He gives no sign of recognizing the name, merely nodding in acknowledgement. His shake is firm, but not the finger-crushing grasp that she has encountered from men out to prove their macho. “Welcome to Elk Mountain, ma’am.” He gestures toward the line of hills that rises to the west across the miles of grassland. The peaks of the Medicine Bow Range lift into the sky beyond them, glittering even now with late snow.

“Koda!” The shout rings out from behind them, punctuated by furious barking. Asi streaks across the distance from the trees, Kirsten following more slowly, her own weapon at the ready. Koda’s vagrant Stetson perches on her head, casting hard shadows on her face. “You all right?”

Kriegesmann’s eyes dart between the two of them. One eyebrow canting upward, he asks, “Friends?”

“Friends,” Koda confirms, not at all sorry to have the back-up. “Asi,” she says, “Annie, meet Ari. We’re gonna split dinner.”

With a quick glance under her lashes at Koda, Kirsten extends her free hand, and Asi allows a quick scratch of his head and ruff. “Nice dog,” Ari says, admiringly, turning his thousand-watt grin on Kirsten. “You taking good care of your ladies, are you, boy?”

“Need help?” Kirsten asks, slipping their packs from her shoulders. Asi stretches out beside them, tongue lolling. Koda shakes her head, and Kirsten sinks down crosslegged onto the makeshift cusion, rifle still propped across her knees.

Koda lays her own gun down and draws the knife that hangs at her waist. Kneeling beside the antelope, all his grace and beauty now still, she begins to chant softly:

“Tatokala, misakalaki

Antelope, little brother,swift runner,we thank you for giving your lifeso that we might live.

Walk the Blue Road in peace.

May you have green grassand clear water,may you run freeforever.

Han!”

“Han,” Kirsten repeats softly. She has seen Dakota do this before, and can follow the sense of the prayer if not yet all the words.

Kriegesmann listens respectfully, his eyes lowered. Looking up to meet her eyes, he asks, “That was Lakota, wasn’t it? You traditional?”

She nods, bending to her work as she opens the antelope, picking out the liver and kidneys for Asi, who comes to her whistle and settles down to his meal with obvious pleasure. Ariel glances from Koda to Kirsten. “Both of you?” he asks.

“Both of us,” Kirsten answers. The tone of her voice is crisply authoritative, and Koda smiles silently. Translation: Keep off my turf.

“I can dig it.” Kriegesmann shrugs, unperturbed. “My community’s pretty traditional, too.”

“Community?”

“About fifty of us, mostly from Caspar. A bunch of us from my bank were up here snowshoeing, snowmobiling and like that when the uprising hit. We’ve picked up a few more survivors since.”

“Your bank?” Koda gives him a disbelieving look.

“First American. I’m an accountant. Or was.”

“You don’t look like a banker,” she says bluntly.

“That’s ‘cause you haven’t seen me in a jacket and tie. See that?” He grins and points toward one eye. “That’s the true capitalist glimmer.”

He is either amazingly disingenuous or going out of his way to be charming. Koda has known very few disingenuous bankers in her life. None, in fact. She waits for what she is almost certain is coming next.

It does. Kriegesmann sits back on his heels and wipes the sweat off his forehead, his hand bloody to the wrist. “Say. Why don’t the two of you come on back to the camp?” Asi looks up from his feast, growling and laying his ears back, and Kriegesmann chuckles. “It’s okay, boy. The three of you. I don’t know where you’re headed, and I’m not gonna ask, but you might want to spend a night under a roof. We’ve got a generator. And we’ve got hot water and showers.”

“Thanks,” Koda says evenly, “but we need to get on.”

“We also,” he says, and his voice turns serious, “have a couple sick kids. The way you’re dressing this buck, you’re either a professional meat-cutter or you’re a doctor. We’d appreciate it if you’d look at ‘em. And we’ll send you on your way with a full pack when you leave.”

“Your kids?”

“My sister’s girl and a couple others. They had something with spots a few weeks back, before the weather broke. Now it’s like they’ve got a permanent cold.”

Spots and a lingering respiratory infection. All sorts of unfortunate things can happen in the aftermath of measles or chickenpox. With the near-disappearance of many childhood diseases, more parents than not have chosen to avoid the possible side-effects of vaccination. Worse things can happen with scarlet fever. Not good. “You got any antibiotics?”

“Just what was in the first aid cabinet at the lodge. They’re gone.”

And probably misused, and overused. She looks up at Kirsten. “What about it?”

