by Steven Smith
Jim shrugged. "I'm not against helping, but helping is different than being responsible. And I'm not necessarily against being responsible for something, but I am against responsibility without authority because that means that the one being helped sets the expectations and limitations. That's what caused so many problems before, from international relations to families."
Christian nodded. "Makes sense."
Jim stayed silent for a moment, then got up and walked to the edge of the veranda, looking to the north. "We can't see it from here, but if we walked up to the watch-tower I bet we'd see smoke in the city. I don't know what's going on, but something is, and, if it comes our way, we need to be able to deal with it. I'm sure the sheriffs to our south and west are good men, but they won't be able to send us much help, if any, if we need it. It's up to us. And it's also up to us to be able to help them if they need it in order to protect ourselves from incursions by others beyond them. But it can't be a one-way deal."
He turned and looked at Mike. "I want to know what's going on in the city. Do you have people you think are good enough to go in, not get caught, and get back to tell us?"
Mike thought about it and nodded. "We have two teams that I think could do it. They're guys who have gone through a lot of the special training and they're good. I can lead them myself."
Jim shook his head. "You can't go. I hate to say that anyone is irreplaceable, but you two are as close to that as I can imagine in your respective positions. Are there others you think would be capable of leading those teams?"
Mike nodded. "The Cools could do it."
"Okay. Get them ready to go as soon as possible. Then, there's something else. I want to build our scouts up as much as we can. We can talk about how later, but start thinking about it."
Mike nodded a third time. "Okay."
"Who's ready for breakfast?" Kelly asked, coming through the door with three plates of omelets loaded with bacon, sausage, peppers, onions, spinach, mushrooms and cheese.
"Mike and I are," smiled Christian. "Jim's on a diet."
They ate breakfast, called in a scout team to accompany them, gathered their horses and headed south.
Most of the activity since the collapse had been to the north and west, and, although the scouts made regular patrols to the south and east, neither Jim nor Christian were very familiar with what lay more than a few miles out - a shortcoming they needed to remedy.
The terrain was a mixture of rolling grassland and dense woodland crossed by numerous small rivers and streams, and the scouts adjusted their diamond formation to keep each other in sight. The red and white smokestack of the La Cygnes Lake power plant came into view after about an hour, and by midmorning they topped a hill overlooking the Marais des Cygne river.
"This is pretty country," observed Christian, stopping his horse next to Jim's.
Jim nodded. "It is. It's been a while since I've been down here." He looked around. "The Missouri line is just a few miles east, Lacyne is just a couple of miles west, and Mound City is another fifteen or twenty miles south."
"What does cygne mean? It seems like everything around here is named that."
"Cygne is French for swan," Jim answered. "I think some French trapper set something up around here, but I forget. Anyway, you'll see a lot of swan statues around."
He looked at Mike. "How much have you all scouted in this area?"
"A little west of La Cygne and down to Mound City. East to the Missouri line."
"Give me the nickel overview."
"LaCygne was a small town to begin with and smaller now. Not many were in the town itself when we went through a couple of months ago. Most of those who are still alive moved out to friends and family on farms. Pretty much the same in Pleasanton up ahead and Mound City. Good folks, but stand-offish to strangers at first. We were met with shotguns and deer rifles at most places, and they kept them on us until they talked to us a bit.” He smiled. "Like I said, good folks."
"Any leadership?"
Mike nodded. "The sheriff's a good guy and has a few deputies. The mayors of the towns keep in touch. Everybody pretty much takes care of their own business and looks out for each other."
"Where is the sheriff?"
"Mound City."
Jim thought for a minute. "It's been a while since I've been there. Do you think we could make in there and back home before dark?"
"If we keep 'em at a trot."
Jim looked at Christian and nodded toward Mike. "He's starting to sound like us. We're going to have to get him a hat."
They angled over to U.S. 69, taking to the median where they could switch the horses between a trot and a canter without hurting their hooves. The few abandoned cars along the highway reminded them of the event and the juxtaposition of horses passing inoperable motor vehicles was a stark reminder of the fragility of technology in the grand scheme.
Passing Pleasanton on their right, they soon turned west on Highway 52, riding single file on the shoulder as they passed the marker for the Mine Creek Battlefield and successive farms, and soon entered the wooded hills in which Mound City was situated.
They followed the curve of the road until they rounded a final bend that made Jim stop. A white frame church with a steeple stood on a corner to their right and the three-story red brick courthouse with its own tower rose up on the left. Huge trees shaded the courthouse lawn on which sat a white gazebo obviously built for community concerts. A small veterans memorial, it flags gently flapping in the soft breeze, added to the postcard setting.
Jim smiled. "If this isn't a picture of America, I don't know what is."
Christian nodded. “I’ll second that.”
Jim turned to Mike. "Where's the sheriff's office?"
"Their old office is across the street, but everybody works out of the courthouse now."
Jim nodded. "We'll follow you."
They walked their horses across the street and around to the side of the courthouse. "There's not much county business anymore," Mike explained, "so they keep the main doors locked and use the side door."
