Mountain War: Defending Their Home (Mountain Man Book 4)

by Nathan Jones

  Her dad gave her a furious look as she reined in beside him, but it was too late to change her mind now as the trucks all braked to a stop around them, engines idling.

  Instead of the redheaded soldier emerging, it was a man from the truck that had been behind them who hopped down from the passenger side and started their way, hands held out reassuringly away from the sidearm at his hip. He was probably around her dad's age, with thin, narrow features and a confident posture. Her dad dismounted to meet him, and Lisa hurried to do the same.

  “I'm Lieutenant Kristof, Northern League Armed Forces,” the man said, offering his hand.

  Her dad cautiously shook it. “Bob Hendrickson.” He glanced around at the soldiers watching them curiously from the windows and out the backs of the surrounding trucks. “I've never heard of any Northern League.”

  Kristof smiled coolly. “You wouldn't have. We've tried very hard to keep our existence a secret, for fear that if Americans knew about us it would prompt a flood of refugees and settlers seeking to benefit from our prosperity. Something like what happened at Newpost . . . before Sangue took it, of course.”

  Lisa flinched at the mention of the place, and she thought her dad paled, although he tried to hide it. “Americans,” he repeated slowly. “Then you're Canadian?”

  She didn't know much about Canada, except it had been the country to the north of the United States before the Ultimatum.

  “No, we're Northern League,” the lieutenant repeated, sounding irritated. “Some of our territory is in what used to be Canada, some in what used to be the northern United States. As long as a community is self-sufficient and has something to offer, and is willing to keep our existence secret from the rest of the world, we're willing to take them in.”

  “And you're really not going to hurt us?” her dad asked, starting to sound more hopeful than wary.

  Kristof glanced at where Lisa's mom had reined in her horse a couple hundred yards away, then at Lisa. His stern features softened just slightly. “I realize seeing soldiers in vehicles must be alarming, considering your previous contact with Sangue. But I assure you, we mean you no harm.”

  “Alarming,” her dad murmured, shaking his head ruefully. “You darn near gave us a heart attack roaring in with your trucks while we were caught out in the open, Lieutenant. We were sure the bloodies had us.”

  The officer scowled, although not at him. “You're not the only ones freaking out when we drive by. Our troops keep getting ambushed by Americans who think we're the enemy just because we have vehicles, even though we're trying to help them. But we need local support if we're going to get anywhere, so we have to try to defuse the situation while under fire, only allowed to return fire if it looks like we're all going to get shot.” He shook his head bitterly. “It's caused more than one needless death on our side, and made waging this war incredibly frustrating. I suppose the alternative is trying to fight Sangue and entrenched hostile locals at the same time, though.”

  Lisa could imagine. “You're fighting Sangue?” she blurted.

  Kristof gave her a brief, polite smile. “Someone has to, ma'am, and everyone else seems to be getting their a-” he cut himself off, looking embarrassed, “-their butts kicked.” He turned back to her dad. “Anyway, I don't have much time so let's get to it.”

  Her dad gave the soldier a wary look. “To what?”

  “Orientation, if you want to call it that.” Kristof waved vaguely over his shoulder. “You're unofficially officially entering League territory. We have orders to allow all refugees through and offer them our protection and whatever assistance we can spare, but you need to understand and agree to the rules.”

  “Rules?” her dad said cautiously.

  “The usual sort,” the lieutenant replied. “Don't cause trouble, don't commit crimes, make every effort to provide for yourself and don't beg or rely on handouts from the League. Which shouldn't be a problem for you, from the looks of that livestock you've got. Oh, and of course you need to give your word to keep our nation secret, although honestly with as many people as we've been taking in recently that's probably a lost cause.”

  While Kristof was talking, another soldier hopped out of the cab of the third truck and started over to them. He was older than Kristof by probably ten years, with a weathered, grizzled look about him. He would've reminded Lisa of Trapper, except he was bigger and looked meaner, more like that thug Rich Bradshaw who'd hurt Bryant and Skyler.

