by Mike Miller
Baxter could not help but be shocked by the odd behaviour. He briefly wondered if he should simply ignore the madman, but deciding to turn his back on the lunatic could prove an even worse decision. He curtly answered, “No.”
“This weather will kill a man,” Douglas explained while approaching the fire. “This cold destroys you in the cruellest way possible. Piece by piece, from the outside in, it consumes everything between your skin to your soul.” In the flickering wisps of firelight, Baxter could see Douglas’ hands were likewise hatched with the same scars that covered his face. The bright pink slashes covered his fingers and palms like a spider’s web.
“Do you know what frostbite is?” Douglas asked, poking the embers with a stick to liven up the flame.
“Of course,” Baxter replied dismissively.
“Easy there, sir,” said Douglas, ambling back over to his makeshift bed. “I’m not sure what kind of education you may have had, but not every man can count himself so worldly.” He bundled himself up in his blankets and sat bow-legged to face Baxter.
“Have you ever seen frostbite?” he asked.
Baxter did not bother to reply, only looking up into the stars to tacitly communicate his boredom.
Douglas poked his left foot out from under the edge of the brown pelt he wore. He slid off a thick wool sock to reveal a missing middle toe. Instead of the protuberance, there was a puffy, crimson discolouring which marked the nub where the digit should have been. The deformity created a strange symmetry which gave the impression that Douglas’ appendage was a hoof.
Baxter spied the mutilation from the corner of his eye, but tried not to indulge its creepy master by openly gawking at it. “This was after one night alone. Not here, but back in Africa actually, your mother homeland. I suppose you never did any mountain climbing when you were back there, and why would you?”
Before Baxter could say anything, Douglas answered for him. “Nah, you’re just a grunt. You may know how to march and shoot. And you can conquer men, black, brown or white, at least with the help of the Queen’s finest at your side and telling you how to do so. You stare the enemy in the eye, and the equation is simple: pull the trigger, and it’s you or them. But up here, it’s not so easy to discern your enemy. The forces of death are invisible.” Douglas relaxed back into his seat whereupon his gaze relented from Baxter to drift into the dark sky.
Baxter’s eyes followed upwards too, almost in an appeal to God for some relief from this bastard’s blathering. Baxter had seen great astronomy before in his travels, but never anything so sublimely perfect. From the thinner atmosphere of their mountain elevation, the sky was impossibly clear. At the higher altitude, he may perhaps be ever so closer to the cosmos, whereupon this minor amplification in position was astoundingly impressive. It was as if the stars had spilled across the night, an epic tapestry of bright spots that shrouded them from one horizon to the next. The expanse of the vision made Baxter feel small and cold, so he shrivelled under his coverings for more warmth.
“Wind, gravity, starvation, avalanche,” spoke Douglas in his musings upon death. “Some of the mongrel natives will even include legends about roaming demons up here which could swallow you in one bite. So many ways to meet your maker. And I hope you can survive these dangers too, boy. On the Good Lord’s name, I honestly do, so I hope you aren’t frightened. I’ve seen your fear when your flesh pales, though it ain’t always so easy to tell with your kind.”
Baxter wanted to rest, but knew he might regret shunning the psychopath. He feigned further interest by keeping his eyes awake upon Douglas.
“Because that’s really the thing that’ll get you.” Douglas tapped his temple with his index finger. “Beyond all the elements, it’ll be your mind that will start to go. Seeing things that aren’t there, doubt, fear. Inventing wild hopes when there is no hope. When you can’t discern what’s real and what’s not, death ain’t far away.”
Now Baxter began to suspect that his heed of Douglas’ rambling was maybe fuelling it along. Since the speaker had repeatedly overstepped any pretence of civility and decorum, Baxter now decided he could justifiably ignore the man, turning over upon his side to face away from the rambling maniac. The prolonged sermon had genuinely bored Baxter to the point where a wide yawn escaped his mouth, and he settled in to catch some sleep before the next day’s journey.
