"What I'm going to suggest might seem risky, David, but it'll make your stay here a lot safer if we can pull it off. It'll even get you papers to get out of here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such.

While I was there I met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them.

Anyway, I told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. Of course, he's just made up to fit your description."

Valentine's mind leaped ahead, making plans. "And you think he'd get us some papers?

Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier if we had some identification."

"Well, it wouldn't cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get you to Illinois or Iowa at least. You'd have to lose the guns, or hide 'em well. You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say you're out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and that's only to be found around the borders. Also, I'd like to bring your horses down from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss Man."

"If you think you can pull it off, I'm for it," Valentine decided.

"Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. We'll figure out how to use them."

Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.

"I don't know about the rest, but the major part fits him," Carlson explained at the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of the person residing within. "Major a.s.shole, anyway."

Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the major's home. It was opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-baron's ranch, it stretched across a well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only gra.s.s-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.

"Listen to this," Carlson said, pressing a b.u.t.ton by the door. Valentine heard bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.

The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and big- mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and mirrored sungla.s.ses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.

"Hey, Virgil," Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. "I've brought a friend to see the major."

Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. "I guess he's in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesn't do business on a Sat.u.r.day, you know."

"Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames."

Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.

Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. "He's in the office."

"I know the way. C'mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?"

Carlson and Valentine pa.s.sed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.

The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tyc.o.o.n about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.

Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver b.u.t.tons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features."Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How's Gwen?"

Carlson smiled. "Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They're outside in the basket."

"Ahh, Gwen's pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend."

The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.

"How are things in Monroe, Mike?"

Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. "The usual. Chicago's p.i.s.sed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds.

I'm trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I'm thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?"

"Some of us can," Carlson a.s.serted. "Some can't."

"Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther."

"Well, it's for you to say, Mike. But I don't know how it will go down. There's been some grumbling already."

"By whom?" Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.

"You know n.o.body tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn't about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he'd be visiting and helping me with the harvest."

"Pleased to meet you, David." Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed.

"h.e.l.l, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?"

"He's a h.e.l.luva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run a fine farm."

"Let's see your work card, boy," Flanagan said.

Valentine's mind dropped out of gear for a second, but only a second. "Sorry, Major Flanagan. I traded it last winter. I was hungry, you know. It didn't have my real name on it anyway."

"Dumb thing to do, kid. You're lucky Alan here has connections," Flanagan said, putting down his thin cigar. He rummaged through his desk and came up with a simple form. "Fill this out for him, Alan. Just use your address. I'm giving him a temporary work card, six months. If he improves an old spread, I'll give him a permanent one."

"I need two, Mike. He brought a friend. There's a lot of guys in the north woods looking for something a little more permanent."

"Don't press me, Alan. Jeez, these guys are worse than Mexicans; another one is always popping up outta somewhere."

Carlson leaned forward, spreading his hands placatingly. "With two men helping me this fall, I can clear off an upper meadow I spotted. I was also thinking of building a pigpen across the road and raising some hogs, since meat is becoming such an issue. These men can help me, and I can be ready to go in the spring."

"Fine, Alan, two work permits. Your place is going to be a bit crowded." "It's only temporary. Thanks a lot, Mike. Gwen and I really appreciate it. So does Molly, of course. Stop by anytime."

"Yeah," Flanagan mused, "you're a fortunate man, David. She's a real beauty. Some of my patrollers say she's kinda standoffish, so I wish you luck." The major pulled out a seal punch, filled out the expiration dates, signed both cards, and punched them with a resounding click. "You're lucky I take this with me. I don't trust my secretary with it; she'd probably sell doc.u.ments. She can forge my signature pretty good."

"I'm in your debt, Michael," Carlson said, handing over the work cards.

"You've been in my debt since I let that little Fart or whatever his name is stay with you."

"Frat."

"Whatever. That big place and nothing to work it but women; I pity you. I'd offer you lunch, but I'm too busy to make it, and Virgil's hopeless. My girl is out at her parents' place this weekend."

"Thanks anyway, Michael, but it's going to be a long way back. The horses are tired, so they'll have to walk most of the way."

"Thank you, Major Flanagan," Valentine said, offering his hand. Flanagan ignored it.

