Tom threw his head hard against the seat. He was done then. He might as well step out of the truck, put his hands in the air and turn himself in. But then his eyes caught sight of the old bulletin again. And he gazed hard at the You Are Here spot on the old map. Yeah, Tom thought ironically, You Are Here. The very spot where I get cuffed and hauled away. As he followed the lines marked on the old parched display, he saw again the words: Falling Rock Mine. Then it hit him: an old abandoned mine was the perfect place to hide; a maze where he could hang low and let things cool off a bit before hitting the road again. Tom’s brain kicked into full gear; his heart rate leaped. The base of the canyon was only about five miles away—the mine, another three miles up the mountain from there. He was a sprinting fool! He could run like a Cheetah bent for hell! And he would!
The terrain surrounding the Rest Area was flat and sparse of concealing vegetation, but there were a few Mesquite trees, large boulders and a lot of tall sagebrush—all of which pushed up from the red sands. There were hollows, washes and bowls which could easily conceal him . . . that is once he got down in them. There was even that short trailhead which wound around the parking lot, that leg-stretching jaunt, the sign said. He’d take off from there and head toward the Oquirrh Mountains. Yes! As soon as he could get out of site, he would run for the hills!
In the next instant the kid had grabbed a flashlight, canteen and lighter from the storage box behind the seat—he didn’t have time to rummage for anything else—and carefully opened the cab door. Tom glanced quickly around, then poured himself out and onto the asphalt. He kept low, darting in and out between parked trucks, trailers and cars. He paused only a second to take one more quick look behind him. That’s when he caught sight of Loran.
The trucker had just been approached by the two police officers, who spared no time shoving the sketch in his face. Tom saw Loran glance at it. A last hurtful expression crept across Loran’s face as he glanced up beyond the officers at his cab . . . now empty. The look sickened Tom, but he couldn’t do anything about that now. He had to think about himself, and concentrate on getting away.
Tom finally got his opportunity to break from the parking lot to the trail. He didn’t run so not to draw attention, but rather stepped quickly onto the path and then huddled in behind a family who had just finished eating lunch and had decided to stretch their legs and walk their dog. It was perfect! One of the kids was about his size, and Tom meshed right in. At one point, the father gave him an odd look—he was a bit intrusive on the family’s little circle of space—but Tom just smiled, nodded, then dropped his head and starred at his feet as if in deep thought and hurried past. And it worked!
As soon as the trail neared a bend, Tom stepped coolly off the path and broke into a sprint. He was in excellent shape, and having been on the track-team for all three years of high school, could run like the wind. And run he did.
Chapter 14:
Tom was making excellent time. He ran fast and hard when he could, and jogged between sprints to allow some recovery. He stopped now and then to canvass the area and check his back. But after just an hour into his flight, when he stopped to gulp the last of his water from Loran’s canteen and firm up his bearings, he caught a faint sound on the air. Tom knew what it was—a horse’s whinny. He quickly climbed to the top of a small sandstone ledge. He laid flat on his stomach then edged himself to get a better look. It was then that he saw the group of mounted horseback patrol crisscrossing the plateau in an attempt to pick up his trail. They were well behind him, but that didn’t prevent his adrenaline from kicking in and sending his heart into a fitful pound. He had been cautious, true, and had tried to avoid running through areas of soft dirt and sand, but if these guys were any good at tracking, and they probably were, he could still be in big trouble. One thing to his advantage, however, was that the ground was covered in large, half-sunken boulders. Even better were the beds of small rock and shale. In some cases, the red sandstone covered the desert floor like a great hardened ocean. It had made Tom’s escape infinitely more stealth and prevented the telltale footprints which would certainly give away his direction of flight.
For over an hour he played this frightening game of cat-and-mouse with the mounted patrol. More than once, the loud whinny of a horse and the click of hoofs on rock, resounded precariously close to where he was hiding; so close that the very sensation of the event had worn him down emotionally and caused a mental debate to ensue within him. Should he just quit running and turn himself in? Would they ever believe him if he did? But each time the mounted patrol got close, he seemed to escape their net. And then Tom finally got his break. The terrain suddenly changed, taking on very different features.
