Wolf and Iron

CHAPTER 11

To Jeebee’s surprise, Paul did not seem at all put out by the idea of a half hour or even an hour’s delay. He was discovering something more about the man who had built and operated this whole peddler’s scheme, and that was that he had a very lively curiosity about anything and everything.

There had been hints of this when he had been talking with Jeebee in the process of teaching Jeebee to drive the wagon team. Every now and then Paul would have a mild question about what Jeebee’s life had been like before he had headed west to find his brother’s ranch. At first these questions passed almost unnoticed by Jeebee as he answered them. Later, he began to realize that Paul was slowly and quite subtly drawing out of him his personal history. The questions invariably came after Paul had told Jeebee something about his own background, so that it was difficult not to reciprocate.

At first Jeebee thought that Paul was simply interested in what kind of man he’d picked up by the roadside. Then he began to discover that Paul was genuinely interested in the work of the study group. Jeebee tried to explain this in words that would be understandable to the other but Paul shook his head.

“Most of it I can’t follow,” he said finally, “but unless I’m wrong, what it all adds up to is that you saw this coming almost as early as I did and didn’t do a thing about it. Particularly you didn’t do anything to save yourself until you darn near got smoked out of your own home by neighbors that had set out to kill you.”

Jeebee nodded.

“Why?” Paul had said. “Why, when you could see it coming, wait like that?”

Jeebee hesitated. It was not that he did not know the answer. It was just difficult to explain. Finally, he shrugged.

“If you’re any good as a scientist,” he had said, “you have to learn a certain detachment from what you’re studying. If you don’t, it’s too easy to see what you want to see in the numbers. Anyone who studies social behavior has to learn to treat social processes and dynamics as pure abstractions that’ve got nothing to do with him personally. What happened in Stoketon was a truck that ran us down while we were still busy calculating, from its speed and weight, just how hard it could hit.”

He could hear his own words and they sounded a little stiff and academic in his ears. But they were all true—all what had actually happened.

The day was bright and warm, so that the little air stir resulting from their passage was pleasant. Neither he nor Paul said anything for a moment.

“You and this brother of yours pretty close?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Jeebee said, and then hesitated.

He had never stopped to think about it, but he realized now that he had always thought of Martin as a sort of lesser and more distant father, lost somewhere behind the shadow of Carey, the actual father of both of them.

“That is,” Jeebee went on, “when we were younger. There’s eighteen years between us. He’s the older. I used to visit up at the ranch and he’d visit us—my father, my mother, and me—sometimes. After my father died—well, actually, after my mother’s death, when I was sixteen—we fell out of touch a bit; though we still wrote letters every so often. But I haven’t seen him since I was about—oh, fourteen or fifteen years old.”

“How come your father moved away from the ranch?” Paul asked.

“It really wasn’t what he wanted,” Jeebee said. “My grandfather did, and Martin did. But Dad really didn’t care for it too much. He stuck with it until the Vietnam War came along. He’d already had Martin, but he joined up and went off to the war anyway. He told my grandfather that he was giving up all claim to the ranch so the way would be clear for Martin in case anything happened to him while he was gone.”

There was another long pause as the wagon rolled and jolted on its way.

“Afterward,” Jeebee said without prompting, finding a sudden relief—almost a pleasure in telling this to someone, finally—“there was the GI Bill. He always liked architecture. So he went to school to become an architect.”

“Architecture,” Paul said thoughtfully, “a far call from ranching.”

“Oh, Dad was always a hands-on man,” said Jeebee. “He liked to build with existing materials. If he saw a rocky hillside lot, he’d immediately be taken with the idea of building a house with the rock. A house that would seem to grow right out of the hillside, there. An interesting piece of wood could give him an idea for pegged, instead of nailed houses—even log houses.”

“He try to push you toward architecture at all?” Paul asked.

Jeebee shook his head.

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “Neither he nor my mother really pushed me anywhere. They loved me, all right. But they were a couple of strange people, in some ways. They didn’t show much in the way of affection, to me or even to each other. My mother was an academic. She taught history on the university level. Usually she was stuck in her job someplace, and I moved around the country with Dad. It was that way most of the time I was going through grade school and high school.”

