Valentine carefully took out his surgical-tube sling, fixed it to his wrist, and put a rounded stone in the leather cup. He sighted on a male at the edge of the fracas, making halfhearted little hops.
"Oh, no, don't spoil their fun", Gide said.
"I don't like to dip into my preserved food unless I have to", Valentine said. "Hickory-and-sage-smoked prairie chicken's good eating".
Valentine knocked the oldster off his feet, scattered dancing chickens as he got up and ran to finish the job with a quick twist. He bled the bird into a cup and dressed it quickly.
"There goes your invitation to the next church cotillion", Gide said as Valentine dropped it in hot water to soften the feathers for plucking. He lifted the cup. "You're not really going to drink warm blood, are you?"
"Can't afford to waste anything. It's like a multivitamin", Valentine said.
"Give me a sip. Might as well start the mountain-man stuff now". He passed her the cup and she made a face as she sipped. "Fuck, that's rude! Like having a bloody nose".
"Your dad never had you drink blood?"
"We liked our food cooked. Haven't you ever heard of salmonella, Mr. Igloo?"
"Who did the cooking? Your mom?"
Gide worked her upper lip again, this time tightening it against her teeth. "She died having me. There wasn't a midwife or anything, just my dad".
"I'm sorry", Valentine said.
"Kids always get along better with the opposite-sex parent, ever notice that?" she asked.
Valentine accepted the change of subject. "I guess you're right". He'd not had the time to experience it with Amalee. Circumstances had changed.
"I'd better see about that bird. Thought I smelled some wild onions down by the pond. We can have a nice fry-up, then wash while it digests".
* * *
Gide kept her food down on the next hop. Valentine argued with himself over what to do with the autogyro. Aircraft of any kind were valuable enough that the guerrillas would probably seize it outright. But on the other hand, it might allow him to make more of an impressive entrance.
He opted for showmanship.
What he guessed to be Mount Rainier loomed in the distance. He passed over valleys under thickening clouds, watching his fuel gauge sink toward e.
Apart from herds of goats, sheep, and cattle, and the attendant fires in the shepherds' bunkhouses, he saw little sign of habitation. But then a good guerrilla army wouldn't advertise its presence.
Then he passed over another town, built around a bridge and its patched-over road in a boomerang-shaped valley, and saw what he suspected was mortar pits in the hill above, looking out over the reduced hills to the east. Camouflage-painted four-wheelers were parked in a line like suckling piglets in front of a redbrick building in town, and there were well-used paddocks behind the line of buildings and what looked like houses converted to stables. He marked freshly sheared sheep.
Best of all, a limp American flag hung from a flagpole in front of what looked like the town post office. No Quisling force Valentine had ever heard of flew the despised Stars and Stripes, a symbol of racism and greed according to the histories of the New Order.
Valentine swooped around again, enjoying the feel of the tight turn. Men in civilian clothes and uniform were coming out onto the street now to watch the acrobatics.
"Gide", Valentine said, almost shouted. "This looks like the guerrillas. One thing you should know".
"Yeah?" she said, eyes closed, sounding like she was fighting with her stomach again.
"My name's not Max Argent. It's Valentine, David Valentine. I travel under a false name".
"Okay", she burped. "Land, all right?"
Valentine set the gyro down on the other side of the bridge from the town, where the road widened outside the bridge. He engaged the wheel drive and motored toward town. The road was badly pocked, and they bounced a good deal.
Some armed men in timberland camouflage were walking up the road.
"Ma... David, whatever. Open up!" Gide said.