Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Megan, no! Come back here, Megan!” She tried to run after her daughter and nearly darted into the path of an onrushing horse, pivoting to safety at the last possible second. Panting hard, she clung to the porch as the man who’d nearly run her down galloped through her clothesline, sending freshly laundered shirts and pinafores flying, trampling newly-scrubbed bloomers into the dirt.

  The dog screamed then, the sound sharp and high pitched in the manner of dogs when they’re surprised by an unexpected pain. Dogs and little children are convinced of their invulnerability and so pain always comes to them as a shock. It seemed remarkable that so piercing a sound could issue from so small an animal. Only rabbits can scream louder.

  Eventually the horsemen gathered on the far side of the devastated colony. Distance and the hard breathing of horses drowned out their crude comments and muted their laughter as they turned and rode off together toward the upper end of the canyon. Soon the air belonged again to the song of the creek and the calling of birds, save for a flurry of anxious calls and the occasional moan.

  Moving with the slowness of the damned and displaying the utter despair of those who have experienced more tragedy than is fair, the miners and their families began returning to the creek and to their homes—those that remained standing. The dust and the dirt that the invaders had stirred up didn’t bother them. They lived with that every day, and a dozen horsemen raised no more soil than a good wind. It was the frequency of these malign visitations that was becoming harder and harder to bear. The frequency of them, and the certain knowledge that today’s visit was not the last.

  Hands recovered tools and hats from the ground and the shallow water. Men who had endured twenty-foot snows and near starvation wept silently over broken sluice boxes and bent gold pans. Those lucky ones who this time had lost but little joined together to help those less fortunate recover what they could. Somewhere an infant was crying softly, muffled and warm as its mother tried to rock it to sleep.

  Near the edge of the creek Megan Wheeler knelt alongside something that resembled an old, torn shoe. She was crying silently as she picked up the tiny body. It was light in her arms, much lighter than the filled water bucket had been, and in death it appeared smaller than ever. She was choking slightly, not on her tears but on her anger, and she ignored the blood that stained her hands.

  Turning, she quietly beseeched her neighbors and acquaintances for some kind of recognition of her loss, for some small expression of concern. None was forthcoming. The numbed citizens of Carbon Canyon had no sorrow to expend on a dead mongrel. They were too busy trying to reassemble their own lives from the chaos the invaders had wrought.

  Megan was old enough to realize that no one could help, that there was nothing that could be done. That didn’t keep her from wishing it were otherwise. She had sought sympathy and had found none. There’s little sympathy in a beaten man, and the inhabitants of Carbon Canyon were just about beat. One more ride through, one more party would finish them.

  Megan didn’t care about that, didn’t care about the future of the town-to-be or the hard-pressed people who comprised it. She cared only about the dead animal in her arms, which she had loved. She started climbing the slope toward the treeline.

  Sarah saw her daughter coming and took a step in her direction, then halted. She’d been hurt deeply herself, having lost someone she’d loved, and she knew from experience that there were no simple, soothing words, no verbal tonic that could ease the pain in her daughter’s heart. She knew Megan well enough to know that for now it would be better to say nothing. The girl was stubborn and determined. She would want to know why. She would want reasons, and Sarah had none to give. Having no answer for herself, she could not possibly have one for her grieving daughter.

  So she simply stood there close by the cabin and watched as her child made her own way into the wooded upper slopes that framed the canyon. Children grew up fast in this country, and by running to Megan now Sarah knew she could do more harm than good. Then she turned her attention to the ruined laundry, the trampled vegetable garden. She had work of her own to attend to, and the sooner she started on it the less time she would have to spend thinking about it.

  It was quiet in the forest. Up over the ridge and in among the pines and spruces you couldn’t hear the creek, much less the resigned chatter of those eking out a living along its banks. That suited Megan just fine. She had no time for them now, not for their complaints or their excuses. Her own personal tragedy overwhelmed everything else that had happened this morning.

