped Sara set up her new campsite.

     The billboard would make it easy to find Sara when the men finished their separate missions in Castroville and returned.

     Sara, to be honest, was still unhappy about being left behind while the men did their work.

     She told them in a huff, “This is like the old days, when men went to the office every day and left their women at home to clean the house and cook the meals and raise the kids and be good little wives. I thought we’d progressed to the stage where women were equals and could do anything a man could do.”

     But even Sara had to admit that Tom’s words made good sense.

     “Not every officer goes on every mission,” he started. “Each mission has its own particular requirements. In this case, if you went, there’s a very good chance that someone would try to take you. That would distract from our main focus, because we’d have to waste energy protecting you as well as finding and retrieving your mother.

     “Let me try this. You can stay here and come up with another plan, and if this one doesn’t work we can try yours next. Fair enough?”

     Sara didn’t much like it. But she agreed to it.

     Tom left early in the morning, with the intent of making it back in late afternoon.

     Randy, having been to the town once to case it out, took a day off.

     “It’s not a good thing to be too visible when you’re scouting,” he explained. “A true drifter, like I’m supposed to be, doesn’t usually spend a lot of time asking questions about who’s running the town. It has to be done subtly and carefully. The same traits that make a good fisherman make a good case man. Patience and the ability to blend in without making too much noise.

    “I’ll lay low for a day, then go back and work the other end of town, where I’ll see some fresh faces.”

     That much was true enough. But Randy had another reason for hanging out with Sara while Tom was in town.

     Tom had taken him aside and asked him to.

     It wasn’t that Tom didn’t have faith in Sara’s ability to defend herself. It was just that… well, Tom had come to consider her a daughter, almost. And fathers will always worry about their daughters, even when those daughters are strong and capable.

     Tom didn’t want a hunter or band of outlaws to stumble across her while she was alone in the woods.

     And he definitely didn’t want to rescue her mother, only to bring her back to find Sara missing herself.

     Randy didn’t mind sitting with Sara for a day. They’d become fast friends and enjoyed each other’s company.

     And it would give him a chance to teach her some new skills.

     As Tom rode off just after dawn, Sara asked Randy, “So… how do we kill the day while we’re waiting for him to return?”

     “How are you doing on provisions?”

     “Some friends of ours in San Antonio packed enough canned food and fresh vegetables for us for several days.”

     “Is it enough to get you back to Junction, considering you’ll have another mouth to feed when your mother joins you?”

     “No. We’ll have to resupply at some point.”

     “Then that’s what we’ll do today. We’ll do some fishing and some hunting and build up your meat supply. And we’ll collect some water from that stream and boil it, then refill your canteens and water bottles.”

     “Uh… I’m afraid that fish and meat won’t keep long enough to get us back to Junction.”

     “Nope. You’re right. That’s why we’ll turn most of it into jerky. What we don’t turn into jerky we’ll eat while we’re here. That’ll help stretch your canned goods farther.”

     She turned up her nose.

     “Fish jerky?”

     “You’ve never tried it?”

     “Uh… no.”

     “You’ll love it. It’s great.”

     “Okay. If you say so.”

     “I say so. Why don’t we head down to the stream to see if there’s any fish in it? If there isn’t, we’ll follow it to whatever creek or river it empties into. Along the way we’ll take it slow and easy, and keep the talk to a minimum. If we’re lucky, we’ll stumble across some small game we can bring back as well. Have you made jerky before?”

     “Yes. In an oven, or in a charcoal grill. And unfortunately we have neither.”

     “You said your friends in San Antonio packed you some food. Did they pack any of it in aluminum foil?”

     “Yes. All of the potatoes and carrots.”

     “Good. That’s all we need. And if you want, we can dry out some of those potatoes and carrots at the same time we make the jerky. It’ll extend their shelf life indefinitely. All you have to do to revive them later is to boil them over a campfire.”

     By early afternoon they were back at camp, with four pounds of river dollies and catfish and a good-sized jackrabbit.

     Randy gave her the option.

     “Would you rather clean and filet the fish, or the rabbit?”

     He knew that some women were squeamish at the prospect of doing either.

     But Sara had done a lot of growing since her days as a scared teenager just after the blackout. She was now a strong woman, able to hold her own against any man. And she’d learned many new talents in the harsh world she now lived in.

     “It doesn’t matter,” she smiled. “Whichever one you’re too sensitive to do.”

     Once they were finished Randy dug a hole in the ground about ten inches deep and two feet across.

     “We’ll line the bottom with your aluminum foil. It’ll keep the dirt off the food, and will help bounce the heat back to it instead of letting the ground absorb it all. That’ll help the jerky cook and then dry out evenly.”

