The Seeds of Man (13 page)

The Ronin were wearing armor that looked similar to what Voss had seen in history books. It was uniformly black and consisted of a fierce-looking helmet, armor that flapped slightly as the mercs rode, and bulky boots. He could see what looked like rifles stored in western-style scabbards, and swords as well, all slung across their backs. Would the armor stop bullets? No, of course it wouldn’t. It was for show, a uniform of sorts that was meant to instill fear. Voss’s thoughts were interrupted as Obey spoke. “Uh-oh . . . they brought some friends.”

Voss raised the binoculars slightly and felt something akin to ice water trickle into his veins. There, galloping along behind the scouts, were
more
Ronin, all riding hell-for-leather. Voss brought the radio to his lips. “Jones . . . bring
everyone
forward. And hurry.”

“Okay,” Voss said to the men on either side of him, “get ready. And remember . . . shoot the horses first. Don’t even think about potting a Ronin until all the mounts are down. We don’t want any of them running home to momma.”

That got a laugh, as it was meant to. “One more thing,” Voss said as he slid his weapon forward. “I need prisoners. Don’t fire until I do.”

Voss owned automatic weapons, including some heavy machine guns, but couldn’t afford to fire them in anything less than dire circumstances. One of his long-term goals was to construct an arms factory, but that was a long way off. In the meantime he had armed his mercs with Model 70 bolt-action Winchesters. The 70 had long been a favorite among prewar deer hunters because it was sturdy, reliable, and accurate.

Some of the mercs preferred lever-action .30-30s for use on horseback, but Voss had chosen bolt-action rifles because of the kind of situation that he and his men faced now. It was damned near impossible to use a lever-action rifle in the prone position without rising, taking your weapon off target, or both. His Winchester was equipped with a scope, and the Ronin seemed to leap forward as the crosshairs settled on them.

In keeping with his own orders, Voss tilted the Winchester down until the scope’s reticule was centered on the lead horse. He squeezed the trigger, heard a loud report, and felt the recoil. The bullet hit the animal dead center and it went down as if poleaxed. The rider was thrown clear, but Voss ignored him as the others fired. “Switch to those in the rear!” Voss bellowed as a second horse tripped on the first and went down in a sprawl of kicking hooves. “Hit them before they can run!”

The order came just in time, as the mob of Ronin located behind the scouts tried to turn. Voss’s rifle seemed to reload itself as another cartridge slid into the waiting chamber. He fired and fired again. Then, worried that a drone might appear, Voss scanned the sky. Nothing. Maybe the little planes couldn’t fly that far, or maybe Hashi figured there were enough Ronin to handle Voss’s rearguard. Jones and the rest of the mercs had arrived on top of the rise by then, and Voss waved them forward. “Hunt them down! And remember, I need prisoners!”

As the reinforcements swept forward, Voss hollered fresh orders to the men around him. “Watch for friendlies! Shoot horses . . . nothing else.”

A couple of animals were still on their feet but quickly went down in the carefully aimed fire. Then Voss led his group forward and was pleased to see that Jones had taken three prisoners. They were seated on the ground with their hands locked behind their necks.

There were more Ronin up ahead, however, some of whom were determined to fight to the death rather than suffer whatever fate might await in captivity. They fought desperately, ran out of ammo, and left cover with their swords drawn. They fell to a quick volley of shots, and the battle was over. Thirty-six Ronin had been killed, seven had been taken prisoner, and none had escaped. Two of Voss’s men had been killed, and three were wounded, but none seriously. So it was a victory, although a Pyrrhic one, given the losses suffered earlier.

Rather than leave the dead Ronin where they were, Voss ordered his men to drag all the bodies to a ravine and cover them with loose rocks. The sky was dark. Hopefully it would snow. If it did, all the signs of battle would be obliterated. Then it would seem as if the Ronin had disappeared into thin air. Except that Hashi would know better and think twice before sending more of her men north. Or so he hoped. He had no use for the prisoners so their bodies joined the rest.

As Voss led his people north, the first flakes came twirling down. Gradually, as the snowfall intensified, the flakes combined to form a shroud of white. Blood had been shed, lives had been lost, and the land was unchanged.