They dismounted and tied their horses up to an unused bike rack and some iron rails along a sidewalk, Mike then leading Jim and Christian through the door while the team remained outside on watch.
The wooden screen door gave a loud slam as it closed behind them, the sound echoing through the empty high-ceilinged halls of the old building.
A woman's voice calling "I'm back here!" also echoed through the building and Mike led them across the dark central hall to an office in the back corner.
A pleasant looking woman with glasses hanging on a neck chain met them at the door with a smile.
"Hi Mike. When I saw the hats through the window, I thought you were with some of our guys."
"Hi Marjorie," Mike grinned. "This is Jim Wyatt and Christian Bell from Stonemont."
He looked at Jim and Christian. "This is Marjorie Benton; county clerk, historian and general ramrod of things around here. They say she never forgets anything."
"Except where I put my glasses," she laughed, touching the neck chain. "What are you all and your army up to?"
"Jim just wanted to drop by and meet Eldon," said Mike. "Is he around?"
Marjorie shook her head. "He and some of the guys headed out a couple of hours ago to see about some shooting folks heard southwest of here. Probably just one of our locals, but you never know." She cocked her head as if listening. "Scratch that. He'll be back in about two minutes."
Jim and Christian looked at each other, then heard a bad muffler getting closer. A minute later, a red stake truck passed the window and the sound travelled around to the side door where it stopped, followed by the sound of two truck doors slamming.
A deep voice said, "How are you boys?" and the slamming of the screen door preceded heavy footsteps that brought a large man wearing a Stetson and carrying a rifle into view.
"Eldon," said Marjorie, "this is Jim and Christian from Mike's bunch up north. They want to complain abou
t a ticket you gave them."
The sheriff chuckled and switched the rifle from his right hand to his left, extended the right to Jim. "Eldon White. I've heard about you."
Jim took the extended hand. "Any trouble out there?"
White shook his head and chuckled again. "Just one of our characters."
He glanced at Marjorie. "Del's drunk again. He was out there walking around wearin’ nothin’ but flip-flops, shootin' at beer cans and singin'."
Marjorie made a tisking sound with her tongue. “He and Betsy must have had a spat again. Either that, or he’s celebrating something.”
White laughed, looking at Jim, Christian and Mike. "Del's a good old boy. He was a cop up in the city somewhere before he retired and bought some land down here with a rock quarry on it. He likes to go out there to shoot, get drunk and sing, 'cause he says he likes the acoustics. Got a fine voice, too, but a lousy choice of tunes. When I got there, he was singin' All by Myself."
He shook his head. "I had to leave when he started Alone Again, Naturally."
He nodded his head toward the front of the building. "Let's go up to my office and see if we can find something to cut the dust."
"Remember to sit by the window so Suzy doesn't smell smoke on you again!" called Marjorie as the men walked away.
White entered the office and waved at some chairs in front of his desk. "Take a load off."
He put his rifle in a rack, hung his hat on a hook and lowered his large frame into a brown leather chair, pushing his fingers back through his thick peppered hair to smooth out the hat head. A large Marine Corps plaque hung on the wall behind him.
Leaning to his right, he opened a lower desk drawer. "Are you all drinkin' men?"
"You got any Wild Turkey?" asked Jim with a smile.
"Turkey man, huh?" said White with a gleam in his eye. "Then you're going to like this."
He set a bottle on the desk, a silver medallion and an engraving of a landing bald eagle showing against the dark amber liquid. "Eagle Rare. Some say it's better than Turkey, but I can't decide, so I keep going back and forth testing them." He smiled with a glint in his eye. "I'm going to keep at it till I reach a decision."
Reaching back into the drawer, he drew out four small paper cups, placing them in a line in front of him. Uncorking the bottle, he poured an equal amount into each cup and set one in front of each of them. Re-corking the bottle, put it back in the drawer and picked up his cup, followed by the others.
"Semper fi," he said to Mike, raising his cup. "Semper whatever," he said, raising his cup to Jim and Christian.
"Semper fi," said Mike.
"Semper paratus," said Jim and Christian in unison.
The men tossed bourbon back and placed the cups on the desk.
White looked at Jim, smiling. "What do you think?"
Jim nodded thoughtfully. "I'll be glad to help you try to decide."
White laughed. "Were you two in the Coast Guard?"
Jim shook his head. "No. Why?"
"Because that's their motto, semper paratus."
Jim chuckled. "I didn't know that. It's just what we say to each other."
White nodded. "And it makes sense. Always prepared."
He leaned back in his chair. "Now that we've got the important part out of the way, what brings you our way?"
"We just had a meeting with Mark Freelove of Osage County, Rod McGregor of Coffey County and Dean Leach from Anderson County," said Jim.
"Good men," nodded White.
"I agree," said Jim. "We were talking about finding a way to work together, so I wanted to get out and meet more of the leaders around the area."
White nodded again. "They talked to me, too. Mark told me you went up to that deal at Fort Riley with them."
"Yeah. They have some good people up there."
He paused, then asked, "What are your thoughts?"
White looked at him for a moment. "You mean about working together?"
Jim nodded.
