by Mike Miller
“No,” said Baxter firmly. “No changes. We have the plan, and the plan is sacred.”
“Don’t you believe the lad?” asked Conrad. “And what if you were in his spot, eh? Golden rule to do unto others and all that.”
Baxter rolled his head in frustration to soothe the swelling tension within his cranium. “That’s beside the point. With the others we’re meeting, there’ll be plenty enough to split a reward. We’re good, Conrad.”
“Oh, we’re good,” replied Conrad. “But we could always be better.”
The two men looked down at Gregory.
“Please, sirs, I won’t disappoint,” said Gregory, “I promise.” His voice strained with sincerity as an orphan pleading for adoption.
Baxter looked back at Conrad as the two telepathically conferred once again with a mutual glance.
“We mustn’t argue,” spoke Conrad.
“Agreed,” said Baxter.
With one last inspection of Baxter’s resolve, Conrad stooped over to the ground.
“Don’t,” warned Baxter firmly, but Conrad nonetheless lifted Baxter’s boot from Gregory’s back, then hoisted the once immobile boy to his feet.
“He promised,” explained Conrad.
Baxter was flummoxed with his partner’s stubborn persistence. There was no mistaking the impertinent decision as anything less than betrayal. He would have been furiously irate were he not so stunned by the daft decision.
As Conrad helped to dust off the kid’s coat, Baxter watched as his mate now swooned over a new progeny.
“Thank you so much,” said Gregory, massaging his wrists despite their very brief tenure encompassed in rope. “I so appreciate the opportunity, and you won’t regret my participation.”
“See? A lad after our own hearts, Baxter,” said Conrad, “unlike these other louts who’ve long despised us.”
A loud chorus of groans rumbled from the captive men.
“That ain’t fair,” whined Horace. “I want to join too.”
Baxter wouldn’t dignify the question, simply stooping over Horace whilst prepping the rope to bind their newest vocal opponent.
“I don’t know, Griffin, let’s hear him out,” said Conrad playfully, handing a pistol over to Gregory, then instantly replacing it with another firearm stashed from his waist.
“Yes, let’s,” said Horace, suddenly springing up from the ground. Baxter, however, was ready for the assault, deftly striking a fist across Horace’s chin and knocking him back to the earth.
The encounter lasted for all of a blink, but a moment both long and striking enough for Private Gregory to nervously fire off a frantic warning shot into the ground, as if his pistol’s handle was fiery hot.
The horses on both carriages reared up to the sky at the booming blast, whinnying frantically. The first carriage for the officers suddenly lurched forward and raced away down the trail, while the second cart’s mares shifted anxiously.
“No,” muttered Baxter while sprinting after the runaway vehicle. “I got it!” he shouted.
“You got it,” shouted Conrad, while trotting over to the second carriage’s restless horses. Once properly placated by gripping their reins, he glared over towards Gregory, in whose hands a thin trickle of smoke still wafted from the recently discharged barrel.
“Sorry,” Gregory apologised bashfully.
“Wankers,” said Finnegan, to which all the captive men laughed with the exception of Horace, who lay asleep in the swirling dust.
Conrad shook his head disappointingly but helplessly grinned in amusement.
Baxter sprinted forward in powerful acceleration as the cart tried to outpace him. While it had jumped out to a significant lead and was only gaining momentum, the cart still shambled in uncoordinated efforts while Baxter’s dash was clean and proficient. Catching up to the vehicle was not difficult, but timing his jump onto the rear station of the rocky ride would require acute concentration and physical execution.
With a surge, he hurled himself towards the carriage, his hands and feet stretching to catch the railing. His left hand and left foot were successful, but his right side stumbled upon the landing. Baxter nearly fell back off, but managed to hang on with one arm until swinging the other back over to brace himself soundly upon the wagon.
