by Len Levinson
Stone looked at his map. The next water was a river. He put his map away and climbed onto his horse, urging it forward. Thinking about water made him thirsty, but he decided not to drink. The time had come to start rationing water.
The sun sank low in the west, and long shadows appeared on the plains. Stone’s horse ambled over the grass, and Stone knew the horse was thirsty, too. No clouds were in the sky, which meant no hope of rain. Stone’s mouth felt dry as sand.
The light became dimmer and then it became dark. Stone could hear the wagon train behind him, rattling and clanking across the terrain. Usually they would make camp at dusk, but today they pressed on in their search for water. A wild dog barked not far away. Stone thought about Wayne Collins tied up at his campsite. Coyotes probably got him by now.
Stone rode on into the night. The air became cooler and the stars shone brightly overhead.
A stand of trees loomed up out of the darkness, and Stone realized it was the river. But he couldn’t hear the rush of water, and that was a bad sign. Stone passed through the trees that lined the river and continued down the slope. It was dark at the bottom, and he couldn’t see whether it was water or dirt. His horse wasn’t hurrying, and that was another bad sign. The horse would’ve smelled the water and quickened his pace if it was there.
Stone came to the edge of the river; there was no water. He dismounted and walked onto the river bottom. The dirt and stones were dry. He lifted a sizable stone and placed his hand underneath it to determine whether there was dampness, but it was dry also.
Stone tried to estimate how many days the wagon train could go without water. Every wagon carried a reserve in barrels, but horses consumed a considerable amount. Maybe three or four days.
Stone heard the tumultuous racket of the wagon train, then saw the outlines of the wagons coming through the trees.
“Is there water?” Taggart hollered from the front seat of his wagon.
“Afraid not!”
Taggart pulled back on the reins, and his horses stopped. He yanked the brake lever and jumped to the ground, hitching up his pants and walking to where Stone was standing.
“Son of a bitch,” Taggart said.
He walked onto the dried-up river bottom and touched the caked muck. The other travelers climbed down from their wagons and walked on the river bottom, dismay on their faces.
“What’ll we do?” asked Miss Shirley Clanton.
“We’ll find water tomorrow,” Taggart said, “and in the meantime, we’ll stay calm. Let’s pull the wagons around, folks. We’ll camp here for the night.”
The travelers climbed back on their wagons and moved them into a circle. Then they unhitched their horses and watered them from their barrels of reserve water. Stone and Taggart picketed their horses and lit a fire for supper.
“My experience,” said Taggart, “is that a wagon train tends to get unruly when it runs out of water. Hope it doesn’t come to that. You know who they’re a-gonna blame if it does.”
“You?”
“And you, too.”
Taggart prepared their usual supper of beans and bacon and served it on tin plates.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
Stone explained how he found the miners, shot it out with them, and left Wayne Collins trussed up like a chicken.
“You should’ve shot the son of a bitch,” Taggart said.
They heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and it was Jason Fenwick, who’d lost substantial weight since the wagon train had left Kansas. “Captain Stone—could I speak with you alone for a moment, please?”
Stone rose and walked with Fenwick into the darkness.
“My wife and I are very grateful that you got our money back,” Fenwick said, “and we’d like to give you a little present to show our appreciation.” Fenwick held out a small leather pouch.
“No, that’s all right,” Stone said.
“It’s a hundred dollars. You’ve earned it. It’s the least we can do.”
Stone hesitated. Fenwick pushed the bag into Stone’s hand.
“You’ve saved our lives. By the way, I noticed two bullet holes in the saddlebags. What happened?”
“Accident,” Stone said.
Stone walked back to Taggart and sat beside the camp fire.
“What was that all about?” Taggart asked.
“Fenwick gave me a hundred dollars.”
“It’s not much compared to all you got back for him.”
Stone pulled the pouch out of his shirt and shook it, jangling the coins. He’d be able to search for Marie full-time once the wagon train arrived in Texas.
