Fear in a Handful of Dust

by Brian Garfield

  He felt it jar his hands when it broke. The light was poor; he wasn’t sure whether it had hit clean.

  There wasn’t time to examine it. Mackenzie whirled in a crouch, knife in his left hand and broken stick in his right to meet the assault of the pack.

  But the pack was making a run for it: Jay across the trail hurled rocks at them with mighty overhand heaves that flew in wild directions and clattered like enfilading fire. The commotion spooked the mob into a brief terrorized gallop that soon became a disorganized trot. Mackenzie watched the pack dwindle up the run until the night absorbed it. He dropped the stick and examined the stricken peccary and saw that he’d broken its neck with his blow.

  A neat kill after all: a blaze of crafty preternatural pride made him lightheaded and he looked at Jay with fierce excitement. “Old-fashioned redskin ingenuity does it every time. Stick with me, son.”

  Jay gave him a strange frightened glance and Mackenzie laughed to show he’d been joshing him.

  He laid out the carcass on its side. Let’s see now: you cut slits down the hind legs between the bones and the strong tendons. Then you jam the front legs through the slits. Break the forelegs and turn them sideways like cross-pins: you’ve made a sling of the animal—put your arms through and carry it on your back like a knapsack. Leaves your hands free.

  Then he brought himself back from fantasy. No need to sling the pig for a long carry: they’d be skinning it out right here.

  He remembered how his father had carried deer that way. The silversmith’s teachings were close to the surface now: he realized what was happening to him—more and more he was finding the capacity to make the right moves without having to stop and think them out first. It pleased him. “—but you can’t take the desert out of the Navajo.”

  “What?”

  He realized he’d spoken aloud, dismissed it with a gesture and went in search of a stone flat enough to hone the knife. He moved off the trail and began to skin the javelina and dress it out. Jay said, “How about the water hole?”

  “No point risking our necks trying to get down there before dawn.”

  The meat was tough and the knife too flimsy; in the end they had to tear the meat. They ripped it into strips as thin as possible so that the sun would dry it quickly. Mackenzie pegged out the hide fifty yards beyond the game trail—they didn’t need to be trampled. They scraped the hide, working with knives and rocks, and it consumed muscle and time because they had to be certain they left no traces of fat or meat on the skin: anything that went rancid could spoil the water or rot a hole through the bag.

  At random intervals an animal or a small group would enter the tanque for a while and then emerge from the cliff shadows and return toward the hills. Two coyotes came; later a fox and finally something that moved with quick dark stealth—Mackenzie thought it might be a bobcat.

  After three o’clock they dug their pits to survive the coming day. Mackenzie placed them some distance north of the cliff where they wouldn’t be affected by its reflections of heat. He selected positions where they were screened by the cliff from Duggai; but by crawling a few feet Mackenzie would be able to peer through the base of a catclaw bush and keep a periodic eye on Duggai’s summit.

  He saw no need to dig a still and cover it with the plastic—not with a source of fresh water at arm’s length. He left the plastic folded inside the food pouch. They strung the pork on cactus spines and then with the first predawn hint of color they went to examine the tanque.

  It lay in a forty-foot bowl of streaked black-red rock. The sloping walls had been smoothed to a mottled gloss. Animal hoofs over an incalculable span of time had worn a grooved trail that curved back on itself twice in sharp switchbacks on its way to the bottom and he was glad they hadn’t attempted it at night.

  The little pool at the bottom was obsidian-black, an indication of depth—probably it had never gone dry: artesian pressures far underground kept it forever at a level.

  The worn hoof trail circled the narrow pool and went down to the water along the shallowest gradient. Along the slope was a wide fault in the rock where mud and brown clay had flowed down like a paste from the desert floor above, after every rainfall; the mud slope was crosshatched with white scratches that had been left by animals in search of ground salt. The tongues of generations had worn the salt lick down until it had assumed the shape of a trough.

