by Ben Reeder
The Verge Walker
Book 1:
The Long Walk
Ben Reeder
George Canfield
The Long Walk
Copyright © 2017 Ben Reeder George Canfield
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons or entities is strictly coincidental.
Cover art by Angela Gulick Design.
Other books by Ben Reeder:
The Demon’s Apprentice series:
The Demon’s Apprentice
Page of Swords
Vision Quest
The Zompoc Survivor series:
Zompoc Survivor: Exodus
Zompoc Survivor: Inferno
Zompoc Survivor: Odyssey
Prologue:
“C’mon, Abe,” Clint whispered in his twin brother’s ear. “Shoot it already.”
Abel Carson nudged his brother away with his right elbow before he eased the hammer back on the Model 1795 musket. “Shush, ya damn fool,” he whispered. Adding a bit of a swear word emphasized all seventeen minutes of his status as the elder twin, at least to his way of seeing it. “It’s still on the bank of the crick. I shoot it now, an’ it’s liable to fall in and get washed away and we’ll never find it.” He sighted down the barrel of the musket and put the bead just below and in front of the jackrabbit’s heart. Only a few more steps, and it would be off the slope of the creek’s bank, and he could shoot it without worrying about it falling in. Most days, it wouldn’t be a worry, but the recent rains had swollen the little flow almost beyond its banks. Anything that fell in those waters would end up a mile downstream lickety-split.
The rabbit took a couple of hopping steps away from the bank, then froze in place. Its nose came up and quivered, its brown furred head twisting back and forth. After a few moments of testing the air, it froze, looking right in the boys’ direction. Then, with a bound, it took off running.
“Dang it, Abel, gimme that!” Clint said as he snatched up the musket and surged to his feet. He leaned forward and bent his knees, twisting at the hips until the bead was right on the rabbit’s center. He pulled the trigger as he continued to sweep the gun’s barrel past his target, and the gun bucked against his shoulder as fire and smoke erupted from the end of the musket. When the smoke cleared, he could see the jackrabbit’s body lying a few feet back from where he’d hit it. “Told ya I shoulda been the one shootin’,” he said.
“Any damn fool can hit somethin’ with a barrel fulla grape shot,” Abel said. He snatched the rifle from his brother and pulled the powder horn and his possibles bag from his belt. “Where you goin’?” he demanded as Clint started toward the rabbit.
“Gonna go git our dinner.”
“Reload first,” Abel said. “Like Pa taught us. Always see to your gun and your horse, Clint.”
“Pa weren’t no ‘count for nuthin,” Clint said with a dismissive wave as he headed for the rabbit. “You reload the damn gun. I’m gonna go get our dinner.”
“You don’t talk about Pa like that,” Abel said from behind him. “Even if he weren’t worth nuthin’, he’s still our Pa, and we still got to show him respect. Pastor Flint says it’s in the Bible.”
“Pastor says a lotta things that don’t make no sense,” Clint said as he reached the dead rabbit. As he crouched, movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he slowly lifted his head, then stifled a surprised gasp. Not fifty yards away stood a magnificent buck, its antlers white and glowing in the afternoon sun. Clint turned and waved for Abel to come to him, then laid his palm flat and moved it down a couple of times, then gestured for him to come to him again, signaling that he needed to approach quietly. It was a language the two of them had created on their own, copying the local tribes’ ways of silent talking on the trails.
After a moment, the silence of the woods caught his attention, and he slowly turned to look for Abel. All he saw was the musket leaning against a tree. It wasn’t like Abe to just leave the gun laying around. Of the two of them, Abel was the one who took better care of things, who constantly lectured on how important it was to look after stuff. Still, if he could get to the musket and get a shot off, they’d be eating venison for weeks. He slowly crept back toward the musket, all the while looking for Abel.
When he made it to the tree, he reached out for the gun, and his hand closed on something slick and warm as he noticed the powder flask laying on the ground. He let go of the gun and picked up the flask, then looked at his other hand. His palm was red with blood, and he know it could only have come from his brother.
“Abel?” he called out, the deer forgotten as he snatched up the gun, hoping it was reloaded.
Nearby, the buck stayed still in spite of the presence of the human, in spite of its strident voice calling out, and in spite of the long thing it carried that killed from a distance. Then the human screamed, a shrill sound even for its kind, and a single gunshot rang out. The buck ran, leading a doe and two fawns away from the terror that stalked the woods.
Chapter 1
The rider came from the south, the same direction as the Overland Mail Line’s tracks, and he had the look of a Rigger about him. For most folks around Mendoza Springs, that meant nothing, but for Anne Miller, it was like tossing a coin in the air. As bad as her day had been so far, odds were close to even whether or not this stranger could make it worse. Or if he would. Like any man, a Rigger might be saint or sinner, or something in between, as likely to help as to harm. All that she could be sure if was that if he was a Rigger, he’d seen the Verge, and that was a thing that made a man see the world in a way few could comprehend. She looked to the wagon wheel that lay on the ground beside her wagon, and then to the long shadows, not relishing the thought of a walk home in the dark or spending the night out on the road. And if it was bad for her, she certainly didn’t think her horse would enjoy spending a night in the traces, which meant extra work for her on both ends.
