The Seeds of Man (8 page)

There was a moment of silence followed by the flutter of wings as a black crow landed on one of the bodies in the tree above. It uttered a strident caw, ruffled its feathers, and eyed the humans below. Lora shivered and snow began to fall.

Near Jackson, Wyoming, USA

A
fter hiding the cache of weapons upslope from the cell site and napping through the day, Tre faced an important decision. Should he stay in the metal shed that night or hit the road in spite of the attendant dangers? A wan, barely seen moon helped make up his mind. There wasn’t a lot of light, but the snow seemed to amplify what there was, making it possible to travel, and it would be good to put some distance between himself and the highly visible shed.

So Tre hurried to prepare a hot meal, ate it, and put all his belongings in the pack. Then, with the .410 in its holster, snowshoes on his feet, and a trekking pole in each hand, he set out. Traveling was easier now thanks to the downhill slope and the fact that he wasn’t burdened with the heavy gun case. But with a pack full of books and canned goods, Tre knew he would soon start to feel the strain. He wasn’t about to jettison anything, however, so all he could do was tough it out.

Once on the highway, Tre turned south. The tracks he had seen earlier were still visible and could serve as a guide. The only sounds were the crunch of his footsteps, the swish of fabric as he moved, and the rasp of his own breath. He had a companion, though, and that was fear. Anything could be hiding along the side of the road waiting to attack, and bandits were as common as fleas. But, Tre reminded himself, waiting next to a highway hoping someone would come along in the middle of the night wasn’t much of a strategy. So why was he scared? Tre smiled grimly, paused to listen, and couldn’t hear a thing. The march continued.

The next hour passed without incident, but as Tre arrived at the top of a long slope and paused to rest, he heard a primal howl. Seconds later it was echoed by more howls and he felt his blood run cold. Wolves? They were common and could be dangerous. But Tre feared a pack of feral dogs even more. Unlike wolves, they knew all about humans and were attracted to them.

Tre looked up at the sky. Scattered clouds were drifting across the moon, which would set soon. That, plus the possibility of a run-in with a pack of dogs, suggested that he hole up till morning. But where? Someplace with a door would be nice. All he could do was push on and keep his eyes peeled.

So as Tre made his way down a gentle slope onto a flat stretch, the quickness of his movements reflected a new sense of urgency. Slide-step, slide-step, slide-step. All the while wondering if he would see the sudden rush of furry bodies and hear a chorus of deep-throated growls before the dogs attacked. He would fire the .410 and the revolver as well, but there would be too many of them and he would go down. Tre remembered the shed, cursed his decision to travel at night, and eyed the road ahead.

That was when his nostrils detected the scent of wood smoke and the situation became even worse. Humans were in the area, so there was another type of predator to worry about.

Tre continued to advance but more slowly now. What lay ahead? The bandits he had dismissed earlier? That would serve him right. Then he heard a snorting sound, followed by a muffled voice, and threw himself off the highway. There was no time to do anything more, so he lay perfectly still as three men on horseback rode past. Surely they would see Tre, stop, and blow his brains out. But no, they passed him by.

Once the riders were gone, Tre stood. Moving quietly, he left the verge of the road for the trees. Maybe more riders were on the way and maybe they weren’t, but he didn’t plan to hang around to find out.

The trees took Tre in, and he was looking for a place to hole up when he saw a flicker of light. A campfire, probably, and a dozen steps confirmed it. A crackling fire was visible in the middle of the clearing, and a large wagon could be seen in the background. A man was seated by the fire taking occasional sips from a mug.

Tre looked around. Where were the horsemen? Had they continued south or were they closing in?
It doesn’t make any difference,
Tre told himself.
The first rule of survival is to mind your own business.

Tre heard a horse nicker and shouted, “Behind you!” That was stupid, of course. But a smart person would have been back in the shed.

To his credit, the would-be victim threw himself to the right as a shotgun blast blew his chair to splinters. Tre fired the .410’s right barrel at the spot where the bandit should be and heard him swear. What with the spread and the long range, it was likely that only a few pellets had found their target. But the man on the ground pulled a pistol and got off three shots. They went home and a body fell into the firelight.

