by Philip Webb
Kelly lifts up a rock, ready to cast it. But there’s more sorrow in her than anger. She is torn. She cannot strike against those that resemble her kin. And she cannot even guess at how removed they are from the Lloyd and Melissa she once knew. They await their fate calmly, gazing past us without fear toward the shouting of a mob.
I scramble out of the cave mouth into weak sunshine. And there, charging across the rocks is Luis, shoving people aside to reach us. He arrives first, hauls me to my feet, and yells at Kelly to retreat. But there is nowhere to flee, we are at the edge of Carlsbad. Sleep laps at our backs.
I am transfixed then, unable to look away. The Visitors turn and clasp each other by the hands and kneel. The petals of skin peel away from their knuckles to reveal all the strands of their true being, twined together. An icy blue light blasts out from the union of their fibers. And in an instant it is snuffed out. What remains are two fixed husks, facing each other, coated in thick frost, frozen solid.
Kelly buckles and falls to the ground. Whatever tiny hope she has been clinging to, that her brother can be resurrected somehow, has been crushed. All she can do is look at me and howl.
I take one arm, Luis takes the other — we lift her as gently as we can and face back up the gulley.
A crowd of Carlsbad inhabitants has gathered there. They are armed with rocks. At their head stands Wesley Carmichael. I see it in all their faces, in the way they have no need of words. We are to be stoned. We have consorted with Visitors. There will be no trial. They wait only for his command.
Only then do I look again at the sky, at the dark spiral arm of bats above the cavern maw. A hawk hovers there above its prey, taking care not to stray beyond the limits of the multitude.
And then I have it.
It is so simple.
There is a trail that leads out of this place. One that opens twice a day. With the coming and going of the bats. They lead the way. That is why they funnel so closely across the sky in a black ribbon.
And any creature may follow it.
I glance once to the road. It is shrouded in the shadow of ten million bats. And there pushing himself to a groggy standing position is Cisco.
Wesley Carmichael raises his hand. It is the signal of our execution.
I turn to the others, haul down the biggest breath my lungs will take, and bellow at them.
“RUN!”
I hurtle down the gulley. Luis is beside me when the first rocks rain down from above. As I risk a glance back, missiles thud at my feet. For a dreadful moment I cannot see Kelly — I imagine her locked by the sight of the dead Visitors, unable to flee. But she flings herself down the scree just as the sky is suddenly blurred with flying stones. One smacks my hat off and I snatch it up from the dry streambed as we reach the first cover of bushes and trees.
The bats are not directly overhead, and straightaway I feel the draw of sleep. It sends my head into stars like the dull surprise of concussion. Kelly staggers into me.
“Follow the bats.” My words take an age to launch.
Stones plock into the branches, but the salvo is lessening. Perhaps our pursuers are content to watch the Zone sleep take us. The very ground drifts away as my mind clouds over. I grasp about for my companions and stumble toward the flittering noise of bats. Only that sound, that rippling river of wings can save us …
And then, as one might gasp from a drowning nightmare, I start up. The air is dark above me, and all about the dirt shadows run. Kelly and Luis are just behind me, propping each other up, ducking beneath a fine drizzle of guano.
We scramble up onto the road and Cisco is there turning in bewilderment, twitching with energy. My beloved horse! I hold my head against his in prayer and thanks.
“Can we save the lovin’ up ’til we get clear of them sons of bitches?” Kelly yells at me.
She has a point — it will be only a matter of time before the prisoners of Carlsbad see that they are prisoners no more. The other horses are farther up the trail, nosing about for water but none the worse for wear. We mount up, taking care to follow the bats as they veer northward, away from the road, carving a safe passage through the sleeping sickness.
I glance at Kelly but she will not hold my eye. Now that the worst of the danger is past, her face is blank and shattered. She has borne the hardest news — that her brother is dead and that, in all likelihood, so are the rest of her family.
