Fear in a Handful of Dust

by Brian Garfield

  “I can stick it as long as you can.” There was jealousy in Jay’s defiance; but he didn’t hold Mackenzie’s glance. “I’m just as eager as you are. If we can shave a day off it’ll make a lot of difference.”

  So they continued until the sun was well up; dug their holes with the sun strong against their backs; and tumbled into their damp earth beds with a twitching of overtaxed muscles. Mackenzie had a final look back toward the mountains they’d crossed. He saw nothing remarkable and he was asleep instantly.

  He awakened once with the sun just past zenith: it was the rush of a jet that had alerted him but by the time he lifted his head the plane was retreating toward the horizon. He saw no buzzards, no Duggai; he sagged into the cool bunker and slept.

  He was awake again by three or so; he spent an hour repairing his frayed moccasins with rawhide but they wouldn’t last the night and there remained only one spare pair each.

  Well, we’ll keep the ruined ones and try to stitch them together to make new ones.

  They were fed and moving again well before sundown; by nightfall they’d crossed several miles; moonrise found them in the passage between ranges.

  It was going better than he’d hoped: if their muscles and moccasins held out they were going to make it. But he itched terribly where the sun had baked his already punished skin and he was conscious of the dry scratch of the hard leather breechclout.

  They walked without hurry, not letting impatience force the pace; they’d settled down to the march of soldiers, one pace at a time and no thought of anything beyond it. The water sack swung from Mackenzie’s fist, the palm tacky with sweat, and every hundred yards or so he shifted it from hand to hand.

  They emerged from between the ranges. The moon was perceptibly stronger tonight: it threw a steel-hued glow across the flats and by its light Mackenzie could make out distinctly the canyon contours of sierras some miles away. To the northeast the plain stretched away to a level horizon many miles distant. At other compass points there were cairns and hummocks and mountain ranges that brought the horizons closer. Due north stood a forbidding rampart of boulder cliffs. No point going up against that: they struck off to the right and followed the flats.

  Underfoot they traversed pebbles and clay and the dry-rotting remains of crumbling plants. The trick was to stay a good distance from any shrubbery big enough to cast a shadow. The bare earth ran in contours of washboard unevenness but it made firm footing and the journey was easy so long as you watched where you were putting your foot down.

  The occasional coyote yapped distantly; the occasional rodent or jackrabbit bolted away. Mackenzie thought of the bonepiles of bleached remains that had been strewn across this desert a hundred years ago—pioneers trying to reach California across the infamous Jornada del Muerte: the trail had been signposted with cattle skulls and human skeletons.

  Well, they didn’t have plastic raincoats in those days.

  Judderingly weary; but he felt good. Triumph filled him, kept him moving even when spasms ran uncontrollably along his punished legs. Jay kept up—it was an evident struggle but he voiced no complaint and halted only when Mackenzie called a rest.

  By midnight the moccasins had given out; they changed to the last ones. The new footwear was stiff and painful but they kept on.

  As they approached the horizon a massive range climbed into sight and Mackenzie diverted the course again, swinging west of north. They were zigzagging in long arcs and it was adding to the distance but it wasn’t as severe as he’d expected: the ranges stood far apart and rarely extended more than a few miles in length. Off to the west he could see a great humping granddaddy sierra that covered an entire quadrant but it didn’t lie across their path. When they stopped to drink he said, “I think we may strike the highway sometime tomorrow night.”

  “That soon?”

  “We’ve covered at least twenty-five miles since we left camp. A lot better than I expected. It may not be much more than fifteen, twenty more miles.”

  It perked Jay up. When they continued Mackenzie saw him searching the plains ahead for headlights.

  Toward morning the earth began to tilt; they faced a gradual upward climb. It was a shallow slope but it extended miles and they could see nothing beyond it but sky.

  The climb sapped them; they had to stop every quarter hour, then every ten minutes.

  “Maybe we should call it a night?”

  “I want to see what’s on the far side.”

