The Last Pilgrims (8 page)

The Duke’s face lit up as he rose quickly to
his feet. He tugged on his ridiculous mustache in his excitement.
“Where are these prisoners? Please tell me that they are being
brought here to me?”

“Your Grace, it would have been impossible
to get them across the badlands without the militias catching up
with them. Phillip has used most of his available resources, as you
can imagine, trying to recover his family, and the Vallenses have
helped too. Hundreds of the plain people have been working in teams
with the militia, scouring the area. However, our spies took them
to a safe house a hundred miles North of Bethany. When Bethany is
burned by your army, Your Grace, we will gather all of the
captives, including Phillip’s family, and we will bring them back
here safely with the soldiers.”

The Duke, obviously excited at the turn of
events, came around the desk. When he was excited, he looked even
more like a cartoon villain—dark and swarthy, with the look of the
weasel to him.
Cocaloco
, English thought, as he adopted his
most subservient look for the Duke.

“We may not need to bring them here, then,
English. We will send a letter under the white flag to Phillip
himself. Zhooo will tell him that when our army arrives in San
Angelo, that he is to surrender himself and all of his militia. If
he does not do so, his wife and daughters will be tried as heretics
and burned at the stake.” The Duke paused for a moment, looking his
secretary in the eye.

“I am not bluffing. We will do it.”

“I assumed that much.” English swallowed
with difficulty. “Is that your wish, Your Grace?”

“It is my wish.”

“I will send the letter, Your Grace.”

“One more thing, English.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“The assassin zhoo sent to kill the post
rider,” he paused, looking out the window, “he is dead, I
assume?”

“We must assume so, Your Grace. Most likely
killed by the terrorist Phillip himself,” English lied.

“Have zhoo told this man’s family?” the Duke
asked.

“I was planning to draft a letter to his
father today, Your Grace.”

The Ghost Militia didn’t build fires at
night. There were no cozy campfire scenes with the hypnotic,
dancing, orange-yellow glow of diffused firelight emphasizing the
faces of weather-hardened cowboys. Phillip’s militiamen were both
hunters and hunted, and most of them had lived their entire lives
in this manner—outside, exposed to the elements, usually in close
proximity to a horse. They knew that an open fire at night could
get you killed.

At night, as in the day, Phillip’s men
disappeared into the surrounding hills and brush. They didn’t have
to be told what to do. Except for his current guests, each man had
been in the unit for so long, that they moved as a single entity.
When it was time to sleep, the men melted into the environment as
creatures natural and indigenous to it. Each man would quietly eat
his supper of sausage, jerky, or pemmican, with hardtack or maybe a
dried tortilla. Tonight, perhaps a few of the men had spread a bit
of sugared lard on their bread—those blessed enough to have any
lard left from the trip to the ranch.

He chewed slowly and deliberately on a piece
of dried sausage as his eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness,
scanned the area and the horizon. What little moonlight there was
gave a blue-black tinge to the juniper and low mesquite brushes
that dotted the hills.

On nights like this one, you relied mostly
on your ears. His guards knew the idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes
of both horse and man. Each man standing guard had a baseline of
expected sounds; they knew which man snored, and how loudly; which
horses whinnied, how often, and why. From this cacophony of natural
sounds and silence, the guard was able to determine if anything was
amiss or deviating from the norm. Experience became a sixth
sense.

Sometimes two or three men might break the
routine, bunch up for a short while and talk in hushed whispers.
But this, too, was part of the overall pattern. The need for
interaction and camaraderie was understandable and even welcome.
They were still human. Still, if they did congregate to talk, they
were expected to operate as additional watchers. In their
gatherings, they talked in low tones, with eyes and ears open,
alternating between talking, listening, and scanning the area.
During these powwows, no two men ever talked over one another,
argued, or raised their voices. Within this warrior unit, even
fellowship was military in its discipline and bearing.

He heard Gareth’s heavy and untrained
footsteps, as he approached. Phillip didn’t bother to turn around,
remaining crouched down low on the sandstone ledge.

