by Don P. Bick
Chapter 7
I am comfortably full with scrambled eggs and spiced sausage mingling in my stomach, but there’s a hollow sensation completely separate from food as I step out into the early morning streets and head toward the sheriff’s office. Chisholm seemed trustworthy enough, but money could sour even the most honorable of men. My guns are ready at my hips, and I hope I won’t be forced to use them.
A welcoming nicker calls as I draw close, and my heart eases. Blaze is tied to the rail before the sheriff’s office, his coat glistening from a fresh brushing, his blanket and saddle in good repair. Chisholm emerges at the side of a muscular man with hints of grey tracing into his darker hair and beard.
“Morning, Hawk. Meet Sheriff Galeston. He’ll be overseeing our little transaction.”
I shake the offered hand. He nods brusquely, then gives a wave. A young lad of perhaps thirteen runs out, his coppery hair shining in the sun, carrying a small scale. He puts it down on the ground.
Chisholm nods his head toward the horse. “You see the horse there, with his gear, as agreed. The price you offered was two hundred silver.”
A few of the passer-bys turn at that, their eyes alight with curiosity. They form a small ring around us.
I keep my right hand near my hip, and with my left I draw at the leather strings at my neck, withdrawing the pouch there. I pull it free of my head and hand it over to the Sheriff.
He nods noncommittally and sets it on the ground next to the scale. From the row of weights in front of the scale he withdraws a pair of small cylinders and puts them into the right hand pan. He pulls the mouth of the bag open, then carefully pours its contents into the pan on the left. Slowly, with the casual ease of the morning sun rising above the horizon, the pans begin to equalize.
The pouch is nearly tipped upside down when the scales reach their balance point. He lifts one nugget experimentally from the pan, watches the scales move, then places it back in. “That is it,” he announces to us. “Two hundred exactly.”
He holds the pouch out to me, with the remaining few nuggets in it.
I take it from him, pour the last five nuggets into my hand, and tuck them into my pocket. They might buy me a few night’s rest down the road, especially now that I have a horse to stable as well. I hand the empty pouch back to the sheriff. “I’ll throw this into the deal as well.”
He gives a wry smile at that, then carefully scoops the silver from the pan into the pouch. When every last bit has returned to its leather home, he hands that over to Chisholm.
Chisholm turns to me, holding out his hand. “Then we are done. Best of luck to you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I do too,” I agree. “Thank you.”
He gives another heft to the pouch in his hand. “And I shall be heading directly to the bank with this,” he murmurs. “Safe travels.”
I untie Blaze from the rail and swing myself up into the saddle. It feels just right to be on his back, looking past the alert ears to a future which holds unlimited possibilities. I give a gentle tug on the reins, and in a moment we are walking out the main gates, turning our heads north.
The town fades out of sight behind us. For a while I ride, and then I dismount to travel by his side. We walk through tall, fragrant grasses, the river burbling along on my right, Blaze keeps a steady pace at my side on the left, and the world is just as it should be. Billowing clouds drift far overhead, dancing across a sky of cornflower blue, larks swoop, and my heart sings. I have no thought of yesterday or tomorrow. I am simply content being where I am.
I give Blaze a fond rub under the chin, and he nickers in contentment. For the first time in what seems forever, the tight spot between my shoulder blades gently eases, releasing its tension. I give some thought to where I am and what lays before me.
Clearly, something traumatic has occurred in my past to land me in this situation. They did not go through all of this effort with jaywalkers or litterers. But what could I have done to warrant being tossed into this ‘wasteland?’ Have I killed someone? I let the idea roll around in my brain, but while it does not seem foreign to me, it does not resonate either. There is not the slightest inkling of what has occurred before that long, sterile hallway which led to the killing field.
Blaze’s soft hoof clops become a walking meditation, a spiral path leading into my innermost core. He walks at my side without judging, simply being there. I twine my fingers into his mane, relishing his solid assurance. With him at my back, I know I can achieve anything.
The sun is high overhead, and I watch for an open meadow before I draw us to a halt. I tie Blaze up in easy reach of the lush clover and verdant grass, where he can also tuck under a stand of birch for shade and get a drink of the river as well. Then I lay out beneath the birch to rest.
The thought comes to me that we could simply stop here, between towns, between the intense hostility of the chute and the final judgment of the gate. There is a civilization here. Children play, farmers raise crops; hunters bring in venison and turkey. A distant world holds smart phones, internet routers, and augmented vision – but is it really a better place? What is it that I am rushing toward? What did it hold that was so much superior to this?
I prop myself up on one arm, watching Blaze nibble at a patch of clover, relishing his serenity. He does not mind at all that, many miles distant, a wall circumnavigates our world. He only cares that the grass is crisp, that the water is pure, and that there is be a safe place to shelter beneath should thunderstorms roll in. Nothing much else really matters.