  “You’re stumbling like a drunk, Sam.”

  “So are you.”

  “If we burn ourselves out we won’t get far tomorrow night.”

  “Earle needs help as fast as we can get it to him.”

  “All right. You know best.”

  Dawn, then daylight. He’d long since stopped counting the days of the ordeal. The earth ran uphill endlessly in front of them: they would reach something that ought to be the top but beyond it they would find a shallow dip and then more climb. The horizon was never more than a few hundred yards away. It was as if the demons were putting them to the ultimate test of patience and endurance.

  “It’s getting hot.…”

  “Keep going.”

  They must have climbed at least a thousand feet, he thought. A wind soughed across the desert; dust rose into his teeth. Twice Jay spoke to him and went unheard. Finally Jay struggled around in front of him, flapping both arms in his consternation. “We’ve got to stop. We’ll broil.”

  “All right. The top of that rise right there—we’ll stop there.”

  “No farther,” Jay warned.

  “No farther.” His unfeeling feet propelled him toward the top. Long steady climb: Jay scuttled behind him, hands on knees to thrust against the tilt of the earth, knees splaying every which way. Mackenzie switched the water bag from right hand to left hand. He could feel the skin frying on his back: his mind must have gone away for a while—he didn’t remember the past two hours. It had been dawn, sunrise, then abruptly it was midmorning. Jay was right. We ought to stop right here. We’ll kill ourselves.

  But he walked. Just to the top there.…

  Agonizing to walk. But the top was in sight—he homed on the tufted flagpole stalk of a century plant. That’s as far as we go. A hundred feet, seventy-five, fifty.

  Beyond the top was a trough that ran crosswise to their course: it was half a mile across; beyond it another ridge rippled right to left.

  But there was a gap through the ridge and he could see the long dry plains beyond. This was indeed the top.

  And far out across that desert he saw an object crawling at steady speed. A tiny rectangle rolling eastward.

  “Look.”

  “What—where?”

  Mackenzie’s arm lifted, trembling. He sighted along his extended finger. “That’s a truck.”

  “The highway.”

  They stared for the longest time. The truck disappeared behind a roll of ground. Something winked then—a flicker of painful light that appeared and disappeared along a westward trajectory. Sunlight against a car’s rear window. Then behind it another.

  “Sam—”

  “Forget it. We’ll dig in here.”

  “But the highway.…”

  “That’s twenty miles away.”

  “But we’ll make it tonight, right?”

  “Bet your ass we will.”

  They grinned at each other ludicrously.

  He tried to dig in the shade of a bush but the roots stopped him and he kept having to slope the pit farther out until the sun again cooked his back but he closed his mind against it and kept clawing earth out of the hole: sunburn could be treated.

  “That’s got to be deep enough.”

  “No. At least another six inches. You don’t want to die this close to the end.”

  “I can’t even pick up this rock anymore.”

  “Dig, damn you.”

  Eventually the pits were done to his satisfaction and the bottoms were invitingly damp. They sat mostly in shade now; t
hey portioned out meat and salt and finally a good deal of water. It left only a couple of quarts in the bag but that would do—they’d drop the bag somewhere along the downslope and cover the last few hours without water. They wouldn’t need to carry anything on the last lap.

  He put a pebble on his tongue and smiled. Jay laughed aloud in response. The taste of joy overcame Mackenzie’s weariness: it ran sweet and strong through his veins.

  “By damn.” It was an expression his father the silversmith had used. “By damn, Jay.”

  “Shouldn’t we get some sleep?”

  “Aeah. Go ahead, stretch out. I’ll just have one look down the backtrail.”

  It was only an excuse: he was too nervy to remain still—he’d passed beyond fatigue into jittery alertness. He splashed a handful of water over the back of his neck and felt it run deliciously down his spine. Then he climbed out on doddering legs and limped back past the maguey stalk and crouched in a catclaw’s futile shade to look back the way they’d come and try to estimate the distance they’d covered.

