mist. Billy Tompkins, aged six. Tansy Wilson, dyed of milk fevver. She wer onlie twenny. Grampa Hayes, he dint mak it. Eliza Campbell, age 19, and babby gril. Babby Willy. Tess Carpenter, age 11. Mother Lillie, Son ]onny, Dotter Mary, all ded of fever. Macy Harris, gone to her maker, July, 1865. Thad Hayes, cot colera.
They went on, seeming to dog every mile telling their tragic stories.
Reading the boards and rocks set over those final resting places, he noticed a common thread—the road west was hardest on women, kids, and old folks. But Liddy and her Auntie Fan had apparently made it this far. Either that, or Ross and Josh had perished, too, and there’d been nobody left to bury them. He’d seen the bare human bones along the road, and most of them had been gnawed on by wolves and coyotes.
But it was getting too dark to look for anything, and it was about to storm. Flashes of lightning intermittently lit the bank of thick, roiling clouds overhead, and the air was heavy with dust and the smell of a coming rain. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes conversed with the hidden moon, their howls piercing the night, while nearby owls questioned his presence, calling out, “Who?” and answering with the same.
Those owls bothered him. For the last several miles, he’d been hearing them, each time sounding closer than the last. He’d never known owls to congregate in groups like that. The thought that ran through his mind sent a shiver up his spine. Indians. It could be his imagination, but if it was, Clyde seemed to share it. The horse’s ears pricked up with every call.
Indians couldn’t see him any better than he could see them, he told himself. But they knew the area, and he didn’t, his mind argued. There it was again, that sound. Sitting so still in the saddle that he could almost hear his own heart beat, he listened hard. But it was his nose that told him he wasn’t alone.
He smelled smoke. Lightning had either struck somewhere, or somebody had a fire going. Standing in his stirrups, he strained to see nothing. The telltale glow of a prairie fire wasn’t there. He was just spooked, that was all. The smoke probably came from a lone campfire. A railroad crew. Or a war party. His hand found the butt of the Colt, seeking reassurance there.
As thunder rumbled overhead, he thought he saw tiny points of orange light along the horizon ahead. Every muscle in his body tensed as he drew the gun and his finger crooked around the trigger. He might be green when it came to Indians, but he wasn’t a fool.
The owl hooted again, closer still. Holding his breath, he listened, hearing the pounding of hoof-beats against the hard earth behind him. He hadn’t imagined any of it. He was being followed. And by more than one rider.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shadowy shapes of at least a dozen pursuers, and he knew he was in for the run of his life. Digging his spurs into Clyde’s sides, he loosened the reins, and the big bay stretched long legs, heading toward the smoke. Shouting, “Come on, boy—run!” Spence urged the horse on, hoping it was a railroad camp instead of an Indian village. If he guessed wrong, he’d be a dead man. Behind him, a war party whooped and hollered now, and bullets whistled past him.
Lightning flickered, illuminating roiling black clouds hanging low over the road ahead. He couldn’t tell now whether it was thunder he heard or the roar of blood pounding in his head. Beneath him, Clyde ran hard, and wet, foamy lather soaked the animal’s neck and shoulders, spattering Spence’s face and coat.
The damned Indian ponies were closing in on him. Turning in the saddle, he fired a shot, missing his mark. They weren’t tin cans and bottles, but living, moving men, and with four shots left, he couldn’t afford to miss again. Some sense warned him there was a rider almost even on the other side. This time when he twisted to face a painted warrior, he pulled the trigger at close range. The Colt
They went on, seeming to dog every mile telling their tragic stories.
Reading the boards and rocks set over those final resting places, he noticed a common thread—the road west was hardest on women, kids, and old folks. But Liddy and her Auntie Fan had apparently made it this far. Either that, or Ross and Josh had perished, too, and there’d been nobody left to bury them. He’d seen the bare human bones along the road, and most of them had been gnawed on by wolves and coyotes.
But it was getting too dark to look for anything, and it was about to storm. Flashes of lightning intermittently lit the bank of thick, roiling clouds overhead, and the air was heavy with dust and the smell of a coming rain. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes conversed with the hidden moon, their howls piercing the night, while nearby owls questioned his presence, calling out, “Who?” and answering with the same.
Those owls bothered him. For the last several miles, he’d been hearing them, each time sounding closer than the last. He’d never known owls to congregate in groups like that. The thought that ran through his mind sent a shiver up his spine. Indians. It could be his imagination, but if it was, Clyde seemed to share it. The horse’s ears pricked up with every call.
Indians couldn’t see him any better than he could see them, he told himself. But they knew the area, and he didn’t, his mind argued. There it was again, that sound. Sitting so still in the saddle that he could almost hear his own heart beat, he listened hard. But it was his nose that told him he wasn’t alone.
He smelled smoke. Lightning had either struck somewhere, or somebody had a fire going. Standing in his stirrups, he strained to see nothing. The telltale glow of a prairie fire wasn’t there. He was just spooked, that was all. The smoke probably came from a lone campfire. A railroad crew. Or a war party. His hand found the butt of the Colt, seeking reassurance there.
As thunder rumbled overhead, he thought he saw tiny points of orange light along the horizon ahead. Every muscle in his body tensed as he drew the gun and his finger crooked around the trigger. He might be green when it came to Indians, but he wasn’t a fool.
The owl hooted again, closer still. Holding his breath, he listened, hearing the pounding of hoof-beats against the hard earth behind him. He hadn’t imagined any of it. He was being followed. And by more than one rider.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shadowy shapes of at least a dozen pursuers, and he knew he was in for the run of his life. Digging his spurs into Clyde’s sides, he loosened the reins, and the big bay stretched long legs, heading toward the smoke. Shouting, “Come on, boy—run!” Spence urged the horse on, hoping it was a railroad camp instead of an Indian village. If he guessed wrong, he’d be a dead man. Behind him, a war party whooped and hollered now, and bullets whistled past him.
Lightning flickered, illuminating roiling black clouds hanging low over the road ahead. He couldn’t tell now whether it was thunder he heard or the roar of blood pounding in his head. Beneath him, Clyde ran hard, and wet, foamy lather soaked the animal’s neck and shoulders, spattering Spence’s face and coat.
The damned Indian ponies were closing in on him. Turning in the saddle, he fired a shot, missing his mark. They weren’t tin cans and bottles, but living, moving men, and with four shots left, he couldn’t afford to miss again. Some sense warned him there was a rider almost even on the other side. This time when he twisted to face a painted warrior, he pulled the trigger at close range. The Colt
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