"You took the village with only one dead?" Rudi asked.
"One from our ranch, like I said. Those stupid bastards from the Runamuk and Sweet Grass outfits lost six, maybe seven, and plenty more hurt bad, but they couldn't pour piss out of a boot with directions written on the heel anyways. It was their fault a bunch of the enemy got away, out over the north wall, too- their fault and no one else's, the greedy sons of bitches, running on in before they were called. They're gone now. Uncle Jed sent them on along with their share, and good riddance."
"And the plunder was good?"
"Plunder?"
"Taking their things."
"Ah, the salvaging, you mean! I'll say it was good! The misbelievers were richer than rich, I tell you. And this time we got it all to our own selves, on account of we took this way home just so's we'd hit some places the main army didn't get to yet. Uncle Jed thought of that. I know the Sword of the Prophet do the hardest fighting, saw that my own self at Wendell, but it's enough to anger a man bad the way they get the best pick of-"
Jed Smith threw a look over his shoulder again, and Jack went on hastily:
"Anyway I got ten bolts of that good tough linen cloth the misbelievers make, saddlemaker's tools, twenty bucks in coin, some rings and pretties and blankets and sheets and dresses and cookware things for Jenny-she's my intended-two young gals who'll take the work off Ma now that she's getting the rheumatism so bad, a good oil lamp with a glass chimney, a bunch of other stuff, and I fucked until I couldn't raise a stand no more."
"You can believe that last part at least, mister, not that it would take much with him," another young Cutter said, and he and Jack exchanged mock punches before the talkative young ranch-hand went on:
"Plus I got six good horses earlier, and some more coin back in Twin Falls, but we sent that all East with the first folks from our district released from service. Like the Prophet says, the unbelievers are spoil for the Brotherhood of Light-bringers. Priest says spoil used to mean good stuff, not meat that's gone off."
Rudi made himself smile and nod. Picabo stank of spoiled meat in truth now-of death, like rancid sweet oil smeared into your nose and mouth. The Eastern levies who'd taken it hadn't bothered to clean up the bodies except to roll them out of the way, probably because they were planning on leaving soon, and flies were thick. They were thick on the eight men crucified upside down to the inner side of the adobe wall with railroad spikes, too. Fortunately they all seemed to be dead now, but it hadn't been quick, even for the ones who'd had small hot fires lit beneath their heads.
At a guess, Uncle Jed wanted to ask those some questions.
"Those ones tried to sneak back for their hoors and brats," Jack said with a wave. "But Uncle Jed knew they would, and we were ready for them. The Black Void drank 'em down!"
The young man went on in a less boastful voice: "You folks got much silver?"
"Plenty, for the right goods," Ingolf said over his shoulder.
"That's fine, fine. I sure would like to turn some of the stuff I got into silver. Then I can trade it for livestock back to home a lot easier than riding through blizzards to line camps and swapping around all winter. My Jenny's father won't let us get married until I have at least twenty-five heifers in the Rippling Waters pool besides a good remuda-"
"Jack, like I told you, stop flapping your lips. The horseflies will get in there and buzz around in your empty head. Here's the house I'm using," Jed Smith broke in. "You Newcastle men can have the one next door. Some of our folks was using it and cleaned it up before they left and I'll send some of the gals in. You can start your barterin' in the morning, and then we'll leave. We close up tight at night here."
"What's that one?" Rudi said, pointing with his chin at a building with boards nailed over the windows to make an improvised prison.
A few of the Cutters were lolling about on the steps, one whittling at a stick with a foot-long fighting knife, another sitting propped against the wall with his floppy hat pulled over his eyes and his strung bow across his lap. Rudi thought he was asleep until he saw an eye following the horses. A Mormon woman carried a yoke with two buckets of milk up the front steps as the mounted men passed, and others followed behind with aprons full of loaves of bread or covered pots of cooked food wrapped in towels against their heat. They turned their heads aside to avoid meeting the eyes of the Cutter patrol, some of whom called out greetings of their choice.
"Oh, that's where we're keeping the brats," Jed Smith said. "They're part of the Prophet's portion of the spoil."
"Brats?" Ingolf inquired.
"Their kids, the ones too young to be worth anything, under about six. We've got orders to look after 'em careful, for the Houses of Refuge. A lot of them can be raised in the Faith, you see. Or if they're soulless, they can go to the breeding pens."
"Yeah, some of 'em will end up in Corwin," Jack put in. "Not just working-they get to be priests or in the Sword of the Prophet. That don't seem-"
"Jack, what did I say about flapping your lips?" Jed barked. "Don't your ears work or are you a natural-born damned fool like the minions of the Accursed?"
He whirled his pony around with a shift of balance and thighs, and slapped the younger Cutter across the face with his leather hat, hard enough to sting. The younger man yelped and then fell silent, face red.
"See you folks in the morning," Jed went on. "May the Masters keep the Nephilim from your dreams."
"Uff da," Ingolf swore in a tired voice, running a hand over his head and kneading at the back of his neck. "I'd forgotten how much I don't like this kind of shit. And how much I really don't like the Cutters."
Smith's cleaned up had been a relative term; no bodies left to rot, or human excrement in corners, basically. Little things like the fan of black congealed droplets that arched across one wall of the kitchen where they'd been left by the backswing of a blade didn't count. A team of village women with mops and brushes had come in to give it a going-over, working in silence like machines in the old stories. When they left, the comrades sat around the kitchen table, beneath a bright lamp; sunset came early inside a close-packed walled town.
The women had left food, too, and Rebecca Nystrup had started a fire in the ingeniously designed tile stove with its iron top.
"Your people have some evil foes," Edain said awkwardly, patting her on the shoulder.
She nodded silently and began making dinner-slicing ham and cracking eggs into a couple of big frying pans where melted butter browned, and chopping potatoes and onions for hash. Edain moved automatically to help her as the good smell of cooking mingled with the stinks.
"No!" Ingolf said with quiet emphasis, the tone contrasting with his relaxed, casual posture and expression.
Rudi looked at him curiously. The man from Richland was sitting at the head of the table, where he could see out the window into the little walled garden that fronted the house, and through the open door as well. Nobody was close enough to overhear them… but they were visible from outside too. It would be suspicious if they closed up before the night grew cool.
"It'll look damned funny if you're helping the bought woman with the chores, kid," Ingolf said flatly. "Not only that she's supposed to be a slave, but Cutters don't hold with men doing women's work at the best of times. Plus, generally speaking, sweet helpful types just plain don't take up the business we're supposed to be in."
Edain sat and moodily pulled apart one of the loaves, buttering it and biting into the warm fresh bread. Rebecca looked over her shoulder and said: