And it's weary by the Ullswater
And the misty break fern way;
Till through the crutch of the Kirkstane pass
The winding water lay The song seemed to soothe the little clump of horses, or at least make them less determined to browse among the thin scatter of green brush in the tumbled rocks at the base of the hill, where water collected beneath the dry gritty soil. Rudi waved his lariat and got them mov ing back towards the main herd, keeping an eye out for their wild kin-they'd had problems with mustang stallions trying to cut the mares out.
These interior lands had an eerie emptiness to someone who'd grown to manhood in the lush valleys west of the Cascades. Life of hardy types adapted to the dryness and the alternation of savage heat and deep cold throve here, but sparsely; little handfuls of burro, mustang, big horn sheep, feral cattle scattered across endless miles, wolves and cougar less common still, with even jackrab bits and coyotes not something you saw every minute. They'd seen nothing of humankind besides the ashes of an old campfire near water now and then. This country had been thinly peopled before the Change, and most of the survivors had moved elsewhere in the generation since. The few who remained were wandering hunters, solitaries or single families or tiny groups who shunned outsiders.
He grinned to himself as he took up the song again; one of the little feral mustang studs had tried to cut out Epona, and gotten kicked into next Tuesday for his trouble. The big black mare got along better with horses than with most human beings, but she wasn't one to permit liberties either way.
The horses were moving well back towards the main herd when he finished:
And she sang: Ride with your brindled hounds to heel
And your good gray hawk to hand;
There's none can harm the knight who's lain
With the Witch of the Westmoreland!
He broke off as the head of the Mormon party rode up; he'd noticed that some of the old songs made the bishop a bit uneasy, grateful though he was.
"Thank you again for helping us with the horses," Nystrup said as he reined in by Rudi's side. "That alone will mean a good deal to my people."
Neither of them talked about anything larger or more political, though Rudi knew the older man was nourish ing a desperate hope of aid from the free peoples of the far West. Rudi had advised him to send an embassy, and given a letter of introduction, but…
I wish I could go back to arrange it, he thought. But I can't. The Powers have given me a task. And Matti's recommendation… her mother is probably so angry she'd string the messenger up rather than promise them help, sure.
"A little honest work never hurt anyone," the Mac kenzie replied politely, wiping at his face with a bandanna as he rode. "And we're not there yet, to be sure."
The sun was strong but the air temperature only a lit tle on the warm side of comfortable-the part of northern Nevada they were passing through was six thousand feet up, and didn't get really hot until August. Even then it would be a crisp, clear dry heat.
Sparse grassland and silvery sagebrush rolled on every side, studded here and there with the darker green of dwarf juniper on a hillside. A golden eagle wheeled high overhead in majesty, across a pale blue sky that was clear from horizon to horizon. It was probably waiting for rabbits or other small game startled up by the horse herd. Insects buzzed and rattled, and a long-tailed spotted lizard stared at him with beady eyes for a second and then whipped off behind a sage.
A herd of pronghorns had been edging closer most of the morning to get a look at the horses and wagons-the little beasts were incorrigibly curious-but now they took fright and fled at better than sixty miles an hour, white rumps flashing, faster than anything on earth ex cept a cheetah. Occasionally one would bounce up out of the herd's dust cloud, rising as if it had landed on a trampoline.
Maybe they're just running and jumping because they like it, Rudi thought, watching them with pleasure. Well, I do occasionally myself, so why not them?
They'd acquired that speed when there were cheetahs in North America, fifteen thousand years ago; to them the returning grizzlies and wolves and the spreading tigers weren't anything they had to worry about except from ambush. But there were cheetahs again, rumor said, down on the southern plains, escaped from private hunting pre serves in the aftermath of the Change along with lions and a dozen other types of game. In time they'd work their way north, adjusting to the harsher winters as they went.
And when the cheetahs arrive here, the pronghorns will be ready. As Mom says, that sort of thing shows how thrifty the Powers are at getting us to work their will, will we or no.
Hills rose to the east and north, white stone scored by gullies and spattered with the wide-spaced green of ponderosa and pinyon pine on their higher slopes. There wasn't much motion right now, apart from the fleeing antelope with the Y-shaped nose horns, and a fat desert tortoise calmly burying its eggs a little to the north. Then a flicker of something showed in a ravine, and a click and rattle of stones followed, faint with distance. His eyes narrowed, and his hand began a motion towards the bow cased at his knee.
"Someone coming," he said to the Mormon.
"Where?" Nystrup said, startled.
"Up there… ah, it's my folk. My sisters, to be precise."
The twins came riding from the higher ground north eastward, their horses picking a way down the rocky slope. They were wearing war cloaks, which made them look like bushes on horseback with the tufts of greenish yellow grass and sprigs of sage and juniper stuck through the loops that studded the garments. That meant they'd been doing a sneak on foot somewhere to the eastward during their scouting mission.
…
And that they found something important.
They drew up and nodded at the bishop and Rudi; the rest of the party from the Willamette drifted over as well.
"There are people ahead of us," one of the two said, her face dusty and drawn and tired. "Two different bunches of 'em, both about a day's ride out northeast."
The other took up the tale: "One of them's mostly on foot, heading south along the old gravel road. Say three hundred on foot, fifty on horseback, and packhorses and mule-drawn wagons for baggage. Over to you, Ritva."
Ritva-or possibly Mary-continued: "The others came in from the east a couple of days ago and they've been waiting since-camping cold, small fires for cooking and doused immediately, not much smoke and no noise. Two hundred, all mounted, with a remuda herd and some light wagons. They're holed up in a canyon overlooking the trail heading south up this valley to that old lake…"
She pointed south. Bishop Nystrup nodded and supplied the name: "Wildhorse Reservoir."
"Right."
She pulled a map out of her saddlebag, and they all dismounted to look at it; the twin weighed the corners down with rocks, and drew her dagger to use as a pointer as they knelt around the square of waxed linen and held their horses' reins.
"They're holed up here except for their scouts. They've got good scouts. The other bunch aren't bad but these guys are good. We had to do some Sentry Removal -"
He could hear the Dunedain italics and capitals in the words.
"-and they nearly caught us. Hiding is harder out here."
Rudi's brows went up. "You're sure they didn't back-track you?"
"We holed up for a whole day watching our trail, Rudi. No, we lost them in some lava country; we saw them turn back. But it was a bit hairy, and they'll be on their toes even if they didn't make us."
"They will?"
"They're short a couple of sentries."
Mary-or possibly Ritva-broke in: "And then we found tracks, men and horses both, near here, just now. Three miles north of here, but that's close enough to spot our dust trail, with binoculars. Maybe two days old. Shod horses, so they're not locals. About six of them, I think.