by Leona Grace
The last heel of bread was getting stale and he pulled out his knife to slice it in half. A rummage through his supplies produced the last four hard-boiled eggs, their shells cracked but the contents edible. There would be no fire to fry the bread or boil water this morning, even though he craved the warmth – not until they were off the barren heights and into the lower slopes further on where they might find a stream. Now the packhorse was back, he could take all his supplies but fuel had to be saved for emergencies.
He poured a mug of cold water and nudged the sleeping boy with one foot. “Sooner we’re on our way the better. I’ll start loading Bran.” He dropped half the bread and two eggs on the boy’s blankets. “Breakfast. We’ll eat as we ride.”
A groan of annoyance at being disturbed, but then the boy flung back his blankets and rolled out before making his way behind the rocks to piss. By the time he returned, yawning and rubbing his face, Archer had the panniers ready to be loaded. They worked together, lifting the bulky carriers and settling them evenly on the broad back of the packhorse.
He watched the boy as he worked: hands easing the straps and making sure the load was secure, gentling the horse when a bag slipped, whispering in one ear to praise the animal. “You’ve a way with horses. Buck’s the same; he grew up working with them from what I’ve learned.” He finished bridling Meg and shook dust off her saddle pad. “Was it the same for you?”
Duane found Rusty’s bridle, busying himself with buckles and straps and smoothing down the gelding’s unruly forelock. “I worked with a team of mules for a year. They’re much the same – just need treating right.”
It was an answer, of sorts, and he left the lad to work and finished getting Meg ready for the ride: canteen, rifle in its leather boot, knife close at hand. He swung himself into the saddle and took a last look round. Nothing left behind other than dung and footprints and a small circle of dead ash from last night’s fire. “You take point to start with.” He gestured to the trail winding ahead. “See the line? We’re heading for the pass ahead. And take Bran with you.” Might as well get some use from the boy. Without the packhorse alongside, he could sleep in the saddle and leave the rest to Meg.
A pleasant ride, eyes half-closed under the brim of his hat, the sun warm on his back and the steady rhythm of hooves on earth. The rain had soaked away, leaving only a bare trace of its presence in the smell of damp earth and the occasional drip as the last of yesterday’s downpour seeped through cracks and fell to earth. Meg walked placidly, teeth grinding the bit but not pulling and he was left to doze, hands resting on the pommel, his body swaying in time with her steady pace.
They stopped mid-morning for a break while they had the chance. The next part of the trail took them down a canyon with steep walls and they were forced to lead the horses; a difficult walk, the rock wall on their left, a sheer drop to the floor of the valley on the other side. Neglect and the weather had left the narrow path littered with fallen stones, and small landslides conspired to hinder their passage. A stubborn mule, or one overloaded and tired after a long day’s work, might easily slip or catch its load on one of the rocks. He led the way, holding onto Bran’s halter and reassuring the gelding with hand and voice while Meg followed, sure-footed as ever. He could hear the boy encouraging the sorrel to follow behind the mare.
They were all weary by the time the path bottomed out, running in a gentle slope down to the floor of the canyon. After the storm, there was little threat of a downpour but even so the walls loomed over them as they walked, keeping a close watch for boulders loosened by the rains. The canyon widened out into a small valley, scrubby trees and vegetation on their right and a couple of deer browsing on leaves, the animals darting away before he had any chance to shoot one. Further on, a trickle of water furrowed a path down the rock wall on their left into a small pool at the base. The only fresh water they had found so far. He stopped to take a mouthful. It was clean and cold and he refilled their canteens and let the horses drink before they mounted and rode on, keeping alongside the rock wall where the going was easier.
There was a strange beauty to the valley – the quiet and stillness, hooves thudding on dirt, the chink of metal, hot sun and red rock, the faded grey of brittlebush. Bright green shoots were already pushing through the soil. They rode alongside each other in the companionable way of men. No need for talk, Duane with one hand relaxed on his thigh, Bran’s lead rope held in a loose grasp. Archer stopped by a dead tree and found his axe. The dry wood yielded to the sharp blade and he loaded a generous armful into one of Bran’s packs, aware of the gelding’s huff of annoyance.