He remembered it now, with a particular sharpness. He had been taller and skinnier than most boys his own age, and uncoordinated. Each new schoolroom had become an arena in which he knew in advance he would be tried, tested, and found wanting. Schoolmates his own age, but much smaller and better coordinated, were able to bully him, making him in his own eyes, as well as those of others, a weakling.

He had grown into adulthood coming to think of himself as that, to accept the fact he could not compete with the rest of the world physically. Then his mother had died suddenly of viral pneumonia when he was sixteen. And then, when he was away at college, his father was killed in a construction accident.

He told Paul something about this.

“Pretty much a loner, weren’t you?” said Paul.

That was true enough, Jeebee thought. Among the study group at Stoketon he had been a maverick, more than slightly suspected as the recipient of special favor from Bill Bohl, the director, but respected nonetheless.

“I guess you could say so,” he said to Paul. “I took sociology as an undergraduate. But there was always something lacking in it for me.”

“How do you mean, lacking?”

“Well, I came to understand it later,” said Jeebee, slipping unthinkingly into a more academic way of talking. “Sociology was really badly indifferent in some ways to the ecological factors in which social and cultural processes are rooted. Besides that, it was unsophisticated in the development of mathematical models of the kind that were revolutionizing other social sciences.”

“So?” said Paul. “What did you do?”

“Well, I’d already decided that I wanted to be an academic,” Jeebee said. “By the time I was ready to apply to graduate schools, economic geography seemed the best approach for me to the questions I was after.”

“And where was this?” Paul asked.

“This was at the main campus of the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor,” said Jeebee. “I was very lucky. I got Dr. Bill Bohl for an adviser.”

“Bill Bohl?” echoed Paul. “Don’t think I ever heard of him.”

“Probably you wouldn’t, unless you were an academic yourself, and working in the same area or a related area,” Jeebee said, “but it was the best thing that ever happened to me. He was tremendous. He was fifty-two years old at the time I met him, and he was widely known and respected for his contributions to classical economics and innovative applications of general-systems problems in social ecology.” Jeebee laughed.

“You wouldn’t think he carried all that clout to look at him,” he said. “He was young looking for his years, but bald as an egg, and he had a face like a bulldog with a body like an undergraduate fullback. Meeting him, you probably wouldn’t have liked him, first off. He was direct to the point of being almost brutal.”

“Well, wasn’t he what he seemed to be?” Paul asked. Jeebee shook his head.

“I got to know him very well,” he said. “Behind the way he talked and acted he was really very sensitive to the human realities underlying the abstractions with which we all worked. In fact, I still think he’d deliberately cultivated that tough appearance of his to hide his sensitivity toward the people he had to work with.”

“So you liked him,” Paul said.

“Yes,” said Jeebee, “and he liked me—strangely enough.”

“Why, strangely enough?” said Paul. “People like each other or they don’t. You can’t pin down reasons.”

“Oh, he told me some reasons he liked me, from time to time,” Jeebee said. “He thought I had a remarkable enthusiasm, and he told me I had a highly unusual, intuitive ability to represent social processes in the language of mathematics.”

“Did you?” asked Paul.

“Yes,” Jeebee said slowly. “At least as far as the mathematics went, I guess I did. At least compared with the people I worked with.”

There was another stretch of silence. It was a comfortable silence during which Jeebee was thinking of his academic days and of Bill Bohl. He was brought back to the present by Paul.

“Well, there you were, studying for your doctorate with this Bill Bohl as an adviser,” said Paul. “How did you get from there to Stoketon?”

“Stoketon was a real break for me,” Jeebee said with enthusiasm, “and something I never would have got if Bill hadn’t had such a high idea of me. You see, even before I’d finished my doctoral thesis, Bill had let me work with him on half a dozen articles that promised to open new avenues of approach to mathematical modeling. The articles got quite a bit of attention.”

“That’s important?” said Paul.

“That’s very important,” Jeebee answered, “particularly for someone at the stage I was at, then.” He paused.

“Then, when I finished my doctoral thesis, Bill talked me into staying on at the university, on a postdoctoral fellowship. It paid next to nothing, but the main thing was it let me go on working with Bill; and this paid off handsomely later on, when Bill was awarded a founder’s grant to establish the Center for the Study of Quantitative Sociodynamics—the Stoketon Group.”

