Of the wagons from Reno, only the horse and two oxen were lost. The rest were Company owned, and Arc was viewed silently to be at fault. He had been advised to stock barrels with algae but had ignored the suggestion. Now the Wagon Master and those depending on Company animals looked to him with lidded eyes. They said nothing but watched him closely and silently questioned his ability.
Looking at the poor animals pulling the Smithy wagon, Arc fumed. He was a mean-spirited man already, and he had begun the expedition with hard feelings toward the Smithy’s apprentice. Now he was learning to hate Edge and the girl that had shown him up.
The community as the caravan exited the Salt Flats was strange. The small town was a combination of people who had emigrated from city environs and those who were nomads on the land. Slab wood shacks, mud and stick hogans, and what was left of an ancient travel trailer vied with each other in small areas defined by stacks of rock. A few tepees filled space in between.
The local rural natives had been one of the tribes to embrace others and accept them into their territory, and the two cultures had melded and become one in this valley. In some ways that was good for the travelers and in other ways, not so much.
Intending several days of trade to refresh the animals, the travelers parked their wagons in a circle and set watches. The Traders welcomed and encouraged the locals, but right away things began to disappear if not under guard. The people were thieves and saw nothing wrong with acquiring anything that was not nailed down. Cy had warned them, but as the businessmen wished to do business, they did not want to insult those they were intent on. At first small items left camp. A spoon or pocket knife left out on a tailgate. A copper bowl. By day three, the sentries were tripled, and no one was allowed into camp that did not live there. The amount of trade was not keeping up with the losses they sustained.
Expecting a renewed interest in thievery when they announced they were leaving, Till decided they would not tell their hosts. They would hitch up in the morning and depart.
As the sun came up, two things were discovered missing. The cow so shortly acquired in Elko… and a child.
Putting the finely woven bull whips he had acquired in trade for the cow that was not his in the wagon, Arc mulled over the child. If the train was delayed, he might be found out. He had planned on the cow being worth so little that they would leave without any effort made to locate it. But the only young child on the train was different. He cursed under his breath until the Wagon Master rode past and urged him to hook up. They would be leaving after all. He was so relieved that he volunteered to join the search party.
§
As the wagons formed up in a line and pulled onto the highway between the mountain and the salty lake, ten well-armed men on horseback split off. They knew where the leader of the community housed, and they pulled up in front of his home in a cloud of dust and thunder. The men were excited and ready for whatever was going to happen, and they had communicated their agitation to the newly rested animals they rode. The horses were skittish and milled around as Till, Cy, and the missing child’s father dismounted and approached the flimsy door. Till placed his arm across the father’s chest and indicated he should hang back. This was the Wagon Master’s job.
The missing child was the only person on the train under sixteen. A girl of twelve, she was allowed to come over the objection of everyone offering an opinion, and there had been plenty. A pretty, little dark-haired thing, she was a whiny brat prone to sudden outbursts. As her parents were well respected, she profited by their position. The girl had not begun to understand that being well liked and helpful was valuable, especially among people with high priorities in moving on. She was fortunate that her parents paid for her behavior through their own value.
The wizened leader of the community answered his door, and after a short and to the point communication, denied knowing of anyone who would take the girl. The people he knew, and he knew everyone living here, had no use for a young girl. But he had an idea.
On the south side of town there had been a camp of southern tribesmen from far away toward the old highway 70. They were a motley and savage tribe that was said to practice cannibalism. Also known to trade in slaves to other tribes, they had often been connected to vanished children. The best news was that these particular men had been trying to trade for horses, and as far as he knew they had been unsuccessful.
The elderly man offered to come along, but his son came up behind and laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. The boy told his father that he would go instead and save the old man from what might turn into a hard ride. Till was thankful as the father made a proper introduction with some amount of small ceremony. The old man was probably a great horseman in his day, but the younger man, Clint, would be better now.
Catching up the reins of the scrubby pony at the side of the house, the young man did not hesitate. He spurred the little cayuse hard and took off. The horses of the Traders were hard put to keep up, but it was only a short distance to the vacated camp. The local man circled to search for sign. There was plenty so close to camp, so it was difficult to find the path away, but he found it. Setting a fast pace, he put his skinny pony in a fast lope, and the rest followed.
There was sign, easy to follow, and there was only one broad exit from the valley to the south. The tracks said they had horses. Cloven prints spoke to the fact they had cattle, and if they did, the bovines would slow them down. If they abandoned the cattle, though, they might be hard to catch.
Riding the buckskin, Edge rode alongside Cable on one of his Company horses. They followed directly behind Till and Cy. Everyone had chosen from the fastest mounts in the remuda, and Arc sat a rangy chestnut on which he looked even shorter than usual. The horse liked to run, and Arc used his pony’s tendency to crowd Edge on the buckskin. It was a dangerous game because the buckskin might kick, but Arc was having fun.
Topping a rise as the mountains fell away into low, rolling hills, the rescue party searched what could be seen and noted a cloud of dust rising several miles ahead. The head start that the tribesmen had, leaving with the girl as soon as they had her, was already being cut.
