"What I'm going to suggest might seem risky, David, but it'll make your stay here a lot safer if we can pull it off. It'll even get you papers to get out of here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such. While I was there I met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them. Anyway, I told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. Of course, he's just made up to fit your description."
Valentine's mind leaped ahead, making plans. "And you think he'd get us some papers? Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier if we had some identification."
"Well, it wouldn't cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get you to Illinois or Iowa at least. You'd have to lose the guns, or hide 'em well. You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say you're out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and that's only to be found around the borders. Also, I'd like to bring your horses down from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss Man."
"If you think you can pull it off, I'm for it," Valentine decided.
"Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. We'll figure out how to use them."
Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.
"I don't know about the rest, but the major part fits him," Carlson explained at the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of the person residing within. "Major asshole, anyway."
Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the major's home. It was opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-baron's ranch, it stretched across a well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only grass-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.
"Listen to this," Carlson said, pressing a button by the door. Valentine heard bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.
The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and big-mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and mirrored sunglasses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.
"Hey, Virgil," Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. "I've brought a friend to see the major."
Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. "I guess he's in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesn't do business on a Saturday, you know."
"Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames."
Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.
Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. "He's in the office."
"I know the way. C'mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?"
Carlson and Valentine passed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.
The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tycoon about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.
Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver buttons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.
"Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How's Gwen?"
Carlson smiled. "Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They're outside in the basket."
"Ahh, Gwen's pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend."
The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.
"How are things in Monroe, Mike?"
Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. "The usual. Chicago's pissed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds. I'm trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I'm thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?"
"Some of us can," Carlson asserted. "Some can't."
"Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther."
"Well, it's for you to say, Mike. But I don't know how it will go down. There's been some grumbling already."
"By whom?" Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.
"You know nobody tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn't about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he'd be visiting and helping me with the harvest."