The returning bats pick a route through low mountain passes, holding tight to their formation. A dead air hangs over the country. No insects stir in the grasses. For some ten miles while we thread our way out of the Guadalupe range, I feel the sleep holding the land in its grip like a quiet winter. But at last, in the dry scrub north of the mountains, the funnel of bats thins out as they are free to fly anywhere. The throb of crickets winds up and that oppressive atmosphere of sleep evaporates.
We reach a sharp drop in the land — a rim of rock that levels out into a featureless basin far below. Great stretches of New Mexico roll out to the western skies, aflame with afternoon gold. I think of it then, this world, drawn through the heavens, captive to its fate, like a longhorn bull cut from the herd. Dragged and goaded to slaughter.
There is a Zone stillness at this overlook. It is a place to take stock. Horsetails flick at the flies. We each gaze at the sky, in exhaustion at the forces that have washed us up here like shipwrecked sailors. Blood pounds through my head, and in the breeze I hear brief snatches of thunder — horses galloping. But we are alone here. Out across the plain, between blinks, I see something I know isn’t there. A distant mass of graves beyond counting. Headstones dissolve into nothing. For a moment, it feels like the Zone and my mind are the same thing. Another clue, another message.
Kelly dismounts, swaying slightly, as if the ground is not fixed. She begins to gather stones, planting them into a careful pile at the very edge of the overlook. She considers each stone, which has lain here in all probability untouched by human fingers. The chip and scrape of their surfaces makes a dry clatter on the wind. After some minutes, I join her, balancing more stones into a precarious cairn that rises to my waist. Luis, too, helps shore up the base, scouting over the ridge for suitable rocks. It is a nameless act of remembrance, and I am sure it means a different thing to each of us. A way to make a simple mark on the landscape. A way to further seal our pact. A way to say good-bye to lost ones. Kelly says nothing. Her eyes glisten in the sun as she takes a ring from her thumb and buries it in the gaps between stones. There will be no body, or marker, or clue to why the cairn stands. Perhaps no one will pass this way again, let alone find the ring or wonder at its meaning.
We stand around it for a while. A hawk cries somewhere, thin and insistent. Kelly passes around her silver hip flask and we each take a nip of the liquor — a silent toast to what lies behind, what lies ahead.
Kelly is the first to break away. “Well then. Let’s get this show on the road.”
She pulls the Rand McNally from my pack.
The sick realization dawns on us all — that the hand-drawn map my aunt gave me has gone. I remember it being snatched by the Visitor after we left Brokeoff. In the confusion and drama of these past hours, I have paid it no mind.
“I should have committed its details to memory, I should have destroyed it …”
“Maybe this Visitor, he still sleeps,” says Luis.
“And maybe not. We were driven to Carlsbad — the Zone forces that bore the sleep were on the move. In which case, the Visitor may only have been under their spell for a short time.”
Kelly says nothing. If she had killed the Visitor, the map would now be hidden on a corpse. Instead, if he survived the Zone sleep, it is likely now to have fallen into the hands of our enemies.
“That Visitor was making a rendezvous with others in the gang,” I murmur. “Jethro will have it.”
“You don’t know that,” replies Kelly.
“We have to assume it. I told the Visitor about Spider Rock, the cemetery. They know what we
know.”
“Then we gotta get there first, huh?” says Kelly. “Beat ’em to it.”
I think then about the thundering hooves, the graves beyond number, my dream of Pa in the stagecoach.
“No, we have to find the Mavis Pilgrim. It’ll tell us which grave to look for.”
Kelly leafs quickly through the Rand McNally. “It’s a mail run, right? Between Hope and Truth or Consequences. It must take 82 west up through Cloudcroft if it sticks to roads. That’s what … thirty miles north of here.”
“Sí, but when?” groans Luis. “Is one in a week, a month?”
“What day is it today? Anyone keepin’ count? ’Cause may as well be Judgment Day for all I know.”
“Is Tuesday.”
“Day, night?”
I consult my pocket watch. “A quarter after ten — evening. Why?”
“’Cause Josie bailed someone out in that poker game at the saloon. Remember Mr. Zit-face, in the shades? Ten decent hands in a row, but he weren’t smart enough to do a damn thing with ’em.”