Having revealed himself, Tre had gone from observer to target. He heard a branch break to his left, swiveled in that direction, and fired the left barrel. The bandit burst out of the brush just in time to take a full charge in the chest. This time the target was close enough to kill, and the man went down in a heap.

Tre was fumbling reloads into the shotgun when the man in the clearing shouted at him. “Climb a tree! Do it
now
!”

Climb a tree? What for?
Tre was going to ignore the instruction when the man blew on a horn. The sound prompted a chorus of howls and sent a chill up Tre’s spine. He dumped the pack and was in the process of shedding the snowshoes when the first animals came ghosting through the trees on the far side of the clearing.

His heart was in his mouth as he climbed a ponDerosa and the dogs caught his scent. They surged his way, and it was only a matter of seconds before they were jumping high into the air, jaws snapping, as they tried to bring him down. Fortunately he was too high for them to reach.

The attack came to an end as a shrill whistle sounded and the dogs turned away. That was when he heard the man say, “Find them! Kill them!”

Tre remembered the third rider at that point and wondered where he was. The dogs began to sniff around the edges of the clearing. Then one of them produced a joyous bark and took off. The rest followed, howling as they ran.

“How many?” the man shouted.

“One left,” Tre replied. “He may be on horseback.”

“The dogs will get him,” the man said confidently. “Come on over.”

Tre dropped to the ground, paused to retrieve his empty brass, and slipped two fresh shells into the .410. Then it was time to pick up his gear and carry it to the fire. He was only a few feet away when a chorus of howls was heard, followed by the screams of a horse.

The man who stood waiting for him was dressed in a grubby business suit and a pair of high-heeled cowboy boots. The jacket was brushed back to expose a Colt .44 Magnum revolver. His right hand was dangling near the butt.

Both men turned to look as three shots were heard. They were followed by a scream. Tre thought it was from the horse but couldn’t be certain. “They’re after the horse’s legs,” the man explained. “Then, once they bring it down, they’ll kill the rider.”

Based on the man’s matter-of-fact statement, Tre got the impression that this wasn’t the first time the dogs had been sent to kill a horseman. “And then?”

“And then they’ll have dinner,” the man said. “My name’s Charlie. Charlie Winthrop. And you are?”

“Tre Ocho.”

“Glad to meet you, Tre.
Real
glad. The dogs were out hunting when you showed up. And a good thing too—since they would have torn into you otherwise. How did you wind up next to the clearing anyway?”

Tre knew what was going through the other man’s mind. Maybe Tre had been with the bandits and turned on them, or maybe he’d been planning an attack of his own. So Tre told him how he’d been overtaken on the highway, entered the woods, and happened across the clearing.

Charlie listened intently as he stared into Tre’s eyes. “Sounds like both of us were lucky. It could have gone differently. I figure they followed the wagon tracks down from Jackson. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Then why travel with a wagon?”

“‘Cause I haul my medicine on it,” Charlie said. “Now, let’s tidy up. I reckon the body in the bushes belongs to you—and the other one is mine. Course, you winged him, so maybe you see things differently.”

Even though Tre knew that stripping bodies was necessary in order to survive, Charlie’s emotion-free pragmatism bothered him. His mother was right. Bit by bit, humans were losing their humanity. “No, he’s yours. Like you said, I winged him, but that’s all.”

Charlie nodded approvingly. “Good. Then we need to find the horses. There should be two of them, right?”

There it was again. A hint of doubt. If there were
three
horses, that would indicate that Tre was one of the bandits. He nodded. “Yes, two horses.”

So they parted company long enough to take what they wanted from the dead bodies. Tre wound up with an ancient lever-action .30-30, a handful of ammo, and a hand-forged Bowie knife. Not much of a haul. Charlie didn’t say what his pickings were like, but Tre figured they weren’t much better.

The moon was long gone, so Tre produced the flashlight he had taken from Bob. As expected, the horses were tethered a few hundred yards away next to the highway and according to Charlie were in bad shape. Tre didn’t know much about horses, having never owned one, but suspected that Charlie was laying the groundwork for an advantageous deal. That theory was confirmed as they led the animals into the firelit clearing. “Tell you what,” Charlie said. “I’ll buy your animal if you’re willing.”

