Brand of the Hunted

by John Glasby

  She shot him a thankful glance, turned and moved into the wagon, pulling the thick canvas tightly over the opening. Neil turned on the tongue of the wagon, holding the leather tightly in his hands. The horses moved forward slowly now, fighting their way through the dancing, swirling haze that roared about them, choking and blinding. His own sorrel moved alongside the wagon. It needed no rope to tether it to the back.

  There were long moments now, minutes which dragged themselves out into individual eternities of uncomfortable straining, choking agony. Leaning forward against the thrusting pressure of the storm, Neil pushed his sight through the yellow haze, looking for any sign of the other wagons.

  Deep down inside, he knew that it would be unlikely that he would catch any glimpse of them until the storm died, blew itself out. Even then there was the possibility that he was driving the wagon in a tight circle, was now miles from the others. There was the chance that they, too, had become scattered, even though he had impressed on them the necessity for keeping close to each other, within sight of the wagon in front.

  In the past too many wagons had been lost entirely in dust storms such as this whenever they blazed their way over the stretching wilderness, and they had not been found until months, perhaps years, later, with the bleached bones telling their own pathetic story of men and women who had died many miles from the nearest waterhole, who had wandered through the sun-caked desert until they had died of thirst.

  If there was a hell anywhere, he thought savagely, surely this was it. This terrible curtain of choking dust which never once let up in its mad whine, which shut off all sight, worked its way painfully into the folds of the skin, mingled irritatingly with the sweat that coursed down the cheeks and along the muscles of his back and chest, worked into his clothing so that there was not a single inch of his flesh which was not on fire with the itching particles that tore and chafed at his body.

  Back inside the wagon it would be little better. It had been a futile gesture telling the woman to go inside. The sand would find its way everywhere, and within minutes of the storm blowing up and swallowing them in its yellow mist, the interior of the wagons would be covered with sand and alkali, not a single inch escaping.

  The wagon lurched as one of the wheels hit an unthrusting boulder. For a second it threatened to tilt over on to its side, and Neil fought savagely to right it. His eyes were blinking as he tried to see in front of him. They were driving over rough, uneven terrain now, not the kind of smooth, flat ground he expected on the trail. Another lurch as he fought for control. Then the canvas at his back parted, was twitched aside, and Virginia Millais peered out at him. Her eyes were wide now, staring up at him in a brief moment of brilliance.

  Suddenly frightened eyes. Then her gaze flickered towards the rearing canyon walls that suddenly loomed up in front of them, crushing in on either side of the wagon. Neil sucked in a sharp breath, cursed himself for not realising this possible reason for the sudden increase in the shrieking howl of the wind. That sudden sharp jump in its speed ought to have warned him that the wind was moving along a constricted path, that they were entering a narrow gorge.

  Clumsily, awkwardly, the wagon moved between the red sandstone walls. He tried to see where they were going, knowing now that the only thing he could do was to let the horses pick their own gait, choose their own path, rely on that strange animal instinct which might guide them through this new danger.

  ‘Get back in there,’ Neil yelled at the top of his voice. He pulled hard on the leather as one of the horses reared, threatened to bolt. He did not even bother to turn his head to see if she had obeyed him. Everything now depended on them being able to ease their way between these tall walls of sandstone, trusting that it was not a box canyon, that at the end of it they would find a dead end.

  The wagon lurched as the rough surface of the canyon wall slid by less than an inch on one side. His sorrel had dropped behind. Perhaps it had already taken fright and bolted into the storm. The thought crossed his mind briefly, then he thrust it away. If that had happened, there was certainly nothing he could do about it now.

  Somehow they had to work their way out of this canyon, out into more open country. There, with the immediate danger lessened, it might be possible for them to ride out the storm. That they were well off the trail, he now realised. But there was nothing for them now but to go on and trust to Providence that they were not too far away, that they would find themselves in sight of the others when the storm passed.

  Thunder from the roaring sweep of the wind. Thunder from the millions of red and yellow grains. His ears hurt with the sound of it. His eyes burned as if they were on fire, the dust having worked its way under the lids, blinding and sore every time he blinked.

  If only it were possible to see, he would have felt easier in his mind. It was the fact that his vision was limited to less than five yards that added immeasurably to the danger.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm was leaving. Neil lifted his head slowly. The whine of the wind was no longer quite as loud or as shrill as it had been just a few minutes earlier. For a few seconds he had the impression that it was nothing more than his imagination. Then he found that he could make out the far end of the canyon, that directly in front of them the floor of the ravine widened, the rearing walls moving away from the trail, and fifty yards ahead lay open country. The sky was noticeably lighter now. The ominous yellowness was fading appreciably, and he could make out the position of the sun overhead, a dull patch of light that was growing brighter with every passing second.

  He pushed the kerchief tighter around his face, breathing through it. As a filter against the whirling grains, it was remarkably efficient, but it tended to become clogged with the alkali, rubbing his cheeks and chin raw and making it difficult to breathe through it after some minutes.

