The Wolves of Seven Pines

by E. L. Ripley

  “I haven’t had a good look at him.” Silva didn’t look.

  “You didn’t make his acquaintance like you made mine?”

  “I did not.”

  Carpenter finished lightening his saddlebags and got to his feet with a groan. “Is that why you want company? Worried about him?”

  Silva looked genuinely startled. Now he looked up at the window, then back at Carpenter.

  “That had not crossed my mind.” It really hadn’t, but the notion clearly shook him. It was a sign of nerves, the way he rubbed the staghound’s head with his free hand. “You think I should worry?”

  “I’m trying to think as little as possible,” Carpenter said, and grunted as he shouldered his saddlebags. He donned his own hat and tipped it. “But even my old eyes can see he’s watching you. It’s none of my business. Good luck.”

  “Journey safely,” Silva replied.

  * * *

  * * *

  The journey would be safe enough; it just wouldn’t be easy. There had been a time when something like this would’ve been a mere inconvenience, but there had been an awful lot of soft living since then. Thirty years ago, it would have taken some doing to convince Carpenter how much work it was to build and run a factory; it had been the labor of his life, and he’d done most of it in a chair, with ink on his fingers instead of dirt.

  He didn’t need his bandanna; the reddish dust of the road was easily kicked up by hooves, but a man’s boots hardly stirred it. The winding road was lined on either side with some of the finest timber he had ever seen, and by the sound of things, these woods were swarming with deer and all manner of life.

  There was just enough breeze to feel good, and that went nicely with the serenading from the birds. At least for now, just short of the mountains, the going was easy. A little harder terrain would have been welcome; his mind was too free to wander this way.

  The hoofbeats were still a long way off, but in the quiet, they were unmissable. He was barely into his second mile. When they were near enough, Carpenter moved to the side and mopped his brow, then rested his hands on the saddlebags draped around his shoulders.

  He had to squint, but it could have been only the young man from the lodge. He’d been dressed like a cowhand, and he still was, but that wasn’t the way he’d carried himself.

  He was riding in a hurry. Carpenter moved off the trail and into the thick ferns, raising a hand in greeting as the young fellow approached.

  The young man waved and slowed to a trot.

  “Morning,” he called out, looking down at Carpenter as he passed.

  “Same to you.”

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Carpenter replied, though the hoofbeats probably drowned his words out as the rider went to a gallop and disappeared around the bend.

  The birds went back to singing, the deer started to move again, and Carpenter got to walking. It was still none of his business, though now that he’d had a look at him up close, the boy looked a little familiar.

  * * *

  * * *

  The wagon was worse than the horse, because it moved much more slowly, giving Carpenter longer to stroll, knowing that it was coming.

  When Silva’s wagon finally rolled up behind him, Carpenter could no longer politely ignore it. Dressed in a fresh beige suit and looking more or less at ease, Silva halted his team. Beside him, neatly bundled, waited the things Carpenter had tried to leave behind, even his saddle.

  That had been the only thing it really pained him to leave.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, instead rubbing his chin.

  “If you’re going to Antelope Valley, I can take these things there. I can leave them with the sheriff for you to collect.”

  Carpenter scowled, eyeing Maria, who was up there beside her master, panting at him expectantly.

  “For God’s sake,” he muttered. Silva got up and offered a hand. Carpenter took it and clambered stiffly up to sit beside him, catching a glimpse of the crates stacked in the back, under the canvas hood. He put down his saddlebags to scratch the staghound, and Silva picked up the reins to drive on.

  The way grew steeper, and the ride grew slower and bumpier as the sun went higher. Silva’s horses were strong and tenacious, and doing well. A big hawk wheeled above the treetops, and as the warmth of the day came on, Maria drew back from the two men and jumped into the shade of the covered wagon.

  There was no one else on the trail, and that was just as well. The elevation was enough that the pass was treacherous on either side, so having to go around another coach or wagon would have been troublesome.

  The afternoon sun caught on a pond off in the trees, and they stopped and unhitched the horses to lead them down and water them. The shade was merciful, and the water was cool and clear.

  Carpenter paused, watching Maria sniff about energetically. He moved some fallen pine needles aside with his boot, revealing tracks in the dirt. He took off his hat and crouched for a closer look. Silva was at the water’s edge with the horses.

  “What’s wrong?” he called out.

  “Wolves, I expect,” Carpenter replied. He put his hat back on and climbed back to the road, looking in either direction. He’d ridden his share of lonely trails, but never without the hoofbeats of his mount to fill the air. Now there was such a silence that the silence itself seemed loud. Except for the quiet ringing in his ears, but he barely noticed that anymore. It had been there a long time.

  When Silva returned with the horses, Carpenter was in the shadow of the wagon, leaning against it to smoke. “You’re sure you don’t know that boy, the cowhand?” he asked.

  Silva got the horses hitched and used a handkerchief with his initials on it to mop his brow.

  “I didn’t see his face. I don’t believe I know him.”

  “Then why’d he do this to your wagon?”

