His name was Pete Sowers, and it seemed that he was part of a community living in the huge salt mine located under Hutchinson, Kansas. Originally most of the salt from the mine had been used to make pharmaceuticals, baked goods, and chemical products. In post-industrial America, those markets didn’t exist anymore.
But, to hear Sowers tell it, survivors were increasingly in need of common table salt. Both to flavor their food and to preserve meat. So business was on the upswing. “I’m one of twelve salesmen,” Sowers explained earnestly. “My job is to deliver salt to existing customers and identify new ones. I generally travel with two bodyguards. Calvin, Ted, and myself were headed for the rendezvous in Colby when at least two hundred Leapers jumped us in a dry wash about ten miles south of here. We fought like hell, but I’m the only one who made it out, along with one of the pack animals.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Capelli said sympathetically. “You mentioned a rendezvous in Colby. When is it supposed to take place?”
Sowers wiped his lips with a grimy sleeve. “In a couple of days. The stinks are a big threat—so the rendezvous won’t last for more than five or six hours.”
The door to the potbellied stove was open and firelight danced the walls. Rowdy was lying in front of the fire with his head on his paws. His eyes were open, and Capelli knew the dog was alert to the slightest sound.
Locke took a sip of coffee. “So how did you wind up here? Tied to a telephone pole?”
“I figured I’d go to the rendezvous, sell the remaining salt, and head home,” Sowers replied. “But a group of bandits spotted me and gave chase. They caught up, beat the crap out of me, and I passed out. When I came to, they were gone. Maybe they left me for dead.”
“So what now?” Capelli inquired.
“I’m a charity case,” Sowers said, as he glanced from face to face. “I know that. But if you’ll let me accompany you to the rendezvous, there’s a good chance that some of my folks will be there. If not, I’ll borrow some ammo from one of our customers. Either way I’ll pay you.”
“We aren’t looking to make a profit,” Capelli responded. “But food is always welcome.”
Locke eyed Capelli. “So we’re going to Colby?”
Capelli was seated on an upside-down waste-paper basket. He shrugged. “Why not? It’s on the way.”
Sowers opened his mouth as if to ask, “On the way to where?” but closed it again. A terrible darkness had fallen over America and everything was different. People were generally reluctant to say where they were going and it wasn’t polite to ask.
The fire crackled as it consumed pieces of what had been the postmaster’s desk drawers, thunder muttered to the south, and Rowdy produced an elaborate yawn. The day was done.
It took two days to reach Colby. The weather had improved by then, although there was a nip in the air, and some of the trees were starting to turn. And with each passing mile there were more and more signs that other people were headed for the rendezvous as well. As the two-lane road carried them east, Capelli spotted campfires, so recent that some of them were still smoking, piles of fresh horse dung, and a so-called message tree. It was located at the center of a town too small to have a name.
The stinks couldn’t read. That was the theory, anyway, and insofar as Capelli knew it was true. But humans could, so many of the messages that were pinned to the big oak tree located at the center of town were cryptic. One said, “J.C., So far so good,” and was signed “H.N.” And another read, “Luke, dad’s better, Love, T.”
But some of the messages were open and direct, such as a pistol-shaped card that read, “Need a gunsmith? Ask for Hank Fowler.”
There were hundreds of them. So many that the lower part of the tree trunk looked as if it had been painted white. Sowers read them all, or tried to, looking for any sign that other salt salesmen were in the area. Some of them made him very upset. Like the one that read, “My husband needs penicillin! Will do anything for it. Ask for Amanda Hartly.”
By that time, Capelli had come to the conclusion that Sowers was a bit too naïve to be out roaming the badlands alone. The man had a tendency to see everything in simple black-and-white terms. And that reminded him of another person who had all of the answers: a lieutenant named Nathan Hale.
As they approached Colby, the men found themselves sharing the highway with a steady stream of other people. Some were mounted, some were on foot, and in spite of the danger represented by such a gathering, most of the travelers were in a good mood.
The same couldn’t be said for their dogs, however, many of whom saw Rowdy as a threat. They growled whenever the big mix approached them. But if Rowdy was offended, there was no sign of it as he made the rounds of people and animals alike, his tail a-wagging.
As they entered Colby, Capelli saw a sign that read, “Colby, The Oasis on the Plains,” and thought there was some truth to it. Except for a swath of destruction that cut across the town at an angle, the city was largely intact. That included the Romanesque courthouse, which, though partially burned, still had a stately appearance and served as the backdrop for the chaotic rendezvous spread out in front of it.
The gathering was part picnic, part yard sale, and part revival meeting. As Capelli looked around, he saw people sharing food around small fires, merchants selling everything from homemade candles to blocks of cheese, and preachers of every stripe. One of them claimed to be in touch with the Chimeran hive-mind and was wearing a Leaper skull on top of his head. And there were musicians, too. Along with jugglers, hollow-eyed beggars, medicine men, and a man who claimed to represent President Thomas Voss. He stood on a park bench and gave a speech about the attempt to destroy a tower in New York City, but only six people paused to listen.
In spite of the country fair–like atmosphere, there was an overlay of fear as well. It could be seen in the way that people continually scanned the sky for any sign of a Chimeran shuttle and never ventured more than a foot or two away from their possessions. And there were other dangers, too. Because all manner of thieves were roaming the crowd. They ranged from fast-talking con men to heavily armed thugs. Capelli was just about to warn Locke of that when Sowers uttered a shout of outrage. “There they are! The bastards that stole my salt!”
Then Sowers was off, winding his way between clumps of people, as he hurried to confront a group of five heavily armed men. They had a string of horses hitched to a picket line, and from what Capelli could see, they were selling bags of something off a wide-spread blanket. “Come on!” Locke said. “Sowers is unarmed. He’s going to need some backup.”
“Wrong,” Capelli responded as he reached out to grab the other man’s arm.
“Why not?”
“Rule six.”
“Which is?”
“Mind your own business.”
Locke jerked his arm free. “There’s more to life than looking out for yourself, Capelli.”
Yeah, the voice said, as Locke hurried away. There’s more to life than what’s in it for Capelli.
Capelli sighed, whistled for Rowdy, and followed his client over to the spot where Sowers was locked in a heated confrontation with a much larger man. He had thick black hair, a unibrow, and a crooked nose. And, judging from his expression, he was pissed.
“You stole my horses and my salt,” Sowers said accusingly. “And I want them back.”