  At least until the soldier noticed her staring and gave her a friendly smile and a wink, as if telling her he knew full well how scary he looked and didn't hold it against her that she was suspicious. He cleared his throat, stepping up to the lieutenant. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but loitering in this terrain is making me antsy.”

  Kristof turned his irritation to his soldier. “We're almost done here, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant nodded and stepped back, glancing at Lisa and her dad, then past them to where her mom still waited on her horse a safe distance away. “Seeing as how we've given these poor folks a fright, maybe we could offer them something by way of apology?”

  The lieutenant sighed. “Some of the civilian outreach incentives?” The grizzled man nodded, and he shrugged. “That's what it's for, I guess. The men will probably complain . . . they probably didn't think we'd have to use it this trip, at least not until we found our objective. And they usually consider it their private stash anyway.”

  “Not on my watch, sir,” the sergeant growled, giving Lisa another wink before heading back towards his truck. He barked orders at the soldiers in the back, who scrambled around a bit and then tossed him a bag. After checking inside it as if counting, then giving the soldiers a glare as if they were in the clear, for now, he made his way over to her dad. From the bag he withdrew eight flat squares a bit bigger than her hand, wrapped in fancy paper and foil packaging.

  Her dad accepted them, looking surprised. “These are either fifteen years old, and from a company I've never seen before, or . . .”

  “Brand new, made in New Bozeman,” the sergeant said proudly, as if he'd made them himself. “Amazing how much of infrastructure and industry you can get back, if you've got a steady supply of fuel coming down from what used to be Canada.”

  Lisa edged closer as her dad warily tore open the packaging on one of the objects, leaning down to sniff it. Then he closed his eyes with a fond smile. “Never forget that smell, even if it's been over a decade. Where'd you get the beans?”

  Kristof snorted. “Not from Central or South America, I can tell you that much. We've got greenhouses full of trees brought up by traders when Newpost was still getting goods from the south, back before Sangue betrayed the place.” He seemed to notice that in spite of her dad's obvious longing to try the gift, he was somewhat suspicious of it. So the lieutenant took a wrapped square from the bag, tearing it open and taking a bite. “See? Delicious.”

  “What is it?” Lisa asked. Even from where she was standing she caught a whiff of the food, sweet and . . . hard to describe, although faintly familiar.

  “Chocolate bar,” her dad said, finally taking a small bite. He savored it with a reluctant grin. “You had some when you were just a kid, three or four, scavenged from some place that carried candy bars before the Ultimatum. Although you probably don't remember.” He handed her one of the flat squares. “Here. This is a treat, so only take a bite now and save the rest for later.”

  Lisa gave him a crestfallen look, and the sergeant laughed. “Nothing more woeful than a pouting kid.” He reached into the bag and pulled out another bar. “If your dad doesn't mind, ma'am, I can give you another one if you promise to eat it all right now. Part of giving a gift is getting to enjoy watching the person enjoy it.”

  She turned to her dad hopefully. He sighed, although he looked amused. “Thank you. I didn't mean to look as if we were begging for more, but I'm sure she'll appreciate it.”

  The grizzled soldier tossed the candy to her, and she reluctantly handed back th
e first one her dad had given her, to save for later. Then she tore open the wrapper and took a big bite of the dark, solid square of chocolate.

  It was . . . heavenly. She closed her eyes, letting it just sit in her mouth for a while to enjoy the taste before she even started chewing.

  Probably tempted by her example, her dad took another bite of his own bar. Kristof was also working on his, and spoke idly as if to fill the silence while they ate. “Looks as if we had the same idea, traveling out in the middle of nowhere to avoid Sangue patrols. So far it's worked for us, how about you folks?”

  Her dad nodded. “As well as we could hope. No sign of anyone, not just Sangue, for days. Just a big empty nothing as far as the eye can see.”