I run a hand along the scar in my side, feeling where the flesh is knitting into solidity again. I am not just a simple exile, if there was even such a thing. I am a Red, apparently the worst of the worst, the ones that are kept an eye on, in that remote console room in the far south. More than that, I have apparently warranted special attention, the personal tracking by one of their watchers.
I draw to my feet, carefully tracing my eyes along the horizon in a full three hundred sixty degrees. If he is out there, I cannot see him at all. In all directions there are simply rolling hills, drifting clouds, and the placid flowing smoothness of the running stream.
Soon Blaze and I are in motion again. Sometimes I ride, sometimes I lead, but most of the time we walk side by side. His presence is comfortable, natural, as if we have been best friends for years and know each other’s moods without speaking. When dusk falls, I find us a hollow to tuck into, and he follows me without a complaint, watching with placid, large eyes as I start a fire and prepare a bed. When I finally lay down with my gun at my side, it is no longer just myself that I am thinking of. It is keeping Blaze safe.
Dawn rises with delicate streaks of almond and bumblebee yellow, and I spend a while brushing down Blaze, tending to his coat and mane until he shines like a debutante. He takes it as his due, standing patiently, blowing a snort when I tousle the mane between his alert ears. Then we are in motion again.
We crest a small hill, taking the down slope with attentive care, wending our way through a gulley, then walking across a field of blackberries. He follows me without complaint, with complete trust in my path.
The trail narrows, and I take the lead, trailing him behind me on the reins. There is a mass of brambles on the right, and I shy away to the left, giving a tug to have Blaze follow me.
He balks. A rattling, as if dry leaves are being rustled, fills the air.
I freeze in place. There is no doubt in my mind what is causing that noise. It takes all my focus to rein in the instinct to run, to flash into motion. Instead, I hold still against the fear flooding me. I carefully, with attentive caution, turn my head slowly toward the sound.
It is a mature rattler, nearly eight feet long, coiled up on a large, flat slab of granite. Now that I see him, I wonder how I could have possibly missed him before. He is staring with attentive focus at Blaze’s front left leg, which wove too closely to his morning warming spot.
Blaze, to his credit, is holdi
ng his ground. I can see in his white-rimmed eyes that fear is taking him, but he breathes in slowly, holding still under my guidance. He trusts me to watch over him.
I carefully ease my hand down to my right hip, drawing the gun clear of its holster and cocking it as I raise it. Then I give my left hand a wrap, ensuring my hold on Blaze’s reins is secure. I speak in a low, steady voice, reassuring Blaze, sending a soft lullaby to the angry, shaking reptile before us.
“Gee, Blaze.”
Blaze side steps to his right, moving his muscular bulk into the brambles without a complaint. The rattlesnake’s eyes follow him, but he does not leave his tight coil, does not release his fangs with the toxic liquid within. My hand with the gun is steady on him, but I do not squeeze the trigger.
I take a step forward, turning to ensure the barrel remains steadily on the rippled, scaled skin. I gently pull on the reins, drawing Blaze forward, alongside me, and then giving his dappled flank a pat so he continues on forward.
The rattler’s angry tattoo eases, relaxes, and finally drifts off into silence. The breeze rustles through the slender grasses again, the river tumbles and bubbles over smooth rocks, and my heart begins to beat. I give Blaze a scritch under his chin, and the corners of my mouth turn up in pleasure.
The sun is sliding on its downward course when we first spot the grey walls of Jamestown in the distance. The city is massive compared with the previous towns I’ve been in, with guard towers every hundred feet or so along the wall’s length. A large river runs straight through the town, from north to south, the exit shielded by a thick metal gate.
A black-cloaked man enters the chute when it is still only a toy miniature before me, but even from here I can see the flashes, hear the blaring of the alarm before he gets a few steps into the entryway. Then his cloak swirls with motion as he stomps out and strides off to the west, not looking back.
I breathe in calm and continue my steady pace forward. I twine my hands in Blaze’s reins, drawing strength from his presence. It seems only a moments before we are drawing to the entry gate, a pair of men looking down at us as we pass beneath. They do not even bother to call out to us, just turn and watch as we pass beneath, rifles leaning beside them on the wall.
The alley is dusty, the only sound Blaze’s hoofs clip-clopping in steady rhythm as we approach the far end. The doors pull open in front of us, and we are through.
The street before us is wide, with expensive shops and hotels lining either side. Up ahead I can see where the river bisects the town, with a series of elaborate bridges crossing it at evenly spaced locations. Banners fly from along the struts. Elegant woman walk by in embroidered dresses, a pair of men are discussing quail hunting to my right, and a steady motion of people, horses, and children move all around me.
One of the blonde women in a well-tailored dress of sea green looks at me, her nose wrinkling delicately, before turning back to her companion with a smile. I glance down at myself, suddenly aware of the image I am presenting. My face and hands are coated with layers of grime mixed in with dried blood. My hair is braided down my back, undoubtedly laced with straw and grass. I have a pair of guns on my hips, a high quality horse by my side, and for all they know I am a gun for hire.
