Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (14 page)

Moving on was difficult. Occam and his close associates were hesitant, but the Wagon Master understood the necessity of making miles. Fall was approaching, and they would need some time to make the arrangements necessary to winter over in Boulder.

The first wagons were moving out. The Company man who took over Occam’s older wagon, the one full of dry goods that Muffy had spent her last days in, moved out in the first few minutes. Occam was standing alongside his hitch with Edge, and he was reluctant to follow. The two spoke quietly with long silences between them as they watched the others pull into line. Finally the Vintner’s wagon passed them by and was the last. Jody, standing by the wagon to one side, looked to the men. Seeing they were both pale and silent, she understood they would need to be prodded. She moved forward and took Occam by the hand. Without looking at him, she started away, pulling lightly but insistently. He followed as though beaten into submission.

The young woman leading Occam never looked back. Edge watched her as she led his mentor alongside the hitch, never relenting in the insistence of her pressure. Finally they were out of sight of the grave and caught up with the rest of the train. Occam seemed to waken. He shook his head and then his body in an almost violent shiver, reminding Edge of a newly wakened dog. Then Occam stood up straighter and started to walk with purpose.

The comfort and direction of Jody’s offered hand was now unnecessary, and she dropped it to her side. After a short distance, she dropped back and allowed the Smithy to forge ahead on his own, and as Edge passed her they exchanged glances. Edge was surprised to see a fierceness in her eyes. He misunderstood, wondering if he had done something to offend her. Glancing back, he studied her as she took her place alongside the wagon.

The thoughts coursing through Jody’s mind had nothing to do with Edge specifically but with men in general. The world was controlled by strength, and that was often physical in nature. Men had an advantage, and Jody envied them the power of their control. They even got away with murder by the fact of their station in life. It mattered little that women were often given a pass in responsibility due to their gender. At the moment Jody was fuming and unwilling to consider both sides. She was pissed and knew what had killed Muffy. She also knew how closely she herself had been threatened with the loss of her life. And now she had another concern. Her new friend, Olivia, was being beaten by the same man that had killed Muffy and threatened her own life. She mulled the situation over. There had to be justice. Somehow she would see to it.

T
here was no winning for Olivia. No matter what she did, her husband found fault. The meal had too little salt, so he salted it himself and then blamed her because he over salted it. She did not keep the wagon organized, and when she put away the things he left scattered about, he blamed her for his inability to find what he wanted. And worst of all, she was cold in bed and accused of being frigid when she was too afraid to move, but when she faked passion he charged her with having other men. All of her infractions led to violence. Discreet, but painful and humiliating. She went from a life of dismal expectations to full blown panic and desperation.

Wandering about camp in the evenings, Arc studied those about him. He tested people with subtle questions and cultivated comradery with small jokes. People began to appreciate him for his humor. Those who were unaware of his guile, and there were many, began to think him maligned. Arc’s abrupt interest in people whom he had avoided earlier was being turned to his advantage. Avoiding those he knew to be watchful of him, Arc managed to find ways to gather information that should have remained private. There are always people willing to talk, and he identified them and took advantage.

Behind lowered lids and sideways glances, two people were themselves studying the Ox Master. They had no need for talk and had no doubt of what the little man was worth. Occam made it a habit to sit on a three-legged stool, whittling in the firelight every evening. As he seemed to concentrate on the wooden form under his blade, he stalked Arc’s every move. Edge was aware of his mentor’s true attentions and waited to assist in whatever way presented. He did not know yet if that meant saving Arc’s life to protect Occam or protecting Occam from being discovered, but he would play it either way depending on what happened.

More subtle and completely hidden from Occam and Edge in her focus, Jody followed Arc about camp. She even insinuated herself into conversations in which he was involved, intent on learning whatever she could.

The ugly, little troll started to wonder if she were attracted to him, though any advance he made was rebuffed. Still, he began to wonder. Maybe there was some hope of rekindling the idea that he had early in the trip, and he would have an opportunity to dominate another wife.

Sooner or later something would give. There were many dramas playing out within the community. Cherry and her young lover were discovered once again, hiding inside a wagon this time. A man hired to be a mercenary and protect the train killed one of the camp dogs for fun. The dogs were part of the camp alarm system and were valuable. The mercenary died suddenly with severe stomach cramps. The Apothecary’s wife, a woman skilled in mixing powders, was noticed smiling and singing soon after the news of his death spread through camp. Another man dropped a box he was carrying, and some missing items spilled out. There would be a trial when they reached Boulder. Within the cauldron of an enclosed society, tempers flared, passions boiled, and kindnesses were ignored. Everything was normal.

There was always some danger in approaching a wagon train on the move. Bluehawk followed the herds in the summers to hunt them with his kin and returned to the bustle of the city and the college of learning in Boulder to absorb lessons in the winter. Now he studied the situation. He could wait until the wagons stopped and approach them with cover nearby to duck behind, or he could wait until they stopped to trade in one of the small towns. He chose a direct approach to the outriders. After watching the head scout, little more than a boy, he respected the youngster by his actions and trusted that he would be allowed a meeting in relative safety. The young man did not seem especially trigger happy.

