The fairest State of all the West,
Iowa, O! Iowa,
From yonder Mississippi's stream
To where Missouri's waters gleam
O! Fair it is as poet's dream
Iowa, 'tis Iowa.
See yonder fields of tasseled corn
Iowa, 'tis Iowa,
Where plenty fills her golden horn
Iowa, 'tis Iowa,
See how her wondrous prairies shine.
To yonder sunset's purpling line
O! happy land, O! land of mine
Iowa, O! Iowa.
And she has maids whose laughing eyes
Iowa, O! Iowa.
To him whose loves were Paradise
Iowa, O! Iowa
O! Happiest fate that e'er was known.
Such eyes to shine for one alone,
To call such beauty all his own.
Iowa, O! Iowa
Go read the story of thy past.
Iowa, O! Iowa
What glorious deeds, what fame thou hast!
Iowa, O! Iowa
So long as time's great cycle runs,
Or nations weep their fallen ones,
Thou'lt not forget thy patriot sons
Iowa, O! Iowa
The song rang out in children's voices as they climbed down from the railway; it came from a frame building not far from the depot, where a choir was apparently practicing. As the travelers unhitched their horses from the rearmost wagon the eight- and nine-year-olds spilled out clad in shorts and T-shirts, mostly barefoot in the warm summer afternoon. They came running down the dusty street to watch as the passengers disembarked, with the dust motes glowing golden in the slanting beams of the westering sun.
"All out for Valeria!" the conductor cried, walking down the line of cars and flourishing her speaking-trumpet. "Refreshments available in the station building! Train will embark for Des Moines in one hour!"
"What a surprise," Mathilda said, as they stretched and rubbed parts affected by the hard bench seats and Garbh growled at a village mutt that went into a dancing, barking frenzy until a boy pulled it away. "Another hot, humid, hazy day!"
"Could be worse-" Rudi said.
"-could be raining," Edain finished with a tired grin.
He nodded towards clouds on the eastern horizon-which were very visible, flat as the land was. They towered into the sky, black at their base and shading off into a froth like thick whipped cream at their summits, with the topmost heights starting to glow gold as the sun sank westward.
"Or hailing and storming," he added; they'd had enough time to realize how undependable the weather was here.
The station was a small four-square brick building, with a stable and paddock to one side where the spare teams were housed; the train's driver and his assistant led their tired beasts there to be turned over to the ostlers, and began assembling the replacement. The travelers clustered around the pump to one side of the station, taking turns to work the worn hickory of the handle. Once the trough had been filled and their own horses were dipping their muzzles into it the humans held their heads beneath the flow and drank heavily from cupped hands-the deep tube wells here were generally safe.
Rudi sucked down another draught of the cold, slightly mineral-tasting liquid, then splashed some over his head and brushed the long red-gold locks back, enjoying the momentary coolness in his sweat-itchy scalp.
"Gods of my people, you always feel like it's time for a shower here!"
"Welcome-" Ingolf began.
"To the Midwest," the rest of them chorused.
Valeria was a town so small that any Mackenzie dun would have made three of it, but the streets were crowded right now. Most of that was a convoy of big six-wheeled wagons drawn by huge gray horses much like those that pulled the train, just finishing loading from a series of warehouses of pre-Change sheet metal by the side of the railroad track.
Same breed, but better horses, Rudi thought, admiring their glossy spotted coats and hooves the size of dinner plates, thick arched necks and flared nostrils, the muscle that rippled in their massive haunches and flanks. Well tended, too.
A man came around one of them, talking to someone behind him, then froze as he saw Rudi and his party.
No, he's looking at Ingolf, Rudi thought, as the man walked slowly towards them, eyes wide with wonder.
Then he drew himself up, coming to attention. He was in his mid-twenties, Rudi's age, or nearly. A little shorter, a bit under six feet, but broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with short auburn hair and blue eyes and a wide, snub-nosed face; that was emphasized by the small blob of scar tissue on the very end of his nose. Most of the little finger of his right hand was missing, and a bit of the top of the next digit.
Moves well, Rudi thought. Good balance. His eyes went to the wrists and shoulders, and the swing of the walk. Strong, and quick with it, but there's just a shadow of a hint of a limp in the right leg.
His clothes were plain but good quality; knee-boots and indigo-blue denim trousers with a horseman's leather inserts on the inner thighs. The trousers rose to a sort of bib with shoulder straps; he had a green linsey-woolsey shirt beneath that, a silver-studded belt with a shete, bowie and tomahawk around his waist, and a billed cap on his head. The bib overalls and cap were what farmers wore in Iowa; rather confusingly, hereabouts Farmer seemed to mean about what Rancher did in central Oregon. Or knight in the Association territories; a landed gentleman, or at least a member of the ruling class.
He faced Ingolf, came to attention and saluted briskly. "Corporal Heuisink, reporting for duty, Captain Vogeler, sir!" he barked.
Ingolf frowned like a thunderstorm. "Sloppy as a hog in a wallow, as usual, Heuisink! You're not on your daddy's farm down in Iowa now, by God!"
Both men burst into roars of laughter and fell into each other's arms, hugging like bears, dancing around in a stomping circle, pounding each other on the shoulder and back. Then they held each other at arm's length, each examining the other with wonder.
"Jack, you miserable son of a bitch!" Ingolf said, and mimed a punch to the face. "You couldn't get a message to me in Hawarden? You know how long we waited in that lousy oozing chancre on Iowa's fat ass, eating overpriced pizza and listening to ourselves sweat?"
The other man pretended to stagger. "You expect the heliograph net to work out there, you ignorant cheesehead?" he said. "There's a surface-mail letter on its way!"
"Ignorant? I left Readstown because I had to. You were the one who thought that being a hired soldier for those cheapskate dickheads in Marshall was going to be an adventure. "
"I ended up in deep shit, far from home. That is adventure."
Rudi laughed aloud; only someone who'd had adventures knew how true that was, though it wasn't the whole of the matter. Mary cleared her throat.
"Why is it that when men play, they always play at hitting and insulting each other?" she said.
Ingolf turned with his arm around the younger man's shoulders; he was laughing, and his battered, craggy face was more relaxed than Rudi had seen it.
Younger, in fact, he thought; as if the brown beard and scars had been removed. A lot of the time you forget he's only five years older than I.
"Mary, this is Jack Heuisink, who was dumb enough to run away from a perfectly good home and enlist in Vogeler's Villains back when we were fighting the Sioux War, up north in Marshall."
"I was a teenager," Heuisink said defensively. "More… hormones… than sense."
"I kept him alive long enough to come to his senses, which happened about the time he put his right hand in the way of an Injun tomahawk headed for my noggin."
"Good as new, what's left of it," Heuisink said, flexing it. "Gave me a decent excuse to come home, too."
"Jack, Mary Havel, my intended."
Jack's eyes went wide; his eye skipped from the patch to her face, down to her feet and up to the braided yellow hair. They also skipped to the worn hilt of her longsword, and the gear on the dappled Arab behind her, and then widened a little as he realized that Ritva was identical to her-except for the missing eye and the scar.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Havel," he said, and shook hands. "Ingolf always did have more luck than he deserved."