  Narrowing his eyes, he stared straight in front of him. As he watched, the dark yellow curtain rolled across the sky, the ochre colour changed swiftly to blue, and the sun came out, harsh and brilliant, glaring down at them from the broad heavens. Jerking the kerchief from around his face, he sucked in deep breaths of clean, pure air, expanding his chest as he drew it down into his lungs. Gradually the tight ache in his body went away, he found himself able to see more clearly, although there was still a dull red haze hovering in front of his vision.

  They came out into the open country and he reined the horses, standing on the wooden tongue of the wagon, shading his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun, peering in all directions, looking for the other wagons in the train. Virginia Millais stepped out through the opening in the canvas. Her face was streaked with sand and dust, and it had worked its way into her long hair. She licked her dry, cracked lips and rubbed at her cheeks absently.

  ‘Can you see any sign of the others, Mister Roberts?’ she asked in a throaty voice, blinking her eyes against the glare.

  Slowly he shook his head.

  ‘We must have wandered some way off the trail, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have thought they would be too far away. The storm would’ve slowed them just as much as it did us, and this is pretty open country hereabouts. Ought to be able to spot ’em if they’re anywhere within fifteen miles or so.’

  ‘I don’t see them.’

  ‘They’ve got to be around somewhere.’ He clambered down from the wagon. ‘We’ll have to find ’em before dark. By morning they could be clear into the next state, and then we’ll never catch up with ’em.’

  ‘What do you intend to do? You’re not leaving us here, are you?’

  There was a note of apprehensive fear in her voice now as she looked at him anxiously. Neil had moved away from the wagon, then he turned.

  ‘Have no fear of that, Ma’am, but I reckon there ain’t no chance of picking that train out from down here. I was thinking that maybe if I was to climb up to the top of that ravine I might get a better view over the country around here, might be able to pick ’em out more easily. There’s just the chance that we made
even better time than they did, and they’re still moving up behind us. If that’s so, we won’t see ’em until they get level with us, and it might be dark by then.’

  He turned and began to make his way up the steep, rough slope where the sheer walls of the canyon lifted out of the flatness of the desert. Behind them, in the direction they had just travelled, it was impossible to see anything, for the ravine blocked off all vision. It was hard work, climbing that steep slope. His fingers clawed and hooked on to outjutting spurs of rock as he hauled himself up, feet searching for tiny footholds where he could find them. More than once his feet slipped from under him and he was forced to hang there by his hands, shoulder muscles aching with the tearing strain of taking his whole weight on his arms.

  Whipping himself around, grasping tightly at the ledge of rock above his head, he swung outward into space and downward, feet sliding off the inch-wide ledge on which he had been standing. For a split second his fingers threatened to loose their hold, sending him pitching downward to the floor of the canyon some forty feet below him. He dropped until his chest scraped hard on the jagged rock, the impact knocking all of the wind out of his body. Desperately he fought to retain his hold, heaving himself upward with all of the strength in his arm and shoulder muscles, drawing agonising gulps of air down into his straining lungs.

  His vision blurred for a moment. Then he managed to get one elbow hooked over the sharp edge of the ledge above him and hung there for what seemed an eternity — but which could only have been a few seconds — his feet digging against the hard surface of the sandstone, toes kicking savagely as he struggled to make a hole for himself, a slight foothold in the otherwise completely smooth surface.

  Swiftly he pulled himself up a couple of inches, until he had his other elbow over the ledge, and for the moment he had anchored himself securely to the face of the canyon wall.

  Gradually, moving his toes up and down, he found lodgement for his feet, lifted himself slowly and gently, an inch at a time, his arms and elbows taking the strain from the very insecure foothold he had found for himself. A pause, then he gathered his strength, gritted his teeth tightly in his head and made the upward lunge that carried him on to the ledge, where he crawled to safety.

  Sitting upright, he brushed the filming of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, then glanced above him. The top of the canyon was now less than twelve feet away, but here the rocky wall bulged outward a little, like a huge wave of stone, frozen just at the very moment of breaking. It was not going to be an easy matter easing his way around that shoulder of rock, he reflected, but if he wanted to reach the top it had to be done, and there was no sense in sitting there and thinking about it, wasting precious minutes.

  He glanced down for a moment and could just make out the shape of the wagon standing where he had left it, with the figure of Virginia Millais staring up at him, her head tilted back in the sunlight so that she could see him better. He saw that the canvas flap of the wagon had been thrown back and Johnny Millais was peering up at him too, eyes shaded, squinting up against the harsh glare of the burning sunlight.

  He drew in a deep breath, flexed his hands for a moment, then rose carefully to his feet, stood quite still for a moment on the narrow ledge, finding a firm and secure foothold before he made his final attempt on the rocky face.

  Gingerly he edged his heels back until they were poised over the very edge of the ledge, shuffling them a little until he was sure of his stance; then he moved around the blistered, bulging face of rock, body flattened against the sandstone, his belly drawn in until it seemed to be touching his backbone.

  Inching sideways, he found the narrow gully he had hoped might be there, knew that it would be relatively simple to work his way up it now. Pulling himself up with caution, he finally reached the top and threw himself forward, rolling a little way to make certain that he was well away from the lip of the canyon, before sitting up and staring about him.

