“Yes,” Azaleen concurred, “but I like the idea of having a Pacifica mediator present.”
“And you must take an armed escort,” Sabine declared in a strict tone. Her protectiveness made Azaleen smile. She knew just who to bring.
“What about Olive Branch?” Stark tapped the map. Olive Branch was an independent town on the far side of the Mother River’s sprawl, north of the Republic, west of Appalachia, and not too far from the Verdancian border. “It’s kind of cut off from everything by terrain, but, from what I understand, the community thrives. There’s a large lake nearby, arable land, forested highlands, and they’re civilized with a mayor, sheriff, and everything.”
“Yes,” Camille added excitedly. “We trade with them frequently and have maintained diplomatic ties. We could travel by boat all the way up the river.”
“That river can be treacherous, even at this time of year,” Azaleen noted. “Besides, our best balloon would be faster and safer flying at high-altitude.”
“But, my queen,” Stark objected. “Even our largest basket can only carry twelve adults.”
“That will be enough,” Azaleen said, “provided Irons agrees to the same size party. Sabine, let’s compose a response and send it right away. We don’t want to keep the deceitful, conniving, ash-breather waiting.”
Chapter forty-three
The Long Shot
Fort Desperado, midday
The soldiers were wary and restless as they went about their duties before lunch and the afternoon siesta. They spoke in hushed tones, exchanging anxious glances. “Any word from the capital?” soldiers asked whenever they passed Colt. He would shake his head.
What had he expected—a rescue party? He knew they were on their own. So Colt had sent Corporal Mercer to the mercury mine to warn them of the danger. He came back to report that the crew had packed up and was moving out. In a hushed tone, he added the part about a gigantic dust cloud to the east. They had to be crawling. The only saving grace.
Colt glanced at the clock on his office wall and frowned. The morning patrol was late. The realization gnawed at him until he climbed up the watchtower where two lookouts manned their post.
“Spot anything concerning?” Colt asked.
The privates popped to attention and saluted, one crushing a cigarette under his boot. “No, sir,” they replied as one.
“At ease, soldiers.” Colt raised his spyglass and scanned the eastern horizon. Glare from the noontime sun and heat haze off the desert floor masked anything he might see. He lowered the telescope uneasily.
One man ventured a tentative word. “We’ve been watching, Captain. The patrol’s not back yet.”
“They could have stopped to rest the horses,” Colt said. He didn’t believe it. A hot wind buffeted his face, and he raised the spyglass again.
He sensed something just as it came into focus—a riderless horse racing at breakneck speed through the glare and haze. He waited a beat to see if anyone else followed. Seeing nothing, Colt slammed his telescope closed, scrambled down the ladder and stairs, straight for the gate.
“Open it partway,” he ordered. The gate guards obeyed. In dashed a chestnut mare, drenched in sweat, her eyes wide with fear. Colt recognized her and the saddle from their stables.
“Whoa, girl, I’ve got you,” he said, grabbing the reins. Then he ordered, “Close the gate and bar it.”
“Here,” said Stablemaster Castellano as he swayed over to Colt and took the reins. “She needs a proper cool-down, or she’ll founder.” Colt nodded, relinquishing the horse into his care. “No sign of the patrol?”
Colt examined the heaving animal covered in lather. “There’s blood on the saddle,” he said gravely. “This might be all we see of them.”
Big Tony met his gaze with grave concern. “What do we do?”
“We get ready.” Colt exuded confidence, but it was only a façade. He wished Marcus were here—even Sergeant Slater. He wanted someone to consult with, to help make a plan, but he’d sent them away for good reason. “As soon as you get the mare squared away, start saddling every horse in the stable. If they send a scouting party this way, we can hold them off. If they all come, our only choice is to flee.”
“Yes, sir,” Tony answered. “No shame in living to fight another day. We don’t have to go down like the Alamo.”
As the sergeant led the overheated pony away, Colt thought of the heroes at the Alamo—two hundred men holding off Santa Anna’s forces for thirteen days before they fell, buying time for Houston to raise an army. Their situation wasn’t so different. But the Alamo had two hundred. He had sixty. And Santa Anna’s army had been fifteen hundred, not tens of thousands. Not only couldthey not hold Fort Desperado for thirteen days, or even thirteen hours, but he feared they wouldn’t need to. This army could easily go around them. Does a bear stop because a mouse is on its path?
Spotting Elias Mercer, Colt hollered, “Corporal! Ring the bell. Get everyone out here in the yard.”
Mercer’s eyes flashed, his muscles tensed. “Yes, sir.” The ex-con wasted no time yanking the clacker cord back and forth against the sides of the brass bell on its post. Soldiers dropped what they were doing and raced to line up in the yard—all but the two posted in the guard tower.
Before the dust cleared, Colt called them to attention. “Men, you’ve heard rumors. Spread rumors. Lost sleep. As you know, we spotted strangers across the river several days ago. I sent word to Fort Resolute—no reply. Two days ago, we saw the army. I sent witnesses to Dominion—no reply. Now the morning patrol is missing.”