Greer heaved a jug over the tailgate. “Not a good idea at this point. We need to keep the number of people to a minimum.”
“We have to get word out to the townships,” Peter told Apgar. “People need to take shelter. Basements, interior rooms, whatever they’ve got. In the morning, we can send out vehicles to bring as many back as we can.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Peter glanced at Chase. “Ford? You’re got the chair.”
“Understood.”
Peter addressed Apgar again: “My son and his family—”
The general didn’t let him finish. “I’ll radio the detachment in Luckenbach. We’ll get some men out there.”
“Caleb’s got a hardbox on the property.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
Greer was waiting at the wheel, Michael riding shotgun. Peter climbed in back.
“Let’s go,” he said.
It was 1830. The sun would set in two hours.
54
Sara and Hollis were making good time. They had entered the zone everybody called the Gap—a stretch of empty road between Ingram and Hunt Township. They were hugging the Guadalupe now, which gurgled pleasantly in the shallows. Fat live oaks stretched their canopies over the roadway; then they came to an open stretch, the low sun in their faces, then more trees and shade.
“I think this guy needs a break,” Sara said.
They dismounted and led the horses to the edge of the river. Standing on the bank, Hollis’s mare dipped her long face to the water without hesitation, but the gelding seemed uncertain. Sara removed her boots, rolled up her pants, and led him into the shallows to drink. The water was wonderfully cold, the river bottom made of smooth limestone, firm underfoot.
After the horses had drunk their fill, Sara and Hollis took a moment to let the animals wander. The two of them sat on a rocky outcrop that jutted over the edge of the water. The vegetation on the banks was thick—willows, pecans, oaks, a scrub of mesquites and prickly pears. Evening insects were hatching from the water in ascending motes of light. A hundred yards upstream, the river paused in a wide, deep pool.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” Sara said.
Hollis nodded, his face full of contentment.
“I think I could get used to this.”
She was thinking of a certain place in the past. It was many years ago, when she and Hollis and all the others had traveled east with Amy to Colorado. Theo and Maus were gone by this time, left behind at the farmstead so Maus could have her baby. They’d crossed the La Sal Range and descended to a wide valley of tall grass and blue skies and stopped to rest. In the distance, snowcapped, the peaks of the Rockies loomed, though the air was still mild. Sitting in the shade of a maple tree, Sara had experienced a feeling she’d never really had before—a sense of the world’s beauty. Because it really was beautiful. The trees, the light, the way the grass moved in the breeze, the mountains’ glinting faces of ice: how had she failed to notice these things before? And if she had, why had they seemed different, more ordinary, less charged with life? She had fallen in love with Hollis, and she understood, sitting under the maple tree with her friends around her—Michael had, in fact, fallen asleep, hugging his shotgun over his chest like a child’s stuffed animal—that Hollis was the reason. It was love, and only love, that opened your eyes.
“We better go,” Hollis said. “It’ll be dark soon.”
They gathered the horses and rode on.
General Gunnar Apgar, standing at the top of the wall, watched the shadows stretching over the valley.
He glanced at his watch: 2015 hours. Sunset was minutes away. The last transports bringing workers in from the fields were churning up the hill. All of his men had taken up positions along the top of the wall. They had new guns and fresh ammunition, but their numbers were small—far too few to watch every inch of a six-mile perimeter, let alone defend it.
Apgar wasn’t a religious man. Many years had passed since a prayer had found his lips. Though it made him feel a little foolish, he decided to say one now. God, he thought, if you’re listening, sorry about the language, but if it’s not too much trouble, please let this all be bullshit.
Footsteps banged down the catwalk toward him.
“What is it, Corporal?”
The soldier’s name was Ratcliffe—a radio operator. He was badly winded from his run up the stairs. He bent at the waist and put his hands on his knees, taking in great gulps of air between words. “General, sir, we got the message out like you said.”
“How about Luckenbach?”
Ratcliffe nodded quickly, still looking at the ground. “Yeah, they’re sending a squad.” He paused and coughed. “But that’s the thing. They were the only ones who answered.”
“Catch your breath, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Now tell me what you’re talking about.”