“M-Mark,” he blinked.
“Mine is Gordon. Was that your sister, who saved our lives back there at the fireplace?”
Mark shook his head. A child of the dark age, he would save his tears for later. “N-nossir … it was my mom.”
Gordon grunted, surprised. These days it was uncommon for women to look so young after having children. Mark’s mother must have lived under unusual conditions-one more clue pointing to mysterious happenings in northern Oregon.
The light was fading fast. Still hearing nothing, Gordon nudged the horse into motion once more, guiding it with his knees, letting it choose soft ground where it could. He kept a sharp lookout, and stopped often to listen.
Some minutes later they heard a shout. The boy tensed. But the source must have been blocks away, Gordon headed in the other direction, thinking of the Willamette River bridges at the northern end of town.
The long twilight was over before they rode up to the Route 105 bridge. The clouds had stopped dripping, but they still cast a dark gloom over ruins on all sides, denying even the starlight. Gordon stared, trying to penetrate the gloom. Rumor to the south had it the bridge was still up, and there were no obvious signs of an ambush.
And yet anything could hide in that mass of dark girders, including an experienced bushwhacker with a rifle.
Gordon shook his head. He hadn’t lived this long by taking foolish chances. Not when there were alternatives. He had wanted to take the old Interstate, the direct route to Corvallis and the mysterious domain of Cyclops, but there were other ways. He swung the horse about and headed west, away from the dark, glowering towers.
There followed a hurried, twisting ride down side streets. Several times’ he nearly got lost, and had to go by dead reckoning. At last, he found old Highway 99 by the sound of rushing water.
Here the bridge was a flat, open structure, and apparently clear. Anyway, it was the last path he knew of. Bent low over the boy, he took the span at a gallop and kept on riding hard until he was certain all pursuit had been left far behind.
Finally, he dismounted and led the horse for a while, letting the exhausted animal catch its breath.
When he climbed back into the saddle, young Mark had fallen asleep. Gordon spread his poncho to cover them both as they plodded on northward, seeking a light.
About an hour before dawn, they arrived at last at the walled village of Harrisburg.
The stories Gordon had heard about prosperous northern Oregon must have been understated. The town had apparently been at peace much, much too long. Thick undergrowth covered the free-fire zone all the way to the town wall, and there were no guards on the watchtowers. Gordon had to shout for five minutes before anyone arrived to swing back the gate.
“I want to talk to your leaders,” he told them under the sheltered porch of the general store. “There’s worse danger than you’ve known in years.”
He described the ambushed party of gleaners, the band of hard, evil men, and their mission to scout the soft northern Willamette for plundering. Time was of the essence. They had to move quickly and destroy the Holnists before their mission was accomplished.
But to his dismay the sleepy-eyed townsmen seemed slow to believe his story, and even more reluctant to sally forth in the wet weather. They stared at Gordon suspiciously, and shook their heads sullenly when he insisted they call up a posse.
Young Mark had collapsed in exhaustion and wasn’t much of a witness to corroborate his tale. The locals obviously preferred to believe he was exaggerating. Several men stated baldly that he must have run into a few local bandits from south of Eugene, where Cyclops still had little influence. After all, nobody had seen any Holnists around these parts in many years. They were supposed to have killed each other off long ago, after Nathan Holn himself was hanged.
Folk patted him on the back reassuringly and started dispersing to their homes. The storekeeper offered to let Gordon sack out in his store room.
I can’t believe this is happening. Don’t these idiots realize their very lives are at stake? If the scouting party gets away, those barbarians will be back in force!
“Listen …” He tried again, but their sullen, rural obstinacy was impervious to logic. One by one, they drifted away.
Desperate, exhausted, and angry, Gordon flung back his poncho — revealing the postal inspector’s uniform underneath. In a fury, he stormed at them.
“You all don’t seem to understand. I am not asking you for your help. Do you think I give a damn about your stupid little village?
“I care about one thing above all. Those creatures have two bags of mail that they have stolen from the people of the United States, and I am commanding you, under my authority as a federal official, to gather an armed party and assist in their recovery!”
Gordon had had a lot of practice with the role in recent months, but never had he dared such an arrogant pose. It had completely carried him away. When one of the wide-eyed villagers started stammering, he cut the man short, his voice shaking with outrage as he told them of the wrath that would fall when the restored nation learned of this shame — how a silly little hamlet had cowered behind its walls and so let their country’s sworn enemies escape.
His eyes narrowed as he growled lowly, “You ignorant bumpkins have ten minutes to form your militia and be ready to ride, or I warn you, the consequences will be far more unpleasant for you all than a forced march in the rain!”
The townsfolk blinked in astonishment. Most of them had not even moved, but stared at his uniform, and the shiny badge on his peaked hat. The true danger that faced them they could try to ignore, but this fantastic story had to be swallowed whole, or not at all.
For a long moment the tableau held — and Gordon stared them down until it broke.
All at once men were shouting at one another, running about to gather weapons. Women hurried to prepare the horses and gear. Gordon was left standing there — his poncho like a cape whipping behind him in the blustery wind — cursing silently while the Harrisburg guard turned out around him.
What, in God’s name, came over me? he asked himself at last.
Maybe his role was starting to get to him. For during those tense moments, as he had faced down an entire town, he had truly believed! He had felt the power of his role — the potent anger of a servant of the People, thwarted in a high task by little men…
The episode left him shaken, and a little uncertain of his own mental equilibrium.
One thing was clear. He had hoped to give up the postman scam on reaching northern Oregon; but that was no longer possible. He was stuck with it now, for better or for worse.
All was ready in a quarter of an hour. He left the boy in the care of a local family and departed with the posse in a drizzling rain.
The ride was quicker this time, in daylight and with remounts. Gordon made sure they sent out scouts and flankers to guard against ambush, and kept the main party in three separated squads. When they finally arrived at the UO campus, the militia dismounted to converge on the Student Center.
Although the locals outnumbered the survivalist band by at least eight to one, Gordon figured the odds were actually about even. Wincing at every sound as the clumsy farmers approached the scene of the massacre, he nervously scanned the rooftops and windows.
I hear that down south they stopped the Holnists with sheer guts and determination. They’ve got some legendary Ieader, down there, who’s whipped the survivalists three falls out of four. Must be the xeason the bastards are trying this end run up the coast. Things are different up here.