“He invited you in on that, did he?”

“He did more than just invite me,” Jeebee answered. “He’d actually written me into the grant, with the grant paying my salary. All that was required after that was for the university to give me its blessing—award me a nominal academic title that made me eligible for fringe benefits and gave me access to their libraries; that went along with the faculty post. At Stoketon, I was a resident research fellow with a permanent position—as distinguished from the experts we had, who came, stayed for a while, and then left.”

“I get the idea you liked it there,” said Paul.

“I did,” Jeebee said, remembering, “I really did. I was kind of a maverick, or at least, a lot of them thought of me as sort of an oddball. But it’s great working with people who are good themselves; and we all got along very well. I think I really turned into something at Stoketon. Pity was, it was only along the lines of the academic work I was doing. As far as the outside world was concerned—the kind of thing I need to survive nowadays—I was just as much a loner and as much an innocent as I’d ever been. That was one of the reasons my neighbors chased me out, finally.”

“You weren’t going back to your brother’s until that happened?” said Paul.

“Oh yes. Of course I was,” said Jeebee. “The Collapse had hit. We’d no connection with any of the cities around us anymore. The water was off. There was no more electricity. Stoketon was turning into a little, tight, armed community. The thing was, I wasn’t really part of it. I’d almost been part of it, when a woman who lived there worked for me. But when she quit, it was a signal—even though I didn’t know it at the time—that I was being cut off and labeled an outsider. Luckily, I’d already started accumulating some things to go west with—including an electric-driven bike. Anyway, when I finally did leave, it was with some of them shooting at me.” He hesitated.

“I lost the bike a couple of weeks back in a small town, where I stopped, thinking maybe I could do some trading. That was the same town where I picked up Wolf.”

He fell silent again, remembering.

“Well,” Paul said at last, his eyes on the ears of his horses, “I’d say you’ve done some growing since you left that Stoketon of yours.”

After that they had driven on in silence for some little while before talking of something else.

Now, Jeebee found them pausing as he had recommended to Merry, and it turned their early lunch into something almost like a picnic. Normally lunches were eaten as they moved—sandwiches and hot coffee, and occasionally a piece of pie or cake baked the evening before. In this case, Nick, whose turn it was to cook, again set up a folding card table on the grass beside the wagon, with chairs at it for all of them, and served them soup, fried potatoes that had been roasted in the open fire the night before, and ham, covered with a homemade but very tasty gravy.

Jeebee did not require telling that part of all this, including the table outside on the grass, was intentional. The smells of the cooking were meant to reach up and tickle the noses of Greta and Wolf, back among the trees.

How much of what followed was due to this, or to other factors, was impossible to tell, but they were just finishing up their food when Greta showed herself at the edge of the trees. She came backing out of the woods with her tail wagging furiously.

She dropped to her elbows, her hindquarters still high, as though bowing to an unseen playmate, then darted in and out of the woods in a series of clownish dashes.

Jeebee went to get his binoculars and stood by the table, trying to focus on the darkness of the woods. He was positive that Wolf was in there, and that this behavior of Greta’s was addressed to him. But the difference between light and shadow, particularly in the bright noonday, kept him from seeing very far in among the trees, even with the help of the binoculars—though they were little enough help at that.

After a moment, he felt the binoculars taken out of his hands and something round and a good deal heavier pushed into them. He looked down, and saw that Paul had handed him a pair of good binoculars, much larger and heavier than the opera glasses.

Jeebee put these to his eyes and eventually was able to make out a shadow that, as he studied it, resolved itself finally into Wolf. Just inside the shadow of the nearest trees, Wolf was standing, side on to Greta and the wagon beyond. He was the picture of canine perplexity. His near forepaw was slightly raised as though unwilling to advance one more step beyond the security of the tree line. His head, turned toward Greta and the rest of them, was held high and his ears were erect and forward, in an expression of extreme alertness.

It seemed to Jeebee that even at this distance, he could see the sharp brightness of Wolf’s eyes, holding them all in tight focus. Jeebee thought he saw Wolf quiver as he stood. Nonetheless, he did not move toward the wagon.

Jeebee passed the binoculars back to Paul.

“It seems I’m not the only one who’d like to get Wolf down here for a bit,” he said.

Paul put the binoculars to his eyes, adjusted them, and watched for a moment.