“Greetings, assassin dog,” he said. “If you
intend to cut my throat, you’ll have to do better than that. You
sneak like a sasquatch.”

“I know that you have eyes in the back of
your head, Sir Ghost. I would never try such a thing. Most likely,
if I was inclined to kill you, I’d shoot you from a great
distance,” Gareth replied, laughing.

“I’m no knight, friend,” Phillip retorted,
“so stop with that ‘sir’ talk. I’ll take your insolence only so
much.
Ghost
is one thing, ‘sir’ is another.”

“Yes, sir!”

He shook his head, and then held up his hand
for silence, focusing his ears on a sound from the brush. “Ah…
young Raymond Stone went to water a bush. So, why are you still up
Gareth? Can’t sleep under the stars? I’ll admit, it can be
difficult to find rest with both God and your conscience looking
down on you.”

“God sees through barn roofs just as well as
castles. There is no hiding from Him. But, in case you were
wondering, I’ve been sleeping just fine during this fortnight with
you, Phillip. I’m becoming more at home out here as the days
pass.”

“Good to hear. Good to hear.” Phillip pulled
out his battle knife and sliced off a piece of the sausage, handing
it to Gareth, who accepted it gratefully.

“I know that you didn’t want me to come with
you,” Gareth said, seriously. “I hope I haven’t slowed you
down.”

“Not too much. We’ve been unable to track
the Aztlanis this way anyway. We’ll wait now for any word from the
other militias, or from the Vallensian searchers to the north.” His
head moved slowly and deliberately like radar, as he “watched” with
his ears. “Tomorrow, if the Lord wills, we will meet up with an old
friend of mine. He’s been at New Rome, and we’re hopeful he’ll have
some news for us.”

“You… have a friend who’s been at New Rome?
Wow. That’s an interesting twist.”

“Yeah, I figured that since you are an
Aztlani spy and assassin, you’d enjoy a visit from New Rome.”

Gareth dropped his head, and responded
seriously, “Phillip, I came along to help you find your wife and
daughters. I know we joke around a lot, but I want to find them
just as much as any of your men do. I want them to be safe with
you. I pray that we find them soon.”

“I know, Gareth. I don’t doubt you, though I
know that many do.”

“I am your friend, Ghost.”

Phillip looked upward. The sky was clear,
and the stars were uncountable in their number, and unfathomable in
their beauty. “In our line of work, you’ll understand that we don’t
trust words very much. These men began riding together for their
own reasons—out of their hatred for Aztlan, or because they refused
to worship according to the dictates of New Rome. Some of them are
here because their families were killed, or because they merely
wanted freedom and saw the militia as the best way of obtaining it.
Some came because they were orphans and they had no family. Now,
they ride together because they
are
a family—a clan.

“Like family, they are united in the
fundamental opinions of life and living. Yet, unlike a traditional
family, they have bled and died together. Out here, the word
‘friend’ means something. In fact, it is from the Hasinai Indian
word for ‘friend’ or ‘ally’ that we have the name Texas, which is
our home. You might recall that, in the Book of John, Jesus said to
his disciples, ‘Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant
knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you
friends.’
” With that, Phillip went silent for a moment,
listening and watching, before he continued.

“You know, monarchs rule by right of
blood—each son ruling in the place of his dead father—even if they
despised one another in life and even if they had different
beliefs. Thus, in a system of divine and royal right of heirs, the
concept of ‘blood’ can be distorted and confusing. Out here, things
are much simpler. We are kin by providence, and not by blood.”

“I understand,” Gareth said, pondering
Phillip’s words.

The militia commander turned to Gareth and
whispered, “These men do not value words. They ride with you, but
they watch you. They’ll fight with you and die for you, or… they’ll
cut your throat. I can’t tell which is more likely.”

“Well, let’s hope they
judge righteous
judgment
,” Gareth said.