  Above it the cliff was a dramatic monument of crags—from this perspective it loomed alarmingly although it was of no real size—and Mackenzie saw how if you came at it from the north you’d spot it from quite a distance.

  Likely that was how Duggai had found the water hole in the first place. The brass-scavenging expedition in California that had led to Duggai’s arrest hadn’t been his first such adventure. He’d explored most of the gunnery ranges by then. Certainly he knew this one; that had been apparent all along—Duggai wouldn’t have dragged his prisoners out here if he hadn’t known where he was going.

  The water was startlingly cold. Its minerals had stained the rocks around the edge of the hole; the taste was faintly metallic. Mackenzie drank his fill out of cupped hands. When he looked up there was a small scorpion in the crevice above him, tail-stinger curled over its back. He made a sudden motion and the scorpion fled back into the crevice.

  Mackenzie said, “These rocks will be full of those. Keep an eye open—don’t step on a scorpion, you could die from it.”

  “Listen, Sam—”

  But Jay didn’t resume immediately; his eyes wandered in bashful irresolution. Then finally: “I’m not such a shit, you know. I’m really not such a total loss.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, I was the best student in my class and the most maladroit oaf you ever saw. Stereotyped bookworm. You get older, you learn how to camouflage insecurities—you compensate for the inferiority complex, you learn how things work, you grow up to be a mediocre psychiatrist and you think you know all your own weaknesses. Well at least I think I know some of mine. But knowing how emotional aberrations work isn’t necessarily a cure for them. I know I’m unreasonable about things. I even know why. But a lot of the time I can’t seem to do much about it except just live with myself. I’m talking about Shirley now. Maybe it’s all a long way in the past—unreasoning jealousy. I can’t help it. It’s the way I am. I’m trying to be honest with you.”

  Mackenzie went up to the salt lick and began to dig with the knife. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything. Just try to see my side of it, that’s all.” Jay followed him up, started digging, searched his face with inquiring intensity. “Maybe I’m asking you a favor, come to think of it. You’re so much stronger than I am. I used to hate you because you were always so sure of yourself.”

  “Did you really think I was?”

  “Come off it, Sam, I’ve never seen a hint of self-doubt in you. You exude self-confidence like musk. You’ve got the composure of a sphinx. All right, for all I know maybe it’s compensation for all kinds of turmoil inside—but that’s not the image you project.”

  He felt uncomfortable under the glass of Jay’s scrutiny. “What’s the favor you want?”

  “You know what it is.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “Leave me room with Shirley, Sam.”

  They ate the dirty salt, bagged a chunk of it, went back to the pool and drank deep. Jay dipped water with his cupped hands and splashed it down his face. With his eyes shut, dripping, he looked like a tearful supplicant. “You could take her away from me without half trying. If you did I might even try to kill you for it—I might be capable of that—but I’d probably decide against it. Because it wouldn’t get her back to me.”

  In sudden embarrassment Jay started to wash himself busily, scrubbing his face and chest and arms.

  It was an extraordinary performance. It didn’t astonish Mackenzie but he had to walk away to keep his contempt from showing. He stood at the base of the switchback
trail and watched light pour into the sky; he rolled the taste of salt around his tongue.

  Mackenzie thought: it’s the first time he’s mentioned her and all he can say about her is that he owns her and he doesn’t want me to steal his possession. He still wants to keep her but he can’t even remember why. And he talks as if we’re in San Francisco unaffected by any of this.

  And then reluctantly he granted the alternative: maybe Jay didn’t talk to me about her but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about her, worrying. I’d be the last one he’d confide in, about her.

  “Sam.”

  He turned. Jay was waiting for his answer.

  Mackenzie came back down to the pool. “You’re a chronic worrier. We’re not out of this alive yet.”

  “You’ll get us out. Look how far we’ve come already.”

  “The sun’s come up. Eat some more salt—we’re starved for it. Then we’d better get underground.”