“Hot food tonight.”
Duane rewarded him with a smile.
They carried on, the sun at its highest, their shadows small and dark, heat pressing down on them. Duane shuffled in the saddle, slipping one foot from the stirrup to stretch it out. He glanced over at Archer. “Cramp.”
“We’ll stop to rest the horses. Look for somewhere in the shade.”
The path twisted, turned a corner and they came across a rough shelter leaning precariously against one towering face, the walls built from slabs of rock, the roof made of branches and sods of earth. Close by the doorway he saw a narrow tunnel dug into the canyon wall. A mine of some sort. There were hundreds of these forgotten excavations dotted around the land, dug out by people who had no idea what to look for, or how to search for precious metals, even what it looked like in the rock. Some found fool’s gold, a rare few discovered wealth, most found death at the hands of the weather or collapsing tunnels or sickness. Not to mention predators.
Duane was staring at the hut.
“Want to look?” He wouldn’t force it. There was no knowing what was behind the stones of the walls.
The lad shrugged. “Maybe.”
The entrance was narrow and low, the gaps in the roof giving him enough light to see inside. Duane held back.
It was as he suspected: one room, the ceiling low, the floor nothing more than bare rock. Bundles of sticks tied together to form a crude bed, a hole in the roof to let smoke escape. A ragged threadbare blanket on the bed, a small stack of firewood against the rock wall. A kettle and pan and plate by the fire pit. A tin mug on the floor with a spoon beside it. Insects scuttled for cover. Cobwebs filled one corner. Nothing else remained. Wind had blown sand against the rock face, the walls sagged inwards, the roof looked perilous. It would fall soon enough, perhaps in the next few months. He stepped out again and shook his head, glad the boy had not followed him.
“Guess whoever it was gave up. I’ll check the tunnel.”
There were no bones inside the crude shelter but that meant nothing. He went over to the entrance cut into the rock. A man would have to crawl on hands and knees to get inside. Not that there was much chance of seeing anything in the pitch blackness beyond the entrance, but curiosity niggled him. There were no signs of predators or the tracks of insects, but something about the shelter and the tunnel and those few possessions had him concerned.
“Stay here.” He handed Meg’s reins to the lad and bent to inspect the tunnel, crawling a few feet inside. Without light he was blind, hands sweeping over the floor, his head bent to avoid cracking it open on the rough ceiling. Fingers touched something hard and smooth and he recoiled, imagining bones or even a skull, but a second tentative exploration revealed it as a wooden handle – one end splintered and broken. He moved closer and ran his hand down the length, finding cold metal at the other end. A broken pickaxe.
His matches were in the pocket of his vest, and he dug one out, striking the end on his thumbnail and holding it above his head in the still, thick air. It guttered for a moment and then flared into life and he waited until the darkness faded. The tunnel expanded, creating enough space for a man to stand, but it ended in a wall of rough-hewn rock a few feet further on, and a tumble of heavy stones fallen from the roof. Familiar pale shapes were strewn across the rough floor and he closed his eyes for a moment as he saw the remains of the miner, t
he bones of one hand still stretching out to a thin seam of ore glittering in the wall. Was it gold? Whatever it was, the man had died trying to reach it.
There was nothing else here, and he was about to retreat when the match died. He paused to light another, aware of Duane outside in the sunshine and waiting for him. The match lasted longer this time, enough to let him see a cluster of stones fallen from the rock face and he reached out for a few and dropped them into one pocket before edging his way back outside, desperately glad to feel the sun on his back again.
He heard the boy swallow. “Anything there?”
