The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  Fortunately, the second tree wasn’t quite as thick. Even so, Tre was tired by the time it made a creaking sound, fell, and landed next to the first one. Crow was there to congratulate them. “Nice job . . . The caravan passed Smoke ten minutes ago, so grab your rifles and take cover. Remember . . . pick off the leaders, spare the pack animals, and make every bullet count.”

  Tre took the final instruction seriously, and for good reason. Like the rest of them, he had only twenty-five rounds of ammo, not enough for a serious firefight. Making the situation worse was the fact that only ten members of the gang were going to participate in the actual ambush. Ten against how many, Tre wondered as he sought a position in the rocks. Crow hadn’t said. Was that an oversight or a way to boost morale? Tre hoped for the first but feared the second.

  He did have one thing going for him, however. All the rounds he had were preloaded into detachable magazines, which would help him to reload faster.

  Once all the gang members were in position, the wait began. Each minute seemed like an hour and, worse yet, gave Tre an opportunity to think about all the things that could go wrong. So he felt something akin to relief when the caravan’s scout finally appeared. He was wearing a Stetson and a brown duster and was mounted on a big chestnut. Tre could see the stock of what he assumed was a rifle protruding from the scabbard beneath the man’s leg, but the cowboy was carrying a double-barreled shotgun muzzle up as he rode. Just the thing for dealing with an ambush. And were he to fire the weapon, it would warn those behind him as well.

  None of them moved as the scout approached the trees and pulled his horse to a stop. Then, having eyed the barrier for a moment, he took a long, slow look around. The rider hadn’t seen anything suspicious up to that point, so he turned his horse to the left and began to follow the tree trunks back to their raw stumps. Tre felt a rising sense of concern. All it would take was one look at the freshly cut wood and the cowboy would know the truth.

  Tre swore silently as the scout made a clucking sound and urged his mount up the slope. He would see the stumps any moment now. Then he would fire the shotgun or get on a radio, and the—

  Tre’s thoughts were interrupted as Freak rose from hiding and released an arrow from her compound bow. It flew straight and true, and the cowboy jerked convulsively and let go of the shotgun in order to grab the shaft that was sticking out of his throat. Then he made a horrible gurgling sound as he fell out of the saddle and hit the ground.

  The horse shied away, but Brute was there to grab the reins and lead the animal up into the trees. Meanwhile, Freak went down to finish the scout with a wicked-looking knife and Crow appeared to tow the body upslope.

  It had all occurred so quickly and been carried out with such efficiency that Tre felt a sudden sense of optimism. Given how professional the group was, they stood a good chance of success.

  Then the waiting began anew, but it was shorter this time. Scarcely five minutes passed before three riders appeared, followed by a horse-drawn wagon and a long column of heavily loaded mules. There were more guards too, at least ten of them, and Tre couldn’t see the far end of the caravan. That spelled trouble.

  Orders were to hold their fire until Crow took the first shot. Tre wished he had a telescopic sight as he tracked one of the cowboys. Lead him, Tre told himself, and go for a body shot. He felt tense but wasn’t scared, and marveled at that.

  Even though Tre was expecting the gunshot, it still came as a surprise. The lead rider fell out of the saddle, the others jerked their mounts around so they could face their attackers, and Tre squeezed the trigger. The 700 thumped his shoulder, produced a loud report, and sent a slug spinning through the air. It hit a cowboy dead center and threw him back. The horse bolted out from under him and the body hit hard. Others were firing by then, and Tre heard a cracking sound as Snake completed his cut and the third tree came crashing down. The caravan was trapped. But even as that thought registered in Tre’s mind, things took a turn for the worse.

  Suddenly the cowboys produced military-style assault rifles and began to fire three-round bursts into the rocks. Tre fired, missed, and was forced to duck as bullets struck all around him. Then bad turned to worse as one of the guards began to lob grenades upslope. Tre saw a flash, followed by a loud boom, and saw Brute’s partially dismembered body fly through the air.

