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Patel added, "The Moondaggers might wonder about a couple of large-caliber holes in their trucks and where a gang of legworm ranchers got a wireless detonator. Maybe we'll get lucky and they will see through this charade. They might stop dancing around, herding us, and try to settle things in one fight. I would very much like to see these bastards attack into overlapping fields of fire and proper artillery spotting."
"I don't think we'd win that," Valentine said.
"Perhaps not. But it would make a lot of people in Kansas feel better, knowing how many we took with us."
Valentine liked the picture Patel was painting. He wiped his knife on a Moondager uniform and sawed off another beard.
"I wonder if they have the heart for it," Patel continued, hoisting the next body. "Despite all their shrieks and prayers and bluster. Like most bullies, they are at their most bloodthirsty when striking the defenseless. And do not forget, the legworm clans around here know how to fight and will not be as easily herded as populations brought up at the Kurian teat-"
"Major," a corporal called, not even poking his head inside the barn. "Preville's got some com traffic he wants you to listen to."
"Patel, can you finish up here?" That's it, make it sound like a bit of carpentry.
"Yes, sir."
Valentine left the half-collapsed abattoir gladly. The revolutionary's morality clung to his back, a heavier burden than any he'd ever carried while training with the Wolves.
The command car smelled like stale cigar smoke and blood. It had a side that opened up, rather like the hot-dog trucks Valentine had seen in Chicago, turning the paneling of the vehicle into a table and a sheltering overhang where the radio operator could sit out of the rain.
The radio had a bullet hole in it but somehow still functioned.
"Are they on their way here?" Valentine asked.
"Not sure, sir." He plugged in an extra headset and handed it to Valentine.
"I don't know some of the reports; they're in another language. All I speak is bad English and worse Spanish. But they're also communicating in English. I think that's their headquarters, here-"
"Group Q," a crackly voice said. "What is the status of the reprisal against the Mammoth?"
"Gods be praised, we are hitting them, brother," a clearer voice reported back. "There is much shooting. Q-4 is in their camp now. Sniper fire has delayed them dynamiting the remaining livestock."
Valentine smiled. Legworms took a lot of killing. He wondered if the Moondaggers knew just how long-lived a Kentucky feud could be.
"Is that you, Rafe?"
"No, brother, he has been wounded. Even the boys here can hit a target at two hundred meters. They vanish into the woods and hills and the trackers do not return."
"Where's that signal coming from?" Valentine asked, not familiar with this style of radio.
"Is this Group Q in the Green River lands?"
"No, sir. Due north, a little northeast toward Frankfort. I'd say it's coming from the other side of our column. This is the channel the radio was on," Preville said, punching a button.
"Patrol L-6. L-6, you are overdue at Zulu," a clearer voice said. "Report, please. Patrol L-6, report, please. We are listening on alternative frequency Rook."
Valentine looked at the dashboard of the command car. A card with L-6 written on it stood in a holder.
"Guess they didn't get off a report after all," Valentine said.
They listened for a few more minutes. They heard complaints about blown-up bridges and roads filled with cut-down trees. A mobile feuling station had been blown up.
Kentucky, it seemed, had finally had enough of the Moondaggers.
"I want to talk to the prisoner," Valentine said.
The prisoner had a scuffed look about him. His eyes widened as he saw Valentine approach. Valentine looked down. His uniform was something of a mess.
Valentine cleaned his blade off on the man's shoulder.
