By early evening, they’d entered a canyon area that reached between forty and sixty feet above the stream. Ryan glanced up at the high-walled rock, cool in the shadows that stretched out over him.
Less than a quarter mile in, the canyon rounded out, forming a natural cistern that had to have been a hundred feet across. It was a natural harbor site for boats, protected from the wind and most of the elements.
Besides the channel they’d followed up from the Jefferson River, Ryan noted three other channels on the north side of the cistern. Streams followed each one of those, as well.
The dam blocked the stream directly in front of them. It was huge, constructed of timbers fifteen feet across and stacked over a hundred feet tall. Groups of men worked near the top, laying in new logs cut to fit.
“By the Three Kennedys!” Doc exclaimed, gawking up at the construction.
“Dark night,” J.B. breathed.
“It can be impressive to look at,” Donovan admitted. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them even after all the ones I’ve built.”
“How many have you built?” Mildred asked.
“This is my ninth year as construction chief. Worked on the ones before, as well. Saw a lot of bad things happen. Personally I’d rather be out during the months it takes to construct the dam, but I’ve got a knack for building the things.”
Scanning up the dam, Ryan admitted that Donovan was speaking the truth. Even though it was dammed, the stream leaked water between the timbers, spilling twisting and lunging strings and sprays of water that splattered against the flat surface of the cistern pool below.
“Still a couple weeks from having it full,” Donovan said. “But we’re getting there.”
“Pirates not come here?” Jak asked.
“No. This year they’ve come farther upriver than I’d ever expected. Area where you found me gets real dangerous. Lot of tributaries feed into the Jefferson, bringing all kinds of scavenging material. Trouble is, the river’s so forceful at times in that area that it can send something through a boat. And you get a lot of chop. The small watercraft the pirates use would break up when the water’s really rough.”
“They’ve never been here?” Ryan asked.
“No. But they’ve never all been working with Barbarossa.”
“Who’s Barbarossa?”
“Leader of the pirates,” Donovan answered. “Until this spring, I’d never seen so many pirates working together. I saw him today, though, and there was no doubt who was in charge.”
“What changed things?”
“For the pirates? Barbarossa went after the pocket groups, started with a few groups last spring from what I heard. Took them over, then proved it was worth their time to stay with him. Evidently he’s gotten even more aggressive about consolidating the other water scavengers around here. Didn’t expect what I ran into today.”
“He’s got all those gasoline-powered craft,” Ryan said. “Where’s he getting the fuel?”
“This is Montana territory,” Donovan replied. “Got a lot of mineral resources around here. You know where to look, you can find places where gasoline’s been stockpiled. A few other places manufacture their own. There’s coal mines in operation, too, and slavers operate those. This is a rough land.”
“And the Chosen live here, too?”
“Some of them.”
A SHANTYTOWN OF TENTS and semipermanent lean-tos crowded the narrow ledge on the south side of the cistern. Few plants and trees grew along the stony soil where the campsite was, and even fewer sprouted from the steep incline leading to the mountains above.
Morse bawled out orders and cut the sails, aiming both boats into the pier that extended out into the cistern.
“How deep’s the water here?” Morse asked.
“Forty, fifty feet,” Donovan replied. “There’s been groups in here before, drawn by the freshwater fish. They dredged the cistern during the hot season when it sank low. Unfortunately they killed the fish they were here to live off.”
“Wrecked the ecology,” Mildred said.
“Yeah. Took years for the fish to come back, but they’re here.”
“Hot pipe, Dad,” Dean shouted in obvious delight. “Come look at this.” He stood near the railing in Junie’s prow, looking down into the water.