Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (20 page)

Captain
Nakamura slowed his horse until he rode beside the Colonel, out of earshot of
Moorhouse at the head of the column.

“Do
you think this spot will do, Sir?” He asked.

“It
will work, Captain. There’s a rail yard here from when this was wheat country,
and there’s grass for the horses and food for the men until the supply trains
reach us. What’s on your mind?”

The
Captain was silent for a few seconds.

“I
suppose I’m just getting a little antsy. We’re almost there, sir. Do you want
the prisoner’s information tonight?”

“Tomorrow
is fine. Let him worry overnight. It’ll make him more talkative come the
morning.”

“You’ll
want a scaffold set up?”

“Yes.
But in the town, not at camp. See that it’s ready in three days, Captain.”

“Yes
sir.”

Clay
sat at the campfire and smoked a tiny soot-stained meerschaum pipe. Georgia
walked in from the dark, straightening her clothes.

“I
will be glad to see an outhouse again,” she said, sitting beside Clay and
tossing a stick of wood on the fire. They watched the sparks fly and fade.

“And
a real bed,” Clay said. “And not being worried that twenty angry men with guns
may suddenly wander into my camp. But I should be happy it’s not raining.”

“Don’t
even say that, you’ll jinx us,” Georgia said, squinting up at the stars. She
sucked air through her teeth and peered around. “Is Sowter on watch?”

“Yeah,
he’s walking a slow circuit with Doc. You smoke?”

“I
was going to ask what stank so bad, so no,” Georgia admitted, glancing at the
pipe.

“It’s
rabbit tobacco and pot. Hippie-cowboy mix, I guess.” Clay shrugged and knocked
the pipe empty against a boot heel. “It’s relaxing.”

“Are
you feeling nervous?”

Clay
thought for a moment. “I guess I am,” he said.

“Why?
What is it?”

“Grey.
I can’t quite work him out.”

Georgia
cocked her head to the side and smiled slightly.

“I’d
have thought he was pretty obvious, but maybe you’re right,” she said.

“Obvious?
How?”

“On
top, he’s looking to make up for his past, but under that he’s good at this
sort of thing, and everyone takes pleasure in what they’re good at,” Georgia
said.

Clay
grimaced. “Yeah, I get those, but I keep wondering if there’s another layer
under there.”

“I’m
sure there is. There’s personal baggage of some kind with this Creedy, and
there may be some urge to go off and get killed as a hero, and another part of
him that wants to run away and pretend the past never happened. People are
always a mix, cowboy.”

Clay
laughed and pushed his hat back so that a forelock of hair escaped to hang like
a dark comma on his forehead.

“Not
always,” he said.

“Oh,
really? I suppose you’re here like a good soldier, with no questions?”

“Pretty
much. Well, wait, that’s not true,” Clay said, leaning back against his
bedroll. “I’m here for two reasons. I started off with the one; follow Grey
down and see if we could stop these guys getting into the valley.”

“What’s
the new one, then?”

“I
want to see if you’ll decide you like me,” Clay said.

“I
like you well enough to sleep with you,” Georgia said with a grin.

Clay
reached to her, and she moved to him. With her head nestled under his chin, she
heard him chuckle.

“Well,
that’s a start, anyway,” he said.

The
rest of the group had split up and were sampling the entertainment in Mattawa,
two days southwest of Creedy’s castle.

Mattawa
was a cluster of old wood frame homes and brick businesses. Few of the
buildings had been left to ruin, and those that had fallen had been cleared
away. The population of three hundred or so was largely farmers. Their fields
surrounded the town in a great, irregular checkerboard delineated by irrigation
canals from a foot across to twenty yards in width. The wet fields and
slow-moving slough water gave the air of the town a rich muddy smell that
contrasted with the faint sage perfume of the arid scrub around it.

