“What situation? Didn’t we win?”
“We won this war. Now we’re faced with not losing the victory.”
Magda jumped to her feet. “I don’t understand, but explain on the way.”
The late afternoon increased in tempo. People danced to fiddle, guitar, and balalaika music. Someone had even brought out an antique harpsichord and was playing it with exquisite expertise.
“Suddenly we are faced with factions within the Dená people,” Bodecia said as they moved briskly through the happy crowd.
“Factions? What kind of factions?”
“Basically, many have different opinions on where do we go from here.”
“Anywhere we want to! I don’t understand this.”
“Well, I do and I don’t. Oh good, there’s your father; he will make us both understand. He’s good at this nuance stuff.”
Two FPN drummers, one Pawnee and one Sioux, added their harmony to the music. Laughter and loud talk echoed around the square. Dená girls walked with FPN warriors close to their own age, chatting and flirting.
Magda knew there would be many babies made this night. Was that why she was so morose? Is that why she wanted Jerry to be here with her? She realized their war was over and now she could examine the emotions she felt for him. She wanted to do that with him—not alone.
Pelagian sat on a folding campstool conversing with General Spotted Bird, Colonel Fires-Twice, Colonel Romanov, Yukon Cassidy, and a small man she didn’t recognize. On the perimeter of the group others sat or stood.
“Ah, here’s my clear-thinking daughter. This is Magda, a sergeant of scouts and the pride of my life.”
She stopped and came to attention. “Gentlemen,” she said with a nod.
All the men stood. Pelagian introduced everyone, ending with the small, dark man. “And this is Roland Delcambré, who is traveling with Yukon.”
“Sir.” She nodded again. Magda glanced at her father. “Mother says there are factions. Please explain what that means.”
“First it means that the war is over and we won. I’m not sure how we did that as quickly as we did, but the fact remains that we’ve run out of Russians to fight. So now we’re free to fight each other.”
“Why? What is there to fight about?”
“Please give me your opinion on this: where does the Dená Republik go from here?”
“We form a government, of course.”
“I agree. How?”
“We’ve already started. We pick delegates to a constitutional convention and they write a constitution and we do whatever the constitution says to make a government.”
“So who do you pick to write your part?”
“I don’t even know who’s running. Delta is our whole district, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So who is running?”
“Konstantin Mitkov for one.”
“Viktor’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Who else, Father?”
“Me.”
“What?” Bodecia jumped like a bee-stung pup. “Shooting Russians is one thing, but if you go into politics, you’ll have Indians shooting at you!”
“Why, Father?” Magda asked.
“I’m sorry to spring this on you both, but there is no time to spare. The election is a week away and I haven’t had a chance to tell people how I see the situation.”
“How do you see the situation?” Magda didn’t know why, but she felt very apprehensive about his decision.
“We are a brand-new country filled with people who were born here and others who have helped us fight for our liberty. Who are the citizens of this new country? Just those born here, or also those who were willing to die for it?
“And what about land ownership? Does our new country recognize the deeds of those who owned land under the Czar, or is everything up for grabs again? Who decides if Dená who didn’t fight against the Czar have the same rights as those who did?”
Magda blinked. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about any of that, and I know you would be essential in a constitutional convention if it were to be fair for all. How can I help you?”
“How can we all help?” Yukon Cassidy asked.
“Are you even a resident?” Pelagian asked Cassidy.
“If six years of running a trap line on the Charley River doesn’t make me a resident, then nothing will.”
“He’s a resident as far as I’m concerned,” Doyon Isaac said from the edge of the circle. “As is every person who fought for the Dená Republik. Who could argue against that?”
“Konstantin Mitkov, for one,” Pelagian said. “He believes that if you’re not at least half Athabascan, then you’re not a citizen.”
“Remind me, old friend,” Yukon Cassidy said. “Where was it that this Konstantin fellow fought?”
“He didn’t. He was one of the first to reach Refuge and he grabbed as much space as he could. When the evacuation began, he was told he couldn’t have that much area and he argued about it.”
“Yet nobody shot him?” Cassidy’s grin made everyone else laugh.
“You’ve made my point,” Pelagian conceded. “This is why I must run, and why I must win.”
“May we be of help?” General Spotted Bird asked.
“I guess you could talk to people.”
An FPN Army sergeant suddenly ran up to the group and saluted General Spotted Bird.
“What is it, Sergeant Fox Dreams?”
“Sorry to bother you, General. Major Riordan has escaped.”
92
5 miles northwest of Delta
The motorcycle backfired for the third time and the engine died. Riordan coasted to a stop and stepped off one side of the machine and let it topple the other direction into a deep ravine, causing a small landslide of rock and gravel that covered the motorcycle. His water and food were strapped to him, part of his constant vigilance attitude.
They had probably found the dead guard by now, wrapped in his blanket and on the cot in the half-assed jail built on the back of a lorry. It took him all of a half hour to unhinge the door. It took another ten hours for the right circumstances to make his escape.
He jogged north with glances over his shoulder every thirty paces. They might wait for dawn, and they might not: it wasn’t that far away. He couldn’t take anything for granted. Where the hell was Klahotsa?
If he could reach that village he would be safe, perhaps. But there was nowhere else in the new Dená Republik where he could find sanctuary. Kurt Bachmann was the man who had hired him; that’s who he had to find.
Riordan glanced over his shoulder again and when he looked forward again he saw the glow. He slowed to a fast walk and peered ahead. Finally he realized he was seeing the reflection of a campfire off the edge of a vehicle on the side of the road.
He stopped and let his breathing subside into something normal. This had to be done carefully and a panting, wild-eyed apparition out of the night would be problematical to say the least.
Ten meters from the truck he yelled, “Hello the camp, one man coming in.”
Two young Indians stoically watched him emerge into the firelight.
One waved him forward and nodded to a rock on the other side of the snapping, flame-engulfed wood.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I’m starving. Haven’t had food since breakfast.”
The other one peered into the darkness. “You on foot? I didn’t hear any motors.”
“Had a motorcycle. It died about five miles back that way.” Riordan nodded his head, never taking his eyes off the men.
“Where you going?” the first man said as he handed Riordan a steaming plate of stew.