“What are our chances of finding water tomorrow?” Stone asked.
“Hard to say. This has happened to me before, and we always found water, so I guess we’ll find some sooner or later, but it ain’t guaranteed. I’ve heard of wagon trains that ran out of water and everybody died.”
Stone didn’t wash before going to bed that night, because he didn’t want to waste the water. He lay on the ground; his head propped up on his saddle, and wondered what death from thirst would be like. He recalled old saloon stories about people who’d gone mad from lack of water and killed each other so they could drink their blood.
Chapter Thirteen
They didn’t find water the next day, or the day after. The travelers became thirsty and dirty because they had to ration severely what water they had. The horses slowed their pace, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. The wagon train fell behind schedule.
Water holes and streams were dried up. Animals were found dead from thirst. Leaves withered on the branches of trees. The ground was a wasteland.
The travelers became sunken-cheeked and hollow-eyed. An atmosphere of gloom pervaded the wagon train as it rattled and clanked across the boundless horizon.
On the fifth day, Stone saw a stand of trees shimmering before him on the plains. There was supposed to be a water hole in there, and he prayed this one hadn’t dried up, too. His horse rambled onward, and Stone’s throat felt dry as a reed. The water in the barrels was down to the dregs. If they didn’t find water soon, people would die.
The horse shuffled into the stand of trees. Stone dismounted and ran to the water hole, looked at it, and saw that it was dry.
He wanted to light a cigarette, but that’d only make him thirstier. We’re not going to make it, he said to himself. We’re going to die like rats out here.
The wagon train approached, and the travelers climbed down from the wagons, advanced toward the water hole. Mike Leary knelt beside it, picked up a handful of sand, and let it seep through his fingers. Then he turned to Taggart.
‘This is yer fault,” he said. “You brought us here, and there ain’t no water. You don’t know where the hell yer goin’. Yer just an old damn goat. I don’t know why I ever believed in you in the first place.”
Taggart looked beat. “It ain’t my fault the water hole’s dry.”
“You shoulda took us someplace where the water holes ain’t dry. Yer the damn wagon master.”
The travelers fixed their eyes accusingly on Taggart.
“We can dig for water,” he said. “Sometimes it’s jest below the surface in these dried-up water holes. Go git yer shovels. We’ll give ’em a try.”
None of the travelers moved. They didn’t have the strength. Stone walked back to Taggart’s wagon and pulled down a shovel. He returned to the water hole and took off his shirt, revealing the scar just below his ribcage on his left side. He jammed the shovel into the bottom of the water hole and began to dig.
Fatigue overtook him quickly, and his mouth was dry as cardboard. Again and again he kicked the shovel into the ground and threw the sand over his shoulder. The travelers sat around, hoping he’d strike water. But there was nothing in the bottom of the hole except dry dirt.
The Reverend Joshua McGhee stood up. “I’ll spell you, Cap’n.”
The hole was up to Stone’s thighs. He climbed out, and the Reverend McGhe
e climbed in and commenced digging. Stone sat next to Taggart.
“Dry as a bone,” he said.
“Don’t mean nothin’,” Taggart said. “Water might be just a few inches more.”
Reverend McGhee continued to dig and didn’t strike water. Stewart Donahue took over when McGhee was about up to his waist, and then Jason Fenwick relieved Donahue. Tim Royster, another of the farmers, was next, and Tad Hoiton, the gambler, came after him.
The gambler dug until the hole was deep as his neck then threw the shovel out of the hole and climbed out. “Ain’t no water in there,” he said. “It’s damn fool work.”
Taggart jumped into the hole and got down on his hands and knees, kneading the dirt, and it was only slightly moist. They could dig another twenty feet and not find anything. He crawled out of the hole, brushed himself off, and stood before the travelers.