Next, he heaved himself atop the runaway coach, stabilising himself low to the roof while looking ahead to surmise the situation. The six horses tethered together thundered along the winding road at full speed. The reins which steered the animals flapped wildly with their thrashing manes. A couple hundred of feet ahead in the narrow mountain pass awaited a sharp turn. Baxter knew none of them would survive unless immediate adjustments to their trajectory were made. He calculated he had less than a minute to fix things.
Staying low with arms spread ahead for support, Baxter managed to climb around the jostling overhead cargo to reach the driver’s seat. He slid onto the bench and reassessed the circumstances. The reins had now fallen and whipped across the ground like the tail of an anxious panther. The horses continued their blind rumble forwards, approaching the cliff’s edge with precarious speed.
The inevitability of doom was hard to deny. The feeling was rare, but a small morsel of cowardice began to spread throughout his body like an infectious virus. His heart became weak, his muscles seeped away their power and grew timid.
And then he thought of her, his beloved back home, the reason why he was here in the first place. Fear abandoned him while insane levels of heroism surged through his veins. With a hearty gulp of sweat and saliva, Baxter stifled the urge to abandon the cart and was instantly compelled to soldier onwards to success, to give meaning to the foolhardy danger of this predicament.
He measured the jostling of the various parts of the stage coach: the rattling of the wooden pole tethering the crazed beasts to the vehicle, the steady pulsing of each animal’s body as it charged forward in frenzied gallop, the erratic lashing of the loose leather reins. With a whispered prayer, he leapt ahead into the violent swirl of animal, lumber and metal.
Baxter intended to land on the shaft that ran the length of the horses, no wider than a few inches in breadth. He missed.
One foot managed to hit the intended target but was immediately cast off from the violent turbulence. Amidst the crazed commotion, there was a calmness in that light moment where Baxter drifted weightlessly through the air. He knew his momentum and gravity had predetermined the fall, so there was not much he could do to avoid being trampled.
Baxter fell aside the back haunch of the rear left horse. While its galloping motion first brushed him down towards the ground, it quickly reversed and lifted him back upwards too.
With one hand clawing at the saddle, the other snatched at another stallion’s whipping tail. His feet bounced off the ground while his shin was brutally kicked by a hoof. His fingers curled further into the creature’s long coarse hair to steady himself from falling any further while his body jostled about from the animals. With both feet held aloft, Baxter carried himself above the ground and between the two rows of mares.
His feet scrambled for purchase upon the long beam of the yoke, but could not catch the quivering length of stick. So instead he wrapped his legs around the horse, one over the saddle and the other beneath the beast’s stomach. Baxter was now riding sideways.
Within inches of his face, the reins playfully bounced about and teased him like the veil of an exotic dancer. Baxter reached to grab them, but another sudden quake shivered through the train, sending him scrambling for grip. As if in retaliation for the constant wrangling and tugging, his horse swung an angry hoof high enough to painfully strike him in the knee. Nevertheless, with a bitter groan, Baxter managed to pull himself atop the horse to ride more traditionally.
But the reins were now too far away to snatch from horseback. The cliff’s edge was fast approaching. Time was running short for Baxter to inventory what he could save in the next few seconds. He pulled his pistol from his belt and aimed carefully at
the bolt of the brass shaft attaching the wagon to the horses’ harness.
With a deep inhale to reassure himself the decision was right, Baxter fired. The bullet bit a sizable chunk from the wood with a nice accompanying dent in the fastening clamp. But the connection remained unbroken.
Dropping the pistol, Baxter turned about to squat atop the horse’s back. He lunged back though the air towards the carriage, carefully measuring his target against the rushing ground below him. As he landed, he slammed his boot heels down to strike at the damaged shaft yoke. The weakened wood splintered and snapped upon impact.
Baxter’s smile from this success quickly vanished when the logical side of his brain suddenly realised he hadn’t bothered with the logistics of his landing. He spread his arms to bear hug the bulbous front of the carriage, but found little to grip. Baxter stood precariously upon the edge of the broken shaft, flailing for any hold. His arms spun like a windmill, but with nothing else to secure himself, he stumbled and fell.
