Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (6 page)

By
noon the pear was a memory and Grey was ten miles north on the west side of the
lake, climbing a rutted road to a grassy plateau. Pausing to catch his breath
at the crest, he scanned the blue water far below, marking the scattered boats
of the fishers, with sails like tiny shark’s teeth. Threads of smoke rose here
and there from scattered communities and lone homesteads. Below Grey, moving
swiftly, was a great V of geese, heading south along the lake.

After
a drink from a water bottle and a bit of jerky, Grey continued on. He reached
Maggie’s by early afternoon.

The
ranch, with its gate, looked perfectly at home on the sun-bleached grassland,
with the far peaks high and blue behind. Horses ran in small herds across the
miles of the ranch’s grazing lands and far off, where the dark triangles of
spruce trees began to dot the grassland, Grey could see cattle.

The
ranch itself was a cluster of eight buildings; all log structures and all over
a century old. The roofs had been freshly shaked and glowed with the red-silver
gleam of cedar. A rider met Grey several hundred yards from the buildings,
cantering up on a blanket appaloosa.

“You’re
on Maggie’s land, Mister. You got reason to be?” the rider asked. He was young,
with the scant beard of a teenager. An old rifle boot was tied to his saddle,
and one hand rested on the butt of a long gun that protruded from it. Grey
looked at him, keeping his own hands visible, thumbs hooked into his belt.

“You’re
new,” Grey offered after a moment.

“Whether
I am or not, I know my job.”

Grey
smiled and the rider flushed.

“That’s
not bad. You might consider starting off with a ‘good afternoon’ though, just
because it softens folk up when you’re polite. They’ll listen a lot better to
what you have to say.”

A
second rider was trotting up, and the first - neck now scarlet - spared him a
glance before looking back to Grey, who interrupted whatever he was about to
respond with.

“I’m
just pulling your chain, son. Maggie knows me even if you don’t.” Grey looked
to the approaching rider and nodded.

“Clay,
your horse is still ugly,” he called.

“Fuck
you too. Must be Grey,” Clay drawled. Clay was a transplant who’d drifted north
six years before, and who claimed to be from Texas. Grey thought he might be
telling the truth, which was impressive, given that the cartels owned much of
the southwest and a trip across their territories would have been exciting, to
say the least.

“I
see you still have that damn Stetson, Clay. Where the hell do you find those
anymore?”

“Trade
secret,” Clay deadpanned, settling his hat more firmly. “I don’t have your
sense of style,” he added, eyeing the ratty wool toque that Grey wore.

The
younger rider turned his horse without a word and cantered back toward the
ranch house. Clay watched, eyes twinkling.

“Did
you twist young Ronald’s tail?”

“Not
so you’d notice,” Grey said, eyeing the retreating teen. “Ronald? Really?”

“He’s
a good kid, just young and prone to foolishness. You must want Maggie, since
we’re months ahead of your usual cabin-fever expedition to come eat all our
biscuits and try to sell us something we didn’t know we needed.”

Grey
nodded. “I need to ask a favor.”

Clay
blinked. “Well, that’s new. She’s out on the top with the cattle, but you can
twist her ear over supper.”

“That
would be fine, thank you.”

Maggie
Thursby was short and wide and tough. She’d raised six sons and three
daughters, about half of which she’d picked up as strays from the ruins. She
had consolidated the remaining small-ranch herds throughout the valley into her
own over the past decade and controlled much of beef supply in the region. She
heard Grey out after dinner, sipping a huckleberry cordial. Clay and Maggie’s
foreman, a hulking man called Badger, listened as well. When Grey finished,
Maggie leaned back, pursed her lips and looked up at the oil lamp that hung
over the dining table.

“Since
I’m thick, let me sum up and make it simple,” she began in her booming voice.
After years of yelling at children and cowboys, Maggie’s volume always seemed
to be stuck near maximum.