“He’s coming out, I think,” he said at last.

Indeed, in that moment, Wolf did move forward enough so that the sunlight revealed him clearly to the unaided eye at the edge of the trees. He stood, still in the sideways alert stance, looking down at Greta. After a moment he turned and took a few more steps toward them, then stopped and backed up.

“Greta!” Merry called. “Greta, come back here!”

Her call broke the tension between dog and wolf upon the hillside. Wolf turned at the first word and vanished into the darkness. Greta straightened up from her play pose and stood looking after him for a moment, then slowly turned and trotted back down to the wagon, stopping every so often to turn and look back at the woods. But Wolf did not reappear.

When she reached Merry, she fawned on her, crouching before her and clearly apologizing for whatever she had done that Merry had considered wrong.

“That’s all right,” Merry said, stooping over to pet her. “Good girl.” Greta launched herself upward to lick at Merry’s face in an ecstasy of joy at being forgiven.

Merry led the dog, still bounding and licking at her hands, back toward the horses.

“Looks like we’re getting under way again,” said Paul. “Nick, will you put things away—you might give him a hand, Jeebee. Then join me up on the wagon seat and we’ll let you take the team again for a while.”

They continued westward in the days that followed, stopping mainly at isolated farmhouses where Paul did business. The routine for these visits was always that Merry, with the horses, dropped back, and Jeebee moved into the Quiet Room of the wagon with Nick and the weapons. Then Paul would drive, apparently alone, up to the place he was planning to visit. Merry, with the extra horses, would have fallen far enough behind so that she was out of sight.

This procedure, Paul told Jeebee, was followed even when the people were old friends and knew that Merry would be along with Paul. The reason was that nobody could tell what might have happened to the particular family or group—many of these isolated farmsteads now contained up to forty or fifty people—since Paul had seen it last. If there was to be trouble, he wanted Merry at a distance, where she could get clear. For the same reason, Nick and Jeebee had weapons ready and were waiting in the weapons room.

If things proved to be unchanged since Paul’s last visit, and the people still friendly, Paul usually called Merry in and let either Nick or Jeebee come out of the weapons room and also mingle with the customers.

The social scientist in Jeebee was aroused by what he saw at these isolated settlements. All of the communities they stopped at were ordered and disciplined, which did not surprise him, being precisely what his mathematical models predicted. But he felt a profound sense of discovery that his own off-the-cuff estimates of the varieties of their social systems should be as close to what he actually found.

They were all, like Paul Sanderson’s small group, variations on a common social adaptational theme centered on cooperative daily efforts required for survival.

There were, of course, differences in matters of social power and authority, and marriage conventions had already begun to vary widely. Over the course of the weeks he was with the wagon, Jeebee encountered a good bit of monogamy—after all, one resource gatherer was adequate for the survival of a human infant only under a limited number of resource conditions. There was a fair amount of polygyny—again there were few species of mammal who were not polygynous—but also there was some polyandry, though these were rare and largely confined to regions where food resources were especially abundant.

Interestingly, there was less promiscuity than many of the people who had guessed at possible futures had envisioned. In fact, many of these small groups were almost puritanical in attitude; and Jeebee could understand why. Sexual permissiveness was simply not the best competitive reproductive strategy.

Jeebee found himself fascinated by all this, and a part of him all but reverted to the researcher he had been. It became even more interesting when it occurred to him to speculate that his own comradeship with Wolf might also be regarded as one of the variations in social order directly spawned by the general social collapse.

The fact was, Wolf was a person—an individual, with his own likes, dislikes, wishes, desires, and purposes. In this he was no different from the people of the communities Paul visited. But Wolf was also a product of a social order, not that different in many ways from the human ones, which had given rise in Wolf to certain instinctual patterns of behavior and response, and these patterns had found a congenial mesh with Jeebee’s own, similarly derived patterns and responses.

It was likely, Jeebee thought, that the growing comfort he was finding in his relationship with Paul, Merry, and Nick were rooted in the same needs that had overcome Wolf’s natural timidity and, eventually, could drive him to approach the wagon and its company.

The fact remained that in his relationship with Wolf he had found an emotional satisfaction that he did not find in his own kind—the three of the wagon.