Businesses
were limited to a blacksmith and stables, a general store in an old converted
Laundromat, two bars - one with a brothel upstairs - and a huge mill. Much of
the mill was unused except as storage and crowded with rusted ranks of useless
machinery, but a pair of gristmills had been converted to wind-power. The big
multiblade fans creaked and rattled night and day, driving the axles that
turned the mills. Grain growers throughout the scablands and the Palouse plains
to the east would cart their crops here to sell, and the mills would in turn
sell flour to the traders. Crews worked night and day from harvest through the
winter months, ghostly in their coats of flour. By July the first early wheat
would be in and dry and the work would start again.

Castle
men were here in some numbers. Grey had scouted the town, and found two
blockhouses, one near the mill, and one on a hill to the west that gave an
encompassing view of the town and its surroundings. Each strongpoint was a
cinderblock building, with reinforced windows and doors. Townsfolk said that
the number of men varied. Most agreed that there were often three or four,
heavily armed, at each location.

“I
want them relaxed,” Grey had explained to the others as they’d ridden to
Mattawa that morning. “We’re a lot of strangers to show up in town at once,
even if we don’t look armed.” Grey had made everyone conceal their weapons.
Harmon left his crossbow behind, and wore a simple belt knife. The other three
had tucked their pistols out of sight and left their long guns in camp.

“What
I want to do this evening is spread a few rumors, but quietly, about some
hardcase riders down from the north. Make up whatever you like, as long as it
sounds like there are a few dozen of them. These guys are pissed because Creedy
was on their turf, right?”

“Won’t
he just ask his scouts?” Ronald asked.

“Probably,
but what’s he going to think? He has to take it seriously after the station and
Potter’s Creek - and after we burn out his blockhouses here. Speaking of, does
everyone remember their jobs?”

The
other three nodded their assent.

“Good,
stick to what you need to do. Don’t get distracted.”

“What
if someone sees us?” Harmon asked. “If we wind up in a fight, it’s not going to
go well.”

“Then
don’t be seen,” Grey said. “And if you are, run away.”

Mal
and Grey visited one of the two bars. It was a two-story house that had been
converted, with the sheetrock and paneling pulled out where feasible, leaving
room for tables and a scuffed wooden dance floor. There were a dozen or so men
drinking at the bar and the nearest tables and two older women playing cards
and arguing at a small table near an unlit fireplace. Candles and oil lamps
supplied enough light to see by, and not much more.

A
plate of fried dough twists sat on the bar, and Mal reached over a drinker’s
shoulder with an apologetic grunt and took two. He gave one to Grey and began
to eat his own.

The
drinker turned and gave Mal a stare, blinking.

“Do
I know you?” His voice was slurred and he leaned back against the bar at a
dangerous angle on his stool.

“I
don’t think so. Have you ever been anywhere down south? Utah, maybe?”

The
drunk shook his head and blinked again. A pair of his friends had turned to
listen. They were all in their twenties, with big hands and white flour dust
graying the roots of their hair.

“No.
That’s in California, right?”

“Yeah,”
Mal said.

The
drunk blinked some more, trying to come up with another question. He shrugged
and turned back to the bartender, gesturing for another beer. One of his
buddies spoke with beery good cheer.

“Welcome
to Mattawa, buddy. Home of the best flour anywhere, and fuck all else. I’m
Kevin. Have a beer.”

Mal
smiled and pushed a silver piece across the bar. The bartender swept it cleanly
out of sight and replaced it with a stoneware mug of beer.

By
midnight Grey and Mal had made a half-dozen boozy friends, been offered a place
to sleep, and heard stories about Potter’s Creek, the imminent arrival of the
army, and the new whore over at the Blue Marmot. The consensus was that Boyfuck
Jones hadn’t hit the station. Too many people had come forward later and testified
to the existence of a fat man named Simmons. Word was that the Castle was
extremely interested in who Simmons was, and was offering a reward for him. As
for the rumors of the army, those had been growing thicker as spring grew
warmer. The news from traders heading west kept moving the soldiers closer. The
latest had them crossing the Snake River at Lewiston, and that was three weeks
or more from Mattawa.