Tom had made it to the feet of the Oquirrh Mountain range. There, the semi-smooth desert landscape yielded to steep rising foothills punctuated by thick cypress and desert pine. In between these, were combinations of formidable undergrowth. If he could make it beyond these benches, he could easily lose his pursuers in the escalating cliffs which sliced the terrain into saw-toothed sections of peaks and swells; slit-canyons, deep and treacherous; and steep precipices ripping out of the ground like giant teeth. No horse could navigate safely in such terrain.
Tom was both relieved and daunted by what lay ahead. Relieved because he knew that the likelihood of being followed was about nil. But in the same sense, he also realized—with some firm soberness—that if he was to make it to Falling Rock Mine by night fall, he would be facing an extremely dangerous last leg of his run. He could easily fall to his death in the darkness.
Tom’s quick pace soon deteriorated to a slow and tedious scramble up and down ridges and rock filled crevices of all sizes. It was as though the great Oquirrh fought his every move, and toiled to keep him at her feet. But Tom had learned at a very young age to never give in—the orphanage had taught him that fervent lesson. And so he slogged on, pulling himself up and over crags, rocks, bushes, and the like. Tier after torturous tier he climbed, until finally, in late afternoon, he flopped over and rolled onto smooth, gentle ground. He gulped air as quickly as his lungs would allow, and spit-out the small stones he had been sucking on—his water long since spent. His mouth was dry and his throat hurt, and he scolded himself for not grabbing up something else to fill with water while in Loran’s cab.
Tom laid where he rolled for several long minutes while he caught his breath and allowed his aching muscles to recover. The sky had paled from a vivid blue to a dingy white, and the sun tipped closer to the rising peaks towering above him. It would soon be getting dark, and although he was nearly at the right altitude, he was still a long ways from the Falling Rock Mine, the place he hoped would be a forgotten sanctuary where he could hide for a few days, undetected.
After a short repose, Tom finally raised his head and sat up. His temples still pulsed but he felt energized and ready to move on. He scanned the entire area carefully and gathered his sense of direction. The worst was behind him; he would not have to gain anymore altitude.
“Yes! No more cliffs!” he said in a raspy voice, raising both arms high in the air.
He was at least two-thirds up the mountain, and it felt good to feel so tall, not only in the physical sense but in a sense of accomplishment as well. He was going to make it. He just knew it! He wiped the sweat from his hair and dirt from his eyes. He was astonished to find how fast he’d reached this altitude. He stood on aching legs, and half walked half shambled a short distance to a secluded ledge overlooking the entire valley. It was immense and beautiful, and for a time he forgot about his troubles.
In the distance, the Interstate snaked along, sectioning the vast plain like a silver ribbon around a hodgepodge-wrapped package. The distant expressway seemed more like a great river than a road. Vehicles appeared more like ants than cars, trucks, trailers and buses—all that made up the steady motorized stream. He looked again and soon spied the Rest Area, now a mere spot against the glistening band. He allowed a moment of sadness, as he thought again about Loran, and how he
had scrambled shamefully from the man’s truck. I sure hope I didn’t cause him any trouble, he thought, feeling the dull ache of compunction. Tom looked on and soon found the spot where the police vehicles, trucks and horses trailers, had gathered like a flock of vultures on a dying animal. To his great relief, most of the horse-trailers were gone. He felt inundated by a rush of excitement. They’ve given up for the night, he supposed, with a deep intake of breath. Then he snickered arrogantly, and by the time they start out again at sunup, I’ll be halfway around the mountain and holdup in the mine.
Tom couldn’t help but feel optimistic. Having lost his trackers, he just had to worry about getting to the mine. He could deal with being hungry for a few days, and if he ventured into the old mine deep enough, he was sure he’d find water. He would stay hid-up for several days. Then, when it was dark, he’d slip cautiously back down the mountain to the Interstate, hitching a ride from a trucker coming out of Salt Lake City on a late-night run to Nevada, California . . . anywhere but Utah. He would be on his way to a fresh new start.
