by Hondo Jinx
Behind them was the canyon out of which they had ridden. From this high vantage point, Braddock could see beyond the canyon and across a convolution of hills and valleys that rolled to haziest limits of vision.
On the plateau’s other side, a gentler slope dropped to a vast forested valley cut by a broad river. A crude road flanked the river, but Braddock saw no one upon it. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Beyond the great bowl of the picturesque river valley, hills rose to a jagged purple wall of snowcapped mountains in the far distance, where the sun would soon melt into the horizon.
West, then.
“It’s so beautiful,” Elizabeth said, her voice trembling with awe. It was the first she had spoken in some time.
A concern within Braddock loosened its grip. Elizabeth would have her ups and downs, no doubt; but her words of admiration proved she wasn’t completely broken.
Butterflies flitted over the field in bright specks of fluttering blue and red and yellow. Higher up, birds dipped and darted, filling the air with song.
Down in the green sprawl of the western valley, where meadows interrupted broad swaths of forest, herds of beasts grazed. Deer, perhaps, or maybe elk. A nearer bunch looked like wild cattle.
Braddock saw no shepherds, no farms, no sign of any civilization other than the empty road.
Although he was trapped in a strange country, things could be worse, he reckoned. This was a rugged and bountiful wilderness overflowing with timber, grass, and game.
But he didn’t point that out to Elizabeth. She would only remind him that centaurs also roamed this rich frontier along with stubby little spearmen, giant grizzlies, and who knew what else.
Here and there along the treeless meadow great boulders rose from the swaying grass. To the north, a large cluster of stones stood on the western edge of the huge field.
Farther north a forest hedged the meadow. In the light of the setting sun, the tree trunks gleamed, looking straight and strong. Their leaves were starting to change. Beyond, the land rose in a rocky ridge to a peak of raw stone, the first in a range of mountains that fanned out, covering the northern horizon.
Braddock rode toward the cluster of big stones at the western edge of the meadow. “We might hole up among those boulders.”
Elizabeth held onto his waist. “Those aren’t just boulders. Someone put them there.”
They drew closer to the dark stones, which were thick rectangular slabs taller than a man on horseback. They stood close together, forming a circle perhaps a hundred feet across the center.
“They look like Stonehenge,” Elizabeth said, “only these stones are much closer together.”
Braddock slowed the buckskin, giving the structure wide berth.
Most of the stones butted directly against their neighbors, packed too tightly even for a line of mortar. Between other stones there was enough space for a rifle barrel and not much more. On the eastern side, a missing stone created a gap of five or six feet.
The interior was paved in huge flagstones. At the center of the circular floor stood an oblong stone structure three or four feet high with a flat top. It looked like a table or sarcophagus.
Elizabeth’s hands tightened on Braddock’s waist as he approached the gap. “Is it safe?”
“I’m fixing to find out.” He swung down from the horse and pulled the Henry from its scabbard. “Keep an eye on the field.”
“Are you insane? You can’t go in there.”
Stepping closer, he saw strange symbols etched in the towering slabs.
Passing through the gap, he entered the circle. His boots clocked against the paving stones. More symbols had been chiseled into the floor and the table-like structure.
The air was heavy with the sense of age and significance, the feeling of history radiating like cold from the stones.
What was this place?
Along the western wall, he discovered two circular depressions six or seven feet across and a little over two feet deep.
One was empty, the stones within darkened like those of an old hearth.
The other sparkled, full to the brim with water.
He crouched and examined the pool. His reflection stared back at him from beneath the pulled-down brim of its hat.
The water looked and smelled clean. He scooped a handful, took a sip, and swished it around his dry mouth.
The taste was clean, almost sweet, so he gulped the mouthful. His reflection cracked a smile.
“This is a stroke of luck, old buddy,” he told his grinning reflection.
He went back out, fetched his canteen, and offered Elizabeth a hand down.
She lifted her chin, suddenly haughty and defiant. This girl was moodier than spring in Texas. “I can manage on my own.”
She did. And he enjoyed watching her.
It wasn’t just her shapely figure that pleased him. He also appreciated the grace and confidence with which she moved that attractively curved body.
The buckskin cropped grass calmly, already recovered from the earlier excitement. He was the horse for Braddock, bold and cagey and quick with his hooves in a fight.
Elizabeth paused at the gap, tracing the etched symbols with her fingertips. “These are runes.”
“Yeah? What do they say?”
“I have no idea.” Warily, she passed through the gap and approached the stone table. “This looks like a sacrificial altar.”
“That’s a gruesome notion.” He ran a hand over the flat top. The slab was cool and smooth and, to her point, long enough for a tall man to stretch out on.
Elizabeth shuddered. “This place is eerie.”
“Eerie or not, we’re camping here tonight. It’s our safest bet.”
“What about the portal? What if Father comes for us, and we’re not there?”
She didn’t put much into it this time, and Braddock didn’t respond. She already knew his thoughts on that score. Why bother pretending otherwise?
He scooped a hatful of water and carried it out to the buckskin.
