Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  “The Rock Candy Mountain—did she happen to tell you about that too?”

  Vincent nodded, noting the serrated edge in her voice. Apparently, the subject was a sore point with her. “Things have gotten more complicated. My father’s stuck on the Westbound until I get Freedom back home to Mom in human form. At least that’s our best guess. Freedom said something about getting a piece of the Rock Candy Mountain in order to do that. So yeah, she told me.”

  Samantha paused for a deep breath before speaking, her voice calming. “So let me understand this. You’re mad at me for trying to get you to the one man who can help you and your sister.”

  “By enslaving her as part of the bargain?”

  “Being corked up in that diesel for a little while isn’t going to kill her, and she’ll be right where we can find her at the Erie House instead of running off on a whim. You’re just as addle-headed as your sister if you thought you’d breeze down my father’s track unchallenged.”

  “At least I wouldn’t have had to worry about breaking into an armed camp crawling with yegg.”

  Samantha’s tone turned syrupy. “Well, I guess you still need me after all. So, are we going to stand here arguing until those boys downstairs come up, or can we leave now while we’ve the chance?”

  “Just keep facing that window,” Vincent replied, throwing off the sheets and scooting into his clothes. Damn if she didn’t sound overly familiar with this place, and not in a good way.

  He slid the frame up on the bedroom window.. The porch’s roof lay within easy reach, and the only sign of life was a flickering fire near the center of the town’s plaza. His mind raced ahead of feet gingerly testing the steep shingled surface. Once he left, sneaking out like this, there’d be no coming back. That meant no food for the journey. Other than mentioning something about finding out what kind of man he was, the mayor seemed a reasonable man. He shook his head. One thing at a time. If Samantha was nervous about this place, he ought to be as well. He’d find out why later.

  He chose to slide down the rough shingles, the angle allowing for little else. Choosing the least-lighted corner, Vincent reached the gutter, rolled on his belly, and eased himself into an ungainly drop on the street next to the veranda. He froze, seeing lights inside and what looked like several men lounging around a table. Men with those big sticks, like he’d seen out on the street earlier. Damn right, they were intent on keeping him here. Vincent waited until Samantha joined him. Together they slipped into the plaza’s shadows, taking advantage of the large oaks decorating the field around a gazebo large enough to accommodate a county fair.

  Keeping low, Vincent darted through grass and across decorative paths for the forest edge. Samantha kept pace without incident as they dashed down empty streets toward the beckoning darkness beyond lamplight. Signs of waking households surrounded him, but a steady pace won him the perimeter road before anyone questioned a hobo running out of town with a woman who probably wasn’t on their welcome list.

  His breath grew labored as they plowed through a thicket and up the incline he’d scrambled down earlier. A clamor back in the village, along with his winded lungs, made him pause.

  “They found him,” Samantha said with a groan, bending forward to press her hands on her knees, her chest heaving beneath the vest and shirt she wore. “I knew I should’ve drug the bastard inside.”

  Vincent looked back at the spreading lights, and then at Samantha. “Drug who inside? What in the hell have you done this time?” Shouts, and barking dogs, punctuated his concern.

  “He once was my fiancé, or at least he and his family thought so. You and I needed supplies for where we’re going, and I knew my way around his house.” She cast a wary look at him. “I only hit him with a log, he was still breathing when I left. Trust me. He had it coming. I hid everything up at my old cottage—what’s left of it.”

  “How long did you stay here?” Vincent asked, her admission giving him the second wind he needed.

  “Three years this last May, until Red Socks sent me packing down tracks he made back to Hobohemia. Tried to make a new life in this place. Things didn’t work out.”

  “Hitting someone over the head isn’t exactly going to make you popular, either,” he pointed out.

  Her fingers gripped his wrist, Samantha’s dark eyes bored into his. “These people find me, they won’t be upset. They’ll burn me, understand?”

  “For what? Leaving this guy at the altar? And while we’re at it, what happened on the train? You could’ve at least warned me those yegg were coming.”