  The lieutenant looked pleased. “That's what I like to hear when I'll have to be crossing that big empty nothing. Fingers crossed our luck holds until we get where we're going.”

  “Where's that?” Lisa blurted, then blushed as the man turned his attention to her. The chocolate had made her forget to mind her manners. “If you don't mind me asking.”

  The officer shrugged, not quite as friendly as the sergeant but not as curt with her as he seemed to be with everyone else. “Some folks down in Utah are giving the bloodies a headache, one big enough to notice on the front lines. Our mission is to go find them and give them whatever help we can so they keep doing what they're doing.”

  He turned back to her dad. “So I'd offer you a ride, but even if your livestock didn't make things awkward I'm afraid we're not going anywhere you want to go.”

  Her dad nodded grimly. “You'd be right about that. We had enough of a time just getting out of Utah without being run down. If there's safety up ahead that's where we're going.”

  Kristof grunted. “Well, if you stick to the direction you were headed you should steer clear of Sangue patrols . . . neither side is very interested in this area, but thanks to our using it as an entry point to get to Utah we've got people patrolling along the border and in this area, keeping it secure. They should be able to help you.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I've got to say you'll fare better than most when you get there. The League is taking in refugees, but the camps aren't exactly luxurious. Since you've got wealth in the form of cows and goats, not to mention horses, you'll probably qualify for a settler's visa. And reclusive as we try to be, they don't just hand those out to anyone.”

  “So you're not taking our animals?” her dad said, sounding equal parts relieved and incredulous. Lisa had to agree; she'd just assumed that when the soldiers ran her family down, even when they turned out to not be Sangue and seemed friendly, that their livestock would be taken as spoils.

  The grizzled man snorted. “What would we do with a bunch of farm animals?” When he realized neither of them were responding to his attempt at levity he scowled. “The League doesn't rob folks. Refugees keep whatever they bring in, and if they've got the resources and skills to provide for themselves they're encouraged to keep doing so.”

  Kristof nodded sourly. “It's basic common sense. If you take everything from the only people who are producing anything, then soon enough nobody's going to be producing anything. We're in the middle of a war, we need as many people as possible being productive if we want to survive, let alone win.”

  Her dad scratched at his jaw. “What do you consider winning? Do you plan to take the fight to Sangue, not just drive them back from your own borders?”

  The lieutenant paused for a moment, taking the question seriously. “See, that's the thing,” he finally said grimly. “With their vehicles and military technology, the bloodies have been running rampant over South, Central, and finally North America. They've crushed everyone they've encountered, killing or enslaving at their leisure.”

  “And what's the “thing” about that?” her dad demanded, putting a protective arm around Lisa's shoulders. Neither of them liked to be reminded of what Sangue did.

  Kristof gave him an irritated look; that seemed to be the man's default expression, she thought, then felt bad about it. “The thing is, butchering everyone you meet is easy enough when they're all weaker than you. But unless Sangue is incredibly fortunate and there's no one anywhere on Earth stronger than them, and their constant fighting doesn't weaken them to the point where the constant revolutions in their conquered territories threaten to topple them from within . . .”

  The officer seemed to notice her dad's impatience, and Lisa's blank expression. “Well, the point is, the League has kept to ourselves ever since the Ultimatum, hidden and not bothering anyone. But the bloodies have made it very clear that they're an existential threat not just to us, but to everyone. Which leaves us no choice but to shift our industrial efforts into war, and go destroy every single soldier they have, every single civic leader or thug enforcer taking part in oppressing their own people and those in the territories they conquer, and every single government official that gives them their orders and is ultimately responsible for all this.”

  He clenched his fist grimly in front of him. “Everyone who's taken active part in the atrocities they've carried out, they all need to be dealt with so they can never do it again. And they will be.”

  Lisa couldn't help it, she shouted and lifted her own fist triumphantly at that. The League soldiers glanced at her, amused, and she hunched her shoulders and looked towards her dad, wondering if he was going to be mad at her outburst.