  “You don’t care about her the way I do,” Jay insisted. “It just wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Stop obsessing yourself with it, Jay. We don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  It shocked Jay into silence. Mackenzie took satisfaction from that—and the satisfaction displeased him: it was petty. Disliking himself, he went up the trail on fingers and toes.

  He slept in snatches. Now and then he had to throw rocks at buzzards around the hanging salt pork: it worried him because the circling scavengers were bound to draw Duggai’s attention to this spot but a great many animals used the water hole and Duggai would have to assume there was an injured or dead one on the ground. But that was a risk too: suppose Duggai was running low on meat?

  He could still taste the acrid filthy salt in his mouth; it was as if he could feel his grateful organs soaking it in.

  Some time before noon he posted a watch at the base of the catclaw and in time he was rewarded by the distant movement of Duggai’s patrol along the summit line. It reassured Mackenzie to know Duggai hadn’t come down off the mountain. The man’s malevolent patience amazed him. Duggai seemed prepared to spend the rest of his own life on that rock if that was what it would take to extinguish his victims.

  How much simpler it would have been for Duggai to have murdered them all with his rifle and left them for the buzzards. But to Duggai that would have been pointless and too merciful.

  Heat drove him back to the dugout.

  Clouds heavier than usual built up during the late afternoon along the western skyline. When it was cool enough to climb out of the pit Mackenzie gathered the pigskin sack which they had left to dry in the shade. It had stiffened so much that he wasn’t sure they’d be able to draw it shut with the hide laces they’d prepared. It wasn’t crucially important except to the extent that evaporation would be minimized if the bag could be sealed.

  He’d thought about sending Jay back to the others and continuing toward the highway on his own. He’d ruled it out—Jay might be seen by Duggai and that might lead Duggai to search northward for Mackenzie; and with two of them striking for the highway the chances of success were doubled; he had other thoughts as well but he wondered if they were shabby rationalizations—perhaps he wanted to keep Jay away from Shirley.

  It was a possibility he had to reckon with, but it came to a choice between guilt and sending Jay back and that was no choice at all. He kept Jay with him.

  By evening a great toppling tower of cloud loomed overhead. There was no sunset; the light simply faded from the gray air: sky merged with earth along the uncertain twilit horizons. It was a great boon for them because the clouds obscured nearly all the stars and there was no possibility that Duggai might see them cross the open plain.

  As soon as it was dark Mackenzie took Jay in tow and they struck out into the soul-sucking darkness.

  24

  Those first miles were painfully slow because of the bad light. The clouds pressed residual heat back against the earth; it remained warm for hours. Dust rose into Mackenzie’s eyes and teeth, carried on wanton gusts of eccentric wind. There was a thick dampness in the air but it didn’t bode rain.

  They had to pick their way with infinite caution. Several times they blundered against shrubs; twice they had to stop to extract spines from their ankles. A portion of sky to the northeast remained clear for a long time and Mackenzie, having memorized a pattern of stars there, guided on it—kept it ahead of his right shoulder.

  There was a range of low mountains ahead of them and he wanted to go around its western flank. Once past that buttress they would be permanently out of Duggai’s sight; but there remained miles to cross.

  It was too dark to make out the mountains but Mackenzie knew where they were. They settled down to a flat-footed weary march and he realized they were not likely to get beyond the flats by daybreak. The pace was too slow and in this blackness there was no way to crowd it.

  It meant another day holed up under Duggai’s jurisdiction and he wasn’t sure he had the patience for that. They would lose precious hours of cool traveling time: they’d have to stop an hour before first light, dig their pits and get out of sight. If it weren’t for Duggai they’d be able to keep walking at least two hours longer before stopping to dig in; and the digging would go faster by daylight.

  He was carrying the water sack and they’d filled it with three or four gallons; it was a heavy burden. Jay had taken all the other accoutrements—these consisted pitifully of the food sack, the two brass knives and the spare moccasins. In the food sack were several pounds of dried pork, the remaining shreds of jackrabbit jerky, a few clots of rocksalt, a pair of small thick clay bowls and the folded square of transparent plastic. Like Punjab beggars they lugged their worldly possessions across the flayed arid landscape.

