The Seeds of Man (20 page)

The man let go, she stumbled forward, and someone doused the fiery wound with cold water. Then, half-supported by a person she was only vaguely aware of, Lora was escorted into a rustic recovery area. Somehow, much to her surprise, the shirt and jacket were still clutched in her left hand.

A man entered via a different door, swayed, and fainted. Lora felt dizzy, saw benches, and hurried to sit on one. She was looking at her arm, trying to see the wound, when a woman arrived. She wrapped a clean bandage around the burn and tied the loose ends. Then she left to treat the man.

Lora heard a distant wail and stood as Sissy was escorted into the room. There was a grimace on her face and a bright red “V” on her arm. That was when she realized the truth. They had been branded. But the crying . . . Cristi . . . Surely they hadn’t?

Lora heaved a sigh of relief as a woman appeared with Cristi in her arms. The little girl was screaming but unharmed. Lora went over to accept the child, winced as the pain flared, and took Cristi over to where her mother was seated. Sissy’s face was white and she was shaking. “Th-th-thank you.”

Cristi wanted to be with her mother, so Lora put her down. “She’s okay . . . They didn’t brand her.”

“Th-th-thank God for that.”

It was, Lora decided, the one thing they could give thanks for, because any hopes of being treated in a humane fashion had been dashed. The stories were true. There was a hell, and for reasons Laura couldn’t fathom, she was in it. She went to retrieve her clothes and put them on, but the weight of the jacket made the wound hurt more, so she took it off.

Once the slaves had been “processed,” they were ordered outside and formed into a rough column of twos and threes. Rather than chain them, the way the Crusaders did, the cowboys preferred to herd them like cattle. Mrs. Voss led the way and three wagons brought up the rear. The long, painful day ended in a place called Fife.

During the days that followed, the column trudged through Monarch, up over Kings Hill Pass, and south through the towns of White Sulphur Springs, Ringling, and Clyde Park. From there the trek took them through what people still referred to as Yellowstone National Park to Jackson, Wyoming. The entire journey took twenty days.

During that time, their wounds healed, or most did, the exception being a man who developed a massive infection and begged the slavers to kill him, a chore that Mrs. Voss handled personally. Lora knew she was Luther Voss’s mother by that time and, having seen in her action, had plenty of reason to fear the son.

The mercenaries weren’t spared either. A sniper killed one of them. It could have been an old grudge, a case of mistaken identity, or target practice. Whatever it was, it gave the slaves a reason to rejoice, albeit very quietly, as they ate their dinners that night.

The other event of note, insofar as Lora was concerned, was the night that Mrs. Voss sent for her. It wasn’t a first. About two dozen slaves had been interviewed by then, although nobody could say why they had been chosen over all the rest.

So, based on the accounts Lora had heard from the others, she knew what to expect, which was a series of questions focused on her work experience. That wasn’t too scary, although any exposure to Mrs. Voss came with some risk, so Lora had butterflies in her stomach as she was ushered into a tent large enough to sleep six people.

It was like stepping into another world. A neatly made cot sat against the left wall. A small stove and a pair of matching trunks occupied the other. And there, placed at the center of the room, was the folding desk that Lora had heard about. It was made of highly polished wood and equipped with brass fittings, and the top was covered with green baize. There were three objects on the desk, and they were aligned with military precision. The collection included a pearl-handled Colt .45, a beautifully made fountain pen, and a leather-bound notebook. Behind the desk, seated on a folding chair, was Mrs. Voss. Her eyes were dark. “State your full name.”

“Lora Larsy.”

The pen made a scritching sound as it moved across the page. The eyes came up again. “You’re the one with the little girl.”

“No.”

“No,
ma’am
.”

“No, ma’am,” Lora said. “That’s Sissy. But I carry her daughter sometimes.”

A hanging lamp threw a monstrous shadow onto the wall as Mrs. Voss made a note. “But, if memory serves me correctly, you can read.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s rare these days,” Mrs. Voss commented. “But the ability to puzzle out a few words is not the same thing as being able to read a book. Let’s see how good you are.”

So saying, the older woman opened a drawer, removed a book, and handed it over. Lora looked at it. The title was
Atlas Shrugged
, and it had been written by an author named Ayn Rand. “Open it,” Mrs. Voss said. “Open it and read to me.”