  “Shoot that bastard!” Crow shouted, and Knife did. But even as the bomb thrower fell, two mercenaries whipped the canvas off a pintle-mounted M249 light machine gun and one of them opened fire. A hail of slugs threw up geysers of dirt all along the embankment and tore into the scrub where Snake was hiding. His bullet-ridden body fell into view and rolled downslope. “Pull back!” Crow ordered. “Into the trees!”

  So Tre glanced over his shoulder, realized that he should have planned for such a contingency, and would have to cover twenty feet of open ground before he could reach the trees. Would he make it? There wasn’t any choice. Tre waited for the stream of bullets to pass him by, turned, and ran uphill.

  There was a shout. A bullet nicked his left heel, another tugged at his sleeve, and a third sliced along the outside surface of his right thigh. Gravel slipped under his boot. Geysers of dirt shot up to the left. What sounded like a bee buzzed past his right ear.

  Then Tre was airborne, diving for the safety of the trees and hitting hard while gunfire rattled all around. He did a push-up, was pleased to discover that he still had the rifle, and went looking for a firing position.

  The machine gun had fallen silent by then, and no wonder. After such an extravagant use of ammo, the cowboys wanted to conserve. And having pushed the bandits back into the forest, they were confident of victory. But were they confident enough to send men in after the attackers?

  No. As Tre peered through the foliage in front of him, he could tell that the people in charge were more pragmatic than that. Two riders were already hard at work sawing through one of the trees. Then they would tackle the next. Once the cuts were complete, they would use horses to pull the shorter lengths off to one side. That would allow the wagon and the mules to pass through.

  Tre took careful aim and shot one of the workmen. Maybe he could counter the effort and force the caravan to stay where it was or abandon the wagon. But it wasn’t to be. Bones appeared at his side. “We’re pulling out . . . You took a hit. Can you walk?”

  Tre touched the wound and discovered that it was wet with blood. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Okay. Once we clear the area, I’ll patch you up.”

  Together they made their way back to the horses. One by one the rest of the group joined them. Crow’s expression was dark and his voice was tight. “We’ll camp by the big rock and send a burial party back in the morning.”

  Then he pulled his horse around and led them north. Tre felt a deep sadness. Two people were dead and they had nothing to show for it—no food, no weapons, and no hope for the future. The forest closed in around them, the sun disappeared, and Freak was crying. A battle had been fought, lost, and paid for. It began to rain.

  Chapter Eight

  Near Brooks, Alberta, Canada

  Shots were still being fired, and screams were heard, as a Crusader escorted Lora out through the hole in the defensive wall. The bulldozer had been parked and the engine was off. To conserve fuel? Probably. Lora looked back over her shoulder, received a shove for her trouble, and stumbled.

  After regaining her equilibrium, Lora was ordered to join a group of female prisoners gathered up ahead. Most were members of the commune, but Lora spotted two leavers as well. Arletta Ash was one of them, and she had been shot in the stomach. Cassie was kneeling next to the injured woman, trying to staunch the blood with her hands. She looked up as Lora arrived. There was a look of desperation in her eyes. “Arletta needs help.”

  “It hurts,” Arletta said. “And I’m thirsty. Real thirsty.”

  Lora looked around. Other prisoners had been wounded as well, and the Crusaders were ignoring them. It was difficult, but she mu
stered the courage to approach one of them. “One of my friends is hurt. Do you have a doctor? Or medical supplies?”

  A face mask hid most of the guard’s features, but Lora had the impression of flinty eyes and two days’ worth of beard. “That’s too bad,” the Crusader said sympathetically. “Maybe I can help.”

  Lora felt a surge of hope and led him over to where Arletta lay. “Yup,” the guard confirmed. “She was gut shot. There ain’t no way she’s gonna walk that off.” And then he shot Arletta in the face.

  Lora screamed, and continued to scream, as Cassie pulled her away. Arletta’s death was her fault . . . and that wasn’t the worst of it. Having killed Arletta, the guard continued to stroll through the crowd shooting anyone who wouldn’t be able to walk.