The fall to the ground filled the briefest interval of time possible. But the absolute futility was a pleasant distraction. For just the tiniest moment, his head did not have to worry about what to do and the potential consequences. Despite the imminent pain from the tumble, the respite was peacefully pleasant for him to enjoy the break.
Baxter landed on his side with a thud, though the noise was impossible to discern amongst the stampeding hooves and wheels surrounding him. The forward momentum of the wagon’s charge drove him bouncing along the earth with the grace of a shot put landing.
Baxter remained aware enough to withdraw all his flailing limbs tight to his body to avoid the carriage’s wheels flying past like large, circular blades. While the vehicle was rapidly losing inertia having lost its tether to the horses, it still rolled quickly ahead while the horses sped away. The cart passed inches overhead as Baxter’s tumbling body ground to a halt. As he heard the mares’ frightened cries, he looked up to see the horses begin to disappear over the edge of the cliff, one pair at a time until all six became crashing echoes beyond the path’s lip. The beasts’ horrible sacrifice grieved Baxter greatly though he knew he had done everything he could.
Like a dying marathon runner, the wagon shuffled forward now in a weak crawl. It stubbornly lumbered towards its final destination, determined to reach its inevitable conclusion over the cliff. With sore body creaking and muscles bruised, Baxter sprang to his feet and began to sprint towards the coach. The dust of the road clung to his wet body as he chased the cart through the cloud in its wake. The effort made all the pain hurt even worse, but he was determined to catch up to the wagon. The thing that smarted most was the palpable notion of looming failure.
When Baxter was just a few feet from the rear of the runaway vehicle, the front wheels of the horseless coach dipped over the ledge, moving from dusty rock into the infinite void of open space. With every fleeing step of Baxter’s, the horizon opened wider to reveal more of the distant mountains and deep ravines that buttressed against the elevated path atop this steep slope.
The wheels toppled over the cliff, momentum nudging it further over the side into gravity’s maw.
Baxter stretched one arm out in a final desperate lunge. He arrived in time to clutch a rail on the carriage as the back wheels rose off the ground. The body of the carriage was now levered against the sharp edge of the cliff, tilting precariously between land and air. The vehicle’s rear began to drift higher, threatening to take Baxter with it.
In an explosive burst of whiplash, Baxter abruptly jerked himself in the opposite direction of his sprint. Boots dug into the dirt, knuckles burst from clenching the cart, the entirety of his muscles and his will strained to prevent the large carriage from vanishing over the cliff side.
The screws attaching the brass rail to the wooden wagon popped out of their tiny holes under the pressure, as if they were mice fleeing a sinking ship.
Baxter gritted his teeth, his body quivering at the finale of the inhuman course he had endured to save this stolen cargo. He prayed again for help for another push of strength as the wagon teetered away, threatening to detach his arms from their shoulders.
He thought of his beloved wife back home on a far away continent, what that faded portrait of hers in his coat pocket would look like with a pained expression of heartbroken sadness at his defeat. The sorrow emerged in a loud roar, a primal howl that reverberated and echoed through the mountain pass.
With all his might, Baxter yanked backwards though his grip began to loosen from the sweat and force. His burning fingers turned white with exertion.
His hands finally slipped, and he collapsed into a frail pile. His arms were so weak that they fell limp to his side. He knelt down upon the ground and slouched his head in pensive defeat.
The wheels of the wagon spun in midair, the spokes twirling like clock faces slowly losing power. But the vessel remained perched on the ledge. It made Baxter smile.
Baxter looked skyward in appreciation for his triumph and chuckled at the thought that a higher power had tacitly graced his dastardly plan. He collapsed onto his back in the dry earth and passed into peaceful blackness.
Chapter VII
A Reunion of Mates
“Well, look at that,” a familiar voice shouted. Baxter opened his eyes to a blinding midday sun directly overhead. Squinting and tilting his head back, he saw an upside-down carriage approaching. A cheerful Conrad was at the reins and waved halloo, and Private Gregory rode shotgun by his side.
