by Nathan Jones
The upside there was that the redheaded man often personally helped Kristy and her friends push their cart. He was holding to his promise to keep his relationship with her as just friends and not push for more, at least not until she decided she was ready. But his interest was still obvious and he clearly liked spending time around her.
And to be honest she enjoyed spending time with him just as much, even though they mostly worked together in silence, saving their breath for the difficult labor of pushing the heavy cart up hills with a grade that sometimes got as steep as 7%. But it was a companionable silence, and she found herself glancing over at him often.
It was easier to admire his muscles when he was heaving at the cart to get it up a particularly difficult stretch.
In spite of her resolve to honor Miles's memory Kristy couldn't help but think ahead to Texas and her and Skyler's future there. Of possibly being courted by Simon after they'd settled into their new lives. She even found herself fantasizing about it as she pushed the handcart at his side: what sort of house they'd have, the fields they'd plow and plant and harvest, little brothers and sisters for Skyler running and playing near a fireplace on cold winter nights.
It was almost disappointing when Simon loaned them one of the new horses after confronting those bandits.
It was the oldest one, a chestnut gelding, and it took hours for them to rig up a harness so it could pull the handcart. Even then they often had to balance the cart to keep it from tipping, and the old horse struggled on steeper slopes and needed their help.
In spite of all that there were still some grumbles about favoritism, given Simon's less than secret interest in Kristy. The complaints continued even when the convoy's leader explained that the Hendricksons had one of the largest and heaviest handcarts, and they were struggling the most to keep up every day. He even went as far as to have another struggling handcart family move some of their possessions into the Hendricksons' cart.
That helped with the worst of the gossip, but some still muttered that he was being overly generous to get in the young widow's pants.
Although outraged by those whispers Kristy did her best to ignore them, just glad that she and Skyler finally had a reprieve from the constant backbreaking grind. The days were still difficult, and they had to care for the horse and make plans for fodder once they left the mountains, but even so it was an incredible blessing.
The only downside she could see in it was that it gave Simon fewer excuses to spend time with her, since he no longer needed to help push the handcart and his duties to the convoy kept him busy. He came around when he could, and usually at least for a few minutes every morning and evening, but she still found herself missing him.
Towards the end of the leg of their journey through the mountainous terrain they finally had to climb through the actual mountains. Up to that point they'd mostly been skirting them and sticking to hilly valleys, or at most struggling over foothills and through broad canyons.
But for the last fifty or so miles they were forced to climb into proper mountains, following the highway as it crawled along steep slopes, with no alternative route if their mountain man scout happened to discover more bandit ambushes on the road ahead.
Which he announced was highly likely, considering this was one of the most common stretches for banditry.
The upward climb was long and brutal, even with the gelding pulling the cart, and they spent the entire time exhausted and breathless with the anticipation of sudden attack. Yet in spite of that fear the bandits never showed; for all his scouting, ranging farther and farther every day, the mountain man saw nothing but long abandoned camps and other signs of activity that were months old at the least.
The convoy remained undisturbed as it slowly plodded its way up over the mountains and down the other side towards the valley beyond.
Chapter Seven
Into the Badlands
Tom was genuinely surprised that after that one brush with bandits a week out of Grand Junction, the rest of the trip through the mountains was fairly uneventful. Even over the last, hardest stretch.
That was practically a miracle as far as he was concerned. He'd been through this area several times and had always at least spotted potential bandits, and occasionally a convoy he was traveling with had tense encounters with them. Sometimes they'd had to fend off an actual attack.
It was unusual to go a week without at least the threat of highway robbery, but here they'd traveled for nearly a month and aside from those three jokers back at the beginning Tom hadn't seen more than old signs of bandit activity.
Come to think of it, he would've thought they'd encounter more convoys heading towards Grand Junction too, but aside from one just a few days out from the trade hub he hadn't seen any of those, either.
Was it just a coincidence? All the word before they left the city had been that this route was the new major trade run and settlers were flocking to Texas in droves. They should've been encountering people far more frequently than they were.
It was possible they were outpacing convoys following behind them, or at least had enough of a head start that faster ones hadn't yet caught up to them. And bandits may have decided to relocate closer to Newpost so they could hit convoys coming in from all over.
But even so, where were all the convoys that should've been headed back this way?
The question tickled worryingly in Tom's mind as they wound their way out of the mountains, enjoying the delightful experience of struggling to keep control of heavy carts and wagons down steep slopes, with the occasional disaster as one got away from its owners. They had to have logs ready to toss in front of wheels at all times, and the strain of keeping the heavy loads moving slowly downhill was almost as exhausting as pushing them up hills, and in different ways.
But as the days passed they steadily dropped in elevation as they continued on, eventually turning to go near straight southward with the land becoming hotter and drier with each passing mile. Add to that the fact that it was mid-June and the weather had taken a warmer turn and people were soon bemoaning the necessity of leaving the cool mountain air behind.