When he returned, Elizabeth said nothing more about the portal. “The sun is getting low.”
He nodded. “I reckon we got about an hour of daylight.”
“That’s west, then?”
“If it isn’t, it’ll do until we learn better.”
Elizabeth shivered. “It’s getting cold.”
Braddock inhaled deeply, loving the crisp, fresh air after weeks in the dusty badlands.
Elizabeth hugged herself, inadvertently filling the top of her blouse with cleavage.
Braddock wondered if she even knew she’d lost her top button. He was in no hurry to tell her.
“How cold will it get?” she asked.
“Can’t rightly say,” he said with a grin. “This is my first time in these parts.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth looked worried. “It’s summer at home. You don’t think this is summer, do you?”
“Judging by the chill and the bright foliage, I’d guess autumn.”
“But what if this is summer? What would winter be like?”
“Cold, I reckon. Tell you what, let’s just see what happens and figure it out as we go along. Don’t worry. This place is strange, but centaurs and giant bears aside, it looks a lot like our world. The trees, the grass, everything.” He gestured toward the field, the woods, and the world beyond. “Even if they have hard winters, they get enough rain and sunshine to make all this.”
He started across the field.
Elizabeth followed.
At the eastern edge, he pulled out the spyglasses and swept the canyon. Down by the wrecked wagon, the giant bear stood atop the slatted remains of a shattered barrel, wallowing its huge muzzle in the prize.
“There goes the bacon.” He handed her the glasses.
“And the sugar.” Another shiver rippled through her. “Likely the hardtack, too.”
“He’s liable to break his teeth on that pilot bread. I just hope giant bears don’t like coffee.”
&nbs
p; They gathered dead branches and carried them back to the enclosure.
Elizabeth spread her quilt near the pool.
Braddock snapped branches and built a teepee of kindling in the fire pit. “If we keep the flames low, nobody will notice unless they’re in the field.”
Standing a few feet away, Elizabeth looked back and forth between the pits. “If this pool is full of water, why is that one dry?”
He scratched his head over that. “Maybe this one leaks. Or maybe that one’s spring fed.”
Elizabeth peered through the water. “I see no spout or opening.”
He walked over. “That’s curious. But whoever made this place knew what they were doing. I mean, it looks like nobody’s been here for a spell, but how many blades of grass do you see growing up between the stones?”
Elizabeth panned her gaze across the circle. “None. None at all.”
“Whoever built this made it to last. Maybe they knew some tricks with water pools.”
“Or magic,” Elizabeth said, scuffing at a rune with her toe.
“Normally, I’d laugh at the notion, but I’ll confess today has rattled my sense of things.”
He lent Elizabeth his tin cup so she could get cleaned up without fouling the water pool. Meanwhile, he made a few more trips to the tree line and dragged branches into the enclosure.
As the sun melted into the western horizon and shadows deepened across the hilltop, the air grew colder still. Braddock fetched his saddle and bags and carried them inside and took out the tinder box and got a small fire going.
Then he carried out another hatful of water and picketed the buckskin near the structure. “Good horse. You like that?” he said, brushing him with the currycomb.
A fat red moon rose overhead.
In its rose-colored light, they sat beside a crackling fire and ate a meal of jerky and dried apple slices, passing the canteen back and forth.
Elizabeth stared into the flames with empty eyes. She looked worn to a nub.
Even so, even here under these strange and perilous conditions, it was a pleasure to watch her eat, and Braddock wished he could reach out and kiss that swollen lip of hers.
He untied his bedroll and set aside the slicker, coat, and shotgun chaps, then stretched out his bedding in the lee of the stone table, picked up his coat and rifle, and walked over to the fire.
Elizabeth was crying again. Not sobbing, just wiping at silent tears that twinkled in the firelight.
Braddock leaned the Henry against the wall and held his coat out to her.
“Thank you.” She smiled weakly and draped the sheepskin jacket over her shoulders.
Braddock reloaded his extra cylinders. That consumed the last of the pistol loads. Two full cylinders for each six-shooter, twenty-four rounds in all.
Thirty-nine rifle rounds remained, counting those in the Henry’s magazine.
Which begged a very important question. How far was it to more ammo?
Braddock didn’t reckon that distance could be measured in miles.
Which meant he had to make every shot count.
“We’re stuck here, aren’t we?” Elizabeth said.
“Likely so.”
She drew in a deep breath. Her eyes lost focus for a second. Then she released a long, shuddering exhalation. “Are we going to die?”
“I’m not planning on it.” He held out the canteen.
She took a drink and handed it back. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Wrangler isn’t your real name, is it?”
“It’s my trail name. My real name is Jedediah Braddock.”
“Why do they call you Wrangler?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Are you a cowboy?”
“Among other things.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Mr. Braddock. How did you get such a strange name?”
“I picked it up along the way. Somebody started calling me Wrangler, because whatever comes my way, I wrangle it.”
“Such as?”
Braddock shrugged. “Cattle, horses.”
“And?”