But still he listened carefully for any footfalls or other signs of danger. Douglas chuckled, but that noise was the last made save for the sounds of slumber and the crackling fire. With his relative safety intact, Baxter passed into sleep.
The click of a gun’s hammer from directly behind Baxter’s head awoke him with wide eyes. “Don’t turn your back on me, nigger,” hissed Douglas. The wily bastard had risen from his bedding, crossed the length of the campsite and drawn a firearm on Baxter at point-blank range without the slightest audible disturbance. Baxter respected the skilful stealth, which is why he smiled as he slowly rolled to face his nemesis. “I’m trying to help keep you alive,” Douglas explained, gently shifting the barrel of the pistol over to aim directly between the eyes. “And you, a dumb nigger, dare ignore me?” Baxter resisted the temptation to focus on the gun muzzle and stared past the iron weapon into the wicked eyes of its bearer.
Baxter calculated whether he could evade a shot or knock the weapon from Douglas’ hand before it fired. The man had proved repeatedly to be supremely quick. Instead of either reaction, Baxter gently said, “You murder me now, and the others will murder you.”
Despite Baxter’s tactics, Douglas direly wanted to conclude their prolonged confrontation with a twitch. He knew the others would inevitably be roused from their sleep, but believed these other hoodlums might well be pleased to split their pie into one less slice.
Then Douglas was distracted by something Baxter could not detect. Douglas’ eyes shifted to the side, then back again in a blink. He sheathed his weapon and backed away towards his bed. “Don’t turn your back again on me,” he said now pointing a finger at Baxter. “Consider that a fair and honest warning of what may come, so that you may never accuse me otherwise.” He lay down under the covers and wrapped himself up in his blankets, completely concealing himself under the layers.
Baxter now felt like storming across the camp to savagely beat Douglas to death. But perhaps that was what the fiend wanted, a cunning ploy to transform Baxter into the outcast traitor.
So Baxter lay with his head facing Douglas, who now seemed a harmless and motionless pile of fur. He soon recognised the wisdom of sleeping in such a manner and buried himself fully beneath the layers of blankets, but not without a loaded pistol in his hand.
In the complete darkness of his coverings, he did not need to close his eyes to induce a deep and immediate slumber.
Footsteps approached. Baxter was uncertain if he had slept but a wink or for hours. He cast aside his blankets to face another possible ambush from his maniacal foe.
It was still dark night, and Conrad was strolling towards him with a pleased smile on his face. The man’s whiskers were even whiter than usual with snow. As he slung his rifle over his shoulder and tipped his hat back, he asked, “Mind taking the next watch while I catch some shut eye? I’m bloody exhausted.”
Chapter XVIII
A Serious Conversation amongst Old Friends
“Let me ask you something, friend,” cooed Douglas in an amiable tone.
The remark awoke Conrad from his rest. Having leaned back in his saddle with his hat tilted to shield his eyes from the sun, he had successfully fallen asleep as only a skilled and exhausted rider could. With his arms folded back under his noggin for extra comfort, he looked as if he were leisurely floating by the way his body gently bobbed along with the horse’s lackadaisical stroll.
“Surely,” Conrad groaned with mild irritation.
Douglas trotted over closer while looking around to ensure their privacy. As current leaders of the herd, a good twenty feet of trail separated them from the next group
of men in the train. “I want to talk to you about Baxter.”
“Okay.”
“Why?” Douglas blurted the brief question in exasperation.
Conrad laughed aside the remark. “Why what?”
“Maybe it’s not obvious to you, but he doesn’t belong here with us. It’s plain as day to everyone to you.”
Conrad chuckled again still, but with more hesitant concern. “Everyone?”
“Sure, me, Molor, Sek and the boys. We all recognise fellow warriors and mountain men, when we see them, and he ain’t that.”
Conrad would have been angrier at the accusations except he knew his old mate so well. “Well, I didn’t hear any complaints when Baxter vanquished almost ten men at the saloon fight.”
“Oh,” Douglas now snorted with dismissive mirth. “Like we couldn’t have handled everything ourselves then?”
“Funny that these gripes are not directed against the far greener Private Gregory I’ve also enlisted to the cause.”
