Mount Dragon

by Douglas Preston

  He returned to the opening of the cinder cone and began trying to discover where they had gone, fighting to keep anger and panic from making him sloppy. How could he have missed their exit tracks?

  He moved around the periphery of the cone until he came again to the marks going in. He carefully examined the vicinity of the entrance. He followed the entrance marks, then traced them backward away from the cinder cone. Then again, and yet again. Then he cut for sign a hundred yards from the cinder cone, circling the entire formation, hoping to pick up the trail that he knew must lead out.

  But there was no trail leading out. They had ridden into the cinder cone, and then vanished. Carson had tricked him. But how?

  “Tell me, how?” he said aloud, spinning toward the shadow.

  It moved away from him, a dark presence in the periphery of his vision, remaining scornfully silent.

  He went back into the mock camp and checked the nearby hole again, more carefully this time. Nothing. He stepped backward, examining the ground. There were some patches of windblown sand and cinder fields on the floor of the cinder cone. To one side there was a small disturbed area that he had not examined before. Nye carefully knelt on his hands and knees, his eyes inches from the sand. Some of the marks showed skidding and twisting. Carson had done something to the horses in this spot, worked on them in some way. And here was where the tracks ended.

  Not quite. He found a faint, partial imprint of a hoof in a patch of sand a few yards away. It showed, very clearly, why there were no longer any marks on the rocks.

  The son of a bitch had pulled the iron shoes off his horses.

  Within a few miles, Carson figured, they should reach the edge of the lava. He knew that it was critically important to get the horses onto sand again as soon as possible. Even though they were leading the horses rather than riding them, the horses’ hooves would quickly get sore. If they walked on lava long enough without wearing shoes, they would go lame. And then there was always the very real possibility of catastrophe—a horse cracking a hoof to the quick, or perhaps bruising the frog, the soft center of the hoof.

  He knew that the naked hooves also left marks on the rock: tiny flakes and streaks of keratin from the hooves; the odd overturned stone; the crushed blade of grass; the stray imprint in a small patch of windblown sand. But these marks were extremely subtle. At the least, they would slow Nye down. Slow him considerably. Still, Carson dared remain on the lava only a few more miles. Then they would have to put the shoes back on or ride in sand.

  He had decided to head north again. If they were to get out of the Jornada alive, they really had no choice. Instead of going due north, however, they had trended northeast, making sharp turns, frequent zigzags, and once doubling back in an effort to confuse and irritate Nye. They also walked their horses some distance apart, preferring two fainter trails to a single more obvious one.

  Carson pinched the skin on his horse’s neck.

  “What’s that for?” de Vaca asked.

  “I’m checking to see if the horse is getting dehydrated,” Carson replied.

  “How?”

  “You pinch the skin on the neck and see how fast the wrinkle springs back. A horse’s skin loses elasticity as he becomes thirsty.”

  “Another trick you learned from this Ute ancestor you told me about?” de Vaca asked.

  “Yes,” Carson replied testily. “As it so happens, yes.”

  “Seems you picked up a lot more from him than you’d like to admit.”

  Carson felt his irritation with this subject growing. “Look,” he said, “if you’re so eager to turn me into an Indian, go ahead. I know what I am.”

  “I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what you don’t know.”

  “So now we’re going to have a session about my identity problem? If that’s your idea of psychotherapy, I can see why you failed as a psychiatrist.”

  Immediately, de Vaca’s expression became less playful. “I didn’t fail, cabrón. I ran out of money, remember?”

  They rode in silence.

  “You should be proud of your Native American blood,” she said at last. “Like I am of mine.”

  “You’re no Indian.”

  “Guess again. The conquistadores married the conquistas. We’re all brothers and sisters, cabrón. Most old Hispanic families in New Mexico have some Aztec, Nahuatl, Navajo, or Pueblo blood.”

  “Count me out of your multicultural utopia,” Carson said. “And stop calling me cabrón.”

  De Vaca laughed. “Just consider how your embarrassing, whiskey-drinking great-uncle is saving our lives right now. And then think about what you have to be proud of.”