Tre took notice of the way in which Charlie had already assumed ownership of one horse but let it pass. The problem with owning a horse was that he would be forced to feed and defend it. But he didn’t want to give the animal away either. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I could sling my pack on it.”

That stimulated a litany of complaints about horses. “The only reason I have them is because of the wagon,” Charlie explained. “Otherwise I’d be happy to walk.”

“You make some good points,” Tre allowed. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll sell my horse for one hundred and fifty rounds of .45 ammo plus a ride to Alpine.”

“A hundred and fifty?” Charlie exclaimed. “You’re out of your mind. I’ll give you fifty.”

“A hundred and that’s final. And the ride.”

Charlie looked at him. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty.”

Charlie laughed. “You’re full of it, son. But you have a deal.”

“I want the ammo up front.”

“Of course you do,” Charlie replied as he tied his horse to a tree. “I’ll be right back.”

As Charlie climbed up onto his wagon, Tre moved next to the fire. He hadn’t been there for more than a minute when the dogs returned. They came silently this time, flowing through the trees like water between stones. As they entered the circle of firelight, Tre saw that all of them had bloody muzzles. What had they been eating—the horse or the man?

Tre placed a hand on the .410 and began to back away. “Stay where you are,” Charlie ordered from up on the wagon. “Don’t look them in the eye.”

A big husky seemed to be in charge of the pack. He looked as if he might be part wolf and growled menacingly as he came forward. Charlie was on the ground by then. “That’s Blue,” he said. “I call him that because he has blue eyes. Hey, Blue, this is Tre . . . He’s a good human. Don’t buy a horse from him, though, ‘cause you’ll come up short.”

Tre figured that was Charlie’s way of soothing the dog, and he realized something else as well. Had he wanted to, Charlie could have ordered the dogs to tear him apart. Then the old man could have kept all the loot. He looked at Charlie and saw him smile. “That’s right, son . . . You’re smart, but you missed something. But you don’t need to worry, ‘cause I’m a man of my word.”

Blue sniffed Tre’s left hand, and he was shocked to discover that the animal came up to his waist. “Don’t touch his head,” Charlie advised. “Not till he gets to know you. But go ahead and pat him on the back.”

Tre followed the other man’s instructions to the letter and felt a sense of relief as Blue ambled away. But he was replaced by another dog, and
another
, until every member of the pack had his scent. Then they went to lie, sit, and nose around the fire. “There,” Charlie said as he gave Tre two boxes of ammo. “You’re a member of the family now . . . and truth is that it will be good to have someone riding shotgun. And I mean a
real
shotgun. Not the .410.”

That was how Tre came to know Charlie Winthrop and was able to ride all the way to Alpine. They traveled during the day because, as Charlie put it, “most of my customers are holed up at night, and I like to see ‘em coming.”

The product, which Charlie referred to as “medicine,” consisted of various plant extracts, secret flavorings, and a high alcohol content. About twenty percent, to be precise. The latter was what Charlie called “the active ingredient.” All made in a distillery “up north.”

Tre tried some of the brown liquid and spit it out. Charlie laughed. “It takes some getting used to. Plus Mother Hubbard’s Blood Tonic and Painkiller is meant for grown-ups.”

So with two horses pulling the wagon, two following behind, and more than a dozen dogs ranging along both sides of the highway, the four-wheeled conveyance rattled along. The weather was relatively good for once, and riding on the wagon made for a pleasant break, especially given the weight of Tre’s pack.

Every now and then they would come to a hamlet, and when they did, Charlie would pull over. If it was lunchtime they would eat. If it wasn’t they would start a fire and wait. During such interludes, Charlie would deploy a long length of chain and fasten most of the dogs to it. Blue and a couple of others were spared that indignity and allowed to roam free. It was an effective deterrent.

Then in ones, twos, and threes the customers would appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Typically they paid with .22s, .38s, or whatever they had. Sometimes they offered a dozen eggs, part of a smoked ham, or a hunk of jerky. And when they did, Charlie generally took them up on it, because that was how he got his food. And Tre, who was armed with a twelve gauge, stood guard.