Spreading out to keep the dust down and urging their horses again into a fast lope that ate up ground, they kept them from the dead run that would close the distance in the last moments. Pushing them too soon, they would tire their ponies and never catch up. Besides that, the more nonchalant they appeared, the less likely the pursued would spook. The trick was to sneak up if they could. That was unlikely, as the band of men was too large to be anything but a rescue party.
With their quarry in sight, they picked up the pace as they neared them.
Four men were pushing a small number of animals ahead of them. The mixed bunch of cattle and horses were tiring from the pace that was set. It seemed they were trying to get away with more than the girl if she was there.
One of the natives in back suddenly whirled his pony and looked hard at the men gaining ground on him. He yelled at the others, and they all gathered to the rear of the herd. They realized by the size of the pursuit that they had no chance in a fight.
One of the ponies was a lean appaloosa, ridden by a man who seemed to be in charge. Ahead of him on the withers of his horse and against his chest was a splash of pink, the child they were looking for.
The four horsemen wrenched their mounts away from their pursuers and spurred them viciously. The dead run had begun.
As the cattle were abandoned, they stopped and spread out to forage. They were passed and left to be gathered on the way back.
A wide, flat area ahead provided little cover, and the ponies ate up the ground in long strides. Ahead lay a wash with heavy brush growing on the banks, and the pursued plunged in without hesitation. They were lost to sight as they did not come out the other side.
The horse Till was riding was already starting to flag, and he arrived just in time to find Clint waving the men in two opposite directions. The four native men had split up, two goi
ng in each direction. They knew the terrain and had an advantage. Five pursuers went one way, and four the other. Clint approached Till on his heaving horse and, indicating the long rifle with the large scope, asked him if he could really use it. The others were out of sight when the local kid and Till pulled up and out of the gully on the other side, urging their ponies toward the top of the hill.
The four pursuers who split to the right and upstream were Edge, Cy, Arc, and the father of the girl. They followed the hoof prints that were the largest. Appaloosas are not known for their small feet. On fast horses they sped through heavy cover, trying to stay seated as low limbs and clinging brush tried to scrape them off.
The trail they followed split again. One track went left and up over the bank, and the other continued on. Without any thought, Edge followed the one out of the arroyo. Another horse followed him, and they both saw the appy ahead, pounding away from them.
Arc laid his quirt into the rangy chestnut’s flank, and the tall pony stretched out and surged ahead of the buckskin. The race was going to be close. The appaloosa was built for speed and endurance, but the two following were as well, and the leggy chestnut closed the distance. Pulling his reacquired pistol, Edge cursed Arc for being in the line of fire. The man being pursued looked back and made a turn in order to follow a dry watercourse, and Edge was far enough behind that he could see a shortcut across a small rise. Without thinking he turned his horse and surged through the sagebrush on a course toward the fleeing native. Just before pushing the buckskin into the appy, colliding with the lanky, spotted horse, Edge realized the man was riding solo. There was no girl with him.
The impact dropped the appaloosa to the ground, tumbling, and almost threw the buckskin. The gold pony reeled in an effort to stay on his feet.
Ejecting and rolling, the rider of the downed horse was unhurt and scrambled away, running like a deer.
The chestnut thundered past, and homing in on the man, ran him over. As the horse impacted the man, he was thrown solidly to the ground and did not move.
Arc wrenched the chestnut to a stop, the horse spinning around and rearing, and Edge jumped from his saddle to check the man in the gravel. By the time Arc dismounted, Edge stood up and, wordless, shook his head. The man was dead.
“The girl isn’t here.” Edge stated the obvious.
The thrill of the chase had made a temporary common bond between the two. Arc looked down at the motionless man and then at the horse now standing.
“He must have handed her off as they divided. Back there when they dropped out of sight.”
There was nothing to be done. If the others had caught up with those they were after, the girl might have a chance. If not, she was likely gone.
Gathering the winded buckskin’s reins, Edge inspected the pony. He had taken a beating with the impact of the collision, and Edge considered him carefully as he moved. Then he walked quietly toward the loose horse and caught up his reins as well.
Neither horse seemed injured, though Edge was sure they would be sore in the next several days. When he turned around, he found Arc standing over the fallen man.
The little Ox Master had stripped anything of value from the body. He was tucking his booty into a saddlebag. Edge was relieved that Arc seemed uninterested in the man’s scalp. As Arc turned and found Edge’s eyes on him, he squinted, frowning. The intensity of the chase was over, and they were enemies again.
Mounting, one followed the other as they returned. Neither said anything, but they each looked for sign along the trail back. It was possible that the girl had been tossed aside without them seeing her. Just barely, but possible.
§
The two who had followed the other horse were waiting in the wash. They had caught up with their quarry easily as the man’s horse tired. He had stopped and raised his hands in the air, and when they pulled up next to him, he had started singing his death song. He was an old man with his remaining teeth filed to a point, and they had let him go, not even taking the broken-stocked rifle that he carried.
