The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time by Raymond Dean White Page A

when and where was the next attack coming?
     
    *
     
    The man with the answer to that question stood on a ship in the Gulf of California, watching his men roll over the defenders of Nephi, on the west coast of Utah. He had landed several companies of Rangers to the north and south and the pincer movement had cut the town off before he launched the assault on the beach.
    He raised a pair of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and swept them from one end of the town to the other. Moonlight sparkled off the diamond in his crimson beret and glistened from his highly polished boots. His lips spread in a rotten-toothed smile as the popcorn sound of gunshots reached his ears. The invasion was going well.
    As soon as his troops secured the town and surrounding area, he would put slaves to work repairing the roads and bridges and building a government center. He would transform Nephi into the capital and chief seaport of these lands.
    Prince John lowered his binoculars and turned to Jamal Rashid. “Take charge of the left flank. It looks like they may try to break out toward Provo.”
    “Yes, Sire,” Jamal said as he started for the motor launch.
    “And Jam?” Jamal stopped to listen. “When this is over, I only want the leaders of the resistance executed. Offer everyone else amnesty.” Even in the moonlight he could see Jamal’s raised eyebrows.
    “This is a new land and for the time being, we need friends,” he explained.
    “Of course, Sire,” Jamal said before he stepped into the boat.
    Next, John turned to his brother. “Have you heard from Bonetti?”
    “Not since he told us his spies penetrated Provo and the Freeholds,” Prince Anthony answered.
    “No word on the Garcias?”
    “Nothing, baby brother.”
    John clenched his teeth. He hated being called “baby brother.” Two lousy Goddamned minutes. “Well, tell him to send out more search parties, dammit. I want them found!”
     

Chapter 8: The Enemy
     
    Maroon Bells Wilderness, Colorado
     
    Late October, 12 AI
     
    From high among the tumbled rocks that lined the walls of Castle Creek Canyon, Michael Whitebear and Jim Cantrell peered through field glasses at the large group of men making camp below. He and Jim were one of several teams sent out to locate and spy upon the King’s Army, while others contacted the Mormons at Provo. After more than two weeks of tracking everyone but the King’s army, Michael hoped they’d hit pay dirt this time.
    Several patrols rode out as others came into the camp. The smell of cooked food drifted up, reminding Michael of how long it had been since he’d had a decent meal. His stomach rumbled. To quiet it he bit off a piece of venison jerky and washed it down with a swallow from his canteen, offering both to Jim.
    Michael could tell the men below were at least fairly well-disciplined. They had set out sentries and as soon as they were done cooking the fires were put out. Also, they used dry, almost smokeless, wood for their fires and had lit them at dusk when smoke would be even harder to spot. No doubt about it, the quality of this outfit was far superior to any others he and Jim had observed in the past two weeks. Their tents were laid out with military precision. The largest was obviously the mess hall, but one other tent attracted his attention. It was sited in the middle of the camp.
    Michael nudged Jim. “I bet that big tent belongs to their leader.”
    “Well move over Sherlock,” Jim deadpanned. “Did you figure that out all by yourself?” He winced as he rubbed a large bump on his head.
    “Look, man, I said I’m sorry I laughed.” Michael quickly faced back toward the men below so Jim couldn’t see the grin he was failing to suppress. A few hours earlier, an honest to God tiger had spooked Jim’s horse. It bolted and while he was struggling to stay in the saddle an “incredibly hard” branch decided to make the acquaintance of his head.
    Whack! Pleased to meetcha.
    Maybe it was the way Jim’s eyes crossed