  They were on high ground here and he had a panorama before him: where the sky touched the earth it was perhaps as much as forty miles away. None of it looked familiar: they’d never looked at any of it from this angle. He saw going down the hill the ragged faint imprint of their foot tracks. The tan-gray slope ran down toward a bottom four or five miles away, tiered ridge below tiered ridge. Then the flats and the serrates of indigo mountains in random crumpled piles. The sky seemed very thin. He counted five vultures above a rock cairn out to the west eight or ten miles from him.

  He was looking south toward the mountain clumps; he was thinking about Shirley. Just hold on—another twenty-four hours we’ll have you out. Hold on.

  He’d won. He knew it with a sense of savage victory.

  He got up to return to the dugouts. As he began to turn away he saw in the far southern distance a hint of risen dust.

  He looked away, looked again and it was still there.

  He gaped at it, squinting; shaded his eyes with his palm. Dust devil? Windstorm?

  It was miles away. But it came straight toward him.

  It was Duggai’s truck.

  25

  He scuttled back to the pits.

  From a half sleep Jay roused himself irritably. “What?”

  Mackenzie had only to point to the south. His voice broke: “Duggai.”

  Jay boiled out of his pit and stood in the hard sun staring at the plume of advancing dust.

  Jay’s eyes windowed his terror. “What can we do?”

  “Not much.”

  “We can hide.” Jay dived back into the pit. “Maybe he won’t see us. Maybe he’ll go right by.”

  “He’s following our tracks, Jay. They lead right here. They stop here.”

  “For God’s sake we’ve got to do something.”

  Mackenzie’s toes curled inside his moccasins. Everything ran out of him: he felt exposed, vulnerable, weak of soul.

  “Sam, we can’t just give up.”

  “Ambush him,” Mackenzie muttered; he felt a scalp-tingling madness. “Ambush him.”

  “With what?”

  “Give me your knife.”

  Armed with two knives he straightened up and looked down the slope. The truck was out of sight now behind a ridge near the bottom but the dust still hung in its wake.

  “Stay here. Distract him when he comes. When he gets out of the truck I’ll jump him from behind.” He knew it wouldn’t work but you couldn’t always go by that: he had to try.

  He backed away from the pits and with each step he swept his moccasin back and forth to smooth out the tracks. He made his way to the nearest object that gave enough shadow to conceal him: a creosote bush four feet high. It was ten yards from the dugouts.

  Over his shoulder he looked through the notch in the ridge and saw a string of cars pass across the horizon.

  That’s how close we got.

  Jay stood up in his hole. “Maybe we should run?”

  “No.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  Jay’s head disappeared. Mackenzie got down behind the creosote. He made himself small and clutched both knives. Maybe this could work after all. Maybe this would end it.

  He waited for the truck.

  He heard the straining engine and then he saw it come. It emerged over the last ridge and lurched right toward him. When it was still a hundred feet away he made out Duggai’s big face through the dusty windshield.

  They’d made a confusion of tracks in the area with their digging and eating and exploring. The truck went right on across it, right to the top of the ridge. For a moment Mackenzie thought it would keep going right by. But Duggai stopped the truck.

  Mackenzie shrank. The truck’s door opened. Duggai stepped out, shook one leg out and pulled the Levi’s down from his crotch; he hitched at them with the flats of his wrists and reached into the truck. Mackenzie saw him lift out the rifle.

  A pair of binoculars hung by a strap from Duggai’s thick neck. His filthy shirt clung to him like the skin of a prune. His dark wax face was neither angry nor anxious: it had a strange vacancy. The eyes were opaque. The desert had exacted a price from Duggai as well.

  It was dazzling hot. Mackenzie itched horribly. He squatted motionless against the bush. Through its tangle of little leaves he had a fragmentary picture as Duggai walked to the tailgate of the truck and examined the area. Duggai took his time, knowing they were right around here somewhere.

  He must have seen those open trenches we left. He must have picked up our tracks by the water hole.

  One more day and we’d have beat him to the highway.