  Frowning, Silva joined him and leaned over to look. Carpenter pointed to the gouges on the wheel. Even after several minutes of looking, he still wasn’t sure exactly what sort of tool the boy must have used. It didn’t look like the work of a hatchet or a saw. Had he really sat down here last night for an hour with a buck knife?

  Silva had never looked particularly cheerful, but now he looked particularly stony.

  “I give it five miles.” Carpenter rubbed his face. “If we’re lucky.”

  “We should go on, then.” Silva didn’t hesitate. “Best if we get away from the wolves.”

  “You’re armed.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Maria. She’s brave enough to get into trouble.”

  “Brave’s just another word for stupid,” Carpenter pointed out. “Tie her up. Your load’s too heavy. If this goes, you’ll lose the axle.” He sighed and knelt, peering at the wheels. “One wheel, I can fix. All this?” He pointed at the underside of the carriage. “I don’t know. Even if I could, it could take days.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  It was; there was no question. Was Silva blind? But Carpenter didn’t ask that; he just nodded and let his eyes do the talking.

  Silva put his hands on his hips and bit his lip, gazing at the ground.

  “There’s metal back here that you’re carrying,” Carpenter said, tapping the side of the wagon. “It better not be gold, because if it is and someone out there knows it, we may as well just cut our own throats and save everyone a little time.”

  Silva snorted. “It isn’t gold.”

  “Is it valuable enough that someone wants to cripple you out here?” He watched the hawk in the air for a moment. “So they can bushwhack you in peace?”

  There was no uncertainty, and Carpenter felt one corner of his mouth turn up in something like a smile. Someone had designs on this wagon, to state the matter in the captain’s parlance.

  The other man just shook his
head and unknotted one of the ties for the cover. He pulled it back and lifted the lid of one of the crates, revealing metal objects nestled in straw.

  “My cargo is not a secret, Mr. Carpenter. Steel components,” he said. “Enough to assemble a hundred rifles. My factory will have everything I need except for the means to do the metal work myself. I’ll need these rifles to raise the capital for that.”

  “You’re opening a factory?”

  Silva just took a document from his pocket and handed it over.

  Carpenter accepted it, but didn’t unfold it.

  “I don’t want to know about your business,” he said, and handed it back. “Not really. But if there’s a bullet on the way, I wouldn’t mind knowing it’s coming. For the sake of my nerves,” he added dryly.

  Silva didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t try to drown him in small talk. Carpenter appreciated that, and he’d have truly liked to return the favor, but this was a little much to let go.

  “I am not a popular man in Antelope Valley,” the shorter man replied, putting it back in his pocket. “This letter is from General Anderson. The Army supports the construction of my factory. I already have orders to fill. But there are men in Antelope Valley that do not support my business.”

  Carpenter frowned. That didn’t seem right; what did anyone in Antelope Valley care about some rifles? Or a factory? They ought to have been busy finding gold and getting rich up there. A wagon full of metal parts didn’t seem like much of a target for outlaws.

  “Were you going to mention that?” Carpenter asked, more curious than bothered.

  “These men aren’t going to attack me,” Silva replied, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “They’re content to be a nuisance.”

  That seemed naive. Carpenter stared at him for a moment, then leaned over for a second look at the wheel.

  “Let me see that letter.”

  Silva gave it up readily, and it was exactly what he said it was. It seemed like the last thing anyone would ever bother to forge, not that Carpenter was any authority.

  “I design firearms, Mr. Carpenter. It’s not a secret.” He indicated the gleaming pistol on his belt.

  “I thought that was jewelry.”

  One corner of Silva’s mouth twitched upward. “I also have the role of the salesman. A sample product should look impressive.”

  “Do you want to impress me or my wife?”

  “I don’t know. Is she pretty?”

  Carpenter caught himself there. He clapped Silva on the shoulder and stepped back, eyeing the nearby trees. They’d need wood.

  “You ever manage a factory before?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  “I expect my business partner to handle that.” That was for the best. Silva wasn’t cut out for it. “Have you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Making what?”

  “Tables and chairs.”

  Silva raised an eyebrow. “Would that make you a sort of, you know, carpenter?”

  Carpenter ignored that. “Do you have a saw?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The work was tedious but not difficult. It took all the daylight, and a little of the evening, working by lamplight. Carpenter might’ve reinforced the wheel more quickly, but he wanted to be certain it would hold. If one wheel gave under the weight of all those metal parts, they’d be lucky if they didn’t have to build a whole new wagon.

  That was no position to be in if Silva really did have enemies. Of course, if someone had a grievance with Silva, it wouldn’t much matter if the wagon had wheels or not. Although it didn’t take a great general to beat Carpenter at chess, he seemed reasonably bright. Why was he traveling alone? Did he really believe it when he said he didn’t think anyone truly meant him harm?

  Because the state of the axle suggested that he’d misread something, somewhere along the line. No—he knew. Carpenter had seen Silva at the lodge, his worry and preoccupation. The younger man wasn’t fooling himself or anyone.

  “You’re certain someone did that deliberately?” Silva asked from the other side of the fire, jerking his chin at the wagon.

