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"Scout," Graber said politely.
"Prophet's man," the Morrowlander said, equally expressionless, saluting by putting three fingers to his brow with the other folded under his thumb.
Then he held out his hand. Graber tugged thoughtfully at his brown chin-beard; the grimy paw held a horse-apple, and one that was fairly fresh.
"How long ago?" he said.
"Two days. Wind scrubs out the hooves in this place, but they went this way. Water about half a day's ride north, a little east-spring beneath a big hill. The nine rested there, and met some more."
"More?"
The Morrowlander gri
He opened his other hand like a conjuror, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. In it was half a glass ornament, a golden bee.
"Mormons," Graber said thoughtfully, and whistled sharply in a signal to summon the under-officers.
His three subordinates gathered around him; there should have been four noncoms and a lieutenant, but casualties had been heavy at Wendell. All of them squatted and leaned on their sheathed shetes as they watched the Scout sketch in the dirt.
"How many?" one asked.
"Twenty, twenty-five of the Deseret men," the Scout said. "They came in from here "-his finger traced a route-"but they don't have many remounts, and their horses walk tired. And the nine we chase came in like this, met them there at the spring. The nine have plenty good horses"-he opened and closed his hands, showing the number- "some very big, never seen any tracks like that before. Big but not slow. They buried their ashes, and their own shit, but not the horses'! All rode off together, the nine and the Deseret men, making east and north."
"Two days ago?"
"Two days. Traveling slow-a-bit, walking, riding, walking. Half our pace. Be careful. They have good lookout, and they watch their backtrail. Their scout almost spotted me, I think. Had to wait half a day hidden up, buried myself in the dirt."
Another grin. "He didn't see me, though! I like to meet their scout, someday."
He tapped at his tomahawk to show how he'd like to meet the unknown man. Graber grunted and pulled at his beard again. That the nine were traveling at a long-distance pace argued that they didn't know someone was right on their trail-they were trying to conserve their horses for a long haul. He wished he could do the same. A ridden horse couldn't equal a fit man for long-distance endurance, though you could do better than foot-speed with a string of remounts.
Provided there's grazing, he reminded himself. Which there isn't, here.
"Northeast is old Highway 20," he said, drawing a line at the base of the wavy marks the Scout had used to represent the mountains. "They may be trying to cross the Tetons. Or work north through the mountains and then across; there are old tracks there."
"Bringing twenty-five Mormons into Church territory, sir?" one of the under-officers asked. "Pretty much like holding up a sign that says: Hurrah, we're here, now kill us! "
"A lot of it's Church territory that's pretty thin on people, just around there," Graber said thoughtfully. "And they may not be taking the Mormons… but we'd better catch them before then. General Walker will be pleased if we finish off some bandits at the same time."
Suddenly the Seeker spoke. "Give me two of your arrows, Major Graber."
Graber blinked in surprise; at the statement, and at its sheer disco
The Seeker took them and studied them for an instant, then slowly licked each head. Graber controlled a grimace of distaste; there was something dirty about the gesture. He took them back reluctantly, and only because you never had enough-there were thirty-six shafts in a regulation quiver, and you could shoot them all off in a couple of minutes skirmishing.
"By the Ascended Masters," someone muttered.
It had been said softly, but the Seeker smiled; Graber wished that he hadn't.
"By the Masters indeed," he said, and the smile grew broader. "Oh, we have learned much, and we shall learn so much more of Them!"
"Do you have anything to say?" Graber asked neutrally. Technically I'm in command, but…
The Seeker nodded, his eyes growing distant again.
"There," he said. His arm stretched out, the hand like a blade, pointing precisely northeast. "There. The Son of the Bear… the Son of the Raven… where the weak are strong and the vanquished slay."
Graber felt sweat prickle out on his face, more than sun and armor would explain. He looked at the Scout, and the lanky man shrugged and pointed more nearly straight north.
"Mount," he said harshly. "We'll go for the spring and then track them from there. Until we reach it, water only for the horses."
His under-officers sighed and shifted slightly with relief; the big canteens on the pack-saddles were nearly empty. The reserve on the men's belts wouldn't last long.
"We'll push the pace now, and stop just long enough to water at the spring and fill our canteens. Change off with the remounts every hour, but no rest stops until dark."
As he swung back into the saddle he racked his brain for what lay ahead. A string of small Mormon settlements at the foot of the mountains; General Walker had said they were to be mopped up at leisure, as troops became available. And one pass over the Rockies eastward, so obscure they hadn't bothered to garrison it. Would any of the levies be heading there on their way home? Possibly not…
These misbelievers will not defile the homeland of the Dictations, he thought; the Prophet had given him this mission personally, and that was honor beyond price… and responsibility heavier than a mountain. By the beard of the Prophet, I swear it!
PICABO, EASTERN IDAHO SEPTEMBER 12, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD
Edain Aylward Mackenzie heard Rebecca squeal in shocked alarm, and then a cry of rage and a smack like wet laundry hitting a rock. He whirled, his hand snapping to the hilt of his unfamiliar shete.
They were in the Covenstead at the center of the town… no, the Saints called it a Meeting House. The center was a big hall lit by clerestory windows around the edge where the bright light of dawn showed. One half was full of pews, the second-oddly-equipped with basketball hoops and a recessed stage, and there had been big folding partitions that could close off one from the other. It smelled of wax and paint and lamp-oil and careful cleaning, or at least those had been the predominant odors until recently.
One of the Cutters was rubbing at his fuzzy cheek. It was Jack, and his face looked as if it had been well and truly slapped. There were a dozen or so there, working on their gear or muscling bundles of loot out to the wagons. Some of them were gri
Edain elbowed by her; the sooner they were distracted from the Mormon girl, a woman of the vanquished enemy, the better. The men of Rudi's band-Ingolf's-were supposed to be from a friendly or at least neutral realm, protected by treaty. He pushed forward and thrust his face into Jack's.
"Now, why would you be thinking you could get away with that, boyo?" he asked quietly. "The girl's not yours."
Though maybe you can get away with it, if it comes to a fight with these shetes, some part of him thought.
Not afraid, but considering as he would the weight of a billhook and the look of a hedge.