  Her eyes narrowed as if she pondered her answer before speaking. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  Vincent reigned in his temper. Her words quavered with more than just sincerity. This place must’ve been hell for her, and yet she risked returning on his account. Why? Maybe he was the one being an ass here.

  Or maybe she’s playing me like a chump. “Nobody’s burning anyone. We’ll head to your cottage. Then where?”

  “North to the Confederacy.” Wiping a cheek, she looked back. “Come on. We’ll take the cable out toward Three Rivers afterward to throw off their scent.”

  “The South didn’t lose the Civil War here?” he asked as they ran along the clearing. Definitely not his Ohio, and this time he didn’t have a motorbike to outrun the posse.

  Her return laugh didn’t help his lack of confidence. One final question gnawed at his mind. One important enough to risk coming to an abrupt halt and spinning her around by her shoulders. “One more thing. What’s in this for you? I don’t believe you were ever Freedom’s friend. Not by the way you talk about her.”

  She backed away. “Because now, I’m not. You aren’t the only one whose life she made miserable, Vincent. She has debts to pay, and so do you. Don’t forget who saved your life.”

  The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. “Jesus, you want to overthrow your father. That’s why you wanted me to kill him. What’s Freedom have to do with this? What does she owe you?”

  “The bitch owes me my humanity!” Samantha cried out, vehemence sending her voice echoing through the woods.

  “Why?”

  “None of your God-damned business. Now are you going to stand here asking stupid questions or do we run?”

  For a moment, they stood glaring at each other, chests heaving.

  “We’re not done with this,” he promised, motioning her forward.

  “You have no idea,” she threw back, her voice cracking into a semi-hysterical laugh.

  The skies were pearlescent with the coming dawn by the time they reached a small heap of thatch pocketed within an ash copse. Weeds obscured the remnants of floorboards and log walls.

  Samantha pulled a small canvas bag from beneath the collapsed roof, the burlap rattling with what sounded like cans and pots. “Didn’t have much time, so this’ll have to do.”

  He quickly rummaged through the provisions. Beans. Something looking like dried meat in a jar. Some apples. Frying pan and bread. Hot damn, she found some ground coffee. “So what’s next, again?”

  “You afraid of heights?”

  He looked down slope to where she pointed. A high tower glinted in orange tones against the rising sun.

  Eleven

  Vincent’s stomach lurched when the swinging basket came to a halt, the taut towing cable losing tension, leaving him and Samantha two-thirds of the way to the next gray steel-frame tower.

  “They stopped the puller,” Samantha said with an air of expectancy. “Took them long enough to realize we jumped into a maintenance rig.”

  Vincent looked down at the forest canopy, trying to keep the quiver in his gut from climbing up to where she’d catch sight of it. The wind up here didn’t help, either. Red Sticks was nowhere in sight, and neither was this other town of Three Rivers she had mentioned. The noontime sun shone down on a carpet of trees for as many miles as his eyes could fathom. He pointed to a ladder running down the tower’s girders ahead of them. “Any way we can decouple and pul
l ourselves along the cable?”

  “Just have to pull two pins and loosen the upper carriage clamps.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “I’ve done this a lot. Used to work these lines.” Samantha pulled a canvas bag out from beneath the bench they sat on. She handed him a crowbar. Next came the kind of handle a mechanic might grab in order to start an old engine. “Bang out the two red pins to either side of the upper pulleys or use the crank to loosen the clamps. Jam the crowbar behind the rear pulley before you do that, so we don’t roll backward. Afterward, you have to stick the crank into the center hole on the lower carriage and get cranking.”

  He reached up and followed her instructions with a bucketful of misgivings, hoping he was not getting the two of them to the ground a lot faster than planned. The basket shook, catching on the crowbar before it slid in the wrong direction down the sloping wire.

  Soon he had them moving toward the tower, albeit at a slow pace. “How long did you live out here, again?”