“Just a broken pickaxe. He must’ve known there was no point in carrying on. He’d have had to go to Vancross or Dalton’s Gap to buy a new one and most likely he gave it up as a bad job.” He stretched his spine, wondering how the miner had managed to dig anything out of the tunnel in such a confined space. “There’s nothing else here. Lead off.”
He climbed back in the saddle, eager to leave the hut and tunnel behind him. A flick of the reins and Meg walked alongside the sorrel.
“Would he have been looking for gold? I didn’t know there was any round here.”
“Who knows why he came here? Maybe he saw something in the rock or he found a nugget washed down by the floods. He might have just wanted to be alone, like a hermit. People do foolish things sometimes. He’d have struggled to find food for himself, let alone a horse if he had one.”
He didn’t tell the boy about the skeleton. Some things were best left unsaid. There was nothing to say who the man was, or when he had mined here, and someday soon the crude shelter would tumble into a heap of stones, hiding tunnel and bones forever.
If he ever came this way again – without the boy – he might do a proper investigation of the area, maybe fashion a simple grave marker, but that was unlikely. “Let’s move on. Find somewhere…”
“Shady.” Duane kneed his horse into a trot and Archer gave one glance back before following.
***
An hour before sunset they found a place to stop for the night – the terrain easier now, the vegetation thicker, a small stream making its way down the slopes to the wide valley beyond. Archer set a small fire and made coffee while his companion settled the horses. They ate jerky and biscuits with gravy, and he handed the lad the final apple from his supplies.
“Who was he? The miner?”
Archer drained the last of his coffee and put the mug down. “No idea. Could have been anyone.”
“He was in the tunnel, wasn’t he? I saw your face. What happened to him?”
He should have told the lad. Nothing good ever came from keeping the truth hidden. “He was trapped by a rock fall. From what I could see, his skull’d been crushed so it would’ve been quick.”
“How long ago? I mean…”
“Years. He was just bones and some rags, nothing more. I should have told you.”
“You thought I’d be scared? I’ve seen bodies before. Mr Bishop for one, and others.”
“Bones are different. Not many folks like looking at skulls.” He’d seen enough during the war – bodies left to rot or buried in too-shallow graves, broken skulls grinning at him from ditches or beneath trees.
“You asked about my family.” The apple was little more than a stem now and the boy threw it away with a look of regret, then sat forward, wrapping his arms around his knees.
He waited.
“Dad had a store. Nothing big but enough to keep us all fed. I was about seven at the time. The oldest in the family.”
A pause. “What did he sell?”
“Everything.” A quick, boyish grin that faded as quickly as it came. “Hardware he called it, pots and pans, rope, tools, that sort of thing. I used to count out nails for him and put them in paper bags. He let me help serve the customers or go with him when he made deliveries.”
“Where was it? The store?”
The boy shrugged. “The town was called Greenville. But I couldn’t tell you where. I don’t remember much about it, other than we had the store and we lived in the back. Then he told us we were moving, joining a wagon train heading west. There’d be better money and more land and a bigger store and everything a family could want. Nearly everyone we knew was going – most of the neighbours, a lot of friends, people who came into the store. It was an adventure at first. Out on the trail, riding the mules, sleeping outside. There was a whole wagon train, hundreds of them or so it seemed.” He shrugged again. “I was young. Every day was exciting, until…”
Archer leaned back. The horses were resting, the fire was hot. He had a full belly – or at least he wasn’t hungry – and they’d made good time today. Now it was time to listen.
“My sisters were ill one morning. I don’t remember much about it, just that my ma was crying and my pa said I wasn’t allowed back in the wagon and I had to go and stay with the Carters – just for a while until they were better. The Carters’d been neighbours and at first I wasn’t worried, but after one night I wanted to go home. I remember running down the line of wagons, calling for my pa, looking for the mules I used to ride. Mr Carter dragged me back and said I wasn’t to do that again. And then I was sick as well and I had a headache and my throat hurt and Mr Carter gave me some medicine and made me sleep outside. Everyone else slept in the wagon, even though it was hot. I don’t remember much, just being sick and thirsty for a long time. When I woke up, I couldn’t see any wagons. Not a sign of one. They’d left me behind. I should have been grateful they’d left some food and a canteen of water and my clothes and shoes. Everything I owned.” He swallowed, hard.