"Thank my brother-in-law and his wife, not me. Guess they want a bunch of little half- breeds as grandchildren. Up to me, I'd take you to the Order building and let you wait for the next thirsty blacktooth, seeing as you don't have a work card and you're in Triumvirate lands."

Carlson made a flick of a motion with his chin. Valentine moved past the sleeping dogs and out the door, followed by his benefactor. Flanagan tossed away his cheroot and returned to the papers strewn across his desk.

Outside, the horses were very thirsty. Ames was poking in the picnic basket.

"Virgil, please take that in, will you? We'll water the horses ourselves. The pies are for Michael, and Gwen put in a jar of preserves for you. She remembers your sweet tooth."

The smile-sneer appeared again. "That was kind of her. You know where the trough is. I'll bring the basket back out to you."

As Carlson and Valentine brought the horses over to the trough, Alan spoke softly to Valentine. "See what I mean by Major a.s.shole?"

Valentine clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Seems like he's trying hard for a promotion to colonel."

That evening, after the long ride back, the Carlsons celebrated the "legitimate" arrival of their guests. Even the Breit-lings attended, filling the dinner table past its capacity. As they made small talk, Valentine drew on his memories as a forester in the Boundary Waters to flesh out his David Saint Croix persona.

Valentine ate at Mrs. Carlson's end of the table, across from Molly, grateful for the room the corner chair gave his left elbow. Frat sat on his right, eating with the single-minded voracity of a teenager. The Breitlings were next to Mr. Carlson at the other end of the table, with the younger Carlson girl, Mary. Gonzalez stayed in his bunk in the bas.e.m.e.nt, still too weak to socialize. Mrs. Carlson explained his absence to the Breitlings as being due to illness and a fall from his horse during the journey south.

During the dinner, Carlson told stories about his summer labor, mixed with fict.i.tious ones about how he came to know "young Saint Croix here." Valentine played along as far as he dared but worried that the younger girl might say something about the Wolves or their horses that would blow the story. Mary kept her eleven-year-old mouth shut; her only comment during dinner was a request to ride Valentine's Morgan someday.

"Of course, once he's rested. Any time I'm not using him, that is. Of course I'm going to do some riding, looking for some nice land to get a farm going."

"Maybe Molly can show you around the county," Mr. Carlson suggested.

Molly focused her eyes on the plate in front of her. "Sure, Dad. Since you went to all this trouble to find me a husband, it's the least I can do. Glad you've given me so much say in the matter. Should I get pregnant now, or after the wedding?"

"Molly," Mrs. Carlson warned.

The Breitlings exchanged looks. Valentine figured that discord was rare in the Carlson house.

Molly stood and took up her plate. "I'm finished. May I be excused?" She went to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Valentine could not tell how much of the byplay was real, and how much was acting.

Two days later, he and Molly Carlson rode out on a fine, cool morning with a hint of fall in the air. Valentine's indomitable Morgan walked next to Molly's quarterhorse. She wore curious hybrid riding pants, leather on the inside and heavy denim elsewhere, tucked into tall rubber boots, and a sleeveless red flannel shirt. They chatted about their horses as they headed west toward the high, bare hills.

"Lucy here is great with the cows," Molly said, patting the horse on the neck affectionately.

"They'll follow her anywhere. It's like she can talk to them."

"I've always wondered if animals talk to each other," Valentine ventured.

"I think they can, sort of. In a real simple way. Like if you and I had to communicate by just pointing at stuff. We couldn't write the Declaration of Independence, but we'd be able to find food and water and stuff. Warn each other about enemies. Hold it, Lucy's got to pee."

Molly stood up in her stirrups while the mare's stream of urine arced into the gra.s.s behind her.

"You know horses," Valentine observed. "Those are fine riding pants. Do you ride much?"

"No, too much to do at the farm. My sister's the horse nut. But I did make these breeches. I like working with leather especially. I used to have some nice riding boots, but some creep in the patrols took 'em off me. These rubber ones are hotter than h.e.l.l, but they're good for working around the cows. I sewed a leather vest for Dad, and when Mom does her calving, she's got a big leather ap.r.o.n that I made."

