the Mountain Valley War (1978) by Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour Page B
Authors: Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour
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Certainly it had fallen after he lost his grip on it when he cut through the rawhide.
He scrambled back up over the rocks and looked along the base of the cliff.
The knife was easy. The bright steel blade caught the sun and flashed brightly. He walked to it, picked it up, and then, when he turned to retrace his steps, he saw about twenty feet of his rawhide riata, the part that had been wrapped about him when he fell. He retrieved it with the awareness that a man never knew what would be necessary, but as he did so he suddenly realized he was without water.
On the mountain above, that had presented no problem, for there were frequent springs and small streams that ran from under the slide rock toward the crest of the ridges. Here there seemed to be no water.
The particles of dust in the air seemed largely to be silicate and finer than sand.
He slipped the thong from his right-hand gun.
He stepped over the bleached bones of an ancient cedar and walked on. From behind a dry desert bush he glimpsed the white rib cage of a horse, and he walked over to it. The dry, curled leather of a saddle lay near it, a very old saddle of a make he was not familiar with. Men had come down into this country from Canada long ago, as early as or earlier than Lewis and Clark.
Sweat rolled down his face, and the thick dust rose when he walked. It was hot, very hot. He looked about for shade, but there was none. The face of the cliff was like a great reflector sending the heat back into his face.
It was very dry. He paused; removing his hat, he mopped the hatband, then put it back on his head and slipped the thong under his chin. Dust arose in little puffs at every step.
Twice he glimpsed whitened bones, those of a bighorn sheep, and again of a deer. He saw no tracks, nor did he see anything alive. He looked up at the sky, partially obscured because of dust, and he could not see the buzzard.
Nothing that lived ... not even a lizard.
Suddenly he saw the wagon wheel. Weathered by sun, wind, and rain, it was great and splintery, the iron rim rusted almost away.
A little farther along, the wagon lay, and another wheel half-buried in dust. He walked on. An old wagon. A cart, rather.
Yet somebody had been here, somebody who had found a way to get down the cliff with a wagon. Unless--the thought turned him sick when he thought of it--unless that wagon had come across the desert and had been abandoned here when no way could be found to scale the cliff.
That was a probability he had not considered. He stood there for several minutes studying the cliff itself. Higher in some places than others, in no place was it less than two hundred feet from the rim to the foot of the talus.
He walked on. It was hot. Dust and sweat made his skin itch. Several times he turned and looked back. Only pits in the sand remained of his footprints.
Ahead of him there was a jutting promontory of rock where the cliff thrust out into the desert.
How far had he come? At least a mile, perhaps a half-mile more. The promontory was at least a mile ahead of him. He walked on, wishing he had a drink, and alert for any sign of water.
One thing he realized at once. Crossing this country looked to be a frightful job. Where the sand was not heaped in drifts there were areas of bare, wind-worn rock, often tilted so badly that men might have to resort to what the Mormons had called "dugways," cutting a rut for the upper wheel so a wagon would not tip over when crossing a steep side hill. That meant slow, painstaking work.
He came upon the track suddenly. He had reached the promontory and rounded it, and there it was before him. Not a road, certainly, but at least a place where wagons had gone. The edges of ruts cut into the surface were visible, although most of the way they were filled with dust.
The wagon track came down off the cliff in a steep, winding trail down which no wagon could have come without some kind of a brake, a line perhaps that was fastened to the rear axle
He scrambled back up over the rocks and looked along the base of the cliff.
The knife was easy. The bright steel blade caught the sun and flashed brightly. He walked to it, picked it up, and then, when he turned to retrace his steps, he saw about twenty feet of his rawhide riata, the part that had been wrapped about him when he fell. He retrieved it with the awareness that a man never knew what would be necessary, but as he did so he suddenly realized he was without water.
On the mountain above, that had presented no problem, for there were frequent springs and small streams that ran from under the slide rock toward the crest of the ridges. Here there seemed to be no water.
The particles of dust in the air seemed largely to be silicate and finer than sand.
He slipped the thong from his right-hand gun.
He stepped over the bleached bones of an ancient cedar and walked on. From behind a dry desert bush he glimpsed the white rib cage of a horse, and he walked over to it. The dry, curled leather of a saddle lay near it, a very old saddle of a make he was not familiar with. Men had come down into this country from Canada long ago, as early as or earlier than Lewis and Clark.
Sweat rolled down his face, and the thick dust rose when he walked. It was hot, very hot. He looked about for shade, but there was none. The face of the cliff was like a great reflector sending the heat back into his face.
It was very dry. He paused; removing his hat, he mopped the hatband, then put it back on his head and slipped the thong under his chin. Dust arose in little puffs at every step.
Twice he glimpsed whitened bones, those of a bighorn sheep, and again of a deer. He saw no tracks, nor did he see anything alive. He looked up at the sky, partially obscured because of dust, and he could not see the buzzard.
Nothing that lived ... not even a lizard.
Suddenly he saw the wagon wheel. Weathered by sun, wind, and rain, it was great and splintery, the iron rim rusted almost away.
A little farther along, the wagon lay, and another wheel half-buried in dust. He walked on. An old wagon. A cart, rather.
Yet somebody had been here, somebody who had found a way to get down the cliff with a wagon. Unless--the thought turned him sick when he thought of it--unless that wagon had come across the desert and had been abandoned here when no way could be found to scale the cliff.
That was a probability he had not considered. He stood there for several minutes studying the cliff itself. Higher in some places than others, in no place was it less than two hundred feet from the rim to the foot of the talus.
He walked on. It was hot. Dust and sweat made his skin itch. Several times he turned and looked back. Only pits in the sand remained of his footprints.
Ahead of him there was a jutting promontory of rock where the cliff thrust out into the desert.
How far had he come? At least a mile, perhaps a half-mile more. The promontory was at least a mile ahead of him. He walked on, wishing he had a drink, and alert for any sign of water.
One thing he realized at once. Crossing this country looked to be a frightful job. Where the sand was not heaped in drifts there were areas of bare, wind-worn rock, often tilted so badly that men might have to resort to what the Mormons had called "dugways," cutting a rut for the upper wheel so a wagon would not tip over when crossing a steep side hill. That meant slow, painstaking work.
He came upon the track suddenly. He had reached the promontory and rounded it, and there it was before him. Not a road, certainly, but at least a place where wagons had gone. The edges of ruts cut into the surface were visible, although most of the way they were filled with dust.
The wagon track came down off the cliff in a steep, winding trail down which no wagon could have come without some kind of a brake, a line perhaps that was fastened to the rear axle
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