Near Red Deer, Alberta, Canada

L
ora made a clucking sound as she guided her pony up onto a rise. A mule loaded with two bundles of firewood followed at the end of a rope. Once on top of the hill, Lora pulled back on the reins so she could pause and look out over the tepees that had been set up on the plain below. There were at least a thousand of them, all leaking smoke into the hazy air as adults took care of chores and children chased one another through the maze of cone-shaped dwellings. Some were covered with animal skins while others were wrapped in patched tent fabric or clad in multicolored tarps. It was a fantastic scene, and even though the trip south had been terrifying at times, Lora was glad to be where she was.

The better part of two weeks had passed since the battle at the bridge, but it seemed like much longer. During that time the leavers had traveled hundreds of miles while under the protection of the warrior named Twolakes. And Lora had learned how to ride a horse, how to live off the land, and how to deal with a different culture.

A gentle kick was sufficient to put the pony into motion. The mule was nibbling at a tuft of prairie grass by then, and Lora had to jerk on the rope in order to bring the recalcitrant animal along. A maze of interwoven trails led down into the camp, and Lora followed one of them to the main thoroughfare, which paralleled the river flowing through the center of the encampment. Water sparkled as teenagers led horses down to drink. The youngsters laughed as they splashed one another.

In fact, everywhere Lora looked, people were in high spirits because, after days of lead-up, the big celebration was scheduled to take place that night and promised to be a big event indeed. Something like two thousand people were expected to attend the ceremony, which would be held in the natural amphitheater located half a mile away. And from what Lora had heard, there would be speeches and a variety of entertainments, all leading up to a traditional dance.

Then, within a matter of two days, the entire village would be dismantled and everyone would depart. Not because they were tired of one another—but because no one area could sustain that number of hunter-gatherers for very long. Firewood provided a good example; Lora had traveled for two miles before finding enough for a full load.

So it would be necessary for the Blackfoot people to scatter, return to their various lands, and begin the process of preparing for winter. A year later the village would spring back to life.
Where will I be?
Lora wondered. She hoped it would be someplace nice.

By that time Lora had joined the steady stream of horses, mules, and people all headed for the amphitheater, located on the south side of the river. They splashed through a shallow spot, climbed the gently shelving bank on the other side, and followed a well-worn trail into a natural arena. The center of the depression had been cleared many years before, and the surrounding slopes were decorated with a patchwork quilt of blankets, all placed there by people who hoped to secure a good spot.

As some of the riders peeled away, Lora joined the line leading up to the fire pit located at the center of the open arena. When Lora neared the steadily growing pile of wood stacked at the center of the amphitheater, a child came forward to take the reins so that she could slip to the ground. After that it was a simple matter to unload, lead the animals away, and climb up onto the western-style saddle. Then it was a short trip out to the spot where Lora surrendered her mount and pack animal to a couple of teenage boys.

They were friendly, and Lora thought one might be trying to flirt with her but wasn’t sure. So rather than risk making a fool of herself, she hurried away. That was the problem with living in another culture. She knew there were rules but hadn’t mastered them yet. The leavers didn’t have tepees but were equipped with tents, all of which were set up at the northwest corner of the Blackfoot encampment. And Lora and the other leavers weren’t the only nontribal individuals camped there. Traders, merchants, medicine men, hucksters, entertainers, and drifters occupied the area as well. The tribal members called the area Ksikk (White) Town. But there had been a lot of interracial marriages during the last two hundred–plus years, which meant lots of Blackfoot Indians had light-colored hair and skin and blue eyes. Or as Twolakes liked to put it, “Being a Blackfoot is a state of mind.”

Regardless, most of Ksikk Town’s residents were male, nominally unattached, and obnoxious. So as Lora wove her way among tents, tarp-covered lean-tos, and some poorly constructed tepees, she was subjected to whistles, crude comments, and lewd invitations she wasn’t about to acknowledge, much less accept, all of which was new to her and one of the unpleasant aspects of life outside the Sanctuary.