They trotted for a while. Watching the up-and-down motion of Molly posting left him desperate to switch the conversation back on.

"I get the feeling you don't like us staying," he finally said when they slowed to cut through a copse of mixed oaks and pines. The sun had warmed the morning, but Valentine was flushed from more than the heat of the day.

"Oh, maybe at first. Still don't know what you're doing here-"

"Just pa.s.sing through. I tried to find out what was going on up at Blue Mounds," Valentine explained.

"You probably wouldn't tell us the truth anyway. I don't know much about the insurgents, but I know you wouldn't tell what you were doing so they couldn't get it out of us, just in case. Or is it because I'm just a girl?"

"It's not that. We have plenty of women in the Wolves. And I hear over half of the Cats are women, too."

"We've heard about you. Werewolves, always coming in the dark, just like the Reapers.

Don't you guys go into Kansas and Oklahoma and kill all the people there, so the Kurians have nothing to feed on?"

"No," Valentine said, somewhat taken aback. "Nothing... quite the opposite. Just this spring my company brought over a hundred people out of the Lost Lands. That's what we call places like this."

"Lost Lands," she said, rolling her eyes skyward. "I'll buy that. We're lost, all right. How would you like to spend your life knowing it's going to end with you being eaten? I've developed a lot of sympathy for our cows."

"Your uncle seems to be watching out for you all," Valentine said, trying to rea.s.sure her.

"My uncle. I should tell you about him. No, my uncle doesn't mean s.h.i.t. A hungry vampire could still take us any night of the week, good record or no. Uncle Mike has done everything in his life exactly as the Kurians want, and he still doesn't have one of those bra.s.s rings. And even if you get it, any Kurian can still take it away if you screw up. And if I'm all testy over the husband thing, it's just because it makes me think about something I'd rather not think about. Let's go up this hill. The view's pretty nice from up top."

They walked their horses toward the gra.s.sy slope. They crossed a field with a herd of the ubiquitous Wisconsin Hoi-steins in it, and Molly waved to a man and a boy mending a fence.

"That's the Woolrich place. The poor woman who lives there is on her third husband. The first two got taken, one while doing the morning milking, and the second when a patrol came through just grabbing whoever they could get their hands on because a bunch of Reapers dropped in for a visit."

They rode to the top of the hill and dismounted, loosening the girths on their wet animals.

The horses began to nose in the tall, dry gra.s.s at the top of the rolling series of hills.

Farmland stretched below in all directions, crisscrossed with empty roads. A hundred yards away, an old highway running along the top of the hills had degenerated into a track cleared through the insistent plant life.

"Is that why you don't want to marry?" Valentine asked. "You're scared of becoming a widow?"

"Scared? I'm scared of a lot of things, but not that in particular. If you want to talk about what really scares me... But no, to answer your question, I don't want the life my mother has. She's brought two children into the world, and is taking care of another, and for what?

We're all going to end up feeding one of those creatures. I don't want any children, or a man.

It just means more fear. It's easy to talk about living your life, trying to get along with the system, but you try lying in bed at night when every little noise might mean something in boots and a cape is coming in your house to stick its tongue into your heart. The way I see it, the only way for us in the Madison Triumvirate to beat these vampires is to cut off their food supply. Quit pretending life is normal."

"I see."

"My grandmother on my mother's side, Gramma Katie Flanagan, she was a teacher or something in Madison before everything changed. When I was about eleven, we had a long talk. She was getting old, and I think she felt her time was coming. As soon as the old people slow down, the patrols show up, sometimes with some bulls.h.i.t story about a retirement home. She told me about in ancient times there were these Jewish slaves of the Romans who rose up and fought them from a fortress on top of a mountain. The Romans finally built a road or something so their army could get up to the fortress, and all the Jews killed themselves rather than be slaves again. Gramma said if everyone were to do that, it would cut off their power, or whatever they get from us."

Valentine nodded. "I heard that story, too. It was a place called Masada. By the Dead Sea, I think. I always used to tell Father Max-he was my teacher-that I wouldn't have killed myself if I were up there. I would have taken a Roman or two with me."

"If it had just been another battle, would anyone have remembered it?" Molly asked.