“You see that, boy,” Conrad said, slapping at Gregory’s shoulder. “That’s a bleeding hero. Well, except for the fact that he’s a traitorous criminal.” He pulled the carriage up to stop alongside Baxter, still lying in the dusty road. “But the world isn’t black and white, just full of greys, so a man can be both now, can’t he?” Conrad said in address of his fallen accomplice.
“Curse you,” Baxter groaned.
“Too late for that, mate,” Conrad said hopping to the ground. “I’ve been damned my whole life.” He extended a hand and helped Baxter to his feet.
“Gregory, go unload the gear from that wagon,” Conrad instructed.
“Why me?” Gregory said.
“Because you’re our slave,” Conrad explained, while dusting off Baxter. “Before I had Baxter, but now you’ll be our lackey. That’s what we received in exchange for your freedom.” Conrad looked at Baxter for approval who scowled in mild disgust.
Gregory explained, “That doesn’t make much sense, if I’m free but a slave.”
“Well, that’s much like the predicament of our mutual friend Private Griffin here. And maybe the whole lot of us. To be two very different things at the same time, to live lives that don’t make sense.” Conrad looked up dreamily in the sky as he mused. Baxter was still peeved from the unnecessary ordeal, but knew that his friend was only so philosophical when he was happy. It felt wrong to interrupt with his own grumpiness, so Baxter kept his mouth shut while he dusted off his clothes.
“Which is why you are not tied up back down the road with the rest of the crew,” Conrad continued.
Gregory smiled and ambled over towards the precariously positioned carriage. The young soldier reached out for the first large trunk stacked on the back of the carriage.
“No, wait!” Baxter cried.
But Gregory was already hoisting the heavy carton when a loud snap came from the husk of the vehicle. A short series of rapid-fire creaks followed as the front of the wagon sank.
Quickly realising his error, Gregory placed the container back on the stagecoach just in time for the entire thing to topple over the ledge. The crashes could be heard booming and echoing through the vast canyons for the next twenty seconds.
Gregory sheepishly looked back at the two men. Baxter scowled angrily at Conrad. Conrad shrugged in surrender. “We cannot fight fate,” he said.
Chapter VIII
An Explanation of the Plan
“What are we doing?” Gregory bluntly asked to break t
he silence. He was leaning out the side window of the wagon to shout the question to the drivers seated in front.
“Well, you see--” began Conrad.
“Shut up,” Baxter grumbled.
With the group lapsing into silence, the only sounds to be heard were the steady clopping of hooves and the creaking of the carriage’s wheels.
“Still the silent treatment for our new recruit?” Conrad asked.
“Both of you actually,” Baxter explained curtly. The African continued to glower at the winding road ahead of them, though not really focused on anything in particular other than simmering in anger.
“Well, I can talk to him, can’t I?” Conrad asked.
“Just...” Baxter stopped to wince from a budding headache, compounded with the rest of his sore body.
“Look, I’m sorry, mate,” said Conrad earnestly.
“Me too,” Gregory said from below.
“Please, Gregory, I can handle this,” Conrad responded with clear irritation.
“Oh, you too now,” Gregory muttered as he receded back into the lonely carriage.
Conrad returned his attention to his sullen chum. “I truly am,” said Conrad again. His blue eyes melted with penitence in nearly comic exaggeration. “Sorry.”
“You think this is funny?” Baxter growled, finally breaking from his mesmerised state to confront his companion with an angry, accusatory expression. He lashed the reins at the horses too, some of which whinnied at the surprisingly sharp spank.
Conrad resiliently tried to hold onto his smile, but it faded. He cleared his throat. “I do think it’s funny,” he said solemnly. “That if I didn’t have a sense of humour, I might as well be dead.” His sincerity began to proudly overpower Baxter’s emotions. “And you could learn to take these trifles a bit more lightly too. You won’t get up in my years without that sort of philosophy.”