  It was ten o’clock, the sun climbing high in the sky. The conversation was wasting valuable energy. Carson assessed his own thirst. It was a constant dull ache. For the moment it was merely irritating, but as the hours passed it would grow constantly worse. They had to get off the lava and start looking for water.

  He could feel the heat rising from the flow in flickering waves. It came through the soles of his shoes. The plain of black, cracked lava stretched on all sides, dipping and rising, ending at last at a sharp, clean horizon. Here and there, Carson could see mirages shimmering on the surface of the lava. Some looked like blue pools of water, vibrating as if tickled by a playful wind; others were bands of parallel vertical lines, distant mountains of dream-lava. Still others hovered just above the horizon, lens-shaped reflections of the rock below. It was a surreal landscape.

  As noon approached, everything turned white in the heat. The only exception was the surrounding expanse of lava, which seemed to get blacker, as if it were swallowing the light. No matter which way Carson turned, he could feel the sun’s precise angle and location in the sky, the source of an almost unbearable pressure. The heat had thickened the air, made it feel heavy and claustrophobic.

  He glanced up. Several birds were riding a thermal far to the northwest, circling lazily at a high altitude. Vultures, probably hovering over a dead antelope. There wasn’t much to eat in this desert, even for vultures.

  He looked more carefully at the black specks drifting high in the sky. There was a reason why they were circling and not landing: it meant there might be another scavenger on the kill. Coyotes, perhaps.

  That was very important.

  “Let’s head northwest,” he said. They made a sharp turn, staying apart to confuse Nye and heading toward the distant birds.

  He remembered being extremely thirsty once before. He had been working a remote part of the ranch known as Coal Canyon. He’d ridden down the canyon tracking a lost bull—one of his dad’s prize Brahmans—expecting to camp and find water at the Ojo del Perillo. The Ojo had been unexpectedly dry, and he’d spent a waterless night. Toward morning his horse became tangled in his stake rope, panicked, and bowed a tendon. Carson had been forced to walk thirty miles out without water, in heat nearly equal to this. He remembered getting to Witch Well and drinking until he threw up, drinking again and throwing up, and still being utterly unable to slake his terrible thirst. When he finally got home it was old Charley who came to his rescue with a foul potion made out of water, salt and soda collected from a salt pan near the ranch house, horsehair ash, and various burned herbs. Only after he drank it did the unbearable sensation of thirst leave his body.

  Carson realized now that he had been suffering from an extreme electrolyte imbalance brought on by dehydration. Charley’s evil potion had corrected it.

  There were plenty of salt pans in the Jornada desert. He would have to remember to collect some of the bitter salts for that time when they found water.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden buzzing sound in the lava directly ahead. For a moment he wondered if he was already hallucinating from thirst. But then Roscoe’s head jerked up, and the horse, shaken out of his lethargy, began to prance in anxiety.

  “Easy,” Carson said. “Easy, boy. Rattlesnake up ahead,” he warned in a louder tone.

  De Vaca halted. Th
e buzzing became more insistent.

  “Jesus,” she said, backing up.

  Carson searched the ground ahead with careful eyes. The snake would be in the shade; it was far too hot in the sun, even for a rattlesnake.

  Then he saw it; a fat diamondback coontail coiled in an S-curve, backed up against the base of a yucca about twenty feet away, its head a good twelve inches off the ground. It was a medium-sized rattler, perhaps two and a half feet long. The snake’s coils were slowly sliding against each other while it held steady in striking position. The rattling had temporarily stopped.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Carson said. “This time, one of my own.”

  Giving his horse’s lead to de Vaca, he walked carefully away from the snake until he found a suitable mesquite bush. Breaking off two forked branches, he removed the thorns and stobs, then walked back toward de Vaca.

  “Oh my God, cabrón, don’t tell me you’re going to catch the hijo de perra.”

  “I’m going to need your help in just a second.”

  “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

  “We used to catch snakes like this all the time on the ranch. You cut off their heads, gut ’em, and coil them in the fire. Taste like chicken.”