“I told you before we started that we might have hard times,” he said. “Well, the hard times are here. The only thing to do is have trust in the Lord and keep movin’. You kin blame me for what happened, but that’s not gonna git us water. The main thing is to keep goin’ There’s water out there someplace. Now let’s have some supper to keep our strength up, and then we’ll turn in. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The Reverend Joshua McGhee stood up. “Do you mind if I say a little prayer?”
“Go right ahead, Reverend, and make it good.”
The Reverend McGhee clasped his hands together and cleared his throat. Several of the other travelers bowed their heads, and a few of the others looked at each other as if they thought that praying was a lot of foolishness.
“Dear almighty God,” said Reverend McGhee, “please help your devoted servants in our hour of need. Find us some water tomorrow, otherwise we ain’t a-gonna make it to Texas. We have always revered You, O Lord. Please don’t let us down. Amen.”
Frank Maxsell snorted. “A lot of good that’s gonna do.”
“Faith can move mountains,” Reverend McGhee replied.
“I ain’t never seen faith move no mountain.”
Frank Maxsell drew himself to his feet and spat, but no moisture came out of his mouth. He walked back to his wagon and the assembly broke up.
Stone followed Taggart to their wagon. Taggart climbed through the rear entrance and came out with tin cans. “I don’t feel like lightin’ no fire,” he said. “Let’s eat this stuff cold.”
There was a can of string beans and a can of peaches. Taggart opened them and divided the contents into two bowls. Stone eagerly took his bowl and gulped down the liquid, then devoured the food. When he was finished, he felt satisfied to the point where he could smoke a cigarette.
He lit one, and Taggart smoked a cigar. They were sitting beside their wagon and the light from the coal oil lamp flickered on their faces.
“What do you think our chances are?” Stone asked.
“Can’t say, but I will tell you this. If we ever get out of this alive, this is a-gonna be my last wagon train. There comes a time when a man’s gotta stop what he’s a-doin’, and I reckon I’ve come to that time.”
Stone smiled. “An old wagon rat like you’ll never give up.”
“That’s where yer wrong. I’ve had it up to here.” He drew his finger in a straight line across his throat. “I want to live a normal life. To hell with the wagon trains. Damned settlers’ll have to get to Texas without me from now on.”
They laid their blankets beside the wagon. Fires flickered all around the campsite, and a child was crying. One of the dogs walked up to Stone, its eyes half-closed, its legs unsteady.
“Hang on, old boy,” Stone said, patting the dog’s head. “We’ll find water tomorrow, I bet.”
The dog whined and lay down next to Stone, who sat on his blankets and finished his cigarette. Hardship would become catastrophe if they didn’t find water soon.
Chapter Fourteen
They didn’t find water the next day or the day after. Their water barrels were empty, and they had to rely on the moisture in their canned goods.
The wagon train slowed to a crawl. The horses dragged their feet through the dry grass, their heads low to the ground, and the travelers sagged from side to side in the wagons, their eyes staring.
Another day passed, and still no water. In the morning the travelers licked the dew off the grass with the horses. Taggart was turning a sickly shade of yellow, and the flesh on his face hung down in loose folds.
“Think you can handle that team all right?” Stone asked before they hit the trail.
“Don’t worry about me, young feller,” Taggart wheezed. “Git on yer horse and find us some water. Maybe this’ll be our lucky day.”
Stone’s horse traipsed forward slowly. Stone took out his map and studied the route that lay ahead. They were supposed to reach another river sometime that day, but all the other rivers and water holes had been dry, and maybe this one would be, too.
Stone drooped in the saddle, wondering if he were going to die of thirst. He felt weaker with every passing moment.
His horse plodded onward, the spring gone from his stride, and Stone fell into a reverie of the old plantation. He was sitting on the back porch with Marie, drinking mint juleps. The sun was shining, and slaves worked in the flower garden in the backyard. Everything was wonderful, and then the movement of Stone’s horse awakened him.
