Way Of The Wolf

by E. E. Knight

  “We’re grateful for anything,” Valentine answered. “It looked to me like the bullet passed through.”

  “I think so. Seems like it just clipped the bone. There’s a lot of ragged flesh for a bullet hole, though. Not that I’ve seen that many. I’m going to clean it out as best I can. I’ll need some light, and some more water. Molly, finally!” she said, looking toward the open panel.

  A lithe young woman of seventeen or eighteen, with the fine features of good genes fleshed out on a meat-and-dairy diet, stood at the entrance to the secret room. Her hair was a coppery blond and was drawn back from her face in a single braid dangling to her shoulder blades. She wore boyish blue overalls and a plain yellow shirt. The shapeless and oversize clothes made the curves they hid all the more tantalizing. She carried a lantern that produced a warm, oily scent.

  “Dad, are you crazy?” she said, looking at the assembly suspiciously. “Men with guns? If someone finds out, even Uncle Mike can’t help. How—?”

  “Hush, Molly,” her mother interrupted. “I need that lantern over here.”

  Valentine watched in admiration as Mrs. Carlson went about her business. Mr. Carlson held Gonzalez down as she searched and cleaned the wound. She then sprinkled it with something from a white paper packet. The scout moaned and breathed in short rasps as the powder went in.

  “Doesn’t sting quite like iodine, and does just as good a job,” the woman said as she began bandaging. Valentine helped her hold the bandage in place as she tied it but found himself glancing up at the girl holding the lantern. Molly looked down at the procedure, lips tightly pursed, her skin pale even in the yellow light of the lantern.

  Mrs. Carlson tied up the bandage, and Gonzalez seemed to sag even more deeply into the cot he lay on.

  Ray Woods spoke up. “Hate to give you another mouth, but this boy Kurt here is on his way across the river. I’m not supposed to go out that far again for a few more days. D’ye think he could have a place here for a little while?”

  “Of course, Ray,” Mr. Carlson agreed. “Now you better be moving along.”

  He turned back to Valentine. “Now we can shake, son. Alan Carlson. This is my wife, Gwen. And you see there my eldest, Molly. We’ve got another daughter, Mary, but she’s out exercising the horses. The lookout up the road is kind of adopted, as you might have guessed. His name is Frat, and he came up from Chicago about three years ago. On his own.”

  “Call me David. Or Lieutenant. Sorry to be so mysterious, but the less you know the better—for both of us.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, we have to get back to the upstairs. The other family who lives on the farm is the Breitlings. They don’t know about this room. Same story: better for us and better for them to keep it that way. Their son is with Mary; he’s just a squirt. Tom and Chloe are in LaGrange. I sent them there this morning when word came around about your little scrape. They’re due back before dark. There’s a chance, just a chance, that the house will be searched. If it happens, don’t panic. So happens the local Boss is related to me, and we stay in their good graces in every way. Frat has a way of staring at our local goons; I think he makes them nervous. They never hang around long.”

  “Glad to hear it. You don’t mind if we keep our guns, I hope?”

  Carlson smiled. “I’d prefer if you did. And take ‘em when you leave. Gun ownership is a one-way ticket to the Big Straw.”

  “Alan, I wish you wouldn’t be so crude about it,” Mrs. Carlson objected. “He means the Reapers get you.”

  Ray Woods put the little orphan, Kurt, down on a cot. “Now, Kurt,” Ray said, “I’ve got to leave you here for a couple of days.”

  The little boy shook his head.

  “Sorry, Kurt. That’s the way it’s got to be. You can’t sleep with me in the cab again, and I can’t take you to the place where I live. These people can take care of you better than I can, till we can get you up to the sisters across the Big Blue River. You said you’d never seen a river a mile wide, right?”

  “Don’t!” the boy finally said. Though whether he was objecting to Woods leaving or going to the river, he did not elaborate.

  Woods looked away, almost ashamed, and left. The boy opened his mouth as if to scream, then closed it again, eyes glassing over into the wary stare that Valentine had first seen.