  “Right, with a side of Rocky Mountain oysters. I’ve heard those stories before.”

  Carson laughed. “The truth is, we tried it once but the damn snake was all bones. And we burned the shit out of it in the fire, which didn’t help.”

  Carson approached the snake. It began buzzing again, coiling into a tense spring, its head swaying ever so slightly. Carson could see the forked tongue flickering a deadly warning. He knew the maximum length of the strike was the length of the snake: two and a half feet. He stayed well beyond that, maneuvering the forked end of the stick toward it. It was unlikely the snake would strike at the stick. They struck only when they sensed body heat.

  He moved quickly, pinning the snake’s middle in the fork of the stick.

  Instantly the snake uncoiled and began thrashing about. With the second stick, Carson pinned the snake at a second place closer to the head. Then he released the first stick and carefully pinned it even closer to the head, working his way up the body until it was pinned directly behind the neck. The snake, furious, opened its mouth wider, a pink cavern, each fang glistening with a drop of venom. The tail whipsawed back and forth.

  Keeping the snake well pinned, Carson reached down gingerly and grabbed it behind the neck, careful to keep his thumb under the snake’s- head and his index and middle fingers wrapped firmly around the axis bone at the neck. Then, dropping the sticks, he held the snake up for de Vaca.

  She looked back at him from a safe distance, her arms crossed. “Wow,” she said without enthusiasm. Carson feinted the snake in her direction, grinning as she shrank away. Then he stepped to one side, still holding the thrashing reptile. It was twisting its head, trying unsuccessfully to plant a fang in Carson’s thumb.

  “Walk the horses past me,” he said. “As you go, scuff up the ground and turn over a few rocks.”

  De Vaca moved the horses past. They pranced by Carson, keeping a wary eye on the snake. When both animals were safely past, Carson grabbed the snake’s tail with his other hand.

  “You’ll find a flint arrowhead in the left front pocket of my pants,” he said. “Take it out and cut those rattles off. Be sure you get them all.”

  “I think this is just your clever way to get my hand in your pocket,” de Vaca said with a grin. “But I’m beginning to see the idea.” She dug into his pocket, extracting the arrowhead. Then, as Carson balanced the snake’s tail on a flat piece of lava, de Vaca quickly drew the sharp arrowhead across the tail, slicing off the rattles. The snake squirmed, furious.

  “Get back,” Carson said. “Releasing him is the most dangerous part.”

  He bent forward and, with one hand, placed the snake back in the shade of the lava. He picked up one of the forked sticks with the other hand, and pinned it again behind the animal’s neck. Then, readying himself, he let go and jumped backward in a single motion.

  The snake immediately coiled, then struck in their direction. It flopped among the rocks and retracted like a spring, coiling and swaying. Its tail was vibrating furiously, but no sound issued.

  De Vaca pocketed the rattles. “Okay, cabrón, I’ll admit. I’m impressed as hell. Nye will be, too. But what’s to keep the thing here? It’ll be hours before Nye comes through.”

  “Rattlesnakes are exothermic and can’t travel in this kind of heat,” Carson said. “He won’t go anywhere until after sunset.”

  De Vaca gave a low chuckle. “I hope it bites Nye on the cajones.”

  “Even if it doesn’t bite him, I’m willing to bet it will make him go that much slower.”

  De Vaca chuckled again, then leaned over, handing something to Carson. “Nice arrowhead, by the way,” she said mockingly. “Interesting thing for an Anglo to be carrying around in his pocket. Tell me, did you flake it yourself?”

  Carson ignored her.

  The sun was now directly overhead. They plodded on, the heads of the horses drooping, their eyes half-lidded. Curtains of heat shimmered about them. They passed a cluster of blooming cholla cactus, the glare of the sun turning the purple flowers to stained glass.