  After a brief search she found the spot she wanted, a hollow between tree roots where falling pine needles and other debris had collected to form a thick mulch above the underlying granite. It was easy to excavate a small hole in the soft organic soil. The grave didn’t have to be very big to accommodate the tiny body.

  She laid the corpse of the puppy gently into the basin, then covered it with the material she’d scooped out, patting it down firmly in hopes of keeping the scavengers away for a little while, at least. It would have been better if she’d had some big rocks to put atop the grave, but there weren’t any in the immediate vicinity and suddenly she was too tired to go hunting for some. The packed earth and mulch would have to suffice.

  She sat back on her haunches, alone there in the silent woods, and regarded the grave. Then she recited the words she’d been taught to say at such times. But the comfort they usually gave was cold, and she couldn’t keep the underlying bitterness from spreading into her voice.

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—but I do want. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.” She paused and tilted her head back to look skyward. It was a distant sheet of cloud-flecked blue pierced by the high crowns of the tall trees that surrounded her.

  “But they killed my dog! Why did you let them kill my dog?”

  When no reply was forthcoming, she swallowed and forced herself to continue. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil—but I’m afraid. They’ll come back. I know they will. They’ve come before and they’ll come again. Nobody talks about it. It’s like if they ignore it, it’ll go away, but it hasn’t gone away, and it isn’t going to, is it?” A longer pause this time. Might as well finish it, she told herself tiredly. For all the good it will do.

  “For thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me—but we need more than comfort. We need a miracle.” She licked her lips. “Mother says miracles happen, sometimes. The book says they happen. Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life—if you exist. And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  She rose then and stared silently down at the hidden grave. There was no need for a marker. No one else would give a damn. A few of them would laugh at her if she told them what she’d done here and asked someone to make her a cross. She didn’t need one. She knew where the place was, knew she could find it again whenever she wanted. Linsey. Wasn’t even growed into a proper dog yet. Didn’t know enough to run like everyone else. Didn’t know enough to be scared.

  It was going to be lonelier than ever in the little cabin now, especially during the long winter nights to come.

  Again she turned her gaze heavenward. “Understand, Lord, I want to dwell in your house forever, but I’d like to get a little more out of this life first, and if you don’t help us, some of us are going to get hurt real bad and maybe even killed. Because those men are going to keep coming back. Please? I don’t think I’m asking for too much. Just one miracle. A little one—about Linsey’s size?”

  She looked at the grave a last time, and wiped the tears from first the right eye, then the left. Then she turned away and started back toward the camp. Her mother would be getting worried about her. Soon she’d start searching for her, and Megan knew her mother had enough to worry about without having to concern herself with the whereabouts of a wayward daughter.

  But despite her resolve to be grown-up about it, it w
as very difficult to leave the grove behind, and harder still to keep from looking back.

  If she’d looked back maybe she might have seen the horseman. Or maybe not. In order to do so she would have had to stare into the sun. It would have been hard to see him under the best of conditions. He was far away, so far it was difficult to determine whether he was resting on the near ridge or the one behind it. Both man and horse appeared tired, as if they’d ridden in from a considerable distance.

  The man wore a battered mackinaw to ward off nighttime chill and a broad-brimmed hat to shield his face from the sun. Both coat and hat were tinged with the last vestiges of morning frost. Nor had he shaved recently, though whether this oversight was a matter of choice or due to a lack of congenial surroundings you couldn’t tell without asking, and if given the chance you probably wouldn’t ask. There was in that solemn, angular face and unwavering stare something that discouraged foolish conversation. One didn’t talk to the horseman unless one had something worthwhile to say, and even then you might not be favored with a response.

  He sat straight and easy in the saddle as he surveyed the world below the high ridge: the snow-covered peaks that had claimed the unfortunate Donner party back in ’47; the mountain valleys running green with spruce and pine, fir and sequoia; the clear-running creeks of sweet water that filtered down out of the mountains to fill the distant American River, the river of gold.