  “We’ll leave the lamp in here for you. We’ll talk tonight if you want, after the Breitlings are in and the lights are out. Now I’ve got to get your horses hid in the hills. I’d give you something to read, but books are frowned on, too, so we don’t have any,” Carlson said. His wife and daughter stepped out the door, and Valentine caught the accusing look the young girl gave her mother.

  As the door shut, Valentine realized the horrible danger their presence brought to the family. He admired Carlson’s resolution. In a way, the courage of Mr. and Mrs. Carlson was greater than that of many of the soldiers of Southern Command. The Hunters risked their lives, armed with weapons and comrades all around, each of whom would risk anything to save his fellows. Here in the Lost Lands, this unarmed, isolated farm family defied the Kurians, putting their children in jeopardy, far from any help. Valentine wondered if even the Bears he had met had that kind of guts.

  Hours later, Valentine heard Kurt whimpering in his sleep. He rose from his cot and crept through the darkness to the boy’s bed. Valentine climbed in and cradled him until the boy gripped his hand and the sleepy keening stopped. Memories long suppressed awoke, tormenting Valentine. The smell of stewing tomatoes and the pictures in his mind appeared as awful and vivid as if he had seen them that afternoon. As he hugged the boy, silent tears ran down the side of his face and into the homemade pillow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lagrange, Wisconsin: The town of lagrange is nothing much to speak of. A crossroads with a feed store and an auxiliary dry goods shop marks the T-intersection of an old state road with a county highway. The irregular commerce that occurs there takes place with small green ration coupons, worthless outside the boundaries of the Madison Triumvirate. Across from the feed store is the house and ringing stable of the blacksmith. The blacksmith and his wife are old work-hard, play-hard bons vivants, and the breezeway between their house and garage is the nearest thing to the local watering hole. One or both seem always ready to sit down with a cup of tea, glass of beer, or shot of backyard hooch. The blacksmith’s wife also gives haircuts, and longtime residents can tell how many drinks she’s had by the irregular results.

  The real lagrange is in the surrounding farms, primarily corn or bean, hay, and dairy. The smallholds spread out beneath the high western downs that dominate the county. Their produce is transported to Monroe, and the thrice-a-week train to Chicago.

  Survival here depends on having a productive farm and not drawing unwanted attention. During the day, the patrols drive their cars and ride their horses, looking for unfamiliar faces. Vagrants and troublemakers disappear to the Order building in Monroe and are seldom seen again. At night the residents stay indoors, never able to tell if a Reaper or two is passing through the area.

  The residents live as a zebra herd surrounded by lions. There is safety in numbers and the daily routine, and sometimes years pass before when anyone other than the old, the sick, or the troublemakers gets taken. Their homes are modest, furnished and decorated with whatever they can make or salvage. The Kurian Order provides little but the ration coupons in exchange for their labor, although a truly outstanding year in production or community service will lead to a bond being issued that protects the winner’s family for a period of years. The Kurians provide only the barest of necessities in food, clothing, and material to maintain shelter. But humanity being what it is, adaptable to almost any conditions, the residents find a kind of fellowship in their mutual deprivations and dangers. Barn raisings, roofing parties, quilting bees, and clothing swaps provide social interaction, and if they are punctuated with “remembrances” for those lost to the Kurians, the homesteaders at least have the opportunity to support each
other in their grief.

  Valentine remembered little of his first few days with the Carlsons. Gonzalez’s condition worsened, and as his Wolf sank into a fever brought on by the shock of his injury, Valentine found himself too busy nursing to notice much outside the tiny basement room.

  For three long, dark days Valentine remained at Gonzalez’s bedside, able to do little but fret. The wound had seemed to be healing well enough, though just before the fever set in, Gonzalez had complained that he either could not feel his hand at all or that it itched maddeningly. Then, on the second evening after their arrival, Gonzalez had complained of light-headedness, and later woke Valentine by thrashing and moaning.

  Kurt, the little boy from Beloit, had been sent on his way westward, and the Wolves had the basement room to themselves. Mrs. Carlson blamed herself for not properly cleaning the wound. “Or I should have just amputated,” she said reproachfully. “His blood’s poisoned now for sure. He needs antibiotics, but they’re just not to be had anymore.”