     “We’ll cut the vegetables into small slices or squares and add them to the mix. Once they’re dried out, we’ll add some of the jerky to them and bag it up. It’ll make a nice trail stew after twenty minutes of boiling, and will last for years as long as you keep it dry. And best of all, it’s lightweight. Much lighter than canned goods. Your horses will appreciate that after several days on the trail.”

     After they got all the meat strips and vegetables situated on top of the aluminum foil, Randy covered the food with four inches of pine straw.

     “This will keep the meat from getting the direct heat and burning to a crisp. The straw will make sure it cooks slowly, then dries out. The jerky will have a little bit of pine taste, but it’s not unpleasant. It’ll remind you a little bit of hickory smoked meat.”

     He looked up at the sun.

     “It’s right at two o’clock, give or take fifteen or twenty minutes. If we cover the pine needles with another piece of aluminum foil, we can start a fire on top of that. Within four hours or so the jerky will be done, the vegetables will be dried out, and we can kill the fire just before darkness sets in. And we can cook our supper and boil our drinking water on the same fire.”

-48-

     In Castroville, Tom Haskins was facing off against a very formidable adversary.

     Jack Payton was as ruthless as they came.

     Tom wondered whether he’d met his match.

     Tom had just traded his last silver coin for a chicken and a rooster. After he handed Payton the coins, the man turned to his right and snarled to one of his henchmen, “Don’t just stand there, stupid. Get the man his birds.”

     Bill Wimberley, like the scared little rabbit he was, took off like a shot toward a nearby chicken coop.

     Payton guffawed at the look on Tom’s face when Wimberley brought back two dead chickens.

     “Oh, did you think you were getting
live
birds for your money, my friend?

     “Hardly. You see, that would be bad for my business. Then you would let them breed. You’d let them lay eggs, and you’d let some of the eggs hatch into a steady meat source.

     “And you’d no longer have to come and see me when you had a hunger for chicken.”

     He grinned and chuckled as he said the last line:

     “And we couldn’t have that, now could we?”

     Tom did his best to look disappointed.

     Payton didn’t need to know that he’d have killed the chickens anyway as soon as he was out of sight. Live chickens were no good to him a hundred and twenty miles from home. But dead ones would provide some necessary protein for him, Sara and Randy.

     Payton got the pleasure he sought from Tom’s long face.

     “Any other business you want to conduct, mister?”

     Tom said, “Maybe. I heard in town that you had another kind of stable. A stable that didn’t hold horses. A stable that held something else to take care of a man’s needs.”

     “Ah… yes indeed I do, my friend. I maintain a pretty good selection of young women who’ll do your bidding. For the right price, that is.”

     “And how much do they charge?”

     Payton found Tom’s question incredibly funny. He laughed uproariously, and checked the minions at his side to make sure they were laughing too.

     “They won’t charge you anything, my friend. You’ll pay me, in advance. They’ll just provide you services to satisfy your needs.”

     “Doesn’t seem quite fair. Them doing the work and you getting the pay, that is.”

     “I don’t know what’s not fair about it. I provide them with food and shelter, and protection from those who’d do them harm. I buy them nice dresses and pretty trinkets and elixirs that make them smell nice. All I ask of them is to do the kinds of things they’ve always done for free. Why is that not fair?”

     “I suppose you have a point. How much to rent such a lady for a couple of hours?”

     “How much do you have?”

     Tom knew better than to answer.

     Payton rephrased the question.

     “What I meant to say is, it depends on how much you have to spend. If you have but a stipend, it might get you an old woman for twenty minutes and no more. An old woman with no teeth, maybe.

     “On the other hand, for a gold coin, or three silver coins, you would be able to take your pick of my prime stock. And to have your way with her for a couple of hours.

     “And, of course, if you plan to draw blood or raise welts on my women, you’ll have to pay extra.”

     “I have a particular preference, Mister Payton. I like my women blonde, and of a certain age. Say, between thirty and forty. And I’d like to have her alive. If you kill her as you’ve killed my chickens, she’s of no use to me.”

     “Not younger?”

     “Younger women have not yet learned to do the things that make me happy.”

     “And what can you afford to pay for such a woman?”

     Tom reached into his pocket.

     “A gold collector’s coin weighing half an ounce.”

     “Let me see your coin.”

     Tom handed the coin to Wimberley, who passed it to Payton.

     “This is a very nice coin, my friend. Do you have many more?”

     “Why do you ask?”

     “Oh, just wondering. I have found that the appetites of my customers… like my own, are only temporarily satisfied by a girl from my stable. Perhaps we can expect to see you on a regular basis.”

     “Perhaps.”

     Payton looked at Wimberley and nodded his head.

     From out of nowhere came three armed men, their rifles all pointed at Tom’s chest.

     Payton chuckled.

     “Perhaps
not
, my friend. For I have a much better idea.”