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"That's a dream date compared to what a Reaper might do to you."
Frat shrugged.
"Frat, one more thing. Did it have anything in that bag?"
"I searched it. Nothing but dog hair and stank. I think that was a ration pouch. Maybe some toy poodle got packed as its lunch."
"Didn't seem like the kind of creature that could fly far to me."
"Maybe the engine noise was from an aircraft, dropping the thing off."
Valentine nodded. "We had a little argument over the management of the column while you were gone. We're going to get Brother Mark."
"Before we get Mrs. O'Coombe's son? Hope you know what you're doing. She seems like a useful woman to know, if you ever decide to turn civilian and take up private employment."
iscard Run: Winter is the quietest time of the year in Kentucky. The locals retreat to the hearth and their livestock to barns (or to great intertwined piles, in the case of the legworms), and the frequent rains and occasional snow accumulation keep people close to home unless emergency forces them to travel. It is a time for neighbors and small towns to get together and enjoy the indoor pursuits of the season: the final steps in the canning and preserving of the harvest, pursuit of courtship or friendship, sewing circles, and hand tool swap meets.
The column was sped on its way east by two factors. First, they did not have to forage for food or fuel, though where it was available, they were able to buy more with Mrs. O'Coombe's gold. Second, the Kurian Order no longer existed outside Louisville, Lexington, or the crossriver suburbs of Cincinnati-none of which the column was interested in visiting. There were no checkpoints to route around, un-watched fords to find, or patrols to look out for. The only thing their motorcycle scouts had to do was report the condition of the roads or cuts or trails ahead.
Valentine, always willing to see a glass half empty when anything having to do with the Kurian Order was being discussed, maintained that the ease on the eastbound leg would just mean that much more difficulty on the westbound.
Luckily, he couldn't imagine just how right he was.
Lambert had sent word to the clans through Brother Mark of the proposed route tracing the retreat of Javelin, with instructions that any of Southern Command's surviving wounded be made ready for travel and certain frequencies be scanned for radio contact.
They hadn't left many behind, at least many who were expected to live more than a day or two. Valentine doubted they'd need half the bed space that had been allocated in the Bushmaster. Either the soldiers would be recovered enough now to sit, or they'd be beyond medical attention.
Once in the Nolin and Green River Valleys, in this manner they picked up three of their wounded who'd escaped death by their wounds, secondary diseases, or the vengeful Moondaggers who'd followed in Javelin's wake.
The soldiers they picked up, eager to thank Valentine for their collection, were introduced to Mrs. O'Coombe, the true sponsor of their deliverance.
Valentine decided he liked her a little better when he saw her attend to the soldiers they were accumulating. It wasn't an act for the benefit of anyone, especially Valentine, who seemed to have as natural a knack for aggravating her as a piece of steel has for striking sparks when struck by a sharp piece of flint or quartz. She tended to them in a mix of Christian compassion and patriotic fervor. Nothing was too good for those who'd lost so much in the pursuit of the Cause.
He began to enjoy the trip. The cold weather invigorated him, if anything, and apart from delivering anecdotes about the retreat or advice on routes, he had little to do. Mrs. O'Coombe made all the strategic decisions for the column, and the mile-by-mile operations were handled by wagon master Habanero.
Frat was a superb scout, though Valentine was beginning to see why he was still a lieutenant. He wanted to do everything on his own. Run every risk, shoulder every burden, scout every town, be the first through every door. Valentine was impressed with his courage.
Had LeHavre ever said anything like that about his own eager young lieutenant out of the wilds of northern Minnesota? Of course, LeHavre had brought Valentine along differently, keeping him back rather than sending him forward until he found his feet among the men and in the responsibilities of his platoon.
Bee slept outside, snoring softly, her head pillowed on her shotgun. She'd arranged her mane-Valentine could never decide whether Grog hair should be called "mane" or "fur"-into a star to show off the wound she'd received when the Coonskins turned on the Kentucky Alliance.
She was proud of her wound, issued at his side like a stamp of bravery. Valentine wondered just when whatever debt Bee decided she owed him for freeing her would be paid off. She was mysterious about her loyalty, and Valentine's rough-and-ready Grog gutturals weren't up to discussions of intangibles.
But Frat could hold up his end of any conversation. The boy, who'd once possessed a wary, quiet intelligence, had turned into a well-spoken man.
Valentine waved Frat in, heard his report, and then had him sit on one of the tiny camp stools. His long legs made him look a little like a frog ready to give a good loud croak.
"What's with the big bag, son?"
"Saw yours and sort of admired it, sir. All these maps are a hassle."
"I used to carry them rolled up in a tube."
They chatted for a while. Valentine asked about his officers' training, and they shared memories of Pine Bluff. Frat accidentally mentioned a brothel that was either new or had escaped Valentine's notice in his days as a shy, studious lieutenant.
They laughed at their mutual awkwardness. Frat, for admitting that he took a trip upstairs as a rite of passage (always on the house for a Hunter on his first visit, it seemed), and Valentine for living so sheltered a student life that he was unaware of its existence.
Sometimes, their conversations turned serious.