Having successfully run the gauntlet, Lora entered the circle of tents that belonged to the leavers. As always, a guard was on duty, in this case her father. George had changed a great deal over the last few weeks. He was happier for one thing, a lot leaner, and clearly enjoying his relationship with Cassie Elano. His face lit up as his daughter arrived. “Lora! There you are . . . I was beginning to worry. We need to get ready for tomorrow. Twolakes plans to leave before noon.”

By that time the leavers, which was to say everyone other than Lora, had agreed to seek out a commune located near the town of Brooks, a place where, according to Twolakes, about two hundred people were farming the land. Just the sort of folk that George and the others were looking for. Would Lora like it? That remained to be seen, but she was determined to keep an open mind.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the trip to Brooks. There was plenty to do, but the most difficult chore was washing their clothes, a task that usually fell to Lora. After getting a packet of precious laundry detergent from Cassie and borrowing two plastic buckets from a trader’s wife, Lora made her way to the river, where others were already hard at work. Some were there to wash clothes while others took sponge baths.

The first step was to wade out into the freezing-cold water and fill the buckets. After placing the clothes in one of them, Lora added some detergent. After a twenty-minute soak, each item was scrubbed with a brush prior to being rinsed in the river. Once that was accomplished, she had to wring each garment dry—a difficult task for one person. Fortunately a young wife stepped in to help Lora get the last of the water out.

Having lugged the wet clothes back to the tent, Lora draped each item of clothing on the improvised drying rack located next to the fire and turned them as they dried, the result being that everything Lora wore smelled of wood smoke even before she put it on. Finally the task was complete and Lora could put things away.

It was getting late by then, and many tribal members were feasting on wild game. Not the leavers, though. Although they were trying to learn they lacked the skills necessary to live off the land and were forced to dine on little more than the dwindling rations they had with them.

Lora fixed dinner for her father and always gave him some of her food, something he wasn’t aware of and would have objected to had he known. Lora had never gone hungry in the Sanctuary but rarely got enough to eat anymore and knew that was unlikely to change. Millions had died of starvation, and most of those who survived were malnourished.

By the time dinner was over, people were leaving their various shelters and streaming toward the amphitheater. Names had been drawn from a hat, and Don Beck’s was last. That meant he had to stay and guard the camp against the other residents of Ksikk Town.

Spirits were high, and Lora followed George and Cassie as the crowd pulled them along. Once across the river and inside the arena, Lora saw that the bonfire had been lit and was being tended by a group of boys. Had her wood been consumed already? Perhaps so.

The best seats were already taken, but the threesome found a reasonably good spot on the east side of the clearing, and that’s where they spread the tarp George had brought with him. There was a twenty-minute wait while the latecomers got settled. But then, the moment darkness fell, the ceremony began. There was an opening speech from a chief old enough to remember the days before the nuclear war and the troubles that followed. He had a battery-powered bullhorn, and his deep, resonant voice could be heard far and wide. “Millions of automobiles roamed the land back in those days,” he said. “And we, like the buffalo, lived on reservations. Now we roam free, the bison are coming back, and our children’s children will live to see the day when they will outnumber the dead automobiles.”

The speech was followed by an opening parade that was led by more than a hundred members of the Blackfoot tribe but included representatives from the Sioux Nation and the Ojibwa, all of whom considered themselves northerners. The southern tribes were the Kiowa, the Comanches, the Pawnee, and the Ponca peoples. The parade was followed by demonstrations of dancing, singing, and drumming.

Of equal importance, to Lora anyway, were the fantastic costumes that the men and women wore. Most were made of buckskin decorated with bright geometric patterns, fans of feathers, blocks of colorful beadwork, long fringes, fancy belts, and more. Each outfit was as individual as the person who wore it, a work of art. Finally, after a call for the next powwow, the gathering was over and people streamed across the river. They were subdued now. The big day was over and a year of waiting had begun.

By the time Lora got up the next morning, hundreds of early risers had already left. The next couple of hours were spent having breakfast, breaking camp, and loading the mules with supplies. Then it was time to mount up and follow the others through what remained of the encampment. Tepees were coming down, dogs tussled with each other over scraps of food, and the scent of wood smoke laced the air.