  It wasn’t worth lying to make the other man feel better. It wouldn’t work in any case; Silva wasn’t as naive as he seemed.

  “Can’t imagine a wheel coming by that damage honestly,” Carpenter replied, flat on his back, with Maria curled up at his side. The staghound’s warmth was welcome as the night chill set in, and Silva seemed a little bitter about it, but it stood to reason. Carpenter was bigger and taller; of course the dog would choose the warmer of the two.

  Or not; she got up and went back to Silva. Carpenter put his hat over his eyes.

  “If you’re worried . . . ,” Silva began, no doubt intending to say something to the effect that he wouldn’t be offended if Carpenter chose to go his own way.

  “Do I look worried?”

  Silva stoked the fire with a branch, then broke it in half and tossed it in. The man wasn’t much good with a saw, but he was a fair enough cook with a camp stove. He stroked Maria’s side fondly.

  “You aren’t looking for gold in Antelope Valley?” Silva said after a moment.

  “I have friends that settled there. My company from the war.”

  “From before you were a factory man.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which side did you fight on, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “I don’t see that it matters,” he replied.

  “I would tell you that it does,” Silva shot back, “though I venture I can know the reply from just your way of speaking.”

  “I don’t take kindly to that, Mr. Silva,” Carpenter noted tiredly.

  “Then I apologize.”

  “And I accept. Go to sleep. If we’re going to be shot tomorrow, might as well be rested.”

  “Or sick from whiskey.”

  “So you do have some sense,” Carpenter muttered. He just put his hand out blindly, and Silva passed him the bottle.

  If not for the wolves to think about, it might have been a pleasant night, even on the ground, even knowing what was coming when the dawn would bring tomorrow’s troubles. Carpenter had spent more than his share of nights on the ground as a younger man, and he could dream there the same as anyplace else. Of course, in his dreams at least he knew what he was up against. On the night of April 16, 1862, that shot in the dark had denied him any chance he might have had of sleeping or dreaming that night.

  Another man had slept, though, gone away to dreamland. And Carpenter had been the one to send him.

  That shot was so loud that the moon had come out as though to see what all the commotion was about. The only sound louder was that of the captain’s body crashing to the ground, or perhaps that note quite specific to his skull meeting that rock.

  Bill had been wearing the uniform for months, and he knew chaos by sight. Even as the men shouted and ran and the transformation overtook that one quiet stretch of Virginia road where in the space of a heartbeat everything could turn to hell—there was one thing that wasn’t moving, and that was the man who was meant to lead them.

  There was a second shot, but only the one. It wasn’t good sense or restraint that was to thank for that; it was the moon. If the moon had stayed hidden, they never would’ve known what they were up against. No, it wasn’t sense. Nothing so elegant.

  It was just surprise.

  The men there, up on the embankment at the side of the road—and there were plenty of them tucked in those trees and those shrubs—were not Yankee soldiers. They were, however, well armed.

  Bill had been knocked over in the scramble, and Byron had caught him by the elbow. He was in the act of helping him up when it became apparent what had occurred, and like everyone else on both sides, he went perfectly still. It was a lot of puzzled, unlucky men, most of them a good way from
home, all of them turned into nothing more than a pack of statues.

  Joe was over there near the captain, holding the horse’s reins so it wouldn’t step on the fallen man, but he was too afraid to move to do anything more than that.

  The enemy, if that was what they should be called, was clustered on the south side of the road, just spread out enough to look frightening. There were a handful of white faces in there, and it was mainly the white hands that were holding the rifles. The colored folk, women too, were armed as well, and from a distance of fifteen feet, a sickle was probably more useful than a smoothbore Springfield.

  Certainly more useful than Bill’s, which was unloaded, and in the back of one of the carts.

  He had never fired it. And he never would.

  That was then, years ago. A place and a time that was only real behind closed eyes, but now it was time for Carpenter’s eyes to open. He didn’t want to open them; the waking world wasn’t any better, but he didn’t see that he had much choice.

  For a man who cut such an elegant figure, Silva didn’t have much talent for stealth. He made as much noise as a team of hungry mules when he tried to creep away from the camp.

  Carpenter lifted his hat and opened one eye, peering in the bright starlight. After a moment’s deliberation, he got up, scratched Maria behind her ears, and went into the shadows.

  It was good manners, not to mention simple decency, not to ask questions about another man you weren’t well acquainted with. Carpenter had enough business of his own; there wasn’t any sense in trying to get his hands into anyone else’s.

  But polite manners were for polite times. Now it was obvious that young fellow had been watching Silva, and there hadn’t been anyone else to sabotage the wagon. Whatever was waiting for them on the trail ahead wasn’t likely to be half as polite as Carpenter liked to be.

  Silva got a spade from the wagon, and a small bundle, and went into the trees with his appalling imitation of quiet. Carpenter trailed him, doing a better imitation of himself ten or twenty years prior, when he’d had a truly light step. Wearing a uniform hadn’t taught him that—war had been anything but quiet—but as a boy he’d spent enough of his time hunting to make sure there was soup over the fire that something like this was no challenge, even forty years later.