“You name it. Hunger, thirst, floods. Broken axles, busted fences. Blizzards, dust storms, flash floods. Indians, rustlers, bandits. When there’s a problem, I take care of it. I get people to the other side.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly, maybe realizing she could’ve ended up with a worse traveling partner. But then she turned to the flames again. “I heard stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“About your past.”
“Everybody’s got a past.”
“Yes, but these stories…”
“Spit it out.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired. So dreadfully tired. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
He nodded toward her blankets. “Get some shuteye.”
“Would you mind if I referred to you as Mr. Braddock?”
“I never much cared what people called me. Wrangler, Braddock, Jedediah, Jed.”
“I would prefer to call you Mr. Braddock.”
“Have at it, then, darlin. Does this mean I’m supposed to call you Miss O’Boyle?”
She shook her head, prodding her bruised cheek gingerly. “Elizabeth will be fine.”
“That’s good. Things were threatening to get a mite bit formal for my tastes.”
“Will we be safe here tonight, Mr. Braddock?”
“Probably. I’ll watch for a bit. But I’m a light sleeper, and that old mustang’s the best sentry you ever met. He’ll wake me if there’s trouble.”
Outside, a breeze sighed over the field, stirring the tall grass. In the distance, wolves howled.
At least they sounded like wolves. But of course, Braddock couldn’t be sure. He was a stranger in this country, a trailblazer in a new world.
Elizabeth’s eyes bulged at the sound.
“They’re a long way off,” he told her. “Get some sleep.”
Elizabeth lay down on the quilt, pulled one blanket over her, and used the other as a pillow.
As she settled in, Braddock remained by the fire and cleaned his weapons, using bear grease on the firearms and wiping blood from the tomahawk. He fetched his whetstone and sharpened the hatchet, the Bowie knife, and the slender blade he used for dressing and skinning.
He had never owned much, but he took good care of his possessions.
When he finished putting fresh edges on the blades, he heard Elizabeth’s soft weeping.
Otherwise, the night sounds were mostly familiar: passing breezes, occasional rustling back in the trees, and the hooting of what sounded like owls.
Braddock inventoried his gear, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Sometimes, a change in circumstances casts new light on old possessions.
He was thankful for every item. The extra horseshoes and nails; the lariat and rawhide cordage; the tin mess kit and sack of coffee.
Especially the coffee.
He was grateful for the dwindling brick of lye soap, straight razor, and bone-handled toothbrush as well as the spare set of clothes, extra bandanas, and the mittens and moccasins he had gotten while wintering, against all odds, with a tribe of Crows.
The playing cards and poker chips might help pass the winter if they were indeed stuck in this place.
Ironically, the only possession of no practical value was the roll of paper money at the bottom of the saddle bag. Even that, he supposed, might be used in trade as a novelty should they meet someone here who wasn’t bent on killing them.
Taken together, his belongings comprised the pragmatic kit of a mountain man and sometimes cowboy, a wandering frontiersman who knew how to stay alive in the wilderness.
For a long time, it had been enough. Braddock knew the West, knew its wellsprings and pitfalls, and mostly traveled alone.
To survive here, however, especially with Elizabeth to care for, he would need more than this basic kit. The two of them would have to be smart and resourceful. They would need
to work together.
Their most recent conversation gave him hope that might be possible.
With that glimmer of optimism, his mind leapt to other possibilities. Working together, they might know and appreciate one another. In time, they might come to care for each other. Perhaps even…
But he pushed those thoughts from his mind. Elizabeth was a beautiful woman. Intelligent, too, and educated. Since coming here, she had shown flashes of resilience.
To think of her romantically, however, would be a dangerous distraction.
So he focused on what needed to be done.
First and foremost, they needed to salvage whatever they could from the wagon.
For a time, he stared up at unfamiliar constellations and worked out a plan of action.
Elizabeth’s weeping ebbed away. A short time later, he knew by the soft rhythm of her breathing that she had gone mercifully to sleep.
Life on the trail had hardened Braddock to suffering; but he couldn’t help but feel bad for the girl.
Even if she loathed him, he would do his best to protect her.
Besides, her attitude had improved over the course of the night. And that was saying something, given the shock today must have been to her system.
Maybe sleep would help. Maybe in the morning, Elizabeth would be a whole new person, an optimistic and pleasant companion.
Holding onto that hope, Braddock drifted off to sleep.
5
Braddock woke to a kick in the ribs.
He had slept little and poorly. Three times, shrill caterwauling had split the night, sounding more like a banshee than a beast. Whatever made the noise had been far to the north, but it kept him from sleeping soundly.
Now, Elizabeth stood over him, scowling in the predawn gloom. Behind her, a small fire crackled in the brazier. She shook his coffee pot glaring down at him with a sour look on her bruised face.
“This is disgusting, Mr. Braddock!”
“Morning, Elizabeth. How’d you sleep?”
“This pot is filthy.”
He stood and picked up the saddle and set it on the stone table, then sheathed the Henry and grabbed his bags.
Elizabeth shoved the old tin coffee pot in his face. “Do you see how dirty this is?”