From the beginning of their acquaintanceship, Jeebee had wanted to get closer to this companion of his; and for that a better understanding of what made Wolf “Wolf” was needed. If only Jeebee had looked deeper into what made wolves what they were, back before the world had fallen apart and both libraries and experts had vanished…

Well, there was no point in yearning for what was not available. So Jeebee watched Wolf’s approaches to the wagon now with a fierce hunger for Wolf to come all the way in. Wolf was free in the most absolute sense of that word. There was no way to force him anywhere, short of wounding or trapping him, which would destroy the whole purpose of getting back together with him. Jeebee could only continue his watch and hope that Wolf would make the decision to join them by himself.

Gradually, it became apparent that he might.

He began to appear more often, a couple of hours before sundown, an hour or more before the wagon stopped for the day. At first he could only be seen occasionally, following and flanking the wagon at a distance. But eventually, his parallel movements became closer so that he was traveling within as much as fifty yards, where the terrain allowed.

As he got closer, Greta would often run out to join him. When she did so, the other dogs would often try to go with her—in which case, invariably, she would turn on them and drive them back to the wagon. Eventually, the other dogs became more used to his presence and no longer set up a chorus of barking at the very sight of him.

But, also, occasionally, when Greta was not around, one or more of them would charge out at him. In these cases, his behavior varied. If there were several of them running at him in a group, he usually turned and bolted.

The dogs of the wagon would follow him for a couple of hundred yards, and then would stop and come back, almost prancing in their pride and self-satisfaction at having driven off the intruder. Jeebee was secretly pleased to see that after all, Merry did not seem to like the dogs driving Wolf away in this manner any more than Jeebee did. But he recognized her quandary. If they were to remain effective guard dogs, she could hardly scold them for doing what they considered their duty.

If it was a single animal that rushed out at him, Wolf generally all but ignored it. No single dog of the wagon was any real threat to him. On occasion, his behavior was so indifferent that the dog, after sniffing him over, simply fell in beside him. Twice, the single dog was one of the males and actually tried to be aggressive. In each case, Wolf merely turned side on and twisted his body in a manner that threw the weight of it behind the impact of his left hip: and the other was sent tumbling. Only in the case of one other single attacker from the wagon was the dog persistent enough that Wolf turned on him suddenly and pinned him to the ground by the neck, clamping skin and neck alike in the vise of his powerful jaws so that it choked the other animal as well as locked it in place.

The dog ki-yied in fright and fled as soon as Wolf let him up. Back at the wagon, Merry’s exploring fingers could find no sign of injury on the dog that had been neck-pinned.

Wolf, Jeebee concluded interestedly, must have a fine-tuned sense of possible responses to threats.

With time, however, the contacts between Wolf and the dogs of the wagon gradually built up patterns of tolerance between him and at least some of the males; and gradually Wolf came closer and closer, until one day he finally greeted Jeebee beside the wagon itself.

Meanwhile, as they got into the western part of South Dakota, to the north of the Badlands, the country became rougher and they left the route of the interstate more often to get to customers.

The wagon was stoutly built and could be taken across fairly open country when it was absolutely necessary, but there were definite limits to where it could go. Consequently, Paul normally chose to stick to roads. Or to the shoulders of old roads, where the road itself was too pockmarked and pitted. At other times, where it was impossible for the wagon to go to the customer, the customer came to Paul.

Usually this meant that Paul would stop the wagon in mid-afternoon and wait until the following morning before going on. If whoever had been used to trading with him at that point showed up, business was done. Otherwise, if no one appeared, Paul moved on the following morning. Those who dealt with him knew approximately when he was due in their area; and if they still existed or were interested in trade, it was up to them to show up.

If they did not, that particular stop was removed from Paul’s customer list. Paul’s practice was to travel along a road as far as he could, then stop and fire four spaced shots in the air; not from his usual rifle, but from a black-powder muzzle loader.

Almost always, within half an hour, one or more riders on horseback would appear and come to the wagon. These would later be followed by most of the whole clan or family. In a few cases Jeebee saw a small, temporary tent city set up for a day or two by the wagon while deals with Paul were made; and a certain amount of hospitality and celebration resulted.

