They’ll probably torture him for information about the rest of his crew.
Then they’ll kill him for sure. Probably make a show of it so no one ever dares to defy them again.
I’ve lost him.
Even more completely than I lost him back up in the room just now.
He’s gone.
The Jeep drives off, and I straighten up, walking slowly, heavily, back into the Pub.
Life always does this.
Anything good it offers is only teased and then snatched away.
You accept it.
You move on.
You continue staying alive.
I’ve been doing it all my life, so I know the drill by now.
But by the time I get inside to the main barroom, I’ve changed my mind.
“What’s the matter, Jill?” Pete asks, straightening up from where he was replacing bottles of liquor. “What happened?”
“I…” I gulp. “I need to somehow get a message to the Silver Wolf’s crew. And then another one to anyone around who supports him.”
Pete hears this ludicrous request with his unflappable nonchalance. Then nods. “I can help with that.”
He leans back under the bar and moves a couple of boxes and what appears to be a built-in panel in the structure. When he stands up again, he’s holding an old-fashioned radio with a handheld mouthpiece.
He starts turning a knob on the radio. “What do you want the message to say?”
17
By dawn the next morning,the news has spread throughout the county in the way news has spread in small towns for hundreds of years. Neighbor to neighbor. One after another. Until everyone in the area has heard the word.
After so many months of failed attempts, the militia has captured the Silver Wolf.
And the man himself is Cade, the big, quiet woodsman who hangs out in the Pub and fucks Jill who wears the red dress every weekend.
But more news has also traveled at the same time—reaching all the way to the militia’s compound over the river.
All the Silver Wolf’s crew and every local who has been secretly supporting him are gathering on the outskirts of town, preparing to move on the compound, waging war against the militia at last.
Not only to save the Silver Wolf but to kick the militia out of the county for good.
This is not the kind of news that can be kept secret, and as soon as word reaches the militia leaders, they jump into action.
They will not wait around and let their enemies claim their choice of positions in this fight. They will not be put on the defensive when they’ve been masters of this region for almost a year. They muster as much of a force as they can at short notice—an impressive army, almost two-thirds of their total number—and they march across the bridge over the river to take the approaching force by surprise.
It’s then, only then, after the compound has been empty of most of its fighters, except the posted guards, that I walk down a gravel road from the west, wearing a cute prairie dress I borrowed from Kelly, my hair in two long braids, and a tote made of basket weave hooked over my shoulder.
The large gate is closed, of course, but there’s a regular-sized door beside it with a knocker.
So I knock on it.