  Placer gold, easy to recover, and largely played out now, but still capable of luring with its promise men and women from around the world. Miners who followed the color back up the streams that fed the American in hopes of finding the mother lodes, the source of the yellow metal that had been discovered by accident at Sutter’s Mill.

  Poor old John Sutter, the horseman thought. Everyone knew the story. The gold had been discovered on his land, by one of his employees. Forty-niners had run roughshod over his fields, ruining his farms and frightening off his stock. The gold had ruined his fortune and his health. The precious metal wasn’t always a blessing to everyone who found it. Some people craved it, others went mad for the lack of it, a few rare souls sought to put it to good use.

  As for the pale rider, he had no need of it. There were more important things to attend to. They troubled his mind this morning, and he wished he could lay them to rest.

  Should be a town below, he knew, or at least a place where a tired traveler could buy a hot meal and coffee. Now that would be a discovery worth laying claim to. He flicked the reins of his mount just barely, but the horse understood and responded. Quadruped and biped knew and respected each other. They got along just fine. The rider didn’t have to guide the animal into the autumnal forest below.

  In Carbon Canyon despair gradually gave way to resignation, and resignation to work. Men dusted themselves off, physically and mentally, and started to put their lives back together. There were cabins to be repaired and, in at least one case, rebuilt. Long Toms were inspected with critical eyes. Those that were least damaged were lifted and straightened while their owners went in search of hammers and nails to repair the broken legs. Pans and picks were extricated from the water and gravel. They were more important than the sluice boxes. A sluice could be patched and repaired, but a good pick or shovel would cost a man two months’ digging to replace.

  The women worked their way through more domestic debris, recovering scattered utensils and personal effects while trying to make sense out of their sullied laundry. Today the evening meal would appear on the crude, knocked-together tables a few hours later than usual. Children had their uses too. According to their age they were set to work restacking firewood, washing pots and pans, and chasing temporarily liberated chickens and pigs back into sties and coops.

  Not everyone was engaged in repairing the damage the riders had caused. Those who had suffered little had plenty of other work to do. At the far end of the canyon, where the stream called Carbon widened and slowed slightly, Hull Barret chucked the reins of the old buckboard and urged his mare onward. No padded lady’s coach, the buckboard had been salvaged from the shell of an old Conestoga. It wasn’t pretty, but it was strong enough to haul ore and provided the closest thing to public transport that existed in the canyon. At the moment, its owner was its sole passenger.

  A big-boned twenty-year-old noticed its approach. The boy—for boy Eddy Conway was, a boy in the body of a man—loped down the slope where he’d been working to confront his father’s friend.

  “Quittin’, Mr. Barret?” He glanced back up the creek. “They sure did make a mess o’ things this time, didn’t they?” He let out a long whistle by way of emphasis.

  Hull’s reply was firm. “Not quitting, Eddy. Just going into town. Somebody’s got to. Some of the sluices are needin’ new posts and we’re running low on some other things. Nails, salt, coffee. Going to try and get some of that newfangled glue that comes in cans.”

  The younger Conway bestowed a guileless grin on the older man. “Ain’t that awful dumb, Mr. Barret? ’Member what happened to ya last time? Ya don’t want that to happen again, do ya?”

  “I’ll worry about it, Eddy. You get back to your work.” He chucked the reins again, trying to get a little more speed out of the mare. He wanted to get clear of the canyon before any more of his friends and neighbors noticed what he was about and tried to dissuade him. He was afraid they might succeed.

  Conway stepped aside. “Sure thing, Mr. Barret.”

  Where the creek formed a deep pool, Teddy Conway, Eddy’s twin brother in body and mind, sat contently staring at the motionless tip of his fishing pole. He sat up as the wagon came trundling by.

  “Quittin’, Mr. Barret?”