Grey
pulled Mal aside while their friends ordered another round.

“You
think that’s accurate? They’re in Lewiston?” Mal asked.

“If
it’s true, we’re out of time,” Grey said. “Creedy has to move in the next two
or three weeks or they’ll have him trapped in his goddamn castle.”

“Do
we try to stop Harmon and Ronald and get out of here?” Mal asked.

Grey’s
brow creased and he scratched furiously in his beard. He sighed as he met Mal’s
gaze.

“It’s
almost midnight. It’s too late. Let’s stick with the plan instead of running
around in the dark trying to change it.”

Grey
remembered that decision, later, after it went so wrong.

The
moon shone down on Mattawa, a half-circle of silver, when Ronald and Harmon
left the Blue Marmot and headed east out of town. They didn’t see anyone on the
streets, and weren’t expecting to. They were both surprised when a voice hailed
them from the roadside. Three men detached from the shadows and moved to their
right, boots crunching on the gravel.

“Where
are you two headed?” one asked. There was enough light to see that all three
were armed. The leader wore a dark coat or vest that made his torso bulk
strangely. “You two got somewhere to be, middle of the night?” he asked.

“What
the hell business of yours is that?” Harmon slurred, sounding drunk and
belligerent. Ronald blinked.

“It’s
our business because we make sure things run nice and smooth,” the leader said,
altering course to stand at Harmon’s side. “So, I’ll ask one more time, why
you’re sneaking out of town in the middle of the night.”

“Fuckin’
nosey pricks,” Harmon growled, kicking clumsily at the questioner. The man
stepped aside easily, grabbed Harmon’s leg, and yanked him off his horse onto
the cracked pavement. Harmon landed hard and Ronald thought he could hear his
teeth click as his head rebounded off the asphalt. The leader planted a single
energetic kick into the sprawled figure’s stomach and then turned to Ronald as
Harmon retched.

“Your
friend fell off his horse,” he said in a reasonable voice. “While he’s
recovering, you can answer the question.”

Ronald
tried to sound frightened. He discovered that wasn’t very hard to do.

“I’m
sorry Mister, he’s drunk. He didn’t mean nothing.”

The
man stepped closer, rested a hand companionably on Ronald’s stirrup. “That’s
not an answer, son.”

“Sorry.
We just stopped to get some drinks, and we wanted to see if there was any work
around here, and the girls at the Marmot, you know, but we spent all our money
so the bartender said we had to leave, so we figured we’d just go sleep it
off...” Ronald babbled. He loosened the pistol in his belt with his right hand,
away from the view of the three men.

“Whoa,
whoa, slow down, kid. Jesus, no answer or a hundred of them all at once.” The
other two laughed. “Tell you what, we’ll send Earl here over to the Marmot and
check your story out, and if the bartender backs you up, well, then you can put
your friend back on his horse and get the hell out of my town.”

“All
right,” Ronald said, trying to sound relieved. It wasn’t like they’d actually
been kicked out or bought a whore, or ran out of cash, but at least this would
get one of the three away for a while and even the odds.

“Uh,
Mister, I need to piss,” Ronald said. Harmon continued to moan and make weak
retching noises. Ronald hoped he was not as hurt as he sounded.

“Well,
get down and piss, then,” the guardsman said. “If you run off, I’ll kick your
drunk buddy to death.”

He
really did have to urinate, and he unzipped to do so, watching Earl trot the
five short blocks back to the Marmot. Earl had made it about halfway when he
finished and zipped up.

That
was when the explosions started.

A
lot happened at once. A lurid orange fireball accompanied by a bowel-loosening
thump rose on the far side of town, the glare illuminating the grain elevators
at the mill. Earl, caught midstride by the shockwave, tripped and landed hard
on his hands and knees. Both guards and Ronald stood gaping for a second as a
blast of hot wind swirled grittily past them.