Archer poured out another coffee and stirred in a couple of sugar lumps. Whisky would have helped but the bottle was tucked away in Bran’s load. He passed the mug over. “When you’re ready.”
“I picked up the bag and started walking. I reckoned if I kept going I’d be bound to catch them sooner or later. And my pa would have realised what had happened and he’d make them turn round and come back for me. So I kept on – only everywhere looked the same to me and I had no idea I was going the wrong way. I stopped to eat when I was hungry and lay down when it got too dark to walk. The food didn’t last long.”
“I think I can guess what happened.” He sighed. “Was it measles or cholera?”
“I don’t know. I found my family though, what was left of them.”
“How long?”
“Had they been dead? I don’t know that either. The wagon was closed and someone had taken the mules. I could hear flies buzzing and there was an awful stink.” The boy shook his head and dragged one arm across his face. “I remember shouting and climbing inside expecting to find them all waiting for me. It was… They were all…”
The shoulder was thin under his hand, the bones shaking. “I owe you an apology.”
“Not your fault.”
“I meant, what I did. Leaving you like that. Like the Carters did.”
“You weren’t to know. No one else does. After that I didn’t go inside again but I stayed near the wagon for days. There was some food and water in the boxes I could get at, and I had nowhere else to go.”
“How old were your sisters?”
“Five. Stella and May. They were twins. I always wanted a brother but they were okay I suppose. I still miss them.” He went quiet.
“So who found you?” The nearest wagon trail was a hundred miles from here, passing through Vancross.
“Soldiers. They were heading for the next town and stopped to take a look. I was half-starved and too weak to try to hide. They were kind enough. They burned the wagon where it stood and stuck me in front of one of them on a horse before I could run away. We got to the town a few days later and they put me in an orphanage. For a long time I wish they hadn’t found me.” His lips tightened.
An orphanage. Archer had seen prisons better run than some orphanages. “And that was it? No one went after the Carters for abandoning you?”
“Who would have believed me? I was just a child.” He
stretched out his fingers and stared at them. “At least Tom Walker had his mother and people who cared about him. I had nothing.”
“Tom Walker was lucky. Other tribes might not’ve been so welcoming. But what the soldiers are doing is nothing short of murder. They were lucky to survive.”
“I hope she’s safe.” The boy cast a quick glance at Archer.
“Red Moon? I hope so as well. I guess his stepfather taught him to look after himself, which is why they managed to survive so long with the army hunting them.” He looked at the boy. “I’m hoping they go to the ranch and I can find him some work and make life a little easier for both of them. If they do, I’d like to think you might be a friend to her. It can be a hard time for any young child on a ranch with only adults around. It can’t have been much fun for you.”
Duane shrugged. “It was a lot better than the orphanage. And I guess it was easier being a boy.”
“So how did you get to the Bishop ranch?”
“I used to run errands for the orphanage and one day there was a man in the store who had a mule train. He was looking for a boy to help out and I said I could do it. He said they had beans and stew to eat and a bed of my own if I wanted to join them, and that was enough for me. By then I’d’ve done anything to get a full belly.”
The fire was dying down. By rights they should be settling down to sleep, but the lad was staring at the embers, hunched over as if in pain. And Archer knew about pain and how it had to come out, like a splinter. It was going to hurt but, if left, it would fester. He added more wood to the fire.
With any luck they’d reach the end sometime tomorrow afternoon and rest the horses before heading for Dalton’s Gap the following morning. He’d wasted a half-day after the storm, but there was no point in getting annoyed with himself. If it hadn’t been for the boy, he would never have made it this far. “Hard work, ’specially for a young lad. How old were you, then?”
