In keeping with his own orders, Voss tilted the Winchester down until the scope’s reticule was centered on the lead horse. He squeezed the trigger, heard a loud report, and felt the recoil. The bullet hit the animal dead center and it went down as if poleaxed. The rider was thrown clear, but Voss ignored him as the others fired. “Switch to those in the rear!” Voss bellowed as a second horse tripped on the first and went down in a sprawl of kicking hooves. “Hit them before they can run!”
The order came just in time, as the mob of Ronin located behind the scouts tried to turn. Voss’s rifle seemed to reload itself as another cartridge slid into the waiting chamber. He fired and fired again. Then, worried that a drone might appear, Voss scanned the sky. Nothing. Maybe the little planes couldn’t fly that far, or maybe Hashi figured there were enough Ronin to handle Voss’s rearguard. Jones and the rest of the mercs had arrived on top of the rise by then, and Voss waved them forward. “Hunt them down! And remember, I need prisoners!”
As the reinforcements swept forward, Voss hollered fresh orders to the men around him. “Watch for friendlies! Shoot horses… nothing else.”
A couple of animals were still on their feet but quickly went down in the carefully aimed fire. Then Voss led his group forward and was pleased to see that Jones had taken three prisoners. They were seated on the ground with their hands locked behind their necks.
There were more Ronin up ahead, however, some of whom were determined to fight to the death rather than suffer whatever fate might await in captivity. They fought desperately, ran out of ammo, and left cover with their swords drawn. They fell to a quick volley of shots, and the battle was over. Thirty-six Ronin had been killed, seven had been taken prisoner, and none had escaped. Two of Voss’s men had been killed, and three were wounded, but none seriously. So it was a victory, although a Pyrrhic one, given the losses suffered earlier.
Rather than leave the dead Ronin where they were, Voss ordered his men to drag all the bodies to a ravine and cover them with loose rocks. The sky was dark. Hopefully it would snow. If it did, all the signs of battle would be obliterated. Then it would seem as if the Ronin had disappeared into thin air. Except that Hashi would know better and think twice before sending more of her men north. Or so he hoped. He had no use for the prisoners so their bodies joined the rest.
As Voss led his people north, the first flakes came twirling down. Gradually, as the snowfall intensified, the flakes combined to form a shroud of white. Blood had been shed, lives had been lost, and the land was unchanged.
Chapter Six
L ora made a clucking sound as she guided her pony up onto a rise. A mule loaded with two bundles of firewood followed at the end of a rope. Once on top of the hill, Lora pulled back on the reins so she could pause and look out over the tepees that had been set up on the plain below. There were at least a thousand of them, all leaking smoke into the hazy air as adults took care of chores and children chased one another through the maze of cone-shaped dwellings. Some were covered with animal skins while others were wrapped in patched tent fabric or clad in multicolored tarps. It was a fantastic scene, and even though the trip south had been terrifying at times, Lora was glad to be where she was.
The better part of two weeks had passed since the battle at the bridge, but it seemed like much longer. During that time the leavers had traveled hundreds of miles while under the protection of the warrior named Twolakes. And Lora had learned how to ride a horse, how to live off the land, and how to deal with a different culture.
A gentle kick was sufficient to put the pony into motion. The mule was nibbling at a tuft of prairie grass by then, and Lora had to jerk on the rope in order to bring the recalcitrant animal along. A maze of interwoven trails led down into the camp, and Lora followed one of them to the main thoroughfare, which paralleled the river flowing through the center of the encampment. Water sparkled as teenagers led horses down to drink. The youngsters laughed as they splashed one another.
In fact, everywhere Lora looked, people were in high spirits because, after days of lead-up, the big celebration was scheduled to take place that night and promised to be a big event indeed. Something like two thousand people were expected to attend the ceremony, which would be held in the natural amphitheater located half a mile away. And from what Lora had heard, there would be speeches and a variety of entertainments, all leading up to a traditional dance.
Then, within a matter of two days, the entire village would be dismantled and everyone would depart. Not because they were tired of one another—but because no one area could sustain that number of hunter-gatherers for very long. Firewood provided a good example; Lora had traveled for two miles before finding enough for a full load.
So it would be necessary for the Blackfoot people to scatter, return to their various lands, and begin the process of preparing for winter. A year later the village would spring back to life. Where will I be? Lora wondered. She hoped it would be someplace nice.
By that time Lora had joined the steady stream of horses, mules, and people all headed for the amphitheater, located on the south side of the river. They splashed through a shallow spot, climbed the gently shelving bank on the other side, and followed a well-worn trail into a natural arena. The center of the depression had been cleared many years before, and the surrounding slopes were decorated with a patchwork quilt of blankets, all placed there by people who hoped to secure a good spot.
As some of the riders peeled away, Lora joined the line leading up to the fire pit located at the center of the open arena. When Lora neared the steadily growing pile of wood stacked at the center of the amphitheater, a child came forward to take the reins so that she could slip to the ground. After that it was a simple matter to unload, lead the animals away, and climb up onto the western-style saddle. Then it was a short trip out to the spot where Lora surrendered her mount and pack animal to a couple of teenage boys.
They were friendly, and Lora thought one might be trying to flirt with her but wasn’t sure. So rather than risk making a fool of herself, she hurried away. That was the problem with living in another culture. She knew there were rules but hadn’t mastered them yet. The leavers didn’t have tepees but were equipped with tents, all of which were set up at the northwest corner of the Blackfoot encampment. And Lora and the other leavers weren’t the only nontribal individuals camped there. Traders, merchants, medicine men, hucksters, entertainers, and drifters occupied the area as well. The tribal members called the area Ksikk (White) Town. But there had been a lot of interracial marriages during the last two hundred–plus years, which meant lots of Blackfoot Indians had light-colored hair and skin and blue eyes. Or as Twolakes liked to put it, “Being a Blackfoot is a state of mind.”
Regardless, most of Ksikk Town’s residents were male, nominally unattached, and obnoxious. So as Lora wove her way among tents, tarp-covered lean-tos, and some poorly constructed tepees, she was subjected to whistles, crude comments, and lewd invitations she wasn’t about to acknowledge, much less accept, all of which was new to her and one of the unpleasant aspects of life outside the Sanctuary.
Having successfully run the gauntlet, Lora entered the circle of tents that belonged to the leavers. As always, a guard was on duty, in this case her father. George had changed a great deal over the last few weeks. He was happier for one thing, a lot leaner, and clearly enjoying his relationship with Cassie Elano. His face lit up as his daughter arrived. “Lora! There you are… I was beginning to worry. We need to get ready for tomorrow. Twolakes plans to leave before noon.”