All too soon they were back into what could properly be described as the badlands, hearts heavy with the knowledge that it would only get hotter and more desolate with every passing day until they reached their destination.
That was about was when they finally encountered another convoy.
They were just a few days north of where Highway 285 intersected with 160 when Tom spotted the dozen or so handcarts heading north up the dilapidated road towards them. They were being laboriously pushed by thirty or so weary, sun-baked travelers, roughly two-thirds of them men.
There was only a modest chance Simon's convoy would run into them, since Tom had been leading his charges well off the road. Even so he headed back to report to the convoy's leader.
“What do you think?” Simon asked when he finished. “I know they're smaller than us, but they have just as many men. Should we try to detour or hide?”
“It's your call,” Tom said, “but from what I've seen they don't seem like the sort who'd be inclined to attack another convoy. From my experience a group with women and children who're pulling handcarts don't tend to pick fights.”
Simon nodded slowly. “Fair enough. And they might have useful news about the road ahead.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear to announce the approach of the convoy, concluding with, “Be ready for trouble, folks, but don't start anything! Let's keep this amiable.”
The group actually seemed relieved to be heading back to the road, where the going was marginally easier. The presence of another convoy suggested there was less chance of bandits in the area, and even more than that people seemed to look forward to a chance to talk to see new faces.
Although there was always the trepidation that the meeting might not be friendly. But that was just the way the world was these days.
It took a while for the slow moving convoys to meet on the road. Tom was
n't sure if the other group had scouts, but the moment they came in sight he spotted a few men walking out ahead of the handcarts, carrying weapons but not making any threatening moves.
They approached slowly, raising hands in greeting. When they were in earshot the one in the lead, graying and gnarled like an old tree root, called out. “Come through the mountains?”
Simon nodded. “From Grand Junction. You cross the badlands from Newpost?”
“A month and a half back, yeah.” The lead man shouldered his weapon and approached, hand outstretched. Simon shook it and the two groups relaxed. The older man looked over their convoy, brow creased worriedly. “You folks pass by another group recently? Horse drawn wagons and packhorses mostly.”
The redheaded man shot a questioning look at Tom, who shook his head. He turned back to the other convoy's leader. “Not since just after leaving Grand Junction, but that was three weeks back.”
The older man's shoulders sagged. “Our other group was ahead of us, but not that far ahead.”
As the two convoys settled in for an impromptu rest and to exchange news and stories, even do some minor trading, the other convoy's leader explained their situation. His name was Harold Withers, and while he hadn't started out leading the handcart convoy he'd ended up in charge about two weeks ago.
The handcarts had been struggling through the badlands, people forced to stop due to heat or dehydration or sheer exhaustion. After a while the people with wagons and pack animals just couldn't justify staying with them any longer; they'd gone ahead, leaving the group to catch up if they could. Which it turned out they couldn't.
“They were planning on following the exact route you took,” Harold continued, voice worried. “I can't see them changing direction unless they encountered some trouble, but if you didn't it doesn't seem like they would've either.”
“Unless they ran into trouble before reaching this point,” Tom pointed out.
The older man gave him a grim look. “That's not outside the realm of possibility. When we left Newpost it was full of stories of losing track of folks along this stretch, even outlandish tales of tanks and attack helicopters, if you can believe it.”
Tom couldn't, at least that last part. As for the rest, it wasn't news he wanted to hear when they were about to head that way.
They spent the next fifteen minutes or so quizzing each other about the respective routes they'd just traveled, describing potential threats to look out for and offering other advice. But finally Harold and his friends offered Simon's group another round of handshakes and continued on their way.
The redheaded man watched them slowly head off, not looking particularly eager to get started himself. “What do you think?” he asked.
Tom could only shake his head grimly. “I thought the mountains would be the hotbed of banditry on the road between Grand Junction and Newpost, but all signs are pointing to this next stretch being the dangerous one.”
The convoy's leader cursed. “Suggestions?”
He hesitated. He'd been considering this anyway, more and more as they continued to get warnings about the way ahead. “We leave the roads and make straight for Texas cross country. I've done it before across pretty long stretches of New Mexico, navigating by map and compass. The terrain is traversable by handcarts and it'll shave miles off our trip.”
“Downsides?” Simon asked wryly.
“Longer stretches between water. And if we run out of supplies there's no nearby settlements to restock at. We'll be entirely dependent on what we have.”
“Well we got the supplies we needed to get us to Newpost in Grand Junction, anyway,” the redheaded man observed. “Were you planning on taking this route all along?”
“I was leaving it as an option.” Tom waited a beat. “I could also take you along a more conventional route, but keep us even farther away from the roads and possible ambushes. But there's no guarantee that would be enough if bandits are swarming this area. The best bet is to be out in the middle of nowhere where they have no reason to be.”