  Duggai went back toward the driver’s door. It heartened Mackenzie: he waited for Duggai to get into the truck.

  But Duggai only opened the door to toss the rifle inside. Then Mackenzie saw him lock the door. Duggai came away from the truck lifting the big Magnum revolver out of his belt.

  He knows we’re not far enough away for him to need the rifle.

  Duggai went prowling around very slowly. He didn’t go near any bushes from which he might be jumped. He stayed in the open and kept moving around to see things from new angles. He took his time: he had plenty of it. He tipped the hat back on his head.

  The silence made it that much more unbearable—that and the flat expressionlessness of Duggai’s high cheeks. The twanging stillness brought the hairs erect on Mackenzie’s neck. The knives grew slippery in his fists.

  Duggai would stand motionless for minutes at a time, jaw slack agape, nothing moving but the eyes set back in their deep weathered folds. Then he would move ten feet and search again. He would examine the earth right around his boots and then he would enlarge the circle.

  Mackenzie breathed shallowly in and out through his open mouth. He remembered attacking the javelina. Just give me one chance, Duggai. One chance is all I need.

  Terror got all mixed up in him with raging hate. He was willing, eager to kill.

  Duggai moved so slowly. He was reading the things that the earth had to tell him. Sorting out tracks. By now obviously he knew exactly where the dugout pits were. He hadn’t approached within twenty feet of Jay yet. But he knew the excavations were there: he kept looking back at them.

  The slow circles of Duggai’s progress hadn’t brought him near Mackenzie; Duggai now stood beyond the pits. He was looking the other way. If I had a gun I could blow his head off.

  Mackenzie glanced at the truck. The rifle.… But he’d seen Duggai lock the door and pocket the key. What about the other door? No—Duggai wasn’t careless.

  Get around behind the truck, he thought. Duggai’s got to come back to the truck eventually. Jump him then.

  But Duggai would spot him if he moved.

  Now Duggai turned and searched again, facing Mackenzie. After a time he seemed to satisfy himself that he knew the placement of things. He walked straight over to the pits and aimed the revolver down. Mackenzie thought he was going to fire.

>   Duggai jerked the barrel in a peremptory upward gesture and reluctantly Jay appeared, head and shoulders. His trembling was visible. Duggai jerked again. Jay, never taking his eyes off the gun, climbed quaking out of the pit and stood up.

  Duggai came around the pit and jammed the revolver against Jay’s neck.

  Then he spoke. His voice was matter-of-fact. “All right Captain, show yourself.”

  There was nothing to do but obey.

  He walked forward in slow defeat and tossed the brass knives to the ground and waited for Duggai to do whatever he intended to do. Mackenzie’s mind had gone blank now: he thought of nothing—he only watched.

  “Good try, Captain. Real good.”

  Jay pulled his head around toward Mackenzie, showing his tears. The fists at Jay’s sides were clenched like a child’s.

  “You think I want to shoot you?” Duggai said. “That ain’t the way this works. Get on over to the truck now.” The Magnum came away from Jay’s neck and waggled toward the camper.

  He wasn’t sure his legs would bear him. He staggered toward the truck: all muscular control was gone and his consciousness served only as a vessel for the reception of impressions. There was no will.

  Duggai said, “Now strip.”

  Mackenzie sat on the tail bumper of the truck and pulled the moccasins off. He had trouble untying the bow knot in the stiffened thong of the breechclout. When it came off he saw distractedly that it had left a deep red welt around his waist.

  Duggai still had the coathanger wire with which he’d trussed them before. “I guess you know the drill by now. Right wrist.”

  Mackenzie went blank then and was not aware of anything until he came half awake in the stifling box of the closed camper. He was sitting where he had sat before and Jay was on the cot beside him and they were tied to the truck hands and feet as they had been before. They were not gagged this time. Nor were they clothed. The truck was a furnace and it pitched him hard against his wire lashings but he didn’t feel the pain. He felt nothing at all. After a brief semiconscious interval he passed out.