"How can we help?"
"You've done enough, by my reckoning. But if you want to, go around, speak to the men, maybe tell them a little more about those Reapers. We don't have much experience against them, and what we do know has us all frightened."
Duvalier nodded. "We'll do what we can." After the
Wagonmaster left, she looked at Valentine. "I'm frightened, too."
"Never thought I'd hear that from you."
She went to the basin and wrung out a washcloth, wiped it across her face. "Hear me admit it, you mean."
Valentine shrugged.
"We've warned them, Val. Let's head out."
"I'm staying. You've got more experience at this. You'll be better without me."
"Staying? Staying like in desertion?"
"Staying like in helping them fight. We've been over this before."
She lowered her voice in case anyone was outside the wagon, listening. "I figured once you saw them, you'd either figure there were enough guns for the fight so that you being here wouldn't make a difference, one way or the other. Or you'd see it was a lost cause."
Valentine stood for a moment. He feared the coming fight but wanted it, as well. Do I have a death wish?
"I'll quit trying. You're a lost cause, Valentine. No wonder your captain had you court-martialed."
She must have seen the hurt in his eyes, because her tone softened: "Sorry. You-well, you deserved that, but I shouldn't have said it. I'm going to scrounge up some supplies. Think about it before I ride out."
Valentine spent the day with Waldron, the Camp Engineer, trying to forget about Duvalier by inspecting the defenses.
The Eagles had a trench around the camp, hurriedly being made as wide and deep as the sandy soil would allow. Shovelfuls of thrown dirt rained dust and pebbles that made skittering noises as they bounced off the metal panels of the walls. Some of the corrugated sheets that served as armor on the outside of the battle-wagons still had sections of vaguely familiar logos from the Old World.
"We took a lot of these facings from old rigs. Big engines called semis used to haul these trailer affairs. The metal is light and strong."
Valentine ran his hand along the dirty old surface, printed in huge letters, adway. Farther down, the red Coca-Cola label protected one of flanking comers. Strange that one of the most persistent holdovers of the Old World was its product marketing; like the advertisements for gladiatorial contests that he'd read could still be seen on a wall or two in Rome.
"Been a long time since we've had to shoot from the walls of the camp. Last time it was because we got surprised," Waldron said as they walked the perimeter. "A few years back, the Troopers reinforced a bunch of their trucks and loaded them with men. Came barreling at us across the plain; I think the idea was to ram through the walls. Sure, tin and sand stop bullets, but not a truck moving at forty miles an hour or more. They either didn't know much about physics or they forgot about the trench; they hit it and killed most everyone in the trucks. We hardly had to fire a shot."
He lifted up his shoe, and Valentine smiled at the serrated pattern of a truck radial. "Got a dam long-lasting pair of shoes out of it, and a good laugh."
"You said you had some artillery?"
"Ha! A pair of mortars and less than thirty shells. Eighty-one millimeter. Let me show you what we have come up with, though."
They cut through a hidden angle in the battle-wagons, and climbed up into the bed. A shiny cylinder that Valentine recognized as an old artillery shell casing, probably a 155-millimeter, sat in a metal trough secured by a heavy steel cover. A fuse, curled like a pig's tail, dangled behind. The whole affair stood on a tripod welded to an old metal wheel.
"This is kind of based on a swivel gun. You can point it using the mount, but your aim doesn't have to be very precise with this cracker. It's an artillery shell casing sitting in the half-cut pipe there. We loaded it up with powder and put a bag of taconite pellets on top of the wad. No range to it whatsoever. But it'll sweep twenty yards in front of the gun like you were using a broom, and more beyond if you get lucky. We've got a version that goes on the ground too, in a wooden holder. Strictly one-shot, takes us a good while to clean and reload it if the casing doesn't crack." Valentine thought it looked like as much of a threat to the men behind the weapon as the enemy in front, but he kept silent.
"We also have some grenades we took off the Troopers, but not enough, and coal-oil bombs-which are really just sawdust and the oil mixed in an old vodka bottle. And that's our artillery."
After lunch he met with Duvalier. She had spent the morning after her scrounge riding with Danvers, going from point to point looking for signs of the Twisted Cross.
Eagle Brand families took a portion of the cattle and dispersed to hiding places among the dunes. "They're great trackers and the best horse-riding guerrilla fighters since the Apache-plenty of rifles but not enough support and artillery," she said.
Valentine was happy to find her equitable-or just resigned to him staying. "Same thing in camp. The Reapers will tear this place apart from a couple hundred yards, and there won't be much they can do about it. All the guts in the world aren't much of a help against Kalashnikovs in the hands of something that isn't disturbed by catching a bullet."
The little red-and-white plane appeared just then high in the sky, hardly audible even to Valentine's ears. He felt a chill as it threw a wide circle around the camp before moving off eastward. It was like the ravens of the Middle Ages, who would gather along with the armies in anticipation of the coming carnage.