The three young friends, Cy, Cable, and Edge, were inspecting the approach into Laramie. The long slow hill into the valley was a death trap for big trucks in the past. Centuries ago winds from the south played havoc as they blew in gusts strong enough to trouble small vehicles. There were almost always cargo-carrying trucks on their sides with a steady income for the towing companies in town. If that was not enough, east of town was a giant hill with a steep grade going toward Cheyenne. The towing companies cleaned up in more ways than one, but they had missed the last three trucks, and they still lay tipped on their sides as they corroded into rust and dust, and weeds grew from their carcasses.

The large town was gone, moldering into the damp valley soil, but good grass and plenty of water supported a cattle company that had rebuilt a small economy. The animals were not as important as they had been in the past to supply meat. The real worth was in oxen. There was nothing as good for hauling freight as a hitch of big oxen. Meat was an ancillary commodity.

The trio of friends expected to avoid the long hill to the east. They would investigate the town as the train intended to do some trade there for a day, but then they would wind their way south along a less well defined roadbed into Colorado. As they turned back to report on conditions, a single man sitting a horse blocked their path.

Hands itched to caress gun handles, but as Cable and Edge were following, Cy held his arm out low with his palm open and toward them. They sat their horses quietly, waiting. No one moved for some long seconds, perhaps as much as a full minute. Cy motioned with his hand for the two others to stay put. He spurred his horse lightly, just enough to make it aware of the need to move, but kept a tight rein. The pony pricked its ears as it walked toward the unfamiliar horse and rider.

The man between them and their intended path was a tribesman from his appearance. Current dress in Indian societies used leather and fringe, shell and porcupine quill, and trade beads or scavenged copper. This man wore the best of the current technology in tribal attire, including a magnificent marten fur hair ornament with eagle feathers on one side of his head and behind his ear. Short braids with a hint of grey lay over a dyed, green leather shirt decorated with quills. Stained, fringed leggings with a woven fabric breechclout and beaded moccasins completed his dress. Other than the leggings, his clothing looked new.

Bluehawk studied Cy as he approached. The man was cautious as evidenced by his tight rein but seemed unafraid. For his part Cy watched the newcomer’s eyes and saw nothing dangerous. He was alert for sudden motion, though, and ready to draw and fire. Stopping the length of a couple of horses from the nomad, Cy waited for the man to speak.

“Young friend,” Bluehawk began, “we are here under a friendly sky. The sun shines, the wind is light, and all is right with the world.”

Hesitating, mostly because of the cultured tone of the man confronting him, Cy was surprised.

“As long as we keep it that way, sir. Friendly sounds good to me.” Cy paused and then, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Indeed, young man, indeed.” Bluehawk spoke easily in his deep voice. “You travel with the wagons. You are the lead scout and are trusted with the safety of the group.”

Surprised again, Cy was quickly reevaluating what he had expected from the encounter. This was not going to be a request for payment of a toll, food, or an attempt to sell something.

There was no reason to lie, so he responded, “Very good, sir. You have good information. Did you get it from someone, or did you discern it on your own?”

Impressed with the question that many would have never thought to ask, Bluehawk was reinforced in his appreciation for the man in front of him.

“I’ve been following for some time now. Your men have reported this to you. It is a minor thing to evaluate men if you know what to look for.” The native waved his right hand dismissively at the thought. “You know this yourself, else you wouldn’t be in your position.” Extending a hand, the leather-clad native introduced himself.

“I am called Shinto Bluehawk, and I am a shaman of my people, the Lakota of this area. I am making my way to Boulder to trade and to learn and teach at the university there. This will be my tenth winter in this pursuit. Soon I will have another PhD.”

If this man was going to make a fool of him, Cy did not feel it. Once again he spurred his horse to close the gap and took the man’s hand in his. The Indian’s grip was firm but not bone crushing like a man intent on power or making a false impression.

“Cypress, sir. Cy for short and to my friends. I take it that you might want to travel with us. Surely a man of your perception would know that the wagon train will be heading that way.” He grinned. “And what is a P-H-D?”

Edge and Cable relaxed substantially when the two men shook hands. Still, they kept their guard up as the leather-garbed man spun his pony and yelled. Cy seemed comfortable and waved them to stay back and remain calm. Two more tribesmen appeared from a hollow just off the road that had hidden them. The man with Cy put his fingers to his lips and whistled a loud and piercing blast. Two ponies laden with large packs broke from the group and, bucking, careened toward the man who whistled. They skidded to a halt just shy of a collision and snorted in excitement, shaking their manes. By the time Edge and Cable looked back toward the other men, they had disappeared. Cy waved Edge and Cable forward and made introductions.

Time was getting short. Two hunters knew that and waited, trying to be patient. One was aware of the other, but the other thought himself alone. Time was getting short, and the hunters waited.