  Lora buried her face in Cassie’s shoulder and continued to sob until she ran out of tears. Finally, chest heaving, she wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Cassie’s cheeks were wet as well. “Don’t be. It’s perfectly natural. Tell me something, hon . . . Did you see what happened to your father?”

  Suddenly Lora realized how selfish she had been. Cassie was engaged and desperate for information about the man she loved. Lora forced herself to meet the other woman’s gaze and saw the look of comprehension in Cassie’s eyes. “Oh, my God . . . No.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lora said gently. “He was looking for you, shouting your name, when a Crusader speared him.”

  That was a lie, of course, but Lora hoped it would bring Cassie some comfort later on. Suddenly their positions were reversed. Now she was holding Cassie as sobs racked her body and a final flurry of gunshots gave way to silence. But the quiet was soon replaced by a series of shouts as orders were given, the insane tolling of a warning bell as a Crusader pulled the rope, and the rattle of metal as guards pulled a chain off the back of a wagon. Once the chain was laid out on the ground, they shoved and kicked the captives into place to either side of it. The women on the left were connected to it by their right wrists, and those on the right were secured using their left wrists. Lora was on the right, and that would turn out to be a blessing since she was right-handed. As Lora looked around, she saw no familiar faces other than Cassie’s and felt a sense of dissociation. This can’t be happening, Lora thought. It can’t be real.

  But it was real. And that became apparent as more guards appeared, two heavily loaded wagons arrived, and a Crusader ordered the prisoners to start walking. There were fifty-two in all, none over the age of forty. One woman looked up at the guard. “Where are you taking us?”

  “To the slave market in Great Falls,” came the reply, and Lora felt a surge of despair. A slave! She was going to be sold. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it as a whip cracked and the line jerked forward.

  The chain made walking difficult. Prisoners who walked too briskly found themselves towing the rest. People who failed to keep up got stepped on. And whatever took place was sure to cause a ripple effect and annoy the guards. Whips would lash out, whoever happened to be within range would receive the blow, and the line would jerk forward.

  After an hour or so, the women learned to walk in step and the corporal punishment stopped. But by that time, other sources of pain could be felt. There wasn’t any padding on the inside surface of the metal bracelets, so it wasn’t long before those who could were ripping strips of material off their clothes. Then, by wrapping the fabric around their forearms, they could protect their wrists. Lora was fortunate in that she had a bandana in her pocket, and that served the purpose well.

  There was another problem, however, and it was worse. The attack had taken place early in the morning, so very few people had been dressed, Lora being an exception. Cassie was stuck with slipper-like moccasins. Even so, she was in better shape than the women who were barefoot. Some managed to wrap strips of cloth around their bloody feet during brief stops, but many were forced to hobble along.

  Finally, after what Lora estimated to be a couple of hours, the prisoners were allowed to take a break. Small groups were allowed to relieve themselves, but the guards were never far away and were mounted on horses, so there was no opportunity to run.

  Then they were hooked to the main chain once again, and all were led to a stream, where they waded out to stand side by side in the current. Lora felt the cold water seep into her boots but knew that was nothing compared to what some of the others were experiencing. She drank her fill and was busy washing her face when they were ordered back onto the bank.

  That was when they were allowed to sit down and eat lunch. It consisted of beef jerky, slices of dried apple, and chunks of smelly cheese. Much to Lora’s surprise, the servings were fairly generous. But when she said as much to Cassie, the other woman made a face. “They’re taking us to a slave market, so they want us to look healthy and well fed. They’ll get a better price that way.”

  The comment was cynical but made sense. Lora looked around. “What about people’s feet? Why don’t they do something about that?“

  “I predict they will,” Cassie said. “Both to maintain our value and so that the column can move more quickly.”

