"We'll wait for the Scout," he called. "Loosen girths but keep the tack on."
All his men could follow a trail; they were trained horse soldiers, and hunters besides, and many came from ranching families. The Scout wasn't of the Sword; his tribe were called the Morrowlander Troop, and they lived deep in the forests and grasslands south of Corwin, what the old world had called Yellowstone. Rumor said that they'd fallen from the sky right after the Change.
Graber didn't believe that; but they were almost inhumanly skillful trackers. They served the Church by sending their best for work like this, and paying a tribute in hides and furs. In fact, his superiors had said something about their ancestors being Scouts… some weird woodland cult of the olden times.
Graber considered taking a stick of jerky or a hardtack biscuit out of his saddlebag; he was hungry. Then he decided not to, as an example to the men of rising above material things. Instead he took off his helmet, unsnapped and peeled out the lining, then poured in a measured quantity of water. His horse drank eagerly, chasing the last drops around the bare metal with its lips. The rest of the unit followed suit.
Only then did he drink from his canteen himself, a precisely measured amount. No need to check on the others; the under-officers would see to water discipline.
And we are the Sword of the Prophet, he thought proudly, as he finished exactly the amount that the lowliest trooper would have. In the Sword there is no Rancher or cowboy or refugee, only servants of the Messenger of the Ascended Masters… Dammit, how did he do that!
Somehow the Morrowlander Scout got within a few hundred yards before he was spotted. His horse was shaggy but sound; the Scout ran along beside it at an effortless distance-devouring lope with one hand on the simple pad saddle he used, using the beast to set his pace.
He was a tall lean man, dressed in moccasins and fringed leather leggings dyed in mottled colors and a brownish green tunic over a shirt starred with circular badges sewn with bows and tents and other curious designs. A kerchief went around his neck, the ends held through a leather ring. Plaits of red hair held with leather thongs and stuck with eagle feathers bumped on his shoulders beneath a bandana, and he was lightly armed, with knife and tomahawk and bow. Three parallel scars gashed his cheeks on either side of a snub nose.
"Scout," Graber said politely.
"Prophet's man," the Morrowlander said, equally expressionless, saluting by putting three fingers to his brow with the other folded under his thumb.
Then he held out his hand. Graber tugged thoughtfully at his brown chin-beard; the grimy paw held a horse-apple, and one that was fairly fresh.
"How long ago?" he said.
"Two days. Wind scrubs out the hooves in this place, but they went this way. Water about half a day's ride north, a little east-spring beneath a big hill. The nine rested there, and met some more."
"More?"
The Morrowlander grinned, showing strong yellow teeth. "Here."
He opened his other hand like a conjuror, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. In it was half a glass ornament, a golden bee.
"Mormons," Graber said thoughtfully, and whistled sharply in a signal to summon the under-officers.
His three subordinates gathered around him; there should have been four noncoms and a lieutenant, but casualties had been heavy at Wendell. All of them squatted and leaned on their sheathed shetes as they watched the Scout sketch in the dirt.
"How many?" one asked.
"Twenty, twenty-five of the Deseret men," the Scout said. "They came in from here "-his finger traced a route-"but they don't have many remounts, and their horses walk tired. And the nine we chase came in like this, met them there at the spring. The nine have plenty good horses"-he opened and closed his hands, showing the number- "some very big, never seen any tracks like that before. Big but not slow. They buried their ashes, and their own shit, but not the horses'! All rode off together, the nine and the Deseret men, making east and north."
"Two days ago?"
"Two days. Traveling slow-a-bit, walking, riding, walking. Half our pace. Be careful. They have good lookout, and they watch their backtrail. Their scout almost spotted me, I think. Had to wait half a day hidden up, buried myself in the dirt."
Another grin. "He didn't see me, though! I like to meet their scout, someday."
He tapped at his tomahawk to show how he'd like to meet the unknown man. Graber grunted and pulled at his beard again. That the nine were traveling at a long-distance pace argued that they didn't know someone was right on their trail-they were trying to conserve their horses for a long haul. He wished he could do the same. A ridden horse couldn't equal a fit man for long-distance endurance, though you could do better than foot-speed with a string of remounts.
Provided there's grazing, he reminded himself. Which there isn't, here.
"Northeast is old Highway 20," he said, drawing a line at the base of the wavy marks the Scout had used to represent the mountains. "They may be trying to cross the Tetons. Or work north through the mountains and then across; there are old tracks there."
"Bringing twenty-five Mormons into Church territory, sir?" one of the under-officers asked. "Pretty much like holding up a sign that says: Hurrah, we're here, now kill us! "
"A lot of it's Church territory that's pretty thin on people, just around there," Graber said thoughtfully. "And they may not be taking the Mormons… but we'd better catch them before then. General Walker will be pleased if we finish off some bandits at the same time."
Suddenly the Seeker spoke. "Give me two of your arrows, Major Graber."
Graber blinked in surprise; at the statement, and at its sheer disconnectedness. He obeyed automatically, reaching up over his right shoulder and twitching out two of the long ashwood shafts. As it happened they were both armor-piercing bodkins with narrow heads like a blacksmith's metal-punch.
The Seeker took them and studied them for an instant, then slowly licked each head. Graber controlled a grimace of distaste; there was something dirty about the gesture. He took them back reluctantly, and only because you never had enough-there were thirty-six shafts in a regulation quiver, and you could shoot them all off in a couple of minutes skirmishing.
"By the Ascended Masters," someone muttered.
It had been said softly, but the Seeker smiled; Graber wished that he hadn't.
"By the Masters indeed," he said, and the smile grew broader. "Oh, we have learned much, and we shall learn so much more of Them!"
"Do you have anything to say?" Graber asked neutrally. Technically I'm in command, but…
The Seeker nodded, his eyes growing distant again.
"There," he said. His arm stretched out, the hand like a blade, pointing precisely northeast. "There. The Son of the Bear… the Son of the Raven… where the weak are strong and the vanquished slay."
Graber felt sweat prickle out on his face, more than sun and armor would explain. He looked at the Scout, and the lanky man shrugged and pointed more nearly straight north.
"Mount," he said harshly. "We'll go for the spring and then track them from there. Until we reach it, water only for the horses."
His under-officers sighed and shifted slightly with relief; the big canteens on the pack-saddles were nearly empty. The reserve on the men's belts wouldn't last long.