The Last Pilgrims by Michael Bunker

be addressed formally would have to come directly from
Phillip.”
    “What if I were to fight you over it?”
    “Some folks might find that rather
refreshing.”
    “I understand,” Jonathan said, knowing he
would get nowhere arguing with Ghost militia reasoning. “What news
from the post rider? What is this all about?”
    “Well, Your Honor, that was the complete
substance of the message to you. However, in questioning the rider,
I learned that the Duke’s attack force is a day’s ride from San
Angelo, and will be here in less than three. Their numbers are
estimated at about five-hundred men.”
    “Five hundred men!” These days, forces that
large were almost unheard of. Once upon a time, armies of thousands
and tens of thousands had marched through Texas and the South;
post-collapse, a force of even a few hundred men was difficult to
mobilize and command.
    “Will you let them take and burn San Angelo?
What is the militia going to do? We have to evacuate the frontier…
but there isn’t time. Five hundred men? For what?” He was
exasperated and angry, “Five hundred men to kill pacifists,
farmers, and traders?”
    “The situation is not good. Phillip is out
with a sizable force, attempting to rescue his wife and daughters.
We were not expecting the Duke’s army for another couple of weeks
or so…” Tim rubbed his youthful beard and began to fiddle with the
grip of his sword. To Jonathan, he seemed almost ashamed that the
Ghost militia was caught unprepared.
    “They must have marched by night or traveled
on some course we did not expect them to take. Though even those
options seem unlikely,” he paused for a moment. “In fact, Your
Honor, I cannot say how the Duke’s army got here this fast without
being noticed. But, that is all beside the point. I am confident
that militia outriders and recon units will be sent along the path
of the Aztlani army. They will harass them and thin their numbers
some, but as things are now, no attempt will be made to defend San
Angelo… it’s always been considered indefensible. Every trader and
merchant there knows it.”
    Jonathan stared southward, pondering on the
implications of these words. When he finally spoke, his voice was
distant and cold, despite the heat of the day. “It’s the Winter
Massacre all over again.”
    In his mind, he was back on the frozen
rolling hills East of San Angelo, loading bodies of his own
people—mostly women, children, and the elderly—onto a haycart, to
take them to Bethany for burial.
    At that moment, his son David and two other
militia riders approached in haste.
    “We have to ride, Father. The Elders are
gathering and there is no time to waste,” David urged.
    Timothy interjected, “Perhaps we can bring
the Elders of the Vallenses here to the ranch? We have two small
units in and around Bethany, and a more sizeable unit here. It’s
likely that the Vallenses can pull back from the frontier in time,
if we send word now. The Aztlani goal is to raze Bethany, and they
will do it, without a doubt. This place, however, is defensible. It
is built on high ground. Any way they try to approach this ranch,
they must come uphill.”
    “This isn’t the Alamo, Timothy. It’s a
farm.”
    As they spoke, Ruth rode up on Jonathan’s
horse Laredo. Louise trotted along behind her obediently. Ruth had
a large leather satchel that riders called a ‘wallet’, and after
dismounting, she stowed it in the saddlebag. “There’s food and
supplies here for several men for a few days.”
    Jonathan thanked Ruth, and kissed her on her
forehead. “You take care of everyone here. I’ll be back sometime
tomorrow… if the Lord wills.” Ruth just nodded in reply.
    “Please listen, Your Honor,” Tim spoke with
a growing sense of urgency, “we can ride hard to Bethany and bring
the Elders here. Our orders are to keep you and your family
safe.”
    Jonathan shook his head. “According to
Gareth, the Aztlanis have no desire or plans to harm me or