Occasionally, where the wagon was able to go across country, they traveled where there were no roads at all; just as their forerunners, in the wagons of the nineteenth century, had traveled where there were no roads. Occasionally, they came to rivers, and Jeebee was surprised to discover that for all its weight of armor and goods, the wagon had been built to float. With the horses swimming, it could cross rivers in their path, provided the current was not too swift or the bottom too deep or rocky.

If it was either of these things, they sometimes forded. Otherwise, they turned either up the stream or down—depending upon Paul’s knowledge of the best route—until they came to a place where it was possible either to float across or wheel over safely.

Altogether, as a result, their movement across country was not swift. There were pauses of as much as two days in some locations. Nonetheless, most of their time was spent covering distance by themselves. Little by little, Jeebee fell into the routine of the wagon, became competent with the weapons, able to handle the team for stretches of three to four hours at a time, and able to hold the following remounts of horses tightly bunched behind the wagon, moving along with it.

His knowledge of his traveling partners expanded. Paul he found to be an interesting, informed if not educated, and lively conversationalist; when he felt like talking. Nick talked very little and had periods during which he seemed not to want to talk at all and was best left alone. Merry, surprisingly, gradually emerged as the best company of the three for Jeebee.

By degrees her chilliness toward him, largely a surface protection in any case, thawed; and as she began to relax with him, naturally warm spirits bubbled to the surface. She reacted instinctively and emotionally to almost everything; with the result that she could change from summer sunshine to thunder and lightning in an instant, and back to sunshine again, almost before the first rain from the storm had begun to fall.

Jeebee was amused to notice that not merely Paul and Nick, but the dogs as well, did not take her sudden small explosions of anger seriously. The dogs, in particular, made a large display of acting repentant and apologetic, but it was perfectly obvious to Jeebee after a while that they were looking forward to being lavishly petted and forgiven within the next few moments, and would have been alarmed only if this had not happened.

Gradually he found himself beginning to look for, and delight in, her wholehearted, sudden enthusiasms, her suddenly revealed depths of sympathy and understanding. In the same gradual manner, he began to realize that he had fallen in love with her, entirely without planning to. It was something that must inevitably have an effect on his partnership with Wolf.

Meanwhile, full summer took them into its flow, and other interesting things were happening. They were now into country where there was a great deal more ground cover; not so much of trees but of hills and underbrush. The result was that Wolf had begun to stay closely with them in his visits; and, bit by bit, lured by Greta, but also simply because he was becoming used to the wagon, its horses and humans, and beginning to be less shy of them, he moved in closer and closer. Until he finally ended, for short periods at least, literally traveling with the wagon itself.

After a few snaps and snarls from Greta, the dogs simply accepted Wolf as they had accepted Jeebee.

Wolf, on the other hand, did not so much accept them as ignore them.

Jeebee had expected him also to more or less ignore the people with the wagon. To a large extent he did, since he was with them only for an hour or so at a time and he came and went unexpectedly. But he did treat the wagon area now as if he had a right to be there. His attitude was different with each of the humans.

Paul, he tended to avoid, but was invariably polite to. Nick was the only one he really ignored and generally avoided. Merry, to Jeebee’s surprise, he greeted, if only occasionally. Clearly, he regarded Jeebee and himself as social outsiders.

However, at his first close meeting with Merry, Wolf was almost effusive toward her.

It was the last sort of behavior Jeebee had expected. Merry happened to be off her horse at the time, and the other dogs were within view, but not close to her, when Wolf first approached her. He went directly to her, with ears back, head low, tail wagging, and she squatted to meet him, talking to him as if he was one of the dogs. He licked at her face, squatted, and urinated a few drops, then fell on his side and rolled over on his back, as though inviting a belly scratch.

Jeebee could not repress a small feeling of jealousy. He had been with Wolf for weeks before Wolf had invited him to as much familiarity. But here he seemed ready to make friends with Merry with no further courtesies or introductions needed.

Feeling unwanted, Jeebee left them both to each other and went up front to join Paul on the wagon seat.

“Good you came up,” said Paul. “It’s about time we had a bit of a talk anyway.”

“Oh,” Jeebee replied. He was instantly alert.

“Yes,” said Paul. “Do you know where we are now?”

Jeebee shook his head.

“We’re a little beyond Weston,” said Paul. “In Wyoming.”