  “Three years. Never did like those skirts, so I took one of the few jobs where I’d get away with wearing pants. Inspecting cables may have been a man’s job, but there weren’t many men who wanted the work.”

  “Wonder why,” he muttered, trying to keep his eyes on the pulley instead of dwelling on how high they were. “Don’t these people believe in roads?”

  She laughed. “What, and disturb the trees? They’re Arborists—nature worshipers. It’s the main reason the Confederacy tolerates them on their frontier.”

  “Somehow I don’t think we’re talking about southern plantations when you mention this Confederacy.”

  “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, either. You have your world, and this was supposed to be mine. Hobohemia straddles them all. Here, the Confederacy means the Algonquin nations.”

  “Indians?”

  “I wouldn’t call them that to their faces. Ever.”

  “Great. Now, on top of everything else, I’ll probably get scalped.”

  She groaned. “Tell you what. How about you keep your mouth shut when we enter Shawnee lands?”

  Vincent kept cranking, and changed the subject to one she was less likely to lord over him. “So what happened with you back at Red Sticks? I’m guessing you ran from your father, right?”

  “Right,” came her dry reply. “I tried being me out here. That didn’t sit too well with anyone.”

  You being you, eh? “What’d you do? Murder someone?” He could imagine the look she gave him.

  “Just crank, okay? We’re almost there.”

  The hurt in her voice caught him by surprise. “Hey, sorry.”

  “It was an arranged marriage,” she said after a moment’s pause, “with the town elders doing the arranging. My choice was either a wedding or getting dunked in the creek to see if I was possessed.”

  He looked down at her. “Possessed?”

  She returned a weak grin. “He really wanted to marry me, okay? I was the only one with the nerve to tell him no, so naturally the creep had to have me.”

  “Who was this guy?”

  “Timothy Constance. The mayor’s self-righteous son. Getting the picture now?”

  “The one you knocked out back there?”

  “The very same,” she replied with a degree of satisfaction. “I ran into the Confederacy and won my case for asylum. That’s where I met Red Socks and his wife.”

  “Which didn’t work out, either, apparently.”

  “How about we talk about something else?” she hissed. “Like you forcing your sister to go home. I bet she really likes the idea. Ever think being human is just another way of being bottled up? You’re no better than my father.”

  “How about I just stop asking questions,” he snapped back. Red-faced, Vincent turned his temper to keeping them moving toward the beckoning ladder, the job made more difficult by the cable’s incline as they approached. Fine, maybe he did deserve a backhand for poking at her emotions.

  Wind and awkward silence mixed in the air as they drew up to the junction. He reached out and grabbed the handrail of a flimsy-looking mesh gantry above the ladder’s safety cage.

  “Slow movements,” Samantha instructed. “Think first, then grab. Test your footing before making another move. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Vincent concentrated on the immediate task of swinging his leg over the railing, not looking down any more than necessary. He had seen transmission towers around power plants much lower than this. Swallowing, he planted a foot on the platform’s deck, making sure he balanced himself in the buffeting air currents. He gingerly brought his other leg across. Lips dry, he turned and reached out for the hobo bindle Samantha handed him. The last thing he needed to see was their food go flying.

  Her narrow face a stoic mask, the young woman took his arm and joined him on the narrow perch. She knelt and opened the grillwork above the exit hole. “If it makes you feel any better, you can go first and catch me if I fall. That way you won’t owe me anymore.”

  He interpreted her trailing smile as a peace offering and put aside his own resentment. “At least try and look scared.”

  “I’ll work on it just for you.”

  Grinning, he eased his way down the ladder. Thus began a long harrowing descent to a small meadow surrounding the tower’s broad base. Vincent’s gratitude for the feel of firm earth tempered by the humidity and encroaching forest around them. “So how far to Three Rivers?”

