“Why is Voss sending his food over the mountains and through Marbleton?” Bones wondered out loud. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go south on 89, connect to 30, and link up with the interstate from there?”
“Yes, it would,” Crow replied. “But according to our spy, Voss is at war with Lord Hashi to the south. So if he sends his food down 89, he’ll run into trouble. This route is safer.”
“And they won’t be expecting an attack,” Hog put in. “I like that.”
“We will have the element of surprise on our side,” Crow agreed. “But don’t overestimate the value of that. This caravan is important to Voss. Very important. He’ll assign lots of guards to it.”
“How many?” Smoke inquired.
“I don’t know,” Crow answered. “That’s why I want you and Fade to leave as soon as you can. Ride hard, get in position off to the west, and let us know what you see as the caravan passes by.”
Both of the scouts said, “Got it,” in unison.
The conversation turned to tactics after that. The bandits were to shoot the leaders first, avoid shooting pack animals, and conserve their ammunition to whatever extent possible, all of which made sense to Tre, who was experiencing the first stirrings of fear. He’d been in scrapes—a number of them—but this was shaping up to be a full-fledged battle. How would he perform? And would he survive? He did the best he could to push such questions away.
The meeting broke up after that as everyone went off to get ready. Tre managed to intercept Bones. “Sorry to bother you… but I need some gear. Not to mention weapons. I lost my stuff in Afton.”
“No problem,” Bones said confidently. “I’ll take you to the storeroom. You’ll find whatever you need in there.”
Tre didn’t find everything he needed in there. The interior of the storeroom was an unorganized jumble of gear, weapons, and tools, and as far as he could tell, there was no inventory list or any rules regarding what people could take. So, as one would expect under such circumstances, all the good stuff was gone, leaving Tre to sort through what remained.
After pawing through all manner of junk, he found a Remington 700 Mountain rifle with a stainless steel barrel, similar to the Model 700 XCRII hidden just south of Jackson. But the weapon’s laminated stock was broken, which was why no one had taken it. Fortunately Tre came across a second 700 a few minutes later. The trigger assembly was missing and the barrel was pitted with rust, but the stock was intact. So Tre put both weapons aside and continued to scavenge. After some effort, he was able to find a serviceable parka, a sleeping bag, and a light pack.
Having left everything else on his cot, Tre carried the Remington rifles to the work area, where he took them apart. Combining the parts into a single weapon turned out to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially when it came to seating the barrel properly, but he was well on his way to solving that problem when Knife materialized at his side. There was a solid thunk as he drove a blade into the workbench and dropped a leather sheath next to it. “You’re going to need a knife,” he said with his usual economy of words. “Try this one.”
“This one,” turned out to be a knife with a seven-inch blade. The back edge was serrated—just the thing for sawing through rope and such. And thanks to the extra weight in the guard, Tre could tell that the weapon was perfect for throwing. Tre turned to thank Knife, but he was gone.
After eating a big breakfast, they set out early the next morning. Tre was carrying a pack, and a two-hour hike was required to reach the mountain meadow where the group’s horses were kept, but he felt good nevertheless. The sun could be seen through broken clouds, the air was relatively warm, and there was very little snow at that altitude. The streams that tumbled down the hillsides ran full, and animals were in evidence; they saw deer tracks, piles of pellet-like elk scat, and the picked-over remains of a dog or wolf kill.
Unfortunately Tre had something to fear besides the raid, and that was the act of riding a horse. It was something he knew nothing about and wasn’t looking forward to. He couldn’t say that, however, or was unwilling to, so the sense of dread continued to build as Crow led his gang into a large meadow. There was plenty of grass, and a small lake occupied the center of it, which made the spot perfect for grazing horses.
A man named Patch had been stationed there along with a leathery-looking specimen named Slick. Thanks to advance notice from the scouts, the two men had been able to herd all the mounts into a crudely made corral and get them ready, so it wasn’t long before Tre was up in a saddle receiving a riding lesson from Bones. “Pull right to go right, pull left to go left, and pull back to stop. That’s all there is to it.”
Tre’s mount, a swaybacked nag named Willie, had stopped to munch on some likely-looking grass by then. “How do I make him go?”
“Nudge his sides with your heels,” Bones advised, and demonstrated by urging his animal up the trail. The advice worked—to some extent, anyway—although Tre’s journey was interrupted by frequent stops as Willie continued to enjoy the trailside buffet. And Tre’s often fruitless efforts to get the horse going were an unending source of amusement for the rest of the group.
That was bad enough—but after a couple of hours there was pain to cope with as well—pain in Tre’s back, butt, and knees—so that by the time Crow called a halt, Tre was thrilled to slide to the ground, remove the horse’s saddle, and surrender the beast to Patch.
The spot Crow had chosen was protected by a wedge of rock that looked as though it had been thrust up from the earth. The riders were higher now, so there was more snow on the ground and a definite chill in the air as Tre helped gather wood. Eventually the sun dipped beyond the western horizon and darkness fell. That was the signal to light a couple of campfires. Shadows danced on the rock wall as people took care of their chores.
After washing up in the nearby stream, Tre got in line for a serving of Hog’s navy bean soup. There were chunks of pork in it, and when combined with a hunk of bread, it made for a good meal. And that, Tre was beginning to understand, was one of the ways Crow had been able to recruit and keep his people. But would they continue to stand by him if there was less to eat?
The night was long and cold, and it was difficult to sleep because Tre’s sleeping bag was only half as warm as the one he’d lost. But the fact that he was scared had a lot to do with it too, as did a host of doubts that plagued his mind. It had been stupid to join the gang. He could see that now and longed to be back in the Tangle. How was Ninja doing? And what about the hydroelectric project? He couldn’t proceed without the magnets, however, and would have to buy more.
Such were Tre’s thoughts as he finally drifted off to sleep. He woke when Bones spoke his name. “Hey, Sticks… Time to rise and shine.”
Tre sat up and stretched. “Sticks?”
“Yeah, as in the fighting sticks you used to kick that guy’s butt. Brute called you that and it stuck.”
It was silly—Tre knew that—but the name gave him a sense of pride, of belonging. And that, he realized, was the reason he had joined. That and the possibility that Crow would keep his promise. The thought made Tre feel better as he got up, packed his gear, and went to breakfast, which consisted of two pancakes and a single strip of Hog’s beloved bacon. Since Tre had been spared sentry duty during the night, he was assigned to help saddle the horses. It was hard work, but a chance to learn more about how to handle the animals.