“Wyoming?” Jeebee stared at Paul. “You knew I was headed north towald Montana.”

“I know. I knew,” said Paul. “You’re still determined to go find your brother’s place?”

“I have to,” said Jeebee. “I’ve got to find a safe place for what I have in my head about the work I used to do. Someplace to keep it alive against the time civilization can use it again.”

“Right. I thought you still felt that way,” said Paul. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you, now. A little beyond here—about thirty miles or so—before we get to what used to be Buffalo, and before we get into the Bighorns, I’ll be turning south to start the long swing down and back east again. So we’re just about at the point where we’re going one way and you’re going to be going another.”

Jeebee realized with a sudden shock that he had not expected their parting to come so soon. It had been well over a month since he had joined them. He had fallen into the way of life of the wagon, got used to it; and he was now almost more at home here with Paul, Merry, and Nick, than he had been at any place else in his life, except when he had been very young. He suddenly realized that, unconsciously, he had been looking forward to this state of affairs going on almost indefinitely.

Even Wolf had fallen into the pattern. He now announced his arrival at the wagon at dawn or twilight with a howl, and the dogs had come to respond by howling back.

Also he had preempted the box-sided back steps of the wagon as his own place when traveling with them. He was enclosed and secure—and above any of the dogs who might approach him.

But now, all at once, Jeebee found himself face-to-face again with the prospect of pushing on alone. Particularly alone, that would be, if Wolf would not come with him after setting up his relationships with Merry, Greta, and the other wagon dogs. The thought of being alone once more was like having cold water dumped over him, just when he had grown accustomed to a warm and gentle shower, to waken his sleep-chilled body in the morning.

“Where did you say we were?”

“Just short of the Bighorns,” said Paul. “Day after tomorrow, I turn south. I thought you’d want to make plans.”

“Yes, I’ll have to,” said Jeebee, his mind lost in a welter of questions. He was trying to summon up a picture of the Wyoming-Montana border and how the geography of Montana was, farther north. It had been nearly fifteen years since he had visited his brother’s ranch; and he had been only twelve years old. He had flown into Billings, his brother had met him at the airport, and driven for about an hour and a half to get to the ranch. They had driven north to Musselshell, which they had passed through just before they reached the edges of his brother’s ranch.

“I wish I had a better idea of how the land lies around here,” he said almost to himself.

Without a word, Paul reached behind the wagon seat and came up with a folded paper that he passed to Jeebee.

Jeebee took it and unfolded it. It was an AAA auto map showing Montana and sections of the bordering states of Wyoming, South and North Dakota. He spread it on his knees, studying it.

“Do you want some advice?” Paul asked.

“Yes.” Jeebee looked up at the other man with the blue eyes and the gray beard. “I need all the help I can get. All the advice I can get.”

“Well… ” Paul passed the reins to Jeebee. “Here, you take the team.”

He took the map off Jeebee’s knees and, laying it on his own knees, began with one finger to trace a route.

“Here you are, approaching what’s left of Buffalo from the east, on 1-90. Now, you don’t want to get into the mountains, particularly not the Bighorns. I’d suggest you start off straight north, going around Buffalo and Sheridan, and swing east when you get into Montana, to avoid the reservation, here. You might not get into any trouble trying to go straight through it, and it certainly takes you out of your way not to, but things are a little different in reservation territory—and who can blame them? No, I’d suggest you go around it, then hit back northwest—from what you’ve told me your brother’s ranch is about midway up the state, pretty much in the middle?”

“The last town I can remember him taking me through on the way there, years ago when I was small, was Musselshell,” Jeebee answered. He no longer felt any need to conceal his general destination from any of these people.

“All right, then,” said Paul, his finger pushing up the paper. “You head roughly northwest after you swing around the eastern edge of the reservation; in fact after you’ve gone between it and the Custer National Forest, go straight north across old highway 94 and right on to here. Here’s Musselshell, on highway 12. I mean the town of Musselshell.”

Jeebee nodded.

“I’d give you this map to take with you,” said Paul, “only it’s one of those things that aren’t easy to find nowadays—”

“It’s all right,” Jeebee interrupted, “one of the things I managed to hold on to in my backpack was my road maps for that part of the route—like this one.”

“Then you’re taken care of,” said Paul. “Hand me back the reins.”