“One:
We had raiders in the valley,” Maggie ticked off each point on a finger. “Two,
they’re gone now, after scouting and killing at least three, and third – you
have proof they mean to come back.”

“That’s
it.”

“So
what’s your favor?”

“I
need fast riders who can cover the valley and get the word out. From north to
south, and let people know there’s a meeting next month so they can decide what
to do,” Grey said.

Maggie
dropped her gaze to Grey and cocked her head to one side.

“So
they can?” Maggie grinned without humor. “You know it’s going to be a handful
of people who decide this. You’re one of them, and so am I.”

“Not
me,” Grey said. “I’m a trapper. I don’t have land or family, and I don’t have a
dog in this fight.”

“Stop
with the bullshit, Grey. I’m too old and you’re too smart. Your word matters in
this valley.”

Grey
opened his mouth then closed it, shaking his head. “People need to know,” he
said.

“Then
we can all feel better when we have to count the bodies, since everyone was
involved?” Maggie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.
In the end, yes. That’s why,” Grey said, flushing. His brow furrowed, and his
hands gripped the table edge hard enough that his fingertips went white. “Even
if it is you, and me, and Doc, and the trader council at the Port that really
decide this, people have to feel like they’re a part of it, or they’ll break
and run. Either before the killing, or after.”

“There
you go Grey, that’s better,” Maggie said in her sweetest voice. “You’re an
honest sort, for a man with no past. But you have a hard time taking
responsibility. I wonder why that is?” She rose, offering the men a goodnight.

“I’ll
send the boys out. You decide what they ought to say,” she said over her
shoulder as she left.

Badger
and Clay exchanged glances.

“She
likes to get to me,” Grey muttered, releasing the table and rubbing his
fingers.

“She
likes her truth direct,” Clay offered. Badger nodded.

“Sometimes
the truth doesn’t help anything,” Grey said. No one offered anything to this,
and Grey excused himself to the bunkhouse for the night.

The
church was a survivor from the valley’s early days; a mission-style stone
chapel with attached rectory and a long low building that had once served as
classroom where indigenous children, some taken forcibly from their families,
were taught about a new white God. Jesuits had built the original and its bell
tower overlooked the width of the valley. It had been repaired and rebuilt
seventy-five years later as a historic site, and now the wheel had come full
circle and Saint Augustine’s was again an active place of worship and
education.

Grey
liked the old church, nearly as much as he disliked its resident preacher.

The
church was overseen by Archibald Dove, known to the valley as The Reverend, as
there were no others. Dove’s history was vague. He knew his Bible - Old more
than New, some said. He wore an oft-patched black coat with collar. He had the
lean, unforgiving face one associated with prophets or hangmen, and that gave
his sermons a certain threatening weight. Where he’d come from, and why,
remained well-worn bits of gossip with no answer.

Grey
had left the organizing of the meeting to Josie, and stayed clear of the church
until the day dawned.

People
came on horseback, in carts, in converted garden trailers yoked to ponies, on a
few aging bicycles and on foot, both overland and from the Port. Most families
who lived near the lake kept a sailboat, rowboat or canoe. With the church just
a few miles from the Port, most arrived by water and walked the remaining
distance.

Grey
tried to take a headcount, but the crowd milled about until he gave up. A
carnival atmosphere pervaded the meeting, with people seeing acquaintances they
rarely saw, and farmers and traders making off-the-cuff deals. Children were
everywhere, running and shouting, pursued by yipping, tumbling packs of dogs.
Trappers and hunters talked business with fishers and scavengers. Hillman, the
Port dentist, was peering intently into a bearded man’s mouth and shaking his
head. Josie followed Big Tom through the mix, giving Grey a nod.

Tom
had dressed for the occasion, digging up a grey suit from somewhere and smoking
a hand rolled cigar.

Doc
eased out of the crowd to stand at Grey’s shoulder. He followed his gaze and
chuckled.