  Valentine could do little except sponge his friend off and wait. It seemed he had been in the darkness for years, but he could tell by the growth on his chin that the true count was only days. Then on the third night, Gonzalez sank into a deep sleep. His pulse became slow and steady, and his breathing eased. At first Valentine feared that his scout was slipping toward death, but by morning the Wolf was awake and coherent, if weak as a baby.

  He summoned Mrs. Carlson, who took one look at her patient and pronounced him in the clear then hurried upstairs to heat some vegetable broth. Rubber limbed, Valentine returned to his own cot and lost consciousness to the deep sleep of nervous and physical exhaustion. That evening, with the rest of the house quiet and Gonzalez in a more healthy slumber, Valentine sat in the darkened living room talking to Mr. Carlson.

  “We owe our lives to you, sir. Can’t say it any plainer than that,” Valentine said from the comfort of feather-stuffed cushions in an old wood-framed chair.

  “Lieutenant,” the shadow that was Mr. Carlson replied, “we’re glad to help. If things are ever going to change, for the better anyway, it’ll be you boys that do the changing. We’re rabbits in a warren run by foxes. Of course we’re going to help anyone with a foxtail or two hanging from their belt.”

  “Still, you’re risking everything to hide us.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Lieutenant. A way to reduce the risk.”

  “Please call me David, sir.”

  “Okay, David. Then it’ll be Alan to you, okay? What I wanted to say was with your buddy sick—”

  “He’s getting better.”

  “Glad to hear it. But I spoke to my wife, and she says he should stay for at least a couple of weeks. Between the wound and the fever, it’ll be a month before you can do any hard riding, maybe. Your horses could use a little weight anyway.”

  Valentine gaped in the darkness. “A month? Mr. Carlson, we couldn’t possibly stay—”

  “David, I don’t know you very well, but I like you. But please let a guy finish his train of thought once in a while.”

  Valentine heard the ancient springs in the sofa creak as Carlson shifted his weight forward.

  “What I’m going to suggest might seem risky, David, but it’ll make your stay here a lot safer if we can pull it off. It’ll even get you papers to get out of here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such. While I was there I met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them. Anyway, I told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. Of course, he’s just made up to fit your description.”

  Valentine’s mind leaped ahead, making plans. “And you think he’d get us some papers? Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier if we had some identification.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get you to Illinois or Iowa at least. You’d have to lose the guns, or hide ‘em well. You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say you’re out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and that’s only to be found around the borders. Also, I’d like to bring your horses down from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss Man.”

  “If you think you can pull it off, I’m for it,” Valentine decided.

  “Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. We’ll figure out how to use them.”

  Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.

  “I don’t know about the rest, but the major part fits him,” Carlson explained at the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of the person residing within. “Major asshole, anyway.”

  Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the major’s home. It was opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-baron’s ranch, it stretched across a well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only grass-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.

  “Listen to this,” Carlson said, pressing a button by the door. Valentine heard bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.

  The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and big-mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and mirrored sunglasses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.

  “Hey, Virgil,” Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. “I’ve brought a friend to see the major.”

  Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. “I guess he’s in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesn’t do business on a Saturday, you know.”

  “Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames.”

  Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.

  Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. “He’s in the office.”

  “I know the way. C’mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?”

  Carlson and Valentine passed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.

  The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tycoon about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.

  Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver buttons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeski
n cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.

  “Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How’s Gwen?”

  Carlson smiled. “Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They’re outside in the basket.”

  “Ahh, Gwen’s pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend.”

  The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.

  “How are things in Monroe, Mike?”

  Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. “The usual. Chicago’s pissed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds. I’m trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I’m thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?”

  “Some of us can,” Carlson asserted. “Some can’t.”

  “Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther.”

  “Well, it’s for you to say, Mike. But I don’t know how it will go down. There’s been some grumbling already.”

  “By whom?” Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.

  “You know nobody tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn’t about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he’d be visiting and helping me with the harvest.”

  “Pleased to meet you, David.” Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed. “Hell, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?”

  “He’s a helluva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run a fine farm.”