Kathryn ran back to unhitch the oxen. They would be safe enough. The sounds of firing would keep them from going home until the next day, and here on the plains there were no animals large enough to be a threat to healthy oxen. None except men.
She left the team standing beside the plow, their eyes puzzled because the sun was high and the field was not yet plowed, and she ran to the shade trees by the creek. A horse and dog waited patiently there. The dog jumped up playfully, but he sank onto the ground and cringed as he sensed her mood.
Kathryn hurled the saddle onto the horse and fumbled with the leather straps. Her hands were moving so quickly that even familiar motions were difficult, and she was clumsy in her haste. She tied the phone and solar reflector in place behind the saddle and mounted. There was a rifle in the saddle scabbard, and she took it out and fingered it longingly.
Then she hesitated. The guns were still firing. She still heard her grandfather’s machine gun and more grenades, and that meant that Amos was alive. I should help, she thought. I should go.
Emil will be there. He was to plow the field next to our boundary, and he will have heard. He will be there. She turned the horse toward the ranch.
One rider can do no good, she realized. But though she knew that, she knew she must go to her home before it was too late. They would have a good chance, Emil and her grandfather. The house was strong, made of good stone, low to the ground, much of it buried in the earth, sod roof above waterproof plastic. It would withstand raiders. It had before, many times, but there were very many rifles firing now and she could not remember that large a raid before. Not here, and not anywhere.
The phone buzzed again. “Yes!” she shouted. “What is happening?”
“Ride, girl! Ride! Do not disobey my last command. You are all I have—” The voice broke off before Amos said more, and Kathryn held the silent phone and stared at it.
“All I have,” Amos had said. Her mother and her brother were dead, then.
She screamed words of hatred and rode toward the sound of the guns. As she crossed over the creek she heard mortars firing, then louder explosions.
* * *
Two hundred riders converged on the Malcolm ranch. They rode hard, their horses drenched in sweat, and they came by families, some with their women, all with their oldest boys. Brown dogs ran ahead of them. Their panting tongues hung out between bared fangs as the dogs sensed the anger their masters projected. As the families of riders saw each other, they waved and kicked their horses into an even faster pace.
The riders approached the final rise before the Malcolm ranch and slowed to a trot. There were no sounds from over the hill. Shouted commands sent the dogs ahead. When the loping brown forms went over the hill without halting, the riders kicked their horses back to the gallop and rode on.
“He didn’t use the dynamite,” George Woodrow said. “I heard explosions, but not Amos’s magazines.” His neighbors didn’t answer. They rode down the hill toward the ranch house.
There was the smell of explosives in the air, mixed with the bright copper smell of fresh blood. The dogs loped among dead men who lay around the stone house. The big front door stood open, and more dead lay in front of that. A girl in bloodstained coveralls and muddy boots sat in the dirt by the open door. She cradled a boy’s head in her arms. She rocked gently, not aware of the motion, and her eyes were dry and bright.
“My God!” George Woodrow shouted. He dismounted and knelt beside her. His hand reached out toward the boy, but he couldn’t touch him. “Kathryn—”
“They’re all dead,” Kathryn said. “Grandfather, mother, my brother, and Emil. They’re all dead.” She spoke calmly, telling George Woodrow of his son’s death as she might tell him that there would be a dance at the church next Saturday.
George looked at his dead son and the girl who would have borne his grandchildren. Then he stood and leaned his face against his saddle. He remained that way for a long time. Gradually he became aware that others were talking.
“—caught them all outside except Amos,” Harry Seeton said. He kept his voice low, hoping that Kathryn and George Woodrow wouldn’t hear. “I think Amos shot Jeanine after they’d grabbed her. How in hell did anyone sneak up on old Amos?”
“Found a dog with an arrow in him back there,” Wan Loo said. “A crossbow bolt. Perhaps that is how.”
“I still don’t understand it,” Seeton insisted.
