WWIV - Basin of Secrets (13 page)

“But,” he added. This single word made Cara’s face back to a tight pout. “We need more proof to convince the others. We get that proof, maybe they’ll agree to go on high alert.”

“Did you know the Tarlischs?”
 

Steven nodded. “I knew Henry and his wife well. Virgil, Willem’s older brother, too. They were decent folk. At least they were years ago. Hell, Henry and Virgil have been dead for six years now I bet.” He stared into Cara’s narrowing eyes. “Willem has motive. Bond and his men did kill the two.”

“Did they live close to you?”

“They were a little more rural than me. I was sort of a city guy. But I’d been to their farms more than a few times.”

“Back when you were mayor of Provo?”

Steven looked around and scratched the back of his sweaty neck. “Yeah, when I was mayor and when I went to Washington to serve out that term for the congressman who died. Henry was always a decent contributor to my campaigns. I liked him, I really liked Virgil. He was a smart young man. But Willem was always the pouty one. The second son of a rich man. The forgotten boy, he always felt.”

“How much older than Willem was Virgil?”

Thinking for a second, Steven sighed before continuing. “At least six years. I thought I heard one time that Virgil was 38 when he died. I bet Willem is about that same age now. He was old enough to know that Virgil was first in line for his father’s farms, not him.”

“Will he come looking for Captain Bond?” Cara asked. “If he did what those people said he did?”

Steven’s eyes focused on the fence, pondering her question. “Yes, he will,” he quietly answered.
 

Cara frowned. “And how can we protect ourselves from him? If he does come.”

His eyes came back to his wife’s. “That will be a problem. They’re probably armed. And we don’t have much. The best chance will be for you to talk him off.”

Cara scoffed at his words. “Me? You’re joking, right? Because I’m not sure I have what it takes to chase off a murderer, Steven. Perhaps you or Chet could handle that.”

Reaching for her hands, Steven’s gaze intensified. “Cara, you’re the leader of this camp. The group elected you. And the group will expect you to take the lead.” She tried to interrupt, but he shushed her. “Everyone believes in you, because you’re strong, Cara. You’ve made it through so much. Even more than most people know about. You’re a natural leader, dear. You can do this if you have to.”
 

She looked away and shook her head, still holding her husband’s strong, calloused hands. “I’m glad you have all this confidence in me. Sometimes, most times, I don’t feel like I do much. Aside from settling squabbles over food or wood. Who should harvest, who should dry. Those aren’t important things, Steven. This will be.”

“And you’ll be ready if it happens,” he finished. A quick hug and the two strolled hand in hand toward the front of the camp. Back to another day of harvest and survival.

By late in the day, another group arrived, repeating the same tale as the previous one. Still, no eyewitness accounts were offered, and still, the assembly contemplated action. Cara begged for them to send word to Camps Eight and Ten to see what they knew, if they were able to confirm the terrible reports from Salt Lake. Reluctantly, her three adversaries agreed, and a scout was dispatched to each camp. The bad part was they wouldn’t return until morning.

Just before nightfall, a rider from the Upland Guard plodded into camp, high on his brown steed. He had news, shocking news.

Sitting amongst the assembly and several other important camp members, the rider – known only as Wilkins – told his tale. Lit by the nightly fire in the front center of the community, he held everyone’s attention like a gypsy storyteller.

“A few days back, can’t recall the exact day, Erickson and the council were giving a speech,” he began in his tenor tone. “There was quite a crowd there I’m told. Maybe 1,500 people from the community. I don’t know what the speech was about, and it don’t matter no more.”

Cara snuck a quick glance around the fire at the others. Just as she thought, this young man held their attention like a puppeteer before a group of children. Pleased with herself, she listened as he continued.

“About five minutes in, the shooting broke out. From what we were told, it was quick. Thirty seconds and everyone on stage was dead.” Gasps of horror sounded out into the night air. The man pressed on. “They were all shot in the head or the neck is what I heard.” This brought forth wails of fright from the group, men and women alike, the scene almost too gross to comprehend.

“And who did this?” asked Chet, his old, lined face darkened more than usual by the dwindling flames.