I have a vague recollection of the characters at the poker table. “So?”
“He begged Josie to sub him. She weren’t interested — said it was good money after bad. But he kept on — said he’d do anything. Turns out he ain’t got the head for cards but he was the best rider in Brokeoff by a country mile. Barrel racer back in the day. County champion. Josie loaned him sixty bucks if he agreed to ride to Hope to catch the mail run before it set out Wednesday. She’s got a sister in Truth or Consequences or wherever. Wants her to help run the saloon. Ask me, she didn’t need no help …” Kelly throws a playful punch at Luis. “There, ain’t you glad you put up with me and my gamblin’ ways?”
“So, what time does the Mavis Pilgrim leave Hope tomorrow?” I ask.
Kelly shrugs. “They never said.”
“Maybe could be any time,” says Luis. “From midnight.”
I spare a glance for the barren country along the ridge. “That’s less than two hours. If it leaves at the first opportunity on Wednesday, we’d never reach Hope in time.”
“So? We just follow the trail from there and catch it up,” suggests Kelly.
I shake my head. “You’re forgetting the Jethro Gang. If they know about the stagecoach run, they’ll be all along the road lying in wait for it.”
“Seems to me we’ve gotta do the same,” says Kelly firmly. “Trouble is, where?”
I consult the atlas. “If you wanted to hold up a stagecoach, where’s the best place for an ambush?”
Luis points with his finger. “Here. Before the mountains. Not in open.”
“Nice one,” murmurs Kelly. “Hole up in some pass with a good view of the road back down to the plain. Spring them before they can turn back. Your money or your life, then off into the hills.”
I look at Kelly and Luis as they nod in deep agreement. And I am slightly alarmed at the ease with which they have taken on the mind-set of criminals.
Kelly slams the atlas shut. “Just gotta hope we get to it before Jethro does.”
I am beset with worry — worry that the Zone will throw obstacles in our path, that we will be waylaid and miss the stagecoach, that Jethro will intercept the Mavis Pilgrim before us. Also, both Luis and Kelly’s horses are Visitor steeds — marked with scorpion brands. If I’m right about the way the Visitor at Brokeoff tracked us down, the horses can be traced from afar. But we have no choice — speed is paramount now.
The stagecoach schedule must necessarily be a hazy affair, for there are no certainties in the Zone. It cannot even follow a fixed route, given the dangers it must face. I wonder how many times it has disappeared without trace — its crew must be drawn from brave and resourceful trackers. Despite my worries, however, the Zone remains quiet and the night’s ride passes without serious incident.
We follow the rim of rock in a northwesterly arc until it peters out into flatter country. Here the Pinon Drunken Road meets Highway 82 as it begins its climb into the mountains of Lincoln Forest.
At three in the morning we come to a steep-sided pass as good as any, veering off road a way for a clear view eastward down onto the plain — where, hopefully, the Mavis Pilgrim will appear. We wait in silence, taking turns to doze and keep watch. The sun strikes only the highest ramparts of the rock above. The pink stone bristles with thorn bushes. The gorge road directly below is filled with shadow as it always must be.
The morning drags by. Now that we’ve stopped moving, it is perishing cold. I can’t even feel the chattering pegs in my mouth. For hours, I stare at the surrounding country, but there is not a soul out there, just a pair of buzzards circling the crown of rock above us.
In my head, I rehearse violent encounters with Visitor outlaws. I lose count of the times I load the Colt revolver in proper fashion. It weighs heavy on my belt. I am not confident. Firing at cans back in Marfa doesn’t amount to much practice. Especially since I wasn’t liable to hit any of them.
It is Luis who has the keenest eyes. I squint in the direction of his pointed finger. Some way north of Highway 82, in the distance — a puff of red dust on the open desert.
I lean on an outcrop to steady the view through my spyglass.
It has to be the Mavis, though I can’t make it out yet — just a billowing cloud on the edge of haze. But it’s moving in a fearsome hurry. And that’s got to be bad news.
