“Texas,” Gary answered promptly. “Lots of cattle.”
“I'll keep it in mind. Hey — wait a minute, you can't get across to Texas!”
“No? Well maybe it was Arkansas — I'm not much good on geography.”
“Wise guy! Just don't ever cross us again, Jack, if you're packing grub. You don't get a second chance.”
“That goes double,” Gary replied. “But I'll see you long before you spot me. If you've never been up in the line, soldier, put somebody in charge who has. You won't last long without scouts.”
He watched them out of sight, working their slow way over the hills to the east. The last man in the troop turned around to wave briefly at him before vanishing over a ridge. Later, Gary wondered if they complained to the private about their back pay.
Little good it would do any of them to complain, himself included — they'd probably never see it. The high brass would trot out some fancy excuse for not paying up — like A.W.O.L. And there would be a full year shot to hell. Thirteen or even fourteen months perhaps — it had been at least that long since the unforgettable day he had celebrated his thirtieth birthday. More than a full year for certain, for he had already spent most of this summer working his way northward.
He had no particular destination, nothing but a vague desire to see how far up the Mississippi he could go and still encounter troops. Someone he had met, someone coming downstream from the north had told him the river watch extended all the way to the Canadian border, and that after the river ended — or began rather, in a Minnesota lake — the troops patrolled overland to the border. The Canadian Mounties took over at that point but the risks and chances of slipping between their patrols were useless, for the United States had armed the border and the friendly nationals to the north were no longer permitted entry.
Gary squirmed on the hard ground and rested the rifle in the crook of his arm. The long, scraggly beard on his face was dirty and itched continually. He wondered again when the quarantine would be lifted. He had seen no exploratory patrols coming across the bridges as yet, testing and sampling as the schoolteacher had said they would. As far as he knew there had been nothing done to reunite the two halves of the country. The river spans remained closed and no one crossed to either side. There had been an occasional plane overhead but it did not attempt contact with anyone on the ground — reconnaissance, he guessed, photographing the towns and perhaps the people who stood in the open to watch it.
A full year now had passed, and perhaps even more.