  Far off to the south-east he could just make out the misty cloud of the storm as it receded over the face of the desert. It stretched across a vast stretch of country and, from that distance, it seemed to be in no real hurry to move.

  Then he lowered his gaze and almost gasped out aloud in his relief. Down there, perhaps two, three miles away and, as he had half-suspected, behind them, were the other wagons, a string of dark dots, partially hidden in the dust of their own drag, edging forward, one behind the other. He reckoned that in less than half an hour they would have drawn level with the canyon, but about a mile to the south.

  Relief from the pressing feeling that they were completely lost was so great that for several moments he could do nothing but stare out at them, holding his breath. He guessed that, having to maintain contact with each other and knowing that the danger of getting lost was ever-present, Clem Jackson had deliberately slowed their pace. He let his breath go in a long sigh, waved an arm to the woman down below, saw her lift her right arm in answer. Then he began his descent. Going down was, if anything, even more difficult and hazardous than the climb had been but somehow he made it without mishap and walked over to Virginia Millais.

  ‘They’re over in that direction.’ He pointed. ‘About two miles away. I reckon we ought to meet up with them in an hour or so. They’ll probably spot us the minute we get clear of these rocks. They’ve been hiding us until now.’

  She nodded slowly and the utter relief showed clearly on her face. Her hand brushed some of the dust from her cheeks and lips, and she blinked it away from around her eyes.

  They went back to the wagon, Neil hitched his sorrel to the back, and they moved off, heading into the sun glare. The heat lay like a vast pressure over the mesquite-dotted desert now and he reached down for the canteen nearby, offered it to Virginia first, then took a deep drink himself feeling the warm, brackish liquid trickle down his throat in a slow, refreshing stream. His dry, parched mouth absorbed a lot of it even before it reached his throat, but after a moment he felt better and his swollen tongue moved more easily around his mouth and lips.

  They rode out from the deep shadow of the canyon, headed for the other wagons which could be clearly seen now. It was too far away for either of them to be sure whether they had been seen by any of the others, but as they drew nearer Neil saw that the line of wagons was turning slowly, heading in their direction.

  Then they were near enough to make out the large figure of Clem Jackson, seated on the front of the leading wagon, his huge hand lifted in greeting. They came up to the others, Neil pulling sharply on the leather.

  ‘We thought you were lost,’ boomed Jackson’s loud voice. ‘What happened back there?’

  ‘Lost contact with you during the storm. Only thing to do was to keep on going and hope to find you again when it blew over. We finished up in that narrow canyon yonder, but I managed to spot you from the top. We must have drifted some ways from the trail.’

  The other nodded his huge head in agreement. He turned his head and stared towards the west, where the mountains in the distance were as far off as ever, still snuggling down on the skyline, dull blue in the streaming sunlight.

  ‘Where do you reckon we ought to make camp, Roberts? This don’t look too good a place to me, not with that ravine less than two miles away. Anybody could be hiding there, and we’d know nothing about it.’

  It was true; they would have to continue driving the tired animals further, through all of the heat of the long afternoon and the early evening. He wondered how far the horses would go before they fell in the traces. The storm would have taken far more out of them than was visible on the surface. The biting, scouring sand grains would have worked their way into the animals’ throats and lungs, tearing, clogging and abrading. If they didn’t rest up soon, get plenty of water, it might mean the end of some of them.

  ‘Keep them moving,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll camp as soon as we get to an open space, or near water.’

  3. Trail West

  Night reached across the heav
ens from the east and the train camped on the banks of a small, shallow stream that came bubbling down between high banks of hard mud from the north. On the far side the ground rose steeply and became more rugged, and here and there were patches of dense forest, first-year pine as far as Neil could make out — and this presented more danger to them. True, it would offer them shade from the burning, blistering heat of the sun and the ground underfoot would be easier, but there was too much shelter for any of Sherman’s men, too close to the trail, so that they might attack without warning. It meant that they would have to ride with eyes and ears open continually, that he would have to scout ahead of the train as it rumbled slowly west through this country. They were getting closer to the Sherman ranch now, and they could expect trouble, big trouble, at any time, once they crossed the stream. But for the time being, for that night, this was undoubtedly the best place they had found so far for making camp.

  The men drew lots for the first night guard and the quiet voices of the unlucky pair could be heard in the darkness on the edge of the camp. The fire burned low and then went out unheeded. There was no point in keeping the fire going that night. Although the Conestoga wagons themselves would be readily spotted, even in the darkness, a fire would give away their position to watching eyes quite easily, and there seemed little reason for pinpointing their presence as accurately as that.

  There was action down at the water’s edge as men scrubbed the dust and alkali from their bodies, the cold water burning and stinging their skin where it had been scorched by the sun through the thick, coating of dust. Jackson cursed softly as he rubbed at his arms and face, then straightened, shook his head like a dog coming out of the water, slicked his hair back with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘This storm was somethin’ I never want to go through again,’ he growled throatily. He looked across at Neil. ‘You bin through one of ’em before?’