“Okay by me,” Kirsten says. “How far is it?”

Kriegesmann points at the rising slopes of Elk Mountain in the distance. “About three hours, maybe a little less.”

Koda wipes the blood from her knife on the grass, then gathers a handful of stalks to cleanse it more thoroughly. “I’ll cut a pole. We were headed that way anyway; we won’t lose time if we stay over for the night.”

Ten minutes later, the rough-dressed antelope is securely lashed to a straight branch of aspen. Koda shoulders one end, Kriegesmann the other. Asi paces beside them as they set off across the expanse of prairie, Kirsten pacing with the rifle still cradled in the crook of her elbow. Shadows lengthen as the sun begins to slip behind the mountains, and the breeze turns cool. Clouds darken the horizon to the south. Above them, a hawk rides the thermals, wings and tail spread as she coasts the currents of air. Her call drifts down to them, sharp and bright as steel. Kriegesmann glances up, admiration in his face. “Red-tail,” he says. “There’s lots of them around here. Golden eagles, too. Only you call them spotted eagles, don’t you?”

“Wanblee gleshka,” Koda answers. “Wakan.”

“Right,” says Kriegesmann, and keeps walking.

Dusk lies thick about them when they reach the lodge. Kirsten has limped for the last mile or so, and even Koda’s muscles are beginning to stiffen. The thought of hot water, faint temptation at first, has grown into a massive obsession. . Steaming water. Real soap. Standing under the shower while the spray pounds against her skin, working the knots out of her neck and scalp. Baths for the last several days have been cold-water exercises in endurance, hygienically adequate but a long way from comfortable. Even further from comforting.

I’d kill for a hot bath. No, not kill. Maybe maim somebody, though. Starting with Hunk-boy here.

A guardpost blocks their path about halfway up the mountain. A taut chain strung across the road at knee height bars wheeled traffic any larger than a bike. Both halves of the gate stand upright, the faint red of rust gathering about its nuts and bolts. Koda has seen no sign of a vehicle’s passage, no twin ruts of flattened grass on the prairie, no tire tracks on the sections of pavement washed out by the snow and rain of the last months. At a guess, the guests and staff of the resort used up their gasoline early and have not bothered to lower the double bars since. The sentry on duty, scarcely more than a silhouette in the gathering dark, grunts and waves Kriegesmann by. Koda can make out the shape of a rifle leaning up against the door of the booth, the motion of his head as his gaze follows them around the chain and onto the overgrown shoulder of the road, staring still as they head up the last, steeper, ascent. Perhaps it is the antelope he finds so interesting.

Then again, perhaps it isn’t. With her free hand, Koda loosens her handgun in its holster, watches as Kirsten furtively does the same.

“Hang in there, ladies,” Kriegesmann says cheerfully. “We’re almost there.”

“Oh, goody,” Kirsten answers, her voice flat.

“You okay?” Koda stops in her tracks, almost pulling the pole of Kriegesmann’s shoulder. He comes to an abrupt halt, a quizzical look on his face. Koda lays a hand lightly on Kirsten’s arm. “You still okay with this?”

“Yeah. We’re almost there. Let’s do it.”

Koda stands silent for a long moment, then “If you’re sure.”

For answer, Kirsten nods, and they resume the climb. Kriegesmann has said nothing, only watching. At the very least, Koda reflects, it should have made a thing or two clear to him. She grins to herself. No poaching here. And I don’t mean antelope.

“There,” when they slog round the last painfully steep switchback and emerge onto the more or less level top of the mountain, consists of a sprawling central building surrounded by a dozen or so smaller cabins set among century-old pines and balsams. Some show the A-frame silhouette popular for vacation homes forty years ago. Others, like the main facility, are constructed of redwood logs and wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass and decks on at least three levels. Through the windows, Koda catches a glimpse of leather-upholstered sofas, pine-wood tables burnished to a golden glow, Navajo rugs hanging against the walls. A dozen or so people seem to be moving about in the common room, but Koda cannot see them clearly. It is precisely the sort of place where a clutch of affluent suburbanites would come to rough it for a couple weeks of winter sports, enjoying room service in the morning and the ski instructors at night.

Precisely the sort of place she’d never be caught dead before the war. It remains to be seen what its resident survivors have made of it.

Kriegesmann leads them around to the back, where a windowless building stands among garages, a couple of barns and other service buildings. “Meat locker,” he says, shrugging the pole off his shoulder. “I’ll hang this up, then we’ll get some supper. We can finish dressing it out in the morning.”