Running into the night, the shoeless blond woman barely felt the small stones and sharp objects that bruised her feet in the dark. Those pains were minor compared to the injuries she was used to receiving at the hands of her husband.

Olivia had made the mistake of crying out. She had learned to control her outbursts, as that always led to worse treatment, often with the added burden of being tied and gagged. She would rather be free to writhe silently than be gagged. But a sudden jab had surprised her, and she had screamed. She knew what was coming and had panicked and run.

By the stars she made her way from camp. Heading north she was relieved to be away. With nothing on her back but a light nightgown, and no food or water, she was going to keep running. Life would be better, if substantially shorter, without her tormenter, and her escape was worth it. Better to die in the wilderness than under the hands of a man she loathed.

She looked back and saw someone hurry between the wagons in her direction. The dying campfire and bright moon backlit him. He struggled to put on a shirt at the same time as he fumbled with a boot. A chance tilt of his head and a stray shaft of light gave his eyes a glowing sheen as they searched for her.

Olivia turned and ran.

There was a creek bottom close by and in her path. Water from it had filled the pail earlier to make dinner and wash dishes. Olivia made for it using the memory of her past journey along the path. She hoped it would give her some advantage since Arc had never been to the water. She needed that hope.

Fuming and spitting blood from the swelling lip that Olivia did not even realize she had given him in her panic, Arc finally got his boot on. With the moon behind him, he could see the ghostly form at some distance, weaving its way deeper into the sage. He cursed silently. If he played this right, no one would even miss his wife until they were days away from this camp. For her to ride in the wagon was not unusual, recovering from bruises or hiding from her shame. Now that behavior would work to his advantage. He could discover her missing at a later time and a different camp, and no one would even realize that she had been missing for days. She was dead. She had outlived her usefulness. In his rage Arc rationalized his intentions and relished his blood lust.

Stumbling and falling down the cut bank of the creek, the fleeing woman lurched to her feet. The small stream was cold as she splashed across, wetting the hem of her gown. It wrapped around her legs, clinging to her skin. A sharp hidden rock pierced her foot just as she reached the other side. She crashed down, still in the flowing water. As Olivia tried to rise, she looked back again.

The high bank of the cut would block much of the sound if there was any, reasoned Arc. They were well away from camp, and distance was to his advantage as well as the strong night wind that conspired to protect his intent. He stopped at the bank before he entered the water.

His wife lay struggling in the creek, clutching her injured foot. She seemed to gather her resolve, and forgetting her pain she rose from the water. Her blonde hair and wet gown hugged her closely, clinging to her curves.

As the moon shone down on her, Arc was suddenly stunned at her beauty. He remembered the first time he saw her and the deal he had struck with her father. He had to have her. The first time they were together, he had been filled with an insatiable lust. He could not stop himself. He hurt her. Now, with his new intent, the same lust came over him. He would have her. Again and again until he was satisfied, and then she would die. Suddenly he realized his ultimate desire. He would have the body as well.

The step he took toward her put a look of ultimate fear into her face. He did not realize she was looking past him, over his shoulder. She screamed, just as he felt the thud of a heavy blow against the side of his head. Falling, he only had a short window of time to realize that he was being beaten with something cruelly hard and that he would not survive. As he passed into unconsciousness, he managed to look back at the person who held the iron bar that was descending to take his life.

As the dark figure rose behind Olivia’s husband and struck him down, she turned and fled. She stumbled toward a game trail cut into the bank opposite camp and scrambled up and away from the grisly scene. Unsure of anything, even the true intent of her benefactor, she made the assumption that she might be imperiled as well and ran on her injured foot as best she could.

The sage grew tall along the bank, and she had to be careful. In the dark it would be easy to make a false step and crash into the creek below. Olivia stopped and listened. She heard nothing that would indicate she was being pursued. No chance whisper of sage being brushed, no rustle of footsteps or crack of a twig being stepped on. She waited, listening in the dark as her heart slowed and her breath quieted. The moon clouded over, and the night deepened. Finally, after what seemed a long time, the frightened young woman made her way along the upper bank to another descent. She would make her way back to the wagons but was fearful of what she might encounter. The overhanging trees and brush were thick in the bottom as she slid down into the rabbit and deer trails to crawl beneath them.

Realizing she was caked in mud with her wet nightgown, she decided to crawl through the creek as she made her way back. Two purposes would be served. She would stay as hidden as possible, and she would rid her body of the sticky red clay. Without realizing it, she was downstream of Arc’s body, and she was now bathing in water tainted by her tormentor’s blood. Without knowing it, Olivia’s justice was being served by bathing in his blood.

The path back to the wagon was taken without incident. The darkened moon obscured the path, and though Olivia was scared, careful, and moving slowly, she eventually found her way. Shedding her damp gown as though it were a cloying net, she shivered in the chill of the night air. Olivia climbed naked into her quilted bed, and fell asleep as only the innocent can.