“Willem Tarlisch, Howard Melby and their gang. Tarlisch’s Red Rangers they’ve always called themselves.” His light blue eyes surveyed the assembly. Each of their faces turning slowly toward Cara. Silently, she sat focused on the fire.

“Thank you, Wilkins,” Cara said, still staring at the orange flames, giving off just enough light for everyone to notice her resolve. “This information helps guide our decisions. Decisions we need to make soon, I fear.”

“Well, that ain’t all ma’am,” Wilkins replied. “I got more info that might interest you, too.”

Later, long after the last rays of daylight disappeared, the assembly sat solemnly in Cara’s home. Spread out in a casual circle between the small dining and living areas, Chet gave Steven a silent nod.

“If you don’t want me here,” Steven spoke, “I can run over and keep George and his kids company.”
 

Chet’s head shook. “No, please stay. We value your insight. You know the Tarlischs better than anyone here.”

Checking his wife, he noticed a quick peek and a small nod.
 

Chet rose to speak first. “Cara, I’d like to say I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier. It would seem that once again, you’ve proven a capable leader. Very wise, very wise.”
 

“Cara,” Carol Johnson added, “I, too, would like to apologize.”

Her red hair moved slightly as she shook away their remorse. “We will not live in the past. We never have, and we won’t start now. We must deal with the problems we will face. I think it’s best if we stay focused on that.”

“Agreed,” said Charlie Watson. “And the first question is this: That Wilkins kid said Tarlisch is going to come searching for Bond. How much stock do we put in his words?”

Eyes shifted back and forth to one another, most finally resting on Cara. To Steven, it seemed as if no one wanted to be caught second-guessing the fiery woman who was already one up on most of them.

“I think we have to be prepared,” Cara answered. “We have to realize that 100 or more armed men may show up at our gate. We need a plan for that…in case it happens, of course.” Steven smiled as his wife tempered her well-deserved anger against the group.
 

“I guess,” Chet paused as he stood, “the biggest question is: Will Tarlisch attack?”

In a corner, deep in thought, Steven noticed the silence first, then the feeling that every set of eyes was staring his way. He looked up to discover his premonition was true. “Yeah, he will…eventually.” Heads turned back to Cara. A deep sigh rose and fell in her chest. “Before that,” Steven continued, “we need to get our story straight about Talbot Bond. Just in case.” Four heads signaled their agreement with small nods. Cara stared at her husband, perturbed she had ever heard the name.

By late in the day, another group arrived, repeating the same tale as the previous one. Still, no eyewitness accounts were offered, and still, the assembly contemplated action. Cara begged for them to send word to Camps Eight and Ten to see what they knew, if they were able to confirm the terrible reports from Salt Lake. Reluctantly, her three adversaries agreed, and a scout was dispatched to each camp. The bad part was they wouldn’t return until morning.

Just before nightfall, a rider from the Upland Guard plodded into camp, high on his brown steed. He had news, shocking news.

Sitting amongst the assembly and several other important camp members, the rider – known only as Wilkins – told his tale. Lit by the nightly fire in the front center of the community, he held everyone’s attention like a gypsy storyteller.

“A few days back, can’t recall the exact day, Erickson and the council were giving a speech,” he began in his tenor tone. “There was quite a crowd there I’m told. Maybe 1,500 people from the community. I don’t know what the speech was about, and it don’t matter no more.”

Cara snuck a quick glance around the fire at the others. Just as she thought, this young man held their attention like a puppeteer before a group of children. Pleased with herself, she listened as he continued.

“About five minutes in, the shooting broke out. From what we were told, it was quick. Thirty seconds and everyone on stage was dead.” Gasps of horror sounded out into the night air. The man pressed on. “They were all shot in the head or the neck is what I heard.” This brought forth wails of fright from the group, men and women alike, the scene almost too gross to comprehend.

“And who did this?” asked Chet, his old, lined face darkened more than usual by the dwindling flames.

“Willem Tarlisch, Howard Melby and their gang. Tarlisch’s Red Rangers they’ve always called themselves.” His light blue eyes surveyed the assembly. Each of their faces turning slowly toward Cara. Silently, she sat focused on the fire.

“Thank you, Wilkins,” Cara said, still staring at the orange flames, giving off just enough light for everyone to notice her resolve. “This information helps guide our decisions. Decisions we need to make soon, I fear.”