“It’s strange and ironic, you know,” Phillip
added, “that one of the Indian words for ‘friend’ that some people
believe became our word for Texas was the word
Taysha
. That
conclusion is up for debate, of course, because others believe that
our word Texas had to come from the Hasinai word for ‘friend’, the
word
techas
. Anyway, one thing most everyone who discusses
such things agrees on is that the word
Taysha
is also the
Mayan word for
spy
.”

“You sir,” Gareth said, smiling, “are a
fount of etymological irony. Good night, Ghost.”

“Good night, Assassin.”

The night passed uneventfully, and Phillip
managed to grab a few hours of sleep before he was wakened by the
sound of approaching horses. He jumped to his feet, prepared for
anything, when he saw his militia outriders returning from their
reconnaissance mission.

Soon, the entire camp was up and moving
organically, preparing for the day’s ride. Very small fires—fires
that did not smoke—were started, and each man would take coals from
the fire to heat his own breakfast. A small hole, maybe four or
five inches deep and five inches in diameter, would be dug into the
hard ground. A small hand shovel-full of coals would be placed into
the hole, over which a small pot would be placed.

Heating up the mesquite coffee always came
first. Each man carried a ration of roasted mesquite pods, and each
prepared their own cup of coffee each morning. It was more
practical this way. It would take too long to heat large pots of
coffee, but only a few minutes for a small cup of water. When the
water boiled, small broken bits of mesquite pods, roasted black,
would be tossed into the water and boiled for a few more minutes.
The sweet, highly caffeinated concoction was then poured through a
rough cloth into a drinking cup and the ‘grounds’ were set aside to
be buried with whatever other evidence might be left over from the
night’s stay. It was said that if the Ghost militia was ever
tracked and caught by an Aztlani army, it would be by the smell of
mesquite coffee oozing from their pores.

Phillip credited the mesquite coffee with
the great health and vitality of the militia—that, and the
abundance of lacto-fermented foods in their diet. The militia had
been riding for nearly 20 years, although most of the men were
actually younger than that. Still, it was notable that disease was
almost unknown among the freemen militias who lived primarily off
the land.

After the coffee was prepared, the
militiaman would refill the pot with a small amount of water to
which he would add a handful of grains and maybe a pinch of salt.
Sometimes, in the lean times, when there were no grains, another
chunk of sausage or jerky would be added to the water and cooked
into a broth. There was always plenty of meat. On good days, maybe
an egg, or some other delicious local creature or plant would show
up in the pot.

When there was fat, the men might cook a
portion of it down with a sprinkle of dried agarito berry powder or
fresh prickly-pear cactus fruit added to the mix. They had become
experts at providing what their bodies needed, and very little
more. As a result, they were lithe and fit, and with the exception
of Rollo The Mountain, the huge and muscular man-child of the
group, none of them would have been considered large.

The outriders rode directly to Phillip and,
by way of salute, each of them gave an almost imperceptible nod to
the commander before sliding off of their horses. The riders split
into three groups. From this point on, the motions of each of the
men was akin to a choreographed ballet. Phillip crouched down with
one of the outriders, as men surrounded him wordlessly, facing
outward. There was no way of telling when they might be being
watched, or when a sniper might be observing the entire scene from
a thousand yards away via a high-powered scope. Thus, in an
over-abundance of caution, whenever Phillip talked to outriders,
spies, or whenever he received reports, the militia made sure that
even his lips could not be read from afar. This scene was repeated
three times, as each of the outrider and militia segments mimicked
the routine Phillip and his sub-group followed. Only the man who
approached Phillip had the real report. The other two meetings were
diversionary. In this way, a watcher might not even know which of
the militiamen Phillip was. No man wore any insignia of rank or
identifying regalia. In every way that was apparent, Phillip was
just like the rest of the men. Still, even without an outward sign,
to his men, he was not only the leader, but also their hero, and
their father.

“What news do you bring?” Phillip asked.

The outrider looked down, with some sadness.
“We have no good word yet of your wife and daughters. We’ve almost
come to the conclusion that they did not ride for New Rome, or for
El Paso. We’re focusing our attention north now. The Vallenses
believe that they have found some indication of a party traveling
northward at approximately the correct window of time.”