Douglas smiled widely at the statement. “Well, it’s obvious that child ain’t a full partner in the spoils, so what should I care? Besides I expect that little boy likely won’t survive the day out anyhow.”
Conrad ignored the remark, greatly wishing he was still asleep in a peaceful nap. “You of all people, Doug, should know it never hurts to have more men on your side. Never.”
“And that may be true, but where it does hurt is in the pocketbooks once the expedition is through.”
The whole conversation was absurd, but the urgent conviction with which Douglas spoke conveyed his seriousness. Conrad knew he had to respond with an equally firm absoluteness. “Look, Douglas,” he said while being sure to stare straight into the scarred face of his listener. “Baxter Griffin is the finest long-distance sharpshooter I’ve ever seen. He’s also well-trained with pistols, horses, swords and fists as well. He’s got the body of a lion, brain of a scholar, and heart of… a nun.” Douglas’ features coiled at that descriptive. “And he would have been a bloody general if not for the prejudices of society.” Conrad’s passionate speech ended in a louder volume than the hushed tones of the prior conversation. But he did not care who else might have overheard his words.
Douglas’ response was low and soft. “Sure, that’s what you say. But if the military had such a stigma against his kind, they held no reservations about ever letting a black African join in the first place.”
“You know how that goes,” Conrad grinned. “Indians, Chinese, Africans, the British will enlist anyone that can hold a rifle to fill the ranks, but they’d be damned before they ever let a man of colour command any of us. Frankly, I could levy these same baseless accusations against your Indian mate too, were I so inclined.”
Douglas scoffed. “And if you did, Molor would shish kabob the two of you dead before you finished.”
Conrad tried to interrupt him. “And I’m not questioning--”
Douglas continued with fervid urgency. “That beautiful brown bastard is an original assassin, man. Trained by generations of killers, schooled in all the ancient techniques of murder. Now, I have my hand firm on his leash, but he could take us all apart if he so chose.”
“Understood,” said Conrad. “So be that as it may, Baxter’s presence here too qualifies for a similar arrangement of command. He is no more in charge here than either you or I. Nor Molor for that matter.”
Douglas hooted with laughter at the last sentence. “Oh, we have a republic here, eh? How progressively inspired of you. Well, let me inform you, sir, that we are not operating as a happy-as-fools utopia. We’re in charge, you and me. It was our plan, and it’s our loot. And near everything I can tell about your mate Baxter shows that he’s soft.”
“Pardon?” Conrad interrupted incredulously.
“You may have missed it, but Molor and I saved his hide a few times during that skirmish. The man is not apt to cold weather neither, I mean, that’s just a scientific fact. And especially with the way he dresses and sleeps, the bastard should not be here, lest he expire this time tomorrow anyways from the cold.”
“Then you wouldn’t have a thing to worry about,” a disgusted Conrad replied sarcastically.
“Look, mate, it’s not too late to remedy the liability.” Douglas leaned forward to reveal his ploy. “Molor and I figure there’ll be a perfect time once we cross the bridge to trim this fat from our group.”
Conrad’s horse continued its promenade up the road though its rider was frozen with horror. “What are you saying?” He couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief.
“There’s no need for him,” Douglas replied with keen enthusiasm. Then he leaned in even closer to hiss softly, “And I figure we can maybe dispose of Molor on the backside of the mount too after we’ve recovered the loot. Just you and me, partner. Now that is a plan worth following.”
Conrad now closely examined his old comrade. They had drifted apart for many years, but they were still brothers in blood from their days in service together before Douglas’ dismissal. Though the old wildcat was a little whiter in hair, and his face had been further wrinkled and scratched over time, Conrad searched for hints of his old drinking and warring companion from those early days, one that would never suggest such a dishonourable coup.
Conrad knew Douglas was not joking, but still he said, “Tell me you’re joking.”
Ever suspicious of any eavesdropping, Douglas scanned his perimeter. He was surprised to discover that Baxter had approached to the lead of the rest of the pack. But the African’s half-awake eyes indicated drowsiness, and he was outside of earshot.