The father was distraught on finding that his daughter was not on the appaloosa. He suggested they might have missed something and he would like to go back and search, but Cy and the others insisted they could do it later, after they rejoined the rest of the group. He agreed reluctantly with a wild look in his eye as though searching for hope.
Coming back to the point where the whole party had split, they were just about to climb out of the wash when the girl appeared at the crest. She was dressed in a frilly pink dress, and the late morning sun backlit her and the skirt like a fresh strawberry. As her father dismounted, still in the arroyo, she rushed down the bank and into his arms.
The rifle Till carried had done its business. The pursued were not the only ones who knew the terrain. Clint did, too. He had led the Wagon Master to the hilltop where he knew the fleeing men would have to pass beneath. The two were still together when they did, and the rifle spoke. Till chose to cut the horse down rather than aim at the smaller target of the man clutching the child to his chest, and the pony cartwheeled as the girl was flung away. She landed in sagebrush and, though scratched and shaken, would be fine. The man got up and ran. The other pony went down as the next shot pierced its lungs, and both men were on foot. By the time the men chasing them found the horses lying in the dust, the men had disappeared. The rescuers gathered up the young girl and made no effort to pursue the men on foot.
Stories were swapped as the men retreated along the path of the chase. Now that the recovery effort was over, and the excitement was waning, they had time to laugh and brag about what role they had each played. Arc made sure to embellish his part while minimizing what Edge had done. Edge said little. Finally, one of the men wheedled the story of the collision from him. Other than the shot that saved the child, Edge’s was easily the best tale of the day. Arc gave Edge an evil look as his own story was diminished.
The livestock left behind were scattered but not far. Clint identified all but one of the few animals as being from town and likely stolen. The big cow was there, the one Arc had traded for bullwhips, but there were no witnesses, so he just smiled and listened as they discussed the animals.
The cow would slow them down if they wanted to catch up with the train, even though they would be taking a shortcut around the south end of the Oquirrh Mountains between Tooele and what was left of Salt Lake City.
With the appaloosa in tow, not identified as one of the local horses, Edge offered the cow to the young boy who had proved so helpful. His eyes lit up, and he extended his hand and thanked Edge as they shook. The father of the girl had wondered how to thank the young man and approved. Not to be outdone, he offered Clint an ancient but serviceable pistol with a small bag of ammunition. In this remote area, the gift was a regal token of appreciation. On his return, the boy would be envied and congratulated.
The young man was left to herd the animals back to town, and the rescue party departed in good spirits. The girl implored her father to allow her on his horse, and the appaloosa remained riderless as they moved out to catch the wagons.
Edge, as the man who earned him, understood that the horse was a spoil of war.
Chapter 10
Ruins always sobered those on the wagon train. By the time Salt Lake City had been leveled by Executive Order, the entire valley had been filled with homes and businesses. Much of the destruction had been hidden by time, along with the vegetation that grew up after, but the size of the city amazed everyone. Reno was big, and those from Roseburg were properly impressed, but Salt Lake excited even those living in and used to Reno. Many of the tallest buildings in Salt Lake were still standing, though damaged on one side and leaning away from the heaviest destruction. They stood as a testament to what once was and what might have been.
The explosion that resulted in a zero population within the valley between the Wasatch and Oquirrh Mountain ranges and significantly west, north, and south destroyed more than a city. But the present day wagons that
so closely resembled the earliest pioneer’s conveyances were used by people who knew nothing about that past. Other than some legends that had filtered down by word of mouth, the trade expedition only knew that some areas grew back in small numbers and became adept at some form of industry… or they did not.
Even the radiation that had kept Salt Lake dangerous to any organic life had dissipated over time, and the threat had been long forgotten. There were better places to live, so what was left of the city moldered into wreckage, and the winds blew eerily through vacant windows in tall buildings. The people living in the few surrounding communities shunned the area as haunted.
This was where the employment of a guide became important. The highway straight through the city and up to the Wasatch Mountains was no longer viable. The crater directly beneath the blast had severed the concrete length of road that connected the east and west stretches of I-80, and the surrounding destruction created a maze of wasteland and destroyed obstacles. Cy had learned from his father as his father had learned from his, and the caravan turned south and around the epicenter of destruction.
There were two major routes into Denver from the west. Coming toward Utah, a mounted party of well-armed men could choose to make a more direct approach by using the old Highway 50. Eventually they would pass through the I-70 corridor, up to the Eisenhower Tunnel and down into Denver. The route was dry in many places, though never as much as the Salt Flats. The tunnel was intact but blocked to wagons at each end and would have to be cleared if ever to be used again. Wagons could go up and over the top of the Rockies on steep and dangerous roads. The major obstacles, and the ones making the decision easy in favor of the road to the north, were the cannibals.
The Sevier Valley, once a green and welcoming agricultural area dotted by small towns in decline, had been repopulated by people on the edge of sanity. When the plagues hit, the survivors and those who chose to pass through but stayed became a cloister of marginal civilization. After resources ran out because of time and natural decay and an especially harsh winter, the inhabitants reverted to anything they could do to survive. Strangers, always suspect even before the plague event, became a source of protein.
Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) Page 9