  Carson glanced over at de Vaca. Like him, she was leading her horse with her head down, face in the shadow of her hat. He reflected on how lucky it had been that he’d gone back for their hats on the way out of the barn. Small things like that were going to make a big difference. If only he’d searched for more canteens to carry water, or quicked one of Muerto’s hooves. Two years earlier, he never would have made such a mistake, even in the panic and uproar of blowing up Mount Dragon.

  Water. The thought of water brought Carson’s eyes around yet again to the canteens inside Nye’s saddlebag. He realized he had been glancing surreptitiously at the saddlebag every few minutes. As he watched, de Vaca turned and glanced back at it herself. It was not a good sign.

  “What would be the harm in one sip?” she asked at last.

  “It’s like giving whiskey to an alcoholic,” Carson said. “One sip leads to another, and soon it’ll be gone. We need the water for the horses.”

  “Who gives a shit if the horses survive, if we end up dead?”

  “Have you tried sucking on a pebble?” Carson asked.

  De Vaca flashed him a dark look and spat something small and glistening from her mouth. “I’ve been sucking all morning. I want a drink. What the hell are these horses good for, anyway? We haven’t ridden them in hours.”

  Heat and thirst were making her unreasonable. “They’d go lame if we rode in this stuff,” he said, speaking as calmly as he could. “As soon as we get off the lava—”

  “Fuck it,” de Vaca said. “I’m taking a drink.” She reached back for the saddlebag.

  “Wait,” said Carson. “Wait a moment. When your ancestors crossed this desert, did they break down like that?”

  There was a silence.

  “Don Alonso and his wife crossed this desert together. And they nearly died of thirst. You told me so.”

  De Vaca looked to one side, refusing to answer.

  “If they had lost their discipline, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Don’t try to mind-fuck me, cabrón.”

  “This is for real, Susana. Our lives depend on keeping these horses alive. Even if we become too weak to walk, we’ll still be able to travel if we keep these horses in good condition.”

  “OK, OK, you’ve talked me out of a drink,” she snapped. “I’d rather die of thirst than listen to you preach, anyway.” She pulled savagely on her horse’s lead rope. “Get your ass moving,” she muttered.

  Carson fell back a moment to examine Roscoe’s hooves. There was some chipping around the edges, but otherwise they were holding up. No signs of real danger, like bruising or cracks that ran into the corona. They could go perhaps another mile on the lava.

  De
Vaca was waiting for him to catch up, glancing at the vultures overhead. “Zopilotes. They’re already coming to our funeral.”

  “No,” said Carson, “they’re after something else. We’re not that far gone.”

  De Vaca was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry I’ve been giving you a hard time, cabrón,” she said at last. “I’m kind of a cranky person, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I noticed the first day we met.”

  “Back at Mount Dragon, I thought I had a lot to be pissed off about. In my life, in my job. Now, if we can just get out of this furnace without dying, I swear I’ll appreciate what I have a little more.”

  “Let’s not start talking about dying yet. Don’t forget, we have more than ourselves to live for.”

  “You think I can forget that?” de Vaca said. “I keep thinking about those thousands of innocent people, waiting to receive PurBlood on Friday. I think I’d rather be here, in this heat, than lying on a hospital cot with an IV draining that stuff into my veins.”

  She lapsed into silence for a moment.

  “In Truchas,” she resumed, “we never had heat like this. And there was water everywhere. Streams came rushing out of the Truchas Peaks, filled with trout. You could get on your hands and knees and drink as much as you wanted. It was always ice cold, even in summer. And so delicious. We used to go skinny-dipping in the waterfalls. God, just thinking about it ...” Her voice died away.

  “I told you, don’t think about it,” Carson replied.

  There was a silence.

  “Maybe our friend is sinking his fangs into the canalla as we speak,” de Vaca added hopefully.

  Inside the door, Levine halted, frozen.

  He was standing on a rocky bluff. Below him, the ocean raged against a granite headland, the waves flinging themselves against the rocks, erupting in white spray before subsiding back into the creamy surf. He turned around. The bluff behind him was bare and windswept. A small, well-used trail wound down through a grassy meadow and disappeared into a thick forest of spruce trees.