Valentine got the feeling he was being watched as he walked up the road running along the western side of Crowley's Ridge. Molly Carlson Stockard's name had turned up as residing at a military camp called Quapaw Post, and a quick message to the CO-Valentine justified it as a joint inquiry with the Miskatonic-revealed that she lived at the Post as a "Class A" dependant, which meant she didn't just live on post, but worked there as well.
A forty-mile train ride, ten-mile wagon hitch, and a two-mile hike brought him to this quiet corner of Southern Command, well north of the corridor.
He bore a full set of arms, as any serving officer in Southern Command did, even on leave. The Atlanta Gunworks assault rifle formerly shouldered by the Razors bumped against his back inside an oiled leather sheath to keep the wet and dirt off. The freehold had learned long ago that the more people trained to carry guns there were traipsing around the rear areas, the less likely they were to have to use them, whether threatened by the lawless or by the emissaries of the awful law that was the Kurian Zone.
He had to stop himself from jogging or falling into his old Wolf lope. He wanted to arrive more or less composed, not sweaty and bedraggled. He regretted that he didn't already have his staff crossbar, or he'd probably have been able to requisition a trap or even a motorcycle.
Quapaw Post didn't look like much; one thick concrete shell that probably enclosed a generator, armory, and fuel supply. A pair of identical, cavernous barns and a few wooden barracks, with a tower at the center for fresh water and sentries, rounded out the station. Miles of fencing stood along either side of the road and extended up into the oak-and-hickory-thick hills of the ridge and west into the alluvial flats, where the fields were subdivided into pasture and hay fields. Horses grazed and swished each other in the gauzy sun, and nearer to the road insects harvested the nectar of butterfly weed and wild bellflowers.
Evidently Quapaw Post supported Southern Command horseflesh. Horses on active duty needed a break as often-probably more often-as the men they carried.
Quapaw Post's CO, a captain by the name of Valdez, met him personally at the gate. Valdez varied his Guard uniform in that he wore camp shorts and leather sandals. Valentine got the impression this corner of Southern Command was not frequently inspected.
"A walking major?" Valentine heard the sentry ask his captain.
"Ex-Wolf. I checked him out; he's a good man on leave," Valdez said. "Oh, he can probably hear you by now, Crew."
"Long as it ain't a Bear, is all."
The Captain hallooed a greeting with Valentine a few strides away.
"Welcome to the Quapaw, Major," Valdez said. "You're welcome to my room, as I've got a cot in my office, or there's all kinds of space in the barns."
"If you don't mind flies and horseshi-" the sentry started.
"The barn is fine, Captain," Valentine said. The captain shook his hand and led him past some weedy sandbags to the official starting point of the base, a line of painted rocks. Valentine looked around. "Do you train the mounts here, or just feed them?"
"Both. That widow you asked about, Molly, she's one of our civilian trainers."
"Widow?"
"MIA technically, over six months, so that makes her a widow on the books."
"Does she know I'm coming?"
"I kept my mouth shut. But you know a small post."
"No sense wasting time. I'd like to see her."
"You're invited to a dinner with the other officers. Unless you'll be umm, otherwise occupied." Valdez made a point of nudging a path-bordering rock back into line, where it guarded some fragrant tomato vines.
"Tell your officers to dress down, this isn't an official visit. If they'd rather play cards over beer-"
Valdez brightened. "Your credit's good here, if you want to get in on a game. My kebabs are very popular if you like finger food."
"Sick horses have to go sometime. Glad to see border station duty's still the same." They turned up a little row of what looked like trailers with the wheels removed.
"You will want to get back to the electricity soon enough, I'm sure. Here we are."
Valentine recognized the bunkhouses. Known as "twenty by eights"-though a screened-in porch that could be opened on one end gave them dimensions closer to thirty feet in length-the easily constructed prefab bunkhouses were the backbone of Southern Command's dependant housing.
This one had the screened porch, and a thriving band of hostas living in the semishade under the floor, set a foot off the ground by concrete blocks.
Molly stood on the other side of the screen door. She seemed to shimmer a bit. Perhaps it was the water in his eyes.
A tiny, dark-haired figure clung to one of her legs. A tabby cat watched the drama from the tar-shingle roof.
"David?" she said.