I smile at the thought. Perhaps this will help to keep me safe.
I ignore the large stables located on the main square, and instead head down one of the side streets, attentive as the shops ease from jewelry stores to ones selling hemp cloth and hand-packed ammo. There’s a well-kept but humble stables in this section which looks just right. I negotiate with the owner before paying two bullets for his board, my room, and an ale and stew. The sun has dipped below the horizon as I cross the street and step into the small hotel’s lounge.
The oak bar is to the left, and I take a stool at the far end. The bartender is perhaps thirty, with a long braid of shimmering ebony hair and a rust-colored, creased face. I hand him the wooden chip provided to me by the stable owner, and he takes it with a nod, bringing over a glass of ale. In a minute that is followed by a large bowl of steaming, fragrant stew. I take a bite and smile. It is fairly good.
I look up behind the bar, to where a large painting of a dam hangs, a city nestled beneath its bulk. The landscape in the scene looks familiar.
The barkeep sees my interest and gives a wry smile. “Yes, that was the Jamestown Dam,” he explains. “Before the anarchists got to it. Quite a spectacular site when it went down, from what I hear. If you swim in the river you can still find foundations and skeletons.”
I take a bite of my stew. “That’s quite all right, thanks.”
He chuckles. “Name’s Wayra.”
“Hawk,” I answer. I glance up at him for a minute. “Wayra. Wind, eh? You’re fast?”
He grins at that. “Used to be. So, where ya heading?”
I give a soft shrug. “North.”
Wayra nods. “Best thing to do is follow the river, as far as it goes. Then keep at it. You’ll run into Devil’s Lake. From there, if you want moose they’re northeast. If you want the gate it’s northwest. If you simply want privacy, just about any direction will do.”
I take a sip of my ale. “Much obliged.”
There’s a motion at the door, the swinging gates push in, and a man in his late twenties tenuously steps into the room. He’s still got on his orange shirt from his release, although somewhere along the way he’s found a too-large pair of blue jeans being held up by a cinched-in belt. His mouse-brown hair is splayed in just about every direction, and he has two weeks’ growth of beard on his face. He staggers to the bar, his eyes wide, his voice hoarse.
“Please, you have to help me.”
Wayra gives a soft roll of his eyes to me, then moves down to stand in front of the man. “Sure thing, what do you need?”
The man digs into his pockets and pulls out four bullets. He puts them on the counter in a small pile, his eyes looking up with pleading intensity.
“Please, I just have to get to the Gate. The man I paid to take me there, Jethro, ran off in the middle of the night. He left me and two others alone in the woods. One of them was killed when we were run down by a coyote pack. Jimmy and I divvied up his stuff, but now even Jimmy took off on me.” He looks down at the bullets. “It’s all I have. Surely I must be close now? It’ll be enough?”
Wayra shakes his head doubtfully, then looks across the room. “Hey, Zeke.”
A weathered man wearing creased leather rolls up from his table and comes over to join them. “Yeah?”
The keep nods his head at the greenhorn. “Could you take him over to Eldridge? There should be enough stages going through there that he could hop on one for three bullets and get escorted the rest of the way.”
Zeke’s mouth turns down. “Leaving me one for my troubles?”
Wayra holds his gaze evenly. “I need a fresh shipment of rum and gin brought back. Take my wagon, and there’ll be three bullets in it from me for your troubles.” He glances at the trembling man leaning against the bar. “Besides, it might help ensure you get him there in under a week.”
Zeke nods. “Done.” He scoops up his bullet, pushing the remaining ones back to the younger man. “Keep those safe in your pocket for now. With the luck you’ve been having, you’ll need them. Let’s go get the wagon ready.”
The wild look eases from the man’s face, and relief smooths out the furrows in his forehead. “Thank you, thank you.” He shakily gathers up the bullets and returns them to his pocket. He follows Zeke out the door like an attentive puppy, never more than a few inches from his heel.
Wayra shakes his head as the doors swing shut again. I finish my stew and drain down the last of my ale.
He hands me a key. “Last room on the right,” he states. “Sleep well.”
I nod. In short order I’m pushing the dresser to block the door, laying my gun across my chest, and my vision fades to black.
A strong wind is whistling through the birch, setting the golden leaves rustling. It mus
t be autumn; there’s a crispness to the air. I shiver, and a sturdy arm wraps around me, pulling me close to a broad chest. I turn to look, but darkness descends, and all is lost.
I run my hand down Blaze’s nose, tears filling my eyes, my heart filled with pain at the thought of being separated from him. I know it must be done, and yet I find I cannot take that first step.
A sense of foreboding fills me, looming over me like a thundercloud portending a massive tornado, one which will rip every foundation from the ground and fling it hurtling through the air at speeds which could wipe out a life in seconds.