  But he seemed to approve of Kristof's declaration as well. “That's what I like to hear,” he said, moving to clap the lieutenant on the back before something in the man's posture made him hesitate and lower his arm.

  Oddly enough, Kristof was the only one who didn't seem to approve of his own defiant statement. “To be honest, I can't say the same,” he admitted grimly. “I don't want to wage a war of total victory across two continents. But by exterminating everyone weaker than them for all this time, Sangue has pretty much made it inevitable that when they finally find someone who can put up a fight, they can expect no mercy. Diplomacy is off the table for those rabid dogs.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat politely. “And on that note, sir?”

  The lieutenant nodded, shoulders straightening. “On that note, let's get you to your animals and make sure you're all sorted out to continue north. Then we've got to get back to our own objective.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dropping the Hammer

  Tom hadn't expected to catch up to Mitchells and his group, given their detour. But he was relieved to see Camptown's leader with the welcome party when he, Skyler, and Gray and his fighters finally stumbled wearily into the bowl valley a day later.

  “Good to see you made it back in one piece!” the sheriff called. “We were starting to worry!”

  “Same to you,” Tom replied, returning the handshake he offered. He turned to Brady, who'd come out with Camptown's leader. “And you. Make it back here in one piece with all the goodies we took from Sangue?”

  The trader nodded. “Our biggest hurdle was covering the tracks of so many people and horses so we wouldn't make a trail straight back here. Luckily Brandon and his skirmishers have been practicing hiding their tracks, and with a bit of trial and error we got the job done.”

  That was good to hear; Sangue trailing Brady's group right back to Camptown had been Tom's biggest worry. Aside from the riders chasing him, of course. “Where is Brandon?” he asked. “Speaking of skirmishing, I need to talk to him about going back out. Sangue's going to be out for blood after Emery.”

  “Even more than usual,” the trader agreed, expression resigned. “He's way ahead of you there, though . . . split his people up into five teams of three and spread them all the way across the mountains east of here, ready to lure away any bloodies who came sniffing after us.”

  That was also good to hear. Now Tom just needed to coordinate with Gray about sending out more skirmishers to the north, south, and west.

  Although apparently it wasn't all good news, since Mitchells was shaking his
head grimly. “He's going to have his work cut out for him, unfortunately.” From his tone, he wasn't just speculating on that count.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Gray demanded. “What's happened?”

  The sheriff sighed and crumpled his battered old cowboy hat in his hands. “Well, you know how glad we were to get the codes for those Sangue radios? Might've been a bit hasty on that count.”

  Tom felt a surge of alarm. “Did they manage to track us using them?”

  Mitchells looked surprised for a moment. “No, nothing like that. Scrud, don't even put the idea in my head . . . that's impossible, right?” As far as Tom knew, it was, so he nodded. The sheriff shook his head irritably. “No, we've just heard bad news from them is what I meant.”

  Before Tom could breathe a sigh of relief, the man continued in a dire tone. “Real bad news, unfortunately. Sheriff Gray's people took charge of the radios, since they seem to know what to do with them, and they've been posting people who speak Spanish and Portuguese in listening stations on both peaks overlooking the valley ever since we got back. They've been listening in on them this whole time, picking up what chatter they can.”

  Camptown's leader scowled, getting to work smoothing his hat out. “Takes a lot of doing to pick up anything even from those vantages, unless of course the bloodies are too close to comfort. Which, it seems, they might just be.”

  “Are you stalling or something?” Gray demanded. “What did my people hear?”

  Mitchells took a sharp breath. “The long and short of it is, Sangue's royally pissed about Emery, like we expected. From what we've heard, they're devoting five hundred men to scouring every square inch of mountain from Highway 29 to Emery.”

  Tom swayed on his feet, staggered by the news. Five hundred . . . even with the weapons they'd captured in Emery, how were they supposed to hold off a force like that?