“Afternoon,” the man said in a graveled voice. He’d come to a stop a short distance away. From a few yards off, he looked even rougher than he had from a distance. He wore the distinctive Rigger’s scarf of blue tucked into his shirt, which Anne knew was basically some kind of oversized bandana that let him wear it in more ways than the regular sized scraps of cloth most men favored. Like most of his kind, he wore it wrapped about his head and under a flat brimmed black hat, with the tail of it wrapped about his neck. A stained and patched leather coat covered his torso, with straps that were looped up so as not to drag in the dirt. She could see plain as day the strange gloves that the men who operated the aether-driven trains favored. Also made of thick leather, they ran back beyond the wrist, protecting the wearer from the current in the poles. Black trousers were tucked into dusty brown walking boots, and the glint of sunlight on blued steel showed at his right hip. Her gaze went to the long Henry Repeating Rifle under the wagon’s seat, but it was the reassuring feel of the Colt on her hip that set her most at ease.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “Or rather I wish it was. As you can see, I’m having some trouble with my wagon.”
“Yes’m, seems you are,” the man said. “Is it anything I can be of help with?”
“It’s a busted lynch pin,” Anne said. “It’s a simple enough thing to repair, but it r
equires two people. I’d be much obliged for your help.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the man said. “Happy to be of assistance, Miss…?.” He walked his horse forward, his posture loose but confident. As he came still closer, she could make out his features better. By no means a handsome man in the most fashionable sense, his weathered features weren’t too harsh to look on, either. A clean line to his jaw and a chin with a little cleft stopped just short of dashing. But his eyes...Anne turned away, lest he catch her staring, though the way he turned his head as well to avoid meeting her gaze kept that from being likely. But what she’d seen in them in that split second was enough to make her want to know more even as it gave her a moment of trepidation. His were eyes that had seen too many unpleasant things, eyes that had seen too much suffering and shed far too few tears over them.
“Mrs. Miller.” Anne said primly.
“What would you have me do?” the man asked.
“First,” Anne said with a shake of her head, “I’ll need to do something to keep the wheel from falling off the axle again. Then there’s the matter of getting it back on.”
The man nodded and dismounted from his horse. He led the beast to the back of the wagon and tied the reins off, then drew his knife. The horse whickered softly as the blade hissed against leather.
“Don’t worry, I’m not after using this on you,” the man said. “If I was, I’d’ve done it afore now.” He moved into the brush, and seconds later, there came the ringing sound of steel against wood and the rustle of leaves. Moments later, he stepped out amid a fall of leaves with a thick stick in hand. His blade ran down the length of the twig, carving a wedge out of it. He stopped at the back of the wagon and rummaged about in the boxes of supplies she’d picked up in town. She leaned against the edge of the bed and watched him pull two nails out of the cloth sack, then unwrapped a bit of wire from its spool. Taking up the wooden peg he’d carved, he laid the two nails end to end against it and wrapped the wire tight about the length. When he was done, he had a workable replacement for the original lynch pin.
“We’ll need to wrap the end of the axle once we get the wheel back on,” the man said. As if sensing its moment had come, the horse took the opportunity to butt its head against his chest and knock him to the ground. Anne put her hand to her mouth to suppress the giggle that was trying to escape her lips.
“Horse,” the man grated, “I swear I’m finding me a glue factory to sell you to.” The big creature snorted through its nose and turned away, evidently unconcerned.
The next part was more work but less complex as he arranged a simple lever to lift the wagon up so that the wheel could be mounted again. Between the two of them, the man guessed that they had sufficient strength to do either task, but not both at the same time, which was what was required. After a few moments of thought, though, he headed reached for the length of rope in the back of the wagon, then flung it over a nearby branch before measuring out a length of it and tying off a loop. After testing the knot he tied around the axle, he gestured to Anne.
“Mrs. Miller, if you’d be so kind as to join me,” he said. Curious, she came to his side to inspect the rope and the loop. “I hate to seem overly forward, ma’am, but are you wearing anything….delicate under all of that?” he asked as he gestured to her skirts.
“You are being too forward,” she gasped. “A ladies underthings are no business of a man not her husband, and even then…” she sniffed and turned her head, suddenly aware of the hot flush that was creeping up her neck. It wouldn’t do to let a man think he was eliciting any untoward reactions from a lady. Especially when he really was!
“I apologize, ma’am,” the man said, his voice slow and resonant. “if I gave you the impression that I was asking about your unmentionables. I assure you, I wasn’t. I merely meant that if you had a bustle or something fragile enough that it would break if you were to place more than a few pounds of weight against it.” He held the rope up and parted his hands to reveal a loop that was easily large enough for her to sit comfortably in.