  She looked down the clearing toward Red Sticks, seeming to expect a posse at any moment. “We’re not too far, but they’ll be looking for us. My plan was to skirt east around the town and then head north to Neekanuh. The town’s name is Shawnee for “friend”. Foreigners are welcome, there.” She put a cautioning hand on his shoulder. “The Shawnee, or Shaawana as they call themselves, are all about hospitality provided you don’t abuse the privilege. It also helps to know a little Algonquian so you don’t look too wantésî. Too foolish.”

  “Where’d you learn this?” he inquired as they began walking.

  “Red Socks’ wife is Shawnee. We got along great, for a while.”

  He knew better than to pry further. She was the baron’s daughter, after all. And hated her father bad enough to run away to a place like this. “So how far is this Neekanuh?”

  She chewed on her lip for a second before releasing a dispirited breath. “Three…four weeks if we have to walk it. Less if we can find someone who’ll take us by boat or horse, unless we’re lucky enough to flag down a helicopter.”

  “These people have helicopters?”

  Samantha rolled her eyes. “They produce Iroquois helicopters in Maamii, Ohio. England’s Royal Air Force is their biggest customer.”

  He raised his hands as a quicksand of ignorance threatened to suck him under. “Okay, I get it. You’re familiar with this place and I’m not. I’m sure we’ve got stories to tell, but one thing we don’t have is food for three weeks.”

  She nodded. “Was that some common sense I heard?”

  He stopped, stung at the verbal slap.

  Samantha flinched and stepped back.

  “I’m not going to hit you,” he quickly assured, surprised at her reaction. “Just what kind of family raised you?”

  She folded her arms with an inwardly rueful expression. “No family, just my father. Sorry, but it’s either attack or duck with me. Believe me when I say I was only another dog in the baron’s kennel. Sure, he sent me to the finest school in Detroit, but those Taylorists are as narrow-minded as the bunch we just left. I hopped the first train heading home after about a year in college. My father was waiting on the other end with a big strap in his hands.” Samantha’s face clouded. “Don’t look at me like that, either. I don’t deserve pity. In many ways I’m worse than my father ever was.”

  “You have a mother, though, right?” he offered, hoping to mollify another unintentionally hurtful conversation.

  They walked on for a short while before she spoke. “She died
while giving birth to me.”

  He looked away. Dammit, there was no such thing as a pleasant talk with this girl. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m past it,” she said. Samantha allowed a slight smile to pierce through her stormy countenance. “Actually, you’ll be meeting the nearest thing to a mother I had. Her name is Chepi, Red Sock’s wife. Called me little hanikwa because she said I tend to speak my mind before I’ve finished thinking.”

  “Hanikwa?”

  “Shawnee for squirrel,” she mumbled, suggesting the recollection of less-pleasant memories. Samantha straightened. “We’ll head directly east until we hit the Sandusky. Take the river north. There’s plenty of fish to eat, provided we stay away from black bears.”

  Vincent glanced around. “Happen to have a compass in case we lose the sun?”

  Samantha walked over to a nearby tree and patted at the mossy bark. “North side has moss. South side doesn’t. So what do they teach where you came from?”

  He sighed. “Absolutely nothing.”

  A hike through this version of Ohio’s woods was anything but a walk in the park. Vincent never experienced such thick foliage and brush, requiring them to seek out game trails favoring an easterly track. Meadows, when they found them, were a respite of sunlight and fresh breezes. His brown duster ended up draped over his shoulder along with his bindle, his blue plaid shirt soon soaking from sweat. Samantha likewise removed her vest. He envied her white cotton shirt, its looseness doing nothing for her slight figure but at least it kept her cool.

  Vincent found his traveling companion’s woodland knowledge extended beyond simple navigation. Wild greens, mushrooms, and paw-paws augmented the mulligan stew measured out from their rations into an iron skillet. He didn’t question how the hobo concoction invigorated tired limbs, not wanting to dispel whatever sleight of hand ability King Willy bestowed on him when awarding him with the moniker “Brass”. Funny how most of the people he would rather not deal with ended up knowing his real name anyway.