  And that prediction was borne out fifteen minutes later as the women were ordered to troop past a wagon. There was a pile of used boots and shoes on the tailgate. People like Lora were ordered to move on. Others, Cassie included, were given footwear. The measuring process consisted of holding a boot or shoe up next to the prisoner’s foot. If they were roughly the same size, a guard said, “Next,” and the line jerked forward. In the absence of a match, the Crusader would try another set, and if necessary another, until he could say “Next.”

  Predictably enough, many, if not most, of the shoes and boots fit poorly. So the next day or so was spent trading footwear back and forth, breaking shoes in, and padding them with whatever the slaves could lay their hands on, none of which was ideal. But the results were, in the words of one woman, “better than nothing.”

  The land was flat and eternally monotonous. Lora longed for the sight of a distant silo, a hill, or anything that would provide her with an objective, a goal that could be set, arrived at, and momentarily celebrated. But such waypoints were few and far between. Entire days passed while the prisoners marched between overgrown fields, past tumbledown barns, and over nameless bridges.

  Occasionally they passed through small hamlets, all marked with the sign of the upside-down cross, an indication that they were still inside what the Crusaders referred to as “the holy land.” Even if Lora couldn’t see anything holy about it—or them, for that matter. Surely people who were “holy” wouldn’t enslave other people. But it seemed that heretics, which was to say nonbelievers, weren’t considered people. And if they weren’t people, there was no need to treat them as such.

  In any case, whenever the column passed through such towns, Lora noticed that all of them were fortified. Who were they afraid of? Who would dare invade the holy land? The Blackfoot Indians? The Blood Kin?

  Lora couldn’t tell. One thing was clear, however. Based on their expressions, none of the townsfolk were surprised to see a column of prisoners marching south. So such sights were common.

  Lora assumed that male prisoners were sent to the slave markets as well, but Cassie wasn’t so sure. She had heard the guards talking about the construction of what they called “the citadel.” A city, really, which, from the sound of it, would require a great deal of labor to build. Maybe the men had been sent there. But regardless, her future lay to the south. And that raised an important question. “Who’s going to buy us?” Lora wondered out loud as the column took a lunch break.

  “That,” Cassie said grimly, “is a very good question. You need a makeover.”

  “I need a what?”

  “You’re young and pretty. Remember, there are worse things than milking cows or working in a field.”

  Lora had only recently begun to think that men could be attracted to her and didn’t understand what Cassie was sayin
g at first. Then she remembered Larry Pruett and knew what he would do to her if he could, and she shuddered. “I never thought of that.”

  “The key is to find a way to make you look like a farmhand rather than a ‘play pretty,’” Cassie said.

  “How can we do that?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Cassie replied. “If we had scissors we could give you a terrible haircut, if we had a razor we could shave your eyebrows, and if we had makeup we could put it on the wrong way.”

  “But we don’t.”

  “Nope. So I’ll think about it.”

  The night was spent wrapped in a wool blanket lying side by side, still hooked to the chain. It was cold, but they were inside a barn, and that cut the wind. Lora couldn’t fall asleep at first as visions of her father’s death played over and over again in her mind. Her father had made her angry sometimes, and had frequently been thoughtless, but had been looking for her when he died. That brought tears to her eyes, which she tried to suppress. She knew others were suffering too, because she could hear them crying.

  Eventually exhaustion pulled her down and Lora found herself in a maze of shadowy rooms. Something was after her, she was looking for a way out, and every hallway led to a dead end. And there, in the background, her father’s voice could be heard. “I’m sorry, Lora . . . so very, very sorry.”

  The next day was much like the one before, as was the next, and the one after that. Lora didn’t have a map, but she could tell they were headed south by watching the sun. Some of the hamlets they passed through were little more than ghost towns. Others still had names, like Taber, Wrentham, Dayton, Warner, Milk River, and Sunburst. And it was near Sunburst when things changed.

  They were inside the United States of America at that point—or what had been the United States. And that meant they were no longer in Canada and, more important, the so-called holy land, a fact made obvious when four additional guards joined the column, the Crusaders became even more vigilant, and the women were forced to walk farther each day.