Tom had just turned and was moving back away from the ledge when he heard a noise that set his blood to chill . . . the fast rap of horse hoofs on a hard run. The thumping grew surprisingly fast, and echoed from just around the bend. The sudden realization of the moment slammed into him with brutal clarity, and shattered, so completely, the armor of freedom he had just wrapped himself tightly in—they were still hunting him!
Tom bolted in one great lunge, ignoring the pain and stiffness in his legs. His eyes thrashed in all directions for somewhere to hide—an embankment, burrow, ditch, tree, shrubbery, anything to conceal him, but there was nothing. And all the while the drumming sound grew louder and louder. He cursed at the wretchedness and the irony of his situation. Just an hour before, he had been overwhelmed by a terrain overrun with burrows, brush, depressions and crevices. He could have easily hidden himself then. But now he was on a smooth-rising mount, offering very little protection from aggressive eyes. Then an idea leaped into his panicked thoughts. He whirled and headed back to the edge of the shelf. Tom remembered seeing a small outcropping, just a few feet below the drop-off where he had stood minutes before. From where the small ledge protruded out, he had noticed an indentation, a cavity of some kind, eroded in the cliff-face. He recalled it because there had been bird feces, and bits of branches and grass, and he had thought, what a great place for a nest. But the outcropping wasn’t very large, and if he jumped down to it, and missed his footing, he would plunge to his death. But If he made it—and he had to—he could squeeze into the cavity and easily conceal himself. The mounted patrol would make a quick scour of the mountain side, and not finding any sign of him, would certainly head back, not wanting to keep their horses out after dark. They would assume that Tom had eluded them, and perhaps turn their focus on the Interstate, where the young fugitive might try and catch a ride to another state. It was after all the logical choice. Tom would wait until all sounds of the patrol had diminished and the mountain had returned to its quiescent preamble to dusk. Then he would emerge like some nocturnal animal, hoist himself the few feet back up and onto the shelf, then make a beeline for the mine.
All of this data, calculation and the inevitable decision to act, took place in Tom’s head in mere seconds. And before he had time to think again about what he was going to do, he had jumped! His lean body landed firmly on the small shelf, but the momentum of the drop caused him stumble and fall forward. Tom felt himself hit ground for just an instant—enough for a cruel sensation of relief—then a leg flopped over the edge, pulling the rest of his body with it. He flailed and clawed at the dirt but there was simply nothing to steady him. Over he went. They would find his broken body at the bottom of the cliff that next morning. And all that would be said of him was that the thief got what he deserved.
Before the dust had even settled, the patrol suddenly appeared on an unmarked trail from the northwest side of the shelf. There were four of them—a real posse—mounted on tired, sweaty animals. The horses snorted and heaved air in and out of their massive, brown bodies. The unit had pushed their animals hard in a race to get up and down the mountain before sunset. The wide, flat shelf was one of the few areas covered in thick grass, and the men slowed their horses and dismounted to give the animals a short rest before heading back down.
Tom opened his dust-filled eyes and let out a tense breath. His chin was level to the ledge, and his right arm throbbed from being yanked nearly out of its socket. He spit out the dirt and blinked his wet eyes to clear his vision. The first thing he noticed was his right hand caught firmly between a twisted section of dried root. The root was stretched so tightly from the cliff face that it looked like a taut rope. Tom was alive only because he had somehow managed to become entangled in the woody vines—quite by accident, a fortuitous chance of luck. He swayed, and the root cracked in protest. Then, in one great thrust, the boy heaved himself from his precarious dangle and back onto the small ledge. There he laid for a silent moment, rubbing his aching arm. A trickle of dirt suddenly tumbled down from above, landing on his face. That’s when he heard them. It was the horses Tom heard first, then voices. They were right above him! He gasped and rolled frantically into the cavity, jerking his legs in last.