So Lora opened the book and read the first paragraph her eye fell on. “‘Her leg, sculptured by the tight sheen of the stocking, its long line running straight, over an arched instep, to the tip of a foot in a high-heeled pump, had a feminine elegance that seemed out of place in the dusty train car and oddly incongruous with the rest of her. She wore a battered camel’s hair coat that had been expensive, wrapped shapelessly about her slender, nervous body.’”

Lora looked up. “Good,” Mrs. Voss said approvingly as she took the book back. “Very good. Who taught you to read?”

“My father,” Lora replied. The answer was partially true and allowed her to omit any mention of the Sanctuary.

“We’ll be in Star Valley the day after tomorrow,” Mrs. Voss said. “That’s where the Voss family farms are located. Work hard, behave yourself, and who knows? My son needs overseers who can read and write. And they live quite comfortably. Keep that in mind. Dismissed.”

• • •

The city of Jackson appeared to be empty of life as the column passed by it and continued south. The lead merc was carrying a blue flag with a yellow “V” on it by then, and the effect was quite noticeable. People came out of roadside inns to stare. Slower traffic pulled over to let the column pass, and men touched their hat brims as Mrs. Voss rode by. The typical response was an infintesimal nod of acknowledgment, but there were times when she would address such a person by name, or even paused to chat.

But on more than one occasion Lora saw bystanders make rude gestures when they thought they could get away with it, so she sensed that a lot of the respect Mrs. Voss received was based on fear rather than affection.

And that was evident as the column entered the fortified town of Alpine without being required to pay the toll posted just outside town: “One Bullet per Person.” That’s what the sign said, but not for Mrs. Voss, who rode through the gate as if it wasn’t even there.

Not only that, but Buck Benton, the unelected mayor of Alpine, hurried out to greet Mrs. Voss in the friendliest possible way and proceeded to invite her to dinner. There were no such pleasantries for the slaves, of course, but they were allowed to bed down inside a city-owned warehouse, and that amounted to a luxury after so many nights in the open.

They rose early the next morning, ate a meal of steaming-hot porridge, and set off. It wasn’t long before they passed a well-maintained sign that said, “Welcome to Star Valley, the home of Voss Farms.”

It was silly, Lora knew that, since a slave is a slave. But the prospect of arriving at the column’s final destination filled her with a sense of dread, because once there, she sensed there would be no escape, nothing to look forward to each day but the next meal and a chance to rest at night.

Like it or not, the march took her through Etna, Thayne, and Turner, so that by the time the orange-red sun was hanging low in the sky, the column had arrived in the hamlet of Grover, which, according to one of the mercs, was located north of the larger and much more populous town of Afton.

The countryside was mostly open, surrounded by low-lying hills, and still home to pockets of shadowed snow. Clusters of trees dotted the verdant landscape, and cattle could be seen grazing in some of the fields. But what caught Lora’s eye were the greenhouses. There were hundreds of the glassed-in structures all laid out in tidy rows, and as the column turned left off the highway and passed beneath a sign that read, “VOSS FARMS, STATION 2,” she understood how the Voss family had been able to prosper in spite of the long, snowy winters. They, like the residents of the Sanctuary, grew their crops indoors—and on an enormous scale.

An arrow-straight road led between the well-kept hothouses toward a defensive wall and an open gate. Lora could see what she assumed to be slaves coming and going from the greenhouses and noticed that none of them were looking her way. Why was that? Because looking was frowned on? Because the sight would make them feel uncomfortable? Or because such sights were so commonplace they weren’t worth taking notice of?

The questions went unanswered as Mrs. Voss led the column through the gate and into the compound beyond. And there, directly in front of them, stood a large man with a shaved head. He bowed to Mrs. Voss and said, “It’s good to see you, ma’am . . . We missed you.”

But like the rest of the slaves, Lora was only marginally aware of the man, the two-story house in the background, and the outbuildings all around. Their eyes were focused on the wooden platform behind the bald man, the gibbet mounted on top of it, and the corpse that dangled there. They were home.

