And yet townspeople followed Gordon for over a mile, appearing from behind trees to shyly press letters into his hands, eagerly talking about the reclamation of Oregon and asking what they could do to help. They complained openly of the petty local tyranny, and by the time he had left that last crowd on the road, it was clear that a change was blow-ing in the wind.

Gordon figured the Mayor’s days were numbered.

Since my last letter from Culp Creek, I’ve established post offices in Palmerville and Curtin. Today I completed negotiations with the mayor of Cottage Grove. Included in this packet is a report on my progress so far, to be passed on to my superiors in the Reclaimed State of Wyoming. When the courier following my trail arrives in Pine View, please give him my records and my best wishes.

And be patient if it takes a while. The trail west from St. Paul City is dangerous, and it may be more than a year before the next man arrives.

Gordon could well imagine Mrs. Thompson’s reaction, on reading that paragraph. The scrappy old matriarch would shake her head, and maybe even laugh out loud at the sheer blarney that filled every sentence.

Better than anybody else in the wild territory that had once been the great state of Oregon, Adele Thompson knew there would be no couriers from the civilized East. There was no headquarters for Gordon to report back to. The only thing the city of St. Paul was capital of was a still slightly radioactive bend in the Mississippi River.

There had never been a Reclaimed State of Wyoming, or a Restored United States for that matter, except in the imagination of an itinerant, dark-age con artist doing his best to survive in a deadly and suspicious world.

Mrs. Thompson was one of the rare folks Gordon had met since the War who still saw with her eyes, and thought with a logical mind. The illusion Gordon had created — at first by accident, and later in desperation — had meant nothing to her. She had liked Gordon for himself, and shown him charity without having to be coaxed by a myth.

He was writing the letter in this convoluted way — filled with references to things that never were — for eyes other than hers. The mail would change hands many times along the route he had set up, before finally reaching Pine View. But Mrs. Thompson would read between the lines.

And she wouldn’t tell on him. Gordon was sure of that.

He only hoped she could contain her laughter.

This part of the Coast Fork is pretty peaceful these days. The communities have even started trading with each other in a modest fashion, overcoming the old fear of war plagues and survivalists. They’re eager for news of the outside world.

That’s not to say all is placid. They tell me the Rogue River country south of Roseburg is still totally lawless — Nathan Holn country. So I’m headed northward, toward Eugene. It’s the direction most of the letters I’m carrying are addressed, anyway.

Deep in his saddlebag, under the bundled letters he had accepted from excited, grateful people all along his way, was the one Abby had given him. Gordon would try to see it delivered, whatever eventually happened to all the others.

Now I must go. Perhaps someday soon a letter from you and my other dear friends will catch up with me. Until then, please give my love to Abby and Michael and all.

At least as much as anywhere, the Restored United States of America is alive and well in beautiful Pine View.

Yours sincerely, Gordon K.

That last remark might be a little dangerous, but Gordon had to include it, if only to show Mrs. Thompson he wasn’t completely caught up by his own hoax — the scam that he hoped would get him safely across the almost lawless countryside to …

To what? After all these years Gordon still wasn’t sure what it was he was looking for.

Perhaps only someone, somewhere, who was taking responsibility — who was trying to do something about the dark age. He shook his head. After all these years, the dream would not quite die.

He folded the letter into an old envelope, dribbled wax from a candle, and pressed it with a seal salvaged from the Oakridge Post Office. The letter went atop the “progress report” he had labored over earlier, a tissue of fantasy addressed to officials of a make-believe government.

Next to the packet lay his postman’s cap. The lamplight flickered in the brass image of a Pony Express rider, Gordon’s silent companion and mentor for months now.

Gordon had stumbled onto his new survival plan by quirk and coincidence. But now, in town after town, people fell over themselves to believe, especially when he actually delivered letters from places he had already visited. After all these years, it seemed people still longed forlornly for a lost, shiny age — an era of cleanliness and order and a great nation now lost. The longing overwhelmed their hard-won skepticism like a spring thaw cracking the icy crust over a stream.

Gordon quashed a threatening sense of shame. No one alive was guiltless after the last seventeen years, and his scam actually seemed to do a little good in the towns he passed through. In exchange for supplies and a place to rest, he sold hope.

One did what one had to do.

There were two sharp raps on the door. Gordon called, “Come!”

Johnny Stevens, the newly appointed Assistant Postmaster of Cottage Grove, poked his head in. Johnny’s boyish face bore a barely sprouted fuzz of almost blond beard. But his lanky legs promised a great cross-country stride, and he was reputed to be a dead shot.

Who could tell? The lad might even deliver the mail.

“Uh, sir?” Johnny was obviously reluctant to interrupt important business. “It’s eight o’clock. You’ll remember that the Mayor wanted to have a beer with you in the pub, since it’s your last night here in town.”

Gordon stood up. “Right, Johnny. Thanks.” He grabbed his cap and jacket, then scooped up the phony report and the letter to Mrs. Thompson.

“Here you are then. These are official packets for your first run over to Culp Creek. Ruth Marshall is postmistress there. She’ll be expecting somebody. Her folk will treat you well.”

Johnny took the envelopes as if they were made of butterfly’s wings. “I’ll protect them with my life, sir.” The youth’s eyes shone with pride, and a fierce determination not to let Gordon down.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Gordon snapped. The last thing he wanted was for a sixteen-year-old to get hurt protecting a chimera, “You’ll use common sense, like I told you.”

Johnny swallowed and nodded, but Gordon wasn’t at all sure he understood. Of course the boy would probably just have an exciting adventure, following the forest paths farther than anyone from his village had traveled in over a decade, coming back a hero with tales to tell. There were still a few loner survivalists in those hills. But this far north of the Rogue River country the odds were Johnny’d make it to Culp Creek and back just fine.

Gordon almost had himself convinced.

He exhaled and gripped the young man’s shoulder. “Your country doesn’t need you to die for her, Johnny, but to live and serve her another day. Can you remember that?”

“Yessir.” The lad nodded seriously. “I understand.”

Gordon turned to blow out the candles.

Johnny must have been rummaging in the ruins of Cottage Grove’s old post office, for out in the hall Gordon noticed the boy’s homespun shirt now bore a proud us. mail patch on the shoulder, the colors still bright after almost twenty years.

“I’ve already got ten letters from people here in Cottage Grove and nearby farms,” Johnny said. “I don’t think most of them even know anybody back east. But they’re writing anyway for the excitement of it, and in hopes somebody will write back.”

So at least Gordon’s visit had gotten people to practice their literacy skills a little. That was worth a few nights’ food and lodging. “You warned them that east of Pine View the route is slow yet, and not guaranteed at all?”