He peered ahead and saw the shimmering prairie stretching and undulating toward the horizon. Turning around in his saddle, he looked at the wagon train meandering behind him. The weaker ones would start dying soon.
His horse faltered. Stone climbed down to the ground and walked beside him, holding the reins in his hand.
His canteens were empty. Ahead was a brittle, brown sea of grass. The next thing was kill the animals and drink their blood. That’d keep him and the other travelers alive for another few days, and then they’d start dying one by one.
He placed one foot in front of the other as he staggered over the grassy plain. The sun glowed like a giant orb of fire in the sky. He thought his knees would give out, but he kept walking, losing all sense of time. The sun floated across the sky, and the air was hot in Stone’s nostrils. He imagined fires burning all around him.
He heard eerie strains of music. Weird forms arose from the plains and danced in front of him. He saw a tall-masted ship sailing across the sky. He clenched his jaw and kept walking. Wheels of fire appeared before his eyes. He lost track of who he was. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his face, and his shirt was plastered to his back.
He wanted to drop down on the grass and go to sleep. What was the point of struggling? The joints of his knees were turning to mush. He staggered from side to side, and his horse looked at him quizzically.
Then he heard Marie’s voice: “Keep going, Johnny,” she said. “Don’t give up now.”
Stone blinked and gazed ahead. He saw Marie standing in front of him, wearing a crimson ball dress with a low-cut bodice. Her pale blond hair extended to her shoulders, and she smiled as she beckoned to him.
“You don’t have much farther to go, Johnny,” she said. “You’ll find me if you keep trying. You can’t stop now.”
Stone reached out to touch her, and his fingers passed through her body. He stumbled and dropped to his knees. She touched his cheek with her cool hand and faded away.
“Come back!” he shouted.
Stone was perched on his knees, holding the reins of his horse, and there was a long line of green trees in the distance. The horse shook his head and whinnied, quickening his pace, heading for the trees. Stone caught up with him and climbed into the saddle, pulling the map out of his saddlebag.
He looked up at the sky and estimated from the position of the sun that it was mid-afternoon. Then he examined the map. It appeared that the river was straight ahead. Stone hoped it wasn’t dry like all the others. The next water on the map wasn’t for another fifty miles, and they’d never make it.
The horse raised his head and stumbled toward th
e line of trees. Stone saw something move in the corner of his right eye, but he’d hallucinated so much that day he didn’t pay any attention.
He thought about the mirage of Marie. It had been so vivid, as if she’d really been there, but his mind had been playing tricks on him. “Please, God, let there be water in that riverbed.”
The horse came closer to the line of trees, and Stone noticed a cooling of the air. The horse entered the forest of thick-trunked trees, and Stone peered through them eagerly for the river. He saw sandy river bottom, and his heart sank. The river was dry, and the coolness only had come from the trees. We’re going to die, he thought.
His horse continued to weave his way among the trees. Stone peered at the riverbed. It was sandy and covered with pebbles, but as he drew closer, he saw movement in the center.
Now he could see what had happened. The river hadn’t dried up completely! A narrow rivulet, not more than a few feet wide, meandered through the center of the dry riverbed. Stone yipped for joy, and the horse lurched forward, galloping toward the water.
The water glittered in the sunlight, and Stone’s horse galloped onto the sandy riverbed. Stone could hear the soft rush of water now, and he smelled the moisture in the air. His horse stopped in front of the water and lowered his head into it, slurping mightily.
Stone jumped down from the saddle, dropped to his belly, lowered his face to the crystal clear water and drank. It was sweet and cool, and he knew he shouldn’t drink too much at first because it’d make him sick. He lay still with his face in the water, feeling revived. They could fill up their barrels and keep going. Stone had never been so desperate for water in his life, but now, thank God, the danger was over.
He heard a faint whisper behind him, and an instant later something sharp and terrible struck the back of his right thigh. He bellowed in pain and rolled around. An arrow was sticking out of his thigh!