“I do like the sound of that,” Simon agreed grudgingly. “As long as you're confident of the route you'll be taking us on and that you can get us there?” Tom nodded, and the convoy's leader nodded back, suddenly decisive. “Then we strike straight for Newpost.”
“With a bit of zigging and zagging to avoid potentially dangerous areas.” Tom gestured up the road at the other convoy that was almost out of sight. “Starting now, I'd say. If there's trouble in this area I don't want to follow any predictable patterns, like backtracking along another convoy's trail.”
“You're the guide.” Simon turned to the rest of the convoy, raising his voice. “All right, people, let's move!”
* * * * *
Over the next ten days the convoy left the road and traveled through some of the most inhospitable terrain Kristy had ever seen. Possibly worse than she ever could've imagined.
The sun beat down with relentless force with rarely so much as a wisp of cloud to be seen. Between its harsh glare and the broiling heat of late June, almost July now, Simon was forced to call longer and longer rest breaks to prevent people and animals both from collapsing from heat exhaustion. At the moment they lasted from before noon to well into the afternoon, and even so people still had to drop out of the convoy frequently to find shade and rest.
Kristy spent the hottest part of the day huddled under the handcart with her son and the Hendricksons, laying on top of all their tent cloth and blankets to protect them from the baking heat of the rocky terrain and loose, dry soil, which was sometimes practically sand.
She sweated constantly but her clothes never seemed to become sodden with it, the moisture almost instantly whisked away by the near constant arid wind. Her skin was painfully dry, scraped raw by her stiff, gritty clothes. Her mouth felt like a miniature desert and she regularly had to work moisture into it so she could spit out windblown dust. Her eyes developed a squint against the unrelenting glare, reddened by scouring dirt and often leaking tears.
The few times she caught her reflection in a bit of metal or a bit of standing water she couldn't help but notice she looked absolutely dreadful. Her only consolation was that everyone else looked about the same. Even after washing up and brushing her hair when they stopped for the night she still felt like some sort of desiccated hag.
And maybe she was. Desiccated, that is; she guzzled water until she felt like a fish, but still somehow always felt thirsty. It actually worried her how infrequently she needed to make water, and even more so when she did how dark it was. That was a troubling sign that as much as she drank it still might not be enough.
Kristy didn't even want to think about electrolytes, even though Bob insisted on putting extra salt in their food in spite of their dwindling stores.
But much as she worried about not getting enough water, her stomach sometimes rebelled if she tried to drink any more than what she forced herself to gulp down. Even more worrisome was that they could only carry so much, in spite of the fact that they'd begun to fill every container they had.
She now understood why the mountain man had told them to bring so much water, and was constantly grateful that they'd at least purchased the empty containers when they had the chance. They needed them now, and honestly could've used even more.
But in spite of that desperate need Kristy almost started to hate it when Tom led them to water sources. She knew it was irrational because that water was all that stood between them and agonizing death by thirst, but it also meant that they had to fill up all their jugs and the cart seemed to double in weight, too heavy for the gelding to pull alone so they once again had to push mile after brutal mile.
It was dubious consolation that at least the man had been right about how much they'd drink. That meant they went through their water quickly, lightening the cart by the mile, until it felt like a feather and the horse could once again pull it alone.
Of course, that also meant that if the mountain man ever failed to lead them
to water they'd be dying of thirst within days. Simon's big oxen-pulled wagon carried large drums of water, which he distributed out to people who didn't have even a handcart and were forced to carry their burdens on their backs, as well as used to water the livestock. But he also kept an extra tank filled for emergencies in case people ran out of their own stores too soon.
That tank had been used more than once by desperate families, and at one point had even become perilously close to empty. Kristy shuddered to think of what would happen if it ran out altogether.
Another loss of cargo weight, more gradual but no less worrying, was the convoy's food supplies. They'd all brought enough to get them to Newpost, fingers crossed, but even so Kristy felt a brief stab of worry every time she checked hers and the Hendricksons' combined stores at meals and saw how they seemed to dwindle by the day. If those ran out it wouldn't be quite as disastrous as running out of water, but it would still be a disaster.
The days blurred together, kind of the way heat waves made the landscape all around them blur. It made everything fuzzy, hard to focus on anything but the agony of battling to put one foot in front of the other.
Kristy would've thought that since they were pretty much in a desert that temperatures would quickly drop after dark, like she'd heard. And she supposed they did, up to a point; they certainly felt almost luxurious after the baking heat of day. But even a drop of fifteen or twenty degrees wasn't enough when temperatures were getting over a hundred degrees, often closer to 110.
Even when nights were coolest just before dawn they were never truly cool. The illusion of more comfortable conditions after the brutal heat of the day could be deceptive, but while Kristy was always happy to seek her blankets at the end of each exhausting day it was to collapse on top of them, using them as extra padding between her and the hard ground.
Even then her sleep was often sweaty and feverish, and things were only going to get hotter until they reached Texas.