There! In the slanting gold light, I see a brace of lead horses and the driver on his box. He’s standing, whipping his team to kingdom come. Next to him crouches one of the Mavis minders, carbine at the ready, leaning back to aim. I see the barrel kick, then the shot rings out across the plain.
Jethro’s gang has got there before us.
Now I see them, four outriders at least. They’re hammering up on either side, taking aim at the driver.
Kelly snatches the spyglass from me. “There’s only four,” she says.
I snatch it back. “Only four?”
“We need whatever’s on that stagecoach, Megan,” she says grimly.
I can hear the barest rumble now, of hooves and screaming.
We cannot just watch this raid unfold …
But there are four outlaw Visitors, maybe more in their wake, and they will not take kindly to a rival bid.
We must choose. We must choose now. I spring onto Cisco.
Lord help us and keep our souls. A quick glance at my companions, and I know they are with me.
Neckerchief up over my mouth. Well, I’m a bandit now! I jam the spyglass into my pouch, grab the reins, and pull Cisco around to face the scree. It’s a steep ride and I’m practically lying down, with my boots scraping Cisco’s withers as he slides into deepest shadow.
We all hit the base of the gorge together and fly out at full tilt into the forever sunset. The Mavis is maybe half a mile away. It careens and bobs as the lead horses charge into open country littered with boulders and mesquites. The driver hasn’t seen us, I’m sure. He is too busy with the marauders to the left and right. They foray in and out, taking turns to come in for a potshot, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t seen us, either.
I stand into the stirrups and fumble for my Colt though I’ve never felt less ready to fire it. But now as the Mavis Pilgrim closes in on us, I glance at Luis and Kelly on either side of me and I feel a hot rush of blood. We are locked. We cannot waver now. What is this? A death charge? Cisco does not balk, so he must feel it, too.
Gunfire cracks the air.
The dust cloud ahead is a storm rising high. The raiders dart in and out of it. Their whoops clamor over the cascade of hooves and we’re close enough to see the rolling shoulders of all four team horses. They have blinkers but surely they’ve seen us by now. The rifleman on the driver’s box lands a shot that wings one of the outriders. It doesn’t seem real the way the outlaw snaps clean out of his saddle and over the rump of his horse. He’s lost in the dust.
With perhaps two hundred yards to go, I find that I’m screaming. My hat flies back a
nd the tie practically garrotes me. Sweet Jesus of Nazareth, is the driver blind? I point the Colt skyward and pull the trigger once.
Nothing.
Some bandit I turned out to be!
But then I remember. I haven’t cocked it.
The Mavis team pulls a thunderhead of dust. We’ll be mangled to dog meat.
The Colt is so big I’ve never managed to cock it with anything other than two thumbs. I stuff the reins into my teeth, just my thighs holding me on now. Yank back the hammer and … fire!
The recoil nearly unseats me.
I see the glint of the driver’s hat badge when he finally realizes what he’s riding into.
No time for pulling up. He careers the team to our right, throwing the brake as he goes. The swerve is so sudden, he clips one of the outriders, whose horse goes down.
The noise of the carriage thudding through the scrub is terrible. One rear wheel cracks up and clear, spraying its spokes in a high arc. The coach body twists and plows over, pulling the horses into a heap. Cisco bucks as I steer him around, and straight into the path of a raider. He yells something as he spots me. Does he mistake me for one of his party? There’s no time to change direction. I heft out the Colt as he brushes by, and clout him full face with the butt. My wrist snaps back with the force. There’s a surprised grunt and a thud as he hits the ground.
Everywhere is churning dirt and for a moment I can’t see Kelly or Luis. I counted four riders, so there’s one more in the melee somewhere. I swing Cisco into tight circles, trying to balance the gun in my left. I can’t even shoot straight with my right, so this should be interesting.
There, a shadow slumped on horseback, picking its way toward the coach wreckage. He does not see me. His interest lies only with the spinning wheels of the carriage, the muffled yells from the passengers inside. He levels a pistol as he walks his horse closer. And as the dust clears, I see it is the same Visitor from Brokeoff.