“Ah,
our Tom. He’s always got to dress for success,” Doc observed.

“Yeah.
I wonder which way he’ll jump?”

Doc
shrugged. “A bunch of murderers is bad for business, so he’ll want to do
something?”

“I
hope. He’s a politician, so he’ll find an angle. If not right now, then later.”

Doc
shivered. Despite the sun, it was barely above freezing. The sun had just
cleared the encircling mountains, though it was nearly ten o’clock. Grey nodded
toward the church and started off. Doc followed.

Inside
it was warmer, with the heat of the building’s wood furnace intensified by the
body-heat of a hundred locals settling in the long pine pews. The church’s
interior was lit by a wash of color from the stained glass behind the pulpit,
and the narrow windows piercing each sidewall above head height. Foot-thick
wooden supports walked in a double row the length of the building, the pews
clustered between. The scuff and rumble of boots on the floorboards was
constant and the air was thick with the pungent smells of sweat, leather,
tobacco and pot.

Some
of those attending were openly armed, but no more than usual, Grey thought.

Reverend
Dove stood just below the pulpit, his hands clasped behind his back, his head
down. He remained, unmoving, as the crowd gradually took its seats. Doc pulled
Grey to the front left pew and sat down.

The
crowd quieted on its own, eyes going to the figure silhouetted against the
great round window, imposing in his austere black and in his immobility. Voices
dropped to whispers and the scuff and rumble of footsteps died out.

Dove
raised his narrow face and his voice boomed through the church, with the
rolling, practiced tones of a professional speaker.

“Friends
and neighbors. Welcome.” There was a smattering of responses, and Dove nodded
distantly. “I am pleased so many could come and attend our meeting this day,
and I hope to see some of the new faces attending the church come Sunday.”
There were a few snickers, a few agreements and a few obscenities.

“That
aside, today we are not here for you to hear me, but to hear news that will
impact us all.” The crowd noise abated again. “You’ve come because you’ve heard
word that the valley faces trouble, and we are here to explain just what that
trouble is. You are here to decide what to do about it.

“Doctor
Lawson has asked to speak first, and I’ll give the floor to him now. I have
something to add later that I hope you’ll hear,” Dove said, stepping down.

“Wonder
what he has to add?” muttered Grey as Doc rose and turned to face the room. Doc
ignored him and smiled at the assembly.

“Good
morning. I think you all know me, or at least who I am. Many of you have been
to visit, or I’ve come by your place. I’d thought about starting off by talking
about why our valley is special, and how we’ve built something in a world that
was broken, but I guess you all know that.”

Grey
grinned at the cross that hung behind the pulpit. Assume they agree and keep
going. That was a lesson he’d learned many years ago.

“Some
of you know Grey. He brought me some news a few weeks ago, and saved me from
some unwanted visitors.” Grey quit listening and waited for the questions to
start. When Doc finished after five or ten minutes, they did.

“So
you never saw these raiders?” Grey knew the voice, but couldn’t place it until
he stood and turned. It was Harwold, a fat old man whose three sons ran a small
lumber mill a few miles up Mission Creek, west of the valley settlements.

“He
didn’t. I did,” Grey said. “You have a question?” Grey heard Doc sigh as he set
down.

“Well,”
Harwold paused and Grey realized with faint amusement that the mill owner had
no actual question; he just wanted to look important and be involved in the
conversation.

“How
do we know they were raiders?” Grey was further amused by the few actual groans
that rose from the crowd and one pithy “Shut the fuck up, Harry” from somewhere
in the back. Amusement would lighten the mood, and Grey didn’t want that, so
his response was carefully deadpan and intentionally cruel.

“You
calling me an idiot, Harwold? You think I’m the kind of fat-ass townie who
can’t tell the difference between a wolf and a coyote?” Harris looked like he’d
been slapped. Grey noted that eyes had widened and grins had disappeared around
the room.