  The miner sighed. The Conway boys had hearts as big as the mountains but unfortunately not enough brains between them to tie a pair of shoes. Their daddy had to attend to the simplest domestic chores for them. To everyone’s astonishment, Spider Conway managed to do just that while working his claim as well. Everyone knew that Eddy and Teddy’s mother had died giving birth to them and that ever since Spider had been forced to be both mama and daddy to them. It was on account of this that the women of Carbon Canyon tolerated Spider’s occasional outbursts of foul language and explosive drunkenness in their company.

  At the moment, though, Hull Barret wasn’t feeling very kindly or understanding towards his fellow man.

  “Just going to town, Teddy,” he said darkly. His tone had no effect on the youth, just as it hadn’t affected his brother Eddy. Both boys were utterly innocent of the subtleties of human communication.

  So he asked blithely, “Ain’t that kinda dumb, Mr. Barret?”

  Hull threw him a look. At least Teddy didn’t say anything about what had happened the last time. The painful reminder was unnecessary. There was nothing wrong with Barret’s own memory.

  In essence, of course, the boys were right. It was stupid of him to be going to town, especially now, in light of what had happened today. But damn it, somebody had to go into town for supplies. Otherwise they might as well all pack up and pack it in. But as he’d just told both boys, he wasn’t quittin’.

  He could feel the boy’s eyes on his back as he edged the buckboard around a big rock.

  The blouse was worse than dirty. Flying hooves had torn one of the sleeves. Sarah’s lips tightened as she retrieved it from the mud and held it up to the light. Yes, it could be patched. A shawl would hide the scar, and she could do most of the sewing under the arm, where it wouldn’t show. She added it to the soiled basketful of clothing tucked under her arm. Of the widely scattered laundry, only the blouse had suffered damage. Dirt and mud could be removed. All it amounted to was a little extra work. It could have been much worse.

  She started back into the cabin and just did espy the buckboard passing below.

  “Hull? Hull, is that you?”

  The buckboard’s occupant heard the call but did not turn. He continued to stare grimly straight ahead. Sarah Wheeler was not so easily ignored, however. She put the basket aside,
abandoning the laboriously recovered laundry to the wind and the elements. Picking up her hem, she raced down the slope.

  “Hull Barret, you stop that wagon! I know you can hear me, Hull. You stop this instant!”

  She was alongside the slowly moving wagon in a moment, panting hard as she paced it and staring up at its stony-faced driver. “Hull, you’re not going into town. I won’t let you.”

  A slight smile creased the miner’s face. His reply was gentle. “ ’Preciate your concern, Sarah.”

  “It’s more than concern; it’s plain common sense. You know what I’m talking about, Hull.”

  He nodded tersely. “Eddy and Teddy just reminded me. Don’t you start in on me too, Sarah.”

  “Hull, you can’t go into town, Lahood’s men will be there!”

  “Somebody’s got to do something.”

  “But why you?” She strode alongside the wagon, trying to keep her eyes on the man atop the bench seat while negotiating the uncertain footing ahead.

  “Guess I’m the only fool who’s determined to stick it out no matter what, Sarah,” he replied quietly. “Looks like everyone else is ready to quit. Near enough, anyways. If I don’t go fetch what we need, then it’ll be more’n near enough. Everyone’ll be gone by morning.”

  “Then let them leave!” she snapped angrily. “They’re right. We should all quit. Give Lahood what he wants. He’s going to get it eventually. This patch of mud’s not worth your getting hurt again. Don’t you see that?”

  “Guess not. Maybe it’s because this patch of mud’s all we got. Never had no land of my own before this. Always worked somebody else’s land or somebody else’s store or somebody else’s farm.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the settlement. “Same’s true for most of the others. That’s why they’re here.” He smiled reassuringly down at her. “Lahood’s just bruised us, Sarah. He hasn’t broken us. Not me, anyways.”