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"Pleased to meet you, David." Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed. "Hell, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?"
"He's a helluva 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 documents. 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 Asshole?"
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 basement, 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 fictitious 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?"