“I... I see,” she said after a brief pause. “You might have asked that in the first place,” she said as she stepped forward, not certain she was as disappointed as she’d let on. He held the loop open and stepped to one side, so that she could easily turn about and place her legs against it. She leaned back, and let her weight settle on the hemp. For a moment, she thought she might swing forward, but the man’s hand held her in place, and the wagon’s weight kept her from descending more than a few inches. Then the rope started sliding, and Anne found herself bending her knees to keep her balance.
“There,” the man said. “No further!” Anne flexed her knees, and the wagon stopped its slow rise. He wrestled the wheel upright, then walked it into place on the axle. A few moments of work got the lynch pin in place, and he set to wrapping the end with leather strapping. All told, the whole job ended up taking less than a quarter hour from the time he had her sit in the loop. At his nod, she stood, and wagon’s weight rested on all four wheels once more.
“That should make it a good twenty or thirty miles, but only just,” the man said.
“Far enough to get me home, and back to the wheelwright,” Anne said. “I am much obliged to you, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, though.”
“No, ma’am, you didn’t,” the man said. “But that’s no fault of yours. I didn’t say it. Name’s Caleb Archer. As to the help, think nothin’ of it.”
“My mind is my own, Mr. Archer,” Anne said with a smile as she climbed aboard the wagon and arranged her skirts to seat herself. “and so I shall think of it. A debt owed to a good man for a good turn.”
Archer put his fingers to the brim of his hat and inclined his head with a smile. “If you insist, ma’am,” he said with the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’d call things square between us if you could point me toward the nearest town.”
“Back that way a couple miles, then turn south where the trail splits. But it’s a half day of riding from here.”
“I’m used to camping under the stars, ma’am. But are you going to make it to the right side of a threshold before the sun sets, Mrs. Miller?” He ignored the opening to invite himself along to her ranch, propriety not the least of his reasons to avoid imposing on her.
“My ranch is close enough that I’ll see my baile well in advance of sunset.”
“Very good then,” Archer replied with a smile. “I’ll be on my way. Godspeed, ma’am.”
“Mr. Archer,” Anne said. He turned and looked at her slowly. “I’ll remember you and commend you to the Lord in my prayers these next few nights.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” He watched as she clucked at the horses, urging them to a trot with a flick of the reins. The wagon clattered out of sight around a bend, and Caleb turned to his mount. “Don’t you look at me like that, you broken down old nag,” he said as the big creature tossed his head and neighed. “Or you’ll end up in a corral in a hail storm. I found you that way, and I got no qualms about leaving you the same way.” Even as he mounted, though, he got the feeling that the horse was in no way intimidated.
Caleb woke from dreams of darkness to true darkness, his pistol in his hand. In the dream, he’d drawn the gun as well, a glowing piece of iron covered in strange sigils that never seemed to rest easy under his eye, all promising death and pain. Had it glowed, ever so briefly, when he’d sat up? Or was that the last remnants of the dream, memory drifting through the fog of sleep and into the waking world? Starlight gleamed off the cold barrel, and the coals of his small fire warmed his side. He looked up, trying to orient himself while trying to decide if he wanted to remember what dreams had jarred him from his slumber.
“Never been good before,” he muttered. “Don’t figure they’re gonna turn all sunshine and daffodils now.” The morning star was bright in the eastern sky, so he pulled the wool blanket aside and got to his feet. He took a stick and poked at the embers of his fire, coaxing a sm
all flame from the glowing coals before he dropped some more sticks onto the fire and built it up. Once it was going, he dumped some coffee grounds into his pot, filled it with water and set it over the fire to boil. While the pot heated, he laid a few thick strips of bacon in a small pan and fried them up. The bacon got set aside as the coffee came to a boil, and he poured a cup. Finally, he took his knife and cut a thick slice from a loaf of bread, leaving only the heel for the next meal.
He ate his meager breakfast with deliberate care, trying to draw every bit of flavor from each bite before he hit the trail. God only knew when he might have his next meal, or what it might be, even a half day from a town.
When the last crust of the bread was washed down with the dregs of the coffee from his tin cup, Caleb cleaned and stowed his gear and kicked the fire out, then saddled up and made his way to the trail the Miller woman had directed him to.
Noon saw Caleb drawing up in the middle of Mendoza Springs. He’d left what little foliage and shade there was to be had behind a couple of hours before when the trail had split away from the river’s verdant path, and had spent the last three hours of his ride wanting something with a little more kick than water to to slake his thirst. At the edge of the lone street that made up what passed for a town was the livery stable, and upwind of it was the Gantry Saloon. The town sat at the base of a low hill, upon which an adobe church sat in silent judgement over the entire town, its bell swaying in the breeze, like a nun shaking her head in disappointment. The rest of the town’s commerce was found along either side of the street, with houses setting on either side of the road that ran up the hill, giving the impression that Mendoza Springs was the refuse that had rolled downhill from the church.
The water trough and what little shade there was to be found was on the side of the livery stable, so Caleb turned his weary mount in that direction and dismounted as his horse bent its head to drink. A boy sat with his legs sticking out of the barn’s hay loft, looking down with the keen interest of all adolescent males at the arrival of a stranger. Caleb reached into his pocket, and the distinctive jingle of silver rang out.