White got up from his chair and walked to a window looking out on the courthouse lawn. "I retired from the Marine Corps, which means I'm a bit of an organization man. At least, I know how to work within them and I understand their benefits." He watched an old tractor pass by. "But every organizational structure necessarily restricts individualism for the benefit of the organization and its mission, thereby limiting originality and creativity from many while rewarding those who operate within the safety of the collective mindset."
He turned back toward the men from Stonemont but remained by the window, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and shaking one out before replacing the pack. "Most people around here pride themselves on their individualism. It's a carryover of the pioneer spirit of personal freedom and responsibility passed down from their ancestors who settled here. It's why they live here and not in a city. They work together and help each other when needed, but it's always as individuals, not as cogs in a collective."
He took a crumpled book of matches out of a front pocket of his jeans, tore one out, struck it on the cover and held it to the cigarette in cupped hands. Inhaling, he drew the smoke in and blew the match out. He smiled. "I'd like to say it's my only vice, but the truth is, it's one of many."
He tossed the match into a large clean ashtray on the corner of his desk but remained by the open window. "I don't really see folks around here wanting to be a part of some new state or political area or whatever, but I think there are ways that we can work together without gettin' up in each other's shorts too much."
He took another drag off the cigarette and smiled. "Do you all like watermelon?"
6
"Watermelon?" asked Bill, walking out onto the porch of his cabin overlooking the commons and sitting down in one of the two rocking chairs.
Mike perched on the railing. "Yeah, you like watermelon, don't you?"
Bill shrugged. "Sure. But a truckload?"
Mike nodded. "Jim bets there are a lot of people around here who would like a watermelon, so he arranged a trade with a grower outside of Mound City. We're taking a truck down in a couple of days."
"So, the highway is clear?"
"Yep. There are still some cars along the shoulders, but it's all passable."
"What's Jim trading?"
"I don't know," said Mike. "A bunch of stuff they've either run out of or can't get, I guess. He gave the list to Kelly, and she's having the truck loaded."
"I'm ready!" said Tracy, stepping out of the door.
Mike stood up, smiling.
"Where are you two off to?" asked Bill. He had just recently realized that not all of their outings were work-related, a realization that Ann had said was extremely late in coming, and now he tried to guess which it was by how his daughter was dressed and how she wore her hair. Today, she was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and cowboy boots. Must not be work-related.
Tracy looked at Mike. "I don't know. Where are we going?"
"I thought we'd run into town, have some lunch and talk about some things."
Tracy shrugged at her dad. "Well, that sounds obtuse enough. Guess I'll see you later."
Bill raised a hand and watched the two of them walk away. A year and a half ago, his daughter had been an excited, stressed-out almost-lawyer waiting for graduation and planning to join a large Ohio law firm to begin her legal career. Now, she was one of the top scouts and scout instructors for a rapidly growing community on a new American frontier. She had traded a briefcase for a rucksack, the latest fashions for jeans and BDUs, fine restaurants for campfire cooking and guys who took her to parties for a man who took her for walks and horseback rides. She was stronger, tougher, more resilient, more decisive and happier than he had ever seen her in her life.
He smiled. And so was he.
"Do you think he knows?" asked Mike, smiling down at her.
Tracy smiled back. "Mom says he just figured it out."
"Do you think he approves?"
She started to shrug but realized that it wa
s an important question. "Of course, he approves. Why wouldn't he?"
Mike shrugged. "I doubt I'm the kind of guy he always wanted for his daughter."
She thought for a moment while they walked. "You aren't the kind of guy I ever thought I'd end up with either, but that's because I didn't know you existed." She stopped, looking down and feeling suddenly shy, then looked back up at him. "But you're the one I always wanted. I just didn't know you were real."
She looked back at her dad sitting on the porch, then back at Mike. "I think my dad feels the same way."
Mike smiled down at her, looked back at Bill, then back down at her. "He's watching us. I'll have to kiss you later for that."
She smiled up at him. "Chicken."
He shrugged as he started walking again. "Not much scared me until I met you."
"I scare you?" she giggled.
He chuckled. "No, not you. Just things."
"What things?"
"Just things."
"You're a real smooth talker, you know that?"
"Yep."
"So, where are we going?"
"Like I said, we're going to go have lunch at Mrs. Hernandez' place and do a little spying for Christian. Plus, I want to get your opinion on a couple of things."
"Really?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. "Spying?"
He laughed, amused at her obvious enthusiasm. "Well, it's not going to be all that exciting. He just needs a couple of faces that aren't well known in town."
"Okay, so what do we do?"
He smiled. "We have lunch."
"And?"
"And what?"
She swatted him on the arm. "And what else do we do?"
"Oh," he said, acting surprised. "We watch."
"Uh, we watch? Anything else?"
"Oh yeah, and we listen."
She looked at him askance, taking several steps before asking, "We watch and we listen? That's all?"
He nodded.
She shook her head. "That's not how they do it in the movies."
He laughed. "Movies aren't real."
She looked at him out of the corner of a squinted eye. "Really?"
He nodded seriously. "Really."