Douglas contorted his mouth into a slick grin. “Almost got you. You know my humour and how it fills the boredom. If there’s one thing you need to work on, friend, it’s adding a little levity to your daily regimen instead of carrying about with such moroseness.”
“Certainly,” replied Conrad dryly.
Douglas glared back at Baxter and then spurned his horse forward. “Back to work,” he announced while retrieving his map from his coat’s inner pocket.
Conrad looked back and saw Baxter staring back at him with an aroused suspicion in his expression.
After a brief deliberation over whether to discuss the situation with Baxter, he decided not to cause any alarm. Conrad knew Douglas was often full of empty bravado, though as a precaution, he would keep a close watch upon any possible treachery on his friend’s behalf.
“Good night,” said Conrad, as he closed his eyes and lay back down again. He slid his hat over his closed eyes to further shade himself from the overhead sun.
Chapter XIX
The Long Bridge
As the group crossed over a hill, Conrad’s awe encapsulated the thoughts of every man who had never before laid their eyes upon Jienen Bridge. “Good God,” Conrad exclaimed quietly as his eyes tried to measure the broad expanse of the construct in the distance. He had seen many strange sights in his many adventures, yet this remarkable bridge still possessed enough vivid uniqueness to inspire awe in the old explorer. Perhaps what also contributed to the spectacle was the fact that for over a day and half straight now, their caravan had rambled along rough trails in this immutable and alien world of rock and ice. So only now for the first time since departing the last outpost, there was a reassuring though eerie sight that confirmed that humans had previously conquered these wastelands.
“Indeed, gentlemen,” Douglas said, studying his wrinkled map of dried belly flesh, “our course is true.” He rolled up the weathered document and tucked it into a coat pocket. “You are all most welcome.”
The group continued their slow descent towards the bridge, providing ample time for the foreigners to appreciate the construction.
Jienen Bridge was a fantastically long and primitive bridge, made of wood and rope to bind together the two sides of the enormous chasm. Approaching from the side, the profile provided a pure portrait of the bridge’s length, a thin brown line that limply stretched for maybe a hundred yards across the infinit
ely deep gap. When Baxter tried to study the minutiae of the suspension’s assembly, his expert eyes still strained while trying to discern the thin line of the bridge from the cool blue and gray cracks of the cliff walls behind in the background.
So curious was Baxter about the quality of the ancient composition that he decided to fish through his pack for a tiny telescope, which he eventually discovered tucked aside towards the bottom. He lifted the metal tube towards his eye when the hand was violently grabbed by Molor. Startled and enraged, Baxter prepared himself for fisticuffs at the offence.
Molor gently removed the telescope from Baxter’s hand and tapped the brass barrel against the scabbard of his sword. The collisions made a light, melodic ringing. “The metal,” Molor said, then lifted the device to his eye yet maintaining a careful separation from the socket, “can freeze your eye. You would be blind.”
The solemn Indian patted his right eye, stretching his brow and lids so wide apart with his fingers that the absurdly large orb threatening to leap from the socket. He slapped the metal device back into the Baxter’s gloved hand and continued his ride forward.
Baxter watched him depart, than examined the telescope in his hand, marvelling at the deadliness of the simple contraption at the frigid temperature. His ruminations were interrupted by the cackling laughter of Douglas, who had evidently witnessed the entire exchange.
Baxter scowled over at the braying hyena, then buried the contraption back into his packings.
The snaking path curled down into a slight clearing before the bridge, allowing the entire group the opportunity to convene together to appraise the situation. Standing at the mouth of the passage transformed the vast structure of frayed rope and splintered wood slats into an illusion where the entire stretch compacted into a squat triangle that shrank into the distant horizon. Perspective altered the massive bridge into a puny ladder.
The passage itself was a simple design of minimal elements composed primarily of four long and stout rope lines. The two above served as handrails, while the two lines beneath supported a long row of worn wooden slats. Some vertical lengths of rope on the sides helped to bind together the walkway and stabilise it with support.