“He’s out there somewhere,” said one of the group, gazing out at the visa below. He pulled at his pocket for a piece of hard candy. “There’s nowhere for him to go. I’m telling ya, he’s looped back toward the Interstate. That’s where we should be.”
Tom listened, still as death.
“They got four patrol cars watching the Interstate, Jack. That’s why we’re here. If the kid’s back on the road, they’ll get him.”
“Maybe. All I know is he’s not here. My sore butt can attest to that. That’s one rocky terrain.”
One of them chuckled.
An empty wrapper floated down and landed on the ledge just inches from Tom’s face.
“Let’s head out men. I want to be on flat ground when that sun goes down. We’ll start out again at sunrise.”
The group scuffled around for a few more minutes—to Tom it felt like hours—then finally mounted their horses and trotted off.
Tom exhaled and took in a full breath of air. He had made it. They hadn’t seen nor heard him. But even as the pounding of his heart slowed and his optimism swelled, a new sound suddenly accosted his senses, its terrifying rattle bringing an ominous awareness. The grainy rattle was characteristic to only one creature on the planet—a poisonous viper known as a Rattlesnake, and whose reputation in the Utah mountains was a nasty one. Bad-tempered when surprised, these deadly snakes wielded a vicious bite. And when Tom raised his head to confirm his fear, the viper struck, biting deep into the soft flesh of his neck just above his left shoulder. Tom screamed out, lurching wildly back. But he was pinned in that grotto like cat in a gunnysack. The pain was instant. He had to get away! Had to get out of that death hole! Reflexes kicked in, and sheer panic drove him. Tom no longer thought . . . he simply reacted. In the next second, he swung his arm forward to push away, but another strike caught him viciously in the meat of his arm just below his elbow. Tom tucked his head and rolled from the crevice, throwing himself as far from the opening as he could without falling off.
The snake now uncoiled, and moved in a slow, serpentine motion toward the back of the cavity, Tom got a good look at it. It was a monster, nearly as long as he was tall, and as thick around its middle as his upper arm. Without further observation, Tom leaped up and clawed at the shelf above him, kicking at the loose dirt to get a foothold. Even with the searing pain in his arm and neck, he managed to pull himself up and tumbled, once more, onto the upper tier.
Tom found himself lying in nearly the same spot, where just minutes before, he had been so full of optimism and confidence. Where he had looked out over the vast basin and laughed to himself. But now things felt very different. He may have avoided the police, but the euphoria he had hoped for was instead replaced by shoc
k, fear and uncertainty.
The wounds burned terribly, and he already felt his body quivering from the effects of the poison. Had he gone through all this just to die? Tom knew the venom of a rattlesnake was treatable, and in most cases the victim survived. But he had been bitten twice, and there was no way to make it to a hospital for treatment on foot. Without the anti-venom, his chances for surviving the double-strike were not good. He ripped a sleeve from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his arm to slow the poison from moving into the rest of his body. But the first hit, the one in his neck, had injected the venom directly into his bloodstream and was now spreading throughout his entire system. Soon, his vital organs would begin to feel the deadly effects. Tom knew the odds, but didn’t want to dwell any longer on the inevitable. He just wanted to get away from the area. He turned and stared blankly one more time into the distant valley below. If he could make it to the Interstate, he considered, he might be able to flag down a car . . . get them to call for help. But then he shook his head and allowed a withered chuckle. What a stupid idea. He knew he would never make it back down that rugged terrain in time—never.
Tom considered several more options, none of which made much sense. He realized that there was really just one workable route. He would continue on toward the Falling Rock Mine, and if he happened along anyone . . . well, he could wave them down and turn himself in . . . if things got bad. Otherwise, he would go full on toward the mine and hope he found water. He was young, strong, and in great shape. His body had a good chance at battling the poison. The alternative was just too awful to think about.
Tom shivered suddenly as he pictured his dead body, lying deep in the guts of an old, abandoned mine. No one would ever find me, he thought. And then he realized with a lonesome pang, no one would even notice that I was missing. At least no one that loved him, he had to reconsider. The police knew he was missing.
Of Salt and Sand Page 20