Near Afton, Wyoming, USA

C
row claimed that the raid on the food caravan was a partial success because the gang had been able to kill half a dozen mercenaries. But, given the cost, no one believed it. And that included Crow, judging by how withdrawn he was.

For his part, Tre had given the raid quite a bit of thought and had arrived at two conclusions. The first was that an L-shaped ambush would have been more effective. Had some of the gang been positioned
behind
the fallen trees, firing straight into the column, they might have been able to trap the mercenaries in a killing zone.

However, according to Tre’s analysis, the mercenaries would have still been able to fight their way out of the trap, thanks to their superior firepower. That led to the second realization. If the gang wanted to defeat Voss, they would need better weapons. But how? They couldn’t steal what they wanted from Voss. They’d have to look elsewhere.

Thus began the research project that consumed all the time when Tre wasn’t assisting Knife, standing guard duty, or performing chores. That meant long hours in the so-called library. It was a joke, really, since very few of the bandits could read and the books, some of which were strewn about the floor, were an unorganized mess.

According to Bones, the books had been taken in various raids and, based on a standing order from Crow, placed in the room where Tre found them. And because most gang members couldn’t tell which books had literary merit and which didn’t, they brought
everything
back. That included novels, scientific references, car manuals, phone books, collections of recipes, and at least one pop-up dinosaur book, which Tre enjoyed.

But ultimately the volume of most importance was a bound journal, which according to the neat printing on the front page, was the property of Minda Marley, a woman who, in addition to being a captain in the National Guard, had been an assistant professor of history at the University of Idaho.

The first half of the journal consisted of touchingly personal writings about her feelings for her husband—and notes having to do with a paper she hoped to write once the civil war ended. One entry in particular caught Tre’s eye. “At this point both sides have racked up some impressive victories and therefore believe that the war is theirs to lose. But I fear that by the time the last shot is fired, there will be nothing left to fight for.”

As interesting as such musings were, the real jackpot was located at the end of the journal and was written in the style of a military officer rather than that of a history professor. “2014-2-12. PLACED IN COMMAND OF A PLATOON OF MP’S. ENEMY ARMOR CLOSING FROM THE SOUTHEST. RCVD. ORDERS TO TRANSPORT WEAPONS FROM NAT. GUARD ARMORY/BLACKFOOT TO MOUNTAIN HOME AFB. IT’S GOING TO BE TIGHT.”

The next entry was dated February 13th. “THE TRUCKS ARE TOO DAMNED SLOW. THEIR HUMVEES ARE CLOSING IN. THEY HOPE TO ENGAGE AND HOLD US FOR THE HEAVIES. NO CHOICE. MASSACRE ROCKS. BURY AND RUN.”

And that was all. The rest of the pages were blank. There was no way to know what happened to Marley after that—or who had the journal before it wound up in the mine. Fortunately a book on the history of Idaho was included in the newly reorganized library, so Tre was able to look up “Massacre Rocks” and learn more about the rock formation also known as the Gate of Death or the Devil’s Gate, all names that the westward-bound pioneers had given to the narrow passage fearing that the Shoshoni Indians might ambush them. And in fact there had been a fight back on August 9, 1862, east of the rocks. Ten settlers were killed.

Tre stared at the picture that accompanied the article for a long time. It showed a cluster of weather-worn rocks, one of which stood head and shoulders above the rest. Was a large cache of arms buried at the foot of it or somewhere nearby? There was reason to think so, but no way to be certain. So should he return the journal to the library or take it to Crow and make his case?

Five days had passed since the disastrous attack on the caravan, and the bandit leader was still moping around. Maybe Crow was ready to listen or maybe he was so depressed that it would be impossible to break through. But in the final analysis, Tre had nothing to lose. Crow would respond or he wouldn’t. If he failed to take the opportunity seriously, Tre planned to slip away and return to the Tangle.

So he made his way up to Crow’s quarters with Marley’s journal clutched in his hand. There was no door, so all he could do was pause outside the entrance and call out. “Crow? Have you got a minute?”

The reply was gruff. “Who is it?”

“Tre.”

There was a pause. “Come in.”

Tre entered to find that the room only partially lit, cluttered with partially eaten plates of food, and badly in need of cleaning. Crow sat with his back to both the lamp and the door. He made no effort to turn and look. “What do you want?”