  The clouds tumbled eastward on high winds aloft; along the surface of the earth dust devils whirled and greasewood bushes clattered like cicadas. As the slim moon moved west it passed beyond the thicker body of cloud; it began to throw a hazy glow through the trailing sky-fog and this pittance of illumination helped them move faster: no longer was it necessary to test the ground with a prodding toe before putting one’s weight down. Cactus and rocks became vaguely visible against the paler surface of the desert. Several times Mackenzie stubbed a toe against things unseen but they were making a good walking pace now and he revived his hope of passing the end of the mountain range before first light.

  It had been sixteen hours since his body had ingested the first mouthfuls of rocksalt; its beneficence had ramified through his system and the muscles no longer had a tendency to cramp. They had consumed the blood of the javelina, its raw marrow and its sun-dried flesh.

  His legs were tired but it was not the loose-kneed weakness he’d got used to. He’d lost a good deal of weight and for a time he’d been feeding on his own muscle but it hadn’t gone beyond restoration. Jay had suffered more because he’d begun with less: now his jut-ribbed gauntness was macabre but he was keeping up with the pace: salt and the meal had revived him.

  When they reached the edge of the mountain range he judged the moon’s westward angle and saw no suggestion of light to the east. The clouds had gone on toward Tucson, El Paso, the Gulf.

  “We’ll go through the foothills instead of around.”

  “Won’t that slow us down?”

  “A little. But it’ll put high ground between us and Duggai.”

  “Good idea.”

  So they climbed, striking through canyons and passes, skirting clumps of sandstone boulders and igneous rock. At the trailing end of the range the foothills were of lackadaisical proportion: above to one side the rock cliffs sprouted and the razor spine of the range stood several thousand feet higher than the plain. The low crumple of foothills bordered the range all round; staying within its folds they pressed on. Where canyons narrowed into deep shadow Mackenzie elected to go up and around rather than through: it made for stiffer going but they had light and it minimized the risk of accident.

  With the first spread of
morning they paused to eat and drink but they were up again and moving within ten minutes. Mackenzie looked back and had a last brief look at the arid plain that had sustained them. Shirley’s campfire winked ten miles away beyond the flank of Duggai’s hills and Jay said explosively: “Thank God.”

  “They’ve made it so far,” Mackenzie agreed. Then they went on across the sandy hogback and when they began to descend its northern slope they were beyond any further view of the plain behind them—and beyond Duggai’s view as well: a smile stretched Mackenzie’s lips until the chapped skin split painfully and he felt his shoulders lift as they marched steadily downhill in the growing dawn.

  The land out ahead was more of the same and that was no surprise but Mackenzie was vaguely disappointed. In a corner of his hopes had rested the improbable chance that they’d been marooned just out of sight of salvation. All the evidence stood against it but it had remained there until now. The span of sand-whacked plain to the north only fulfilled his expectations but it was enough to sunder the relief he’d felt on discovering Shirley’s fire.

  They made good time in the freshening light—down the backslope through inconsequential hills and onto the plain. Rock ranges encircled the district but there was a gap between them to the north and they set out toward that passage. It was six or seven miles away and Mackenzie knew they wouldn’t get that far today but they were making better distance than he’d anticipated. At sunrise he stopped to parcel out a ration of water and searched Jay’s physique until Jay blushed.

  “I’m trying to judge how many miles you’ve got left in you.”

  “You don’t have to put it brutally.”

  “If you look at your skin you’ll see what I mean. The sunburn’s starting to tan. The blisters have gone down on your shoulders.”

  Jay tucked in his chin to examine himself. “So?”

  “If we can add two or three hours’ walking time to each night we can cut a day off our travel time.”

  “You want to keep going a few hours, that it?”

  “It won’t get scorching hot for another four hours. If we walk for three hours and dig holes under scrub shade we still should be all right. Then start out again a couple of hours before sunset. If our feet hold out we may make it in three nights.”