“Go after them!” Kathryn stood beside her dead fiancé. “Ride!”
“We will ride,” Wan Loo said. “When it is time.”
“Ride now!” Kathryn demanded.
“No.” Harry Seeton shook his head sadly. “Do you think this was the only place raided today? A dozen more. Most did not even fight. There are hundreds more raiders, and they will have joined together by now. We cannot ride until there are more of us.”
“And then what?” George Woodrow asked. His voice was bitter. “By the time there are enough of us, they will be in the hills again.” He looked helplessly at the line of high foothills just at the horizon. “God! Why?”
“Do not blaspheme.” The voice was strident. Roger Dornan wore dark clothing, and his face was lean and narrow. He looks like an undertaker, Kathryn thought. “The ways of the Lord are not to be questioned,” Dornan intoned.
“We don’t need that talk, Brother Dornan,” Kathryn said. “We need revenge! I thought we had men here! George, will you ride with me to hunt your son’s murderer?”
“Put your trust in the Lord,” Dornan said. “Lay this burden on His shoulders.”
“I cannot allow you to ride,” Wan Loo said. “You and George would be killed, and for what? You gain no revenge by throwing yourself at their guns.” He motioned, and two of his sons went to hold Kathryn’s horse. Another took George Woodrow’s mount and led it away. “We need all our farmers,” Wan Loo said. “And what would become of George’s other children? And his wife with the unborn child? You cannot go.”
“Got a live one,” a rider called. Two men lifted a still figure from the ground. They carried him over to where the others had gathered around Kathryn and George Woodrow, then dropped him into the dirt. Wan Loo knelt and felt for the pulse. Then he seized the raider’s hair and lifted the head. Methodically he slapped the face. His fingers left vivid red marks on the too-white flesh. Smack, smack! Forehand, backhand, methodically, and the raider’s head rocked with each blow.
“He’s about gone,” Harry Seeton said.
“All the more reason he should be awakened,” Wan Loo said. He ignored the spreading bloodstains on the raider’s leather jacket, and turned him face down into the dirt. He seized an arm and twisted violently. The raider grunted.
The raider was no older than twenty. He had a short scraggly beard, not well developed. He wore dark trousers and a leather jacket and soft leather boots much like Kathryn’s. There were marks on his fingers, discolorations where rings had been, and his left earlobe was torn.
“They stripped their own dead and wounded,” Woodrow grunted. “What all did they get?”
“The windmill generator,” Harry Seeton reported. “And all the livestock, and some of the electronics. The phone’s gone, too. Wonder why Amos didn’t blow the place?”
“Shaped charge penetrated the wall,” one of the riders said. “Killed Amos at his gun.”
“Leggo. Stop.” The young raider moaned. “That hurts.”
“He is coming awake,” Wan Loo told them. “But he will not last long.”
“Pity,” George Woodrow said. He bent down and slapped the boy’s face. “Wake up, damn you! I want you to feel the rope around your neck! Harry, get a rope.”
“You must not,” Brother Dornan said. “Vengeance is the Lord’s—”
“We’ll just help the Lord out a bit,” Woodrow said. “Get a rope!”
“Yeah,” Seeton said. “I guess. Kathryn?”
“Get it. Give it to me. I want to put it around his neck.” She looked down at the raider. “Why?” she demanded. “Why?”
For a moment the boy’s eyes met hers. “Why not?”
* * *
Three men dug graves on the knoll above the valley. Kathryn came up the hill silently, and they did not see her at first. When they did they stopped working, but she said nothing, and after a while they dug again. Their shovels bit into the rich soil.
“You’re digging too many graves,” Kathryn said. “Fill one in.”
“But—”
“My grandfather will not be buried here,” Kathryn said.
The men stopped digging. They looked at the girl and her bloodstained coveralls, then glanced out at the horizon where the rest of the commandos had gone. There was dust out there. The riders were coming home. They wouldn’t have caught the raiders before they went into the hills.