“Well, that ain’t all ma’am,” Wilkins replied. “I got more info that might interest you, too.”

Later, long after the last rays of daylight disappeared, the assembly sat solemnly in Cara’s home. Spread out in a casual circle between the small dining and living areas, Chet gave Steven a silent nod.

“If you don’t want me here,” Steven spoke, “I can run over and keep George and his kids company.”
 

Chet’s head shook. “No, please stay. We value your insight. You know the Tarlischs better than anyone here.”

Checking his wife, he noticed a quick peek and a small nod.
 

Chet rose to speak first. “Cara, I’d like to say I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier. It would seem that once again, you’ve proven a capable leader. Very wise, very wise.”
 

“Cara,” Carol Johnson added, “I, too, would like to apologize.”

Her red hair moved slightly as she shook away their remorse. “We will not live in the past. We never have, and we won’t start now. We must deal with the problems we will face. I think it’s best if we stay focused on that.”

“Agreed,” said Charlie Watson. “And the first question is this: That Wilkins kid said Tarlisch is going to come searching for Bond. How much stock do we put in his words?”

Eyes shifted back and forth to one another, most finally resting on Cara. To Steven, it seemed as if no one wanted to be caught second-guessing the fiery woman who was already one up on most of them.

“I think we have to be prepared,” Cara answered. “We have to realize that 100 or more armed men may show up at our gate. We need a plan for that…in case it happens, of course.” Steven smiled as his wife tempered her well-deserved anger against the group.
 

“I guess,” Chet paused as he stood, “the biggest question is: Will Tarlisch attack?”

In a corner, deep in thought, Steven noticed the silence first, then the feeling that every set of eyes was staring his way. He looked up to discover his premonition was true. “Yeah, he will…eventually.” Heads turned back to Cara. A deep sigh rose and fell in her chest. “Before that,” Steven continued, “we need to get our story straight about Talbot Bond. Just in case.” Four heads signaled their agreement with small nods. Cara stared at her husband, perturbed she had ever heard the name.

Late in the warm morning sunshine, Betsi and Jeremy carefully studied the small enclosed community directly to their south. Betsi hoped it was Camp Eight, but she felt lost. From what she knew, Camp Eight should be larger. Her father had once told her it had nearly 60 residents. This looked like a smaller gathering of souls, perhaps 25 to 30. Finally, she glanced back at her strangely silent husband.

“This isn’t Camp Eight. It must be Camp Six or Camp Seven,” she whispered.

“Shouldn’t we go ask?” he replied, too loud for her liking.

Betsi turned, surveying the scene once more. Letting her lips twist, unsure of her next move, her head shook. “Some of these places aren’t the friendliest, Jeremy. These folks can be real skeptical up here. Not all the camps are loyal to the militia or the Upland Guard, you know.”

Jeremy stepped past her and into a small opening. “Are those ducks?”

Watching the white fowl, Betsi sensed something wrong with the scene. She was just about to reach for him when one of the birds spotted the stranger in the opening and began honking. She gasped as he retreated toward her. “What the heck?” he said.

Others joined the honking. One by one, they followed their leader on a mad, albeit slow, trot at the intruder.
 

“Crap,” Betsi chided. “Geese.” It was too late. Now men appeared through the front gate, making their way at the pair, crude weapons in hand. “Well, here comes the welcoming committee,” she added, stepping from the brush.

“But why not dogs?” Betsi asked the camp elder. “Who ever heard of watch geese?”

The man grinned at the others in the small, windowless room behind the captives. Once greeted, they had been ushered into camp and straight into some sort of cell and interrogation room straight from the 1600s, Betsi thought. Now facing one another, she and the elder tried to get questions from a non-answering other.

“You still haven’t told me who you are, young lady,” demanded the elder. Betsi opened her mouth to reply for the tenth time, but he cut her off. “And don’t give me that hogwash of looking for your lost parents. No one goes looking for anyone anymore.” His stony face gave her no hope; this man would reveal no secrets, she feared. “And no one,” he added after a long break, “has seen a live dog in years up here. They seem to have all been eaten by wolves or camps. Geese are still plentiful. They make quite a racket – as you just discovered – they multiply quickly, and they’re easier on the pallet than pooch.”