"False prophet!" Rebecca said defiantly behind her cousin, and ignored his frown.
"Yah, I've got no problem with that false part," he said, touching his bruised face.
"You were wounded fighting the CUT?" she asked with quick sympathy.
Ingolf laughed, and she flinched a little. "You might say so. A spy from Corwin named Kuttner wormed his way into Vogeler's Villains-my outfit-got my friends all killed back East, captured me, dragged me off to Corwin, tortured me, screwed with my head, and when I escaped they chased me to Oregon; then they killed the lady I was with and damned near killed me, and just now they captured me and tortured me and screwed with my head again. You might say I've been fighting them. Not very effectively, but yes, I've got reason to do it with feeling."
He turned his head away and swallowed. Rudi winced slightly; he'd been feeling hard done by because he'd been dragged away from home by all this. The Easterner had lost the only home or real kin he had.
Ingolf faced Nystrup and touched his own face again; the swelling had gone down, but there was a spectacular range of colors under the dust and beard. When he spoke again his voice was altogether flat:
"Fighting the false prophet, especially if you're not doing it in a regular army, then you're going to have to get flexible. It's a rough game, and on both sides. You can't let people decide to just sit things out and see who wins. Better not to try at all if you're not willing to see it through to the end."
Rudi nodded soberly. Ingolf wasn't only a sworn enemy of the CUT; he'd been a wandering fighter for hire for years out East, in the fabled-and fabulously wealthy and populous-realms of the Mississippi valley, Iowa and Nebraska and Kansas. And after that he'd been boss of a salvage outfit which went deep into the old death zones, to the dead cities of the Atlantic Coast, which was just as dangerous and involved a lot of the same skills.
"Hey, ndan bell, indo hun!" Mary called. Which meant strong back, simple mind, roughly. "Give us a hand! Not you, Rudi. The other strong back and simple mind. Ingolf."
"What about me?" Odard said. "I'm always ready to help a beautiful damsel or two in distress."
"If you have to ask, Odard, you'll never understand."
The young Baron raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and went with Mathilda to help hobble their horses and the four mules who'd drawn the Conestoga before they dumped it. They both knew horses well, of course; Protectorate nobles might have grooms, but they learned their way around stables from infancy. Ingolf started unloading sacks of dried beans and jerky and barley from the pack-saddles at the twin's direction. As a boil-up it wouldn't be very appetizing, but it would keep you going.
Then Ignatius got out the medicine chest, with Rudi assisting. Someone who knew what they were doing had done the bandaging-unsurprisingly, that turned out to be Rebecca-but the antiseptic ointments made from aloes and molds were useful. He'd never taken formal training beyond the first aid all Mackenzies learned in school, but Judy Barstow was both the Clan's chief healer and his mother's oldest friend and he'd been around Aunt Judy all his life. Ignatius was better than that, virtually a doctor; the Order wanted its knight-brothers to be able to turn their hands to just about anything, since they spent a lot of time on their own in places hostile, remote, or both.
"There is nobody here who won't recover, given food and rest," the priest said to the Deseret colonel when he'd finished.
"That… may be a problem," Nystrup said. Then he smiled: "I'd read about guerilla warfare in OCS-Officer Candidate School-and they went on about how valuable a sanctuary is to an insurgency, but it was all sort of theoretical. I'm just getting used to how much I relied on having someone to take the wounded off my hands. And yes, food's a problem too. I don't have a commissariat anymore, or local Stake storehouses."
" We'd have more if we'd kept the wagon," Ritva grumbled, as she measured ingredients into the cauldron.
We kept the essentials, Rudi thought. The weapons, the medicine chest, and the cash. But no need to go into detail; best not put temptation in our Mormon friends' way.
"If we'd kept the wagon, we'd be thirty or forty miles that way"-Rudi pointed back towards the site of the rescue-"and someone would have caught us by now."
"Yes, but it's the principle of the thing," his half sister said, getting out their salt-and-seasoning box. "All that lovely shopping we did in Bend, wasted. C'mon, Ingolf, let's give these people some help."
The Mormon women made bannock out of some of the flour, and minced a couple of desert hares as their contribution to the stone soup; the rabbits would be lean, without the fat that kept you going, but every little bit helped. Things settled down when the chores were done, and everyone sat around gnawing on hardtack while the stew seethed, chatting easily-except for Ignatius, who kept a calm, cheerful silence, and Ingolf, who brooded despite the twins' attempts to draw him out.
Rudi took another deep drink of the water; it was very clear, with a mineral undertang, and cold, which felt glorious. He'd taken the chance to strip and scrub down before the heat of the day left completely; this area was higher than it looked, and a clear night would be chilly even in August. Putting his sticky clothes back on had been a bit of a trial; he was a fastidious man, when circumstances allowed, if not quite as picky as, say, Odard.
"I'm thinking then that you aren't altogether happy in Boise territory," Rudi said to Nystrup.
"No," Nystrup said shortly, looking down at the sword he was honing.
Then, thawing: "I could tell right away that the new President, Martin Thurston, wasn't going to keep his father's… He was talking about splitting up the refugees, settling them a few each in Boise towns and villages, or enlisting our troops in his army-and as individuals, not in units. That meant he wasn't planning on helping us get our homes back. And he said he wouldn't allow any 'raiding' over the border from the refugee camps. Said it might endanger the 'peace process.' "
Rudi nodded, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and called: "Fred! The good colonel needs to talk to you. Colonel Nystrup, Captain Frederick Thurston. Yes, of the Thurstons."
"Damnation!" the Deseret officer blurted, when the tale of Martin Thurston's treachery had been told, amid a babble of questions from his followers.
That cut off sharply when Nystrup made a gesture. Rudi's brows rose; that bespoke real discipline and this collection of odds-and-sods wasn't a regular military unit. From what he'd heard, the Saints were an orderly folk, but it still said something about Nystrup as a man.
"But didn't the CUT try to assassinate him along with his father and younger… and you, Mr. Thurston?" the colonel said.
"Everyone thought so at the time," Rudi said. "I'd say the now that only the ones aimed at General Thurston were really trying to kill."
"And the one behind me," Frederick said.
"Perhaps," Rudi said gently. "He didn't have any real need to kill you then-you'd never have suspected. But perhaps."
And perhaps you need to think as badly of him as you can, for your own sake. I'll not hinder it.
"You think Martin Thurston's going over to the false prophet?" Nystrup said sharply. "Has already, secretly?"
"Now, there I'm less certain," Rudi said judiciously.
Odard Liu cut in; he'd been doing his share of the chores, and without any of the reluctance that Rudi half expected. Alex had done much of his master's work before the man revealed his true colors. Now the Baron wiped his hands and spoke:
"I'd say it's an alliance of mutual convenience, not an affair of the heart. Ah, some people in the Protectorate-"