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"Still can't believe about the Coonskins," Thursday said. "They were good men. Had many a meal with them when we all rode for Karas. The Moondaggers must have threatened them with something awful."
"Haw," Habanero said. "I'll bet every head in my share that no one threatened them with anything more than having to come home to six wives."
"That's how the Kurians get you," Longshot said. "Giveaways. That's how they took over in the first place, my old man always said. They showed up-and, sure, they offered food and fuel, but there was more than that. They offered structure and freedom from having to think for yourself."
"I'm sure that's just what people in an earthquake-hit city wanted," Thursday said. "What the hell you talking about, Habby?"
"It's like that story about how to trap swamp pigs. Ever heard it?"
"No," Thursday said.
Valentine had. Habanero had all of five parables, and the pig one wasn't nearly as good as his story about the frog and the scorpion. Mostly because that one was shorter.
Mrs. O'Coombe read her Bible by map light.
"Well, seems that down in the Congaree swamp in South Carolina there was a whole passel of pigs running wild. Now, pigs are smart. Every now and then a hunter would go in and try to get one, but most came back empty-handed, the pigs were so wary and wild.
"Well, a stranger feller came into town and said he was going to get them pigs. Of course all the locals about laughed him out of town, but he ignored them. Instead he went and bought himself a couple fifty-pound bags of corn.
"Every day he went into the swamp and poured some corn on one of the pig trails in a nice woodsy spot. Well, of course the pigs came along and ate the corn. It was free, after all. Easier than rooting up grubs and tubers.
"After a few days, with the pigs showing up regular for their feed, he put a few beams down in front of the corn, and he watched them eat from a distance. Just wood on the ground, easy for a pig to hop over, and none of them minded making that jump to get at that corn. Then he started building a fence for a stockyard. He always made sure there were plenty of ways in and out for the pigs. They were a little nervous of the construction-one or two hightailed it right back into the swamp-but the rest were getting really used to that corn, so they went in.
"Now gradually he shut off the entrances and exits, kept watching them from nearer and nearer, and made it tougher and tougher for the pigs to go in and get the corn, till all they had was a little gap to squeeze through. But darned if they didn't squeeze through and gobble till every last bit of the corn was eaten.
"Only one time, when they were done, the pigs saw that there was no way back out of the pen. He'd blocked it up.
"They got their free grain still. 'Nother day or two, anyway, before a big ol' livestock trailer pulled up, and they used sticks and dogs to herd them pigs right into the trailer. Didn't cost him much: a few big bags of corn to convince them pigs there was such a thing as a free lunch."
"So that's what they're doing to us Kentuckians, you think?" Thursday asked.
"I don't know if the Kurians are smart as that man down Congaree way. But the Kurians are big on advertising their wares as free, aren't they? Sometimes I think the scariest words in the American idiom are 'no obligation.' Of course, sometimes they stick in an 'absolutely' 'cause that one more lie just pushes people right over the edge into stupid."
They only knew they entered Grand Junction once buildings appeared on either side of the road.
"I know just where you should park, Habby," Thursday said to the wagon master at the wheel. "There's a grain mill just the other side of town. Not one of those claptrap corrugated iron things-real stonework. Abandoned now because of the lack of juice. We grind grain with a couple oxen these days, the old-fashioned way."
Valentine looked out the window. He was used to seeing gutted storefronts, but one of the buildings that had a hole in the front looked like it had received recent damaged-the splinters in the door were white and fresh.
"I wonder how long we'll be snowed in here," Duvalier said from the bench she had to herself at the very back of Rover. "Charmingly dead."
"What's that?" Habanero said suddenly into his mike.
Valentine plugged his own headset in, uneasy. "What happened?" Mrs. O'Coombe said.
"Ma in Chuckwagon says she just hit a person."
"Good God," Mrs. O'Coombe said.
Valentine's earphone crackled: "-maybe it was just a big dog. But he came leaping, trying to get on the back of Bushmaster, and slipped. Under my wheels before I knew it. We bumped over him."
"We should stop," Mrs. O'Coombe said.
"What kind of fool runs into a line of trucks in this weather?" Thursday said, his face unholy in the dim light of the console.
"Must have been a dog," Habanero said. "Shadows are weird with all the reflections."
"Here's the mill," Thursday said. "I'll get it open for you, and then I'll check in with our sheriff and let him know you've arrived. As long as that wasn't him Ma ran over."
