All of them had knives, tomahawks and heavy-bladed shetes at their waists, quivers full of arrows over their backs, and round hide shields and lariats hung from their saddles. And a powerful aroma, the harsh rank musk-sweat of men who lived on meat and milk and hadn't had occasion to wash themselves or their clothes lately, added to horse and leather and iron greased with tallow and the odor of lank straggly hair of various shades. Several had minor wounds that looked fresh but not immediate. Their equipment was well made and beautifully cared for, though, and their horses glowed with health and careful tending.
Ingolf held up his hands and smiled. "We're peaceful traders, men of the Dictations," he said.
Peaceful but too tough to rob conveniently, was conveyed by his looks and gear, and that of the men behind him. Swapping around among the nine comrades and the Mormon guerillas had given them suitable equipment, suitably varied. Even Garbh helped with the picture, her massive shaggy barrel-shaped head held low and showing her teeth just slightly at the strangers after Edain called her sharply to heel.
"You're of the Faith?" the leader said, his eyes probing. Over his shoulder: "Jack, Terry, backtrack 'em a couple of miles. Keep your eyes open and check there aren't any more. There's all sorts of buzzards circlin' around hereabouts."
Two of the Cutters reined around and galloped eastward down the remains of US 20, riding on the old graveled shoulders of the road to spare their horses' hooves from the cracked, frost-heaved asphalt that was breaking up in pale chunks. Ingolf went on:
"No, we're not of your Church, but we have permission to travel in the Church's lands by the Prophet's treaty with the Oceti Sakowin. We're out of Newcastle, which is an ally of the Seven Council Fires."
Ally meant pays the Sioux off so they don't raid, of course, but a man from there would use the polite phrasing. Ingolf nodded towards Odard, who managed to look haughty enough for a modern-day Sioux chieftain-something that came naturally to him-and stared over the Cutters' heads. People who didn't know Indians well tended to think they were impassive; in the Richlander's experience, they were as cheerful and chatty as most folk, unless they thought the occasion called for solemnity.
Which this does. But don't overdo it, Odard.
Ingolf went on:
"This is the worthy itancan "-which meant chief, roughly-" Wahuk'eza Washte, Good Lance."
Odard had insisted on that one when Ingolf ran him through a list of Sioux names, although the suggestions from the rest had started with Two Dogs Fucking from the twins and gone downhill from there.
"He's here to, ah, watch over his people's interests in this trading venture."
Odard lifted a hand with the palm out, made a surly grunting sound, and said the Lakota equivalent of Hello, how do you do?, as he'd been carefully coached:
" Hau kola! Doe ksh kay ya oun hey? "
To Ingolf's horror, the Cutter leader raised his hand in a similar gesture and replied:
"Hau kola! Wakantanka kici UN."
Which meant Hello, and may the Great Spirit bless you, and just about exhausted Ingolf's knowledge of the language as well unless you counted swear words and phrases you learned on campaign, like Reach for the sky!, Where are the warriors? and Give me your money/horse/weapons/food.
Sweat broke out on his forehead, prickling through the coating of dust; this wasn't fair. Most of the people who rode with the tribes and called themselves Sioux didn't actually speak it, apart from a few words they threw into the more usual English to sound authentic-the same reason they tended to go in for leather and beads and feathers even more than the tribesmen with more of the old blood. To run into a non-Indian who actually knew the language when their own pretend-Indian didn't would be…
Just like the rest of my luck since I first met Kuttner. Like meeting Saba and having her die the same night.
He hid a shudder; priests had told him-including ones he respected-that there was no such thing as fate, that there was only a man's choices and the will of God. But there were times when he thought he was cursed, and not only him, but anyone he cared for. Rudi's hand made the smallest of gestures towards the hilt of his borrowed shete. But if it came to a fight, they'd almost certainly die. Ingolf forced himself not to gasp with relief when the Cutter chieftain smiled and went on:
"The Prophet says we're to treat all you of the Seven Council Fires as brothers, now that we're at peace with the Lakota tribes. May you come to the truth of the Dictations! I'm Jed Smith, Rancher of Rippling Waters in Havre District, and these're my kin and my riders."
Upper Missouri River, Ingolf thought. Damn, that's pretty close to the frontier between the CUT and the Lakota. Just our luck. A long way North of Newcastle, though, thank the saints!
Then Jed went on casually: "You'd be kin of the mayor down in Newcastle?"
"Larry McAllister?" Ingolf said, feeling the beads of sweat start up again.
Thank God I actually stayed there and not so long ago!
Aloud he went on, equally relaxed: "No, but my father's a good friend of his-he sponsored us when Dad moved in from Casper, right after the Change."
Good friend and sponsored meant someone who got protection in return for favors and political backing… which in Newcastle involved showing up with your shield and shete from time to time.
What did Father Ignatius say… right, client and patron.
Jed Smith nodded, satisfied. Ingolf made the introductions under their assumed names. The Montanan went on:
"What're you trading for? Doesn't look like you have much to trade with, unless it's the crowbait remuda you got there or-"
He indicated Rebecca with a jerk of his head, though he'd politely kept his eyes from her face; the girl was in ordinary overalls, but had a CUT-style kerchief hiding most of her fair hair. Ingolf smiled back and indicated her with a salesman's sweep of his hand:
"No, we're buying and we're paying in bullion. Anything you brave soldiers of the Church might have picked up. Cutlery, cloth, wine-"
"No chance of that here! The misbelievers don't drink it, or even beer or whiskey or applejack. I haven't tasted wine but once myself-traded West from Iowa."
Ingolf nodded. "But mostly we're buying refugees, like this girl here. Skilled workers, if we can get them. Slaves, you say, don't you, instead of refugee?"
Jed nodded. "That's the word in the Dictations."
Just then Jack and Terry rode back up. "Same horses for miles back," one of them said, pointing behind him with his bow. "We checked on the hoof marks. Nobody joinin' or leavin'."
The other scout spoke to Ingolf:
"But they had good stock and tools here. They make stuff you wouldn't believe was new instead of salvage. And plenty of right pretty gals, too, even if they're sulky. We kilt all the grown men, o' course."
Ingolf sighed as if he'd been expecting that and regretted it. Even if his regret wasn't for the reasons his audience assumed, he had expected it. Ranchers didn't need masses of field labor, and a man you couldn't trust to ride the range alone and armed was useless as a cowboy. Women did most of the processing work on a ranch, though-tanning, leather-working, weaving, milking, whatever-and they were easier to keep. If nothing else their children pinned them down, and by Cutter custom the children were free if they took the Church Universal and Triumphant's faith when they came of age.
"Shut up, Jack, y'damned pup," Jed said crossly; at a guess, he was afraid his subordinate would lower prices by prattling about how much they'd gained. "You run your mouth too much."