Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (9 page)

Looking down into the water at the still submerged object, Gen knew immediately it was worth taking back to shore. Although encrusted with sea life, the banging against the hull of his little boat had knocked off some of the clinging detritus to expose gleaming metal underneath as well as a slowly pulsing light from what appeared to be the eye of a metal man.

Gen barely felt the hand of his brother on his shoulder as Jif peered over him into the dark water. The stench of Wooly, so close to him as he also leaned down to look, finally shook him from his fascination.

“Quick, grab the hook. We don’t want to lose this one.” Nudging both men back with his elbows, he enforced his command. “We have to tie it off. It’s too big and heavy to get aboard. We’ll tow it alongside.”

The men worked quickly, and the metal man was soon well secured. They had to lower it slightly so that any surface would not rub and hole the boat. Fortunately they found places to tie off with sculpted, rounded edges in graceful curves, so they had little worry over the rope rubbing through. Still, Gen stopped and dove down to check things often in the many miles to port.

Business came first. They unloaded the catch and sold it to a local man who owned one of the three fish houses in San Francisco bay. He would distribute the catch within the next few hours to the growing community.

Hiring one of the cranes, the union price outrageous, Gen made arrangements for the unusual find to be pulled from the water. A small wagon pulled by a single, boney horse was hired and would not cost much of his profit.

The load, tied so long on the side of the vessel, rose from the sea with a small crowd looking on. One of the spectators ran away quickly, seeming to have a sudden errand.

There were cavities that held water as it elevated above the dock, and they drained across the old wooden planks and onto the wagon, sea water pooling beneath it.

By the time the load was coming to rest, the man running away had returned with another man in expensive business clothes.

Not much more was exposed than had been originally seen. The back of a metal hand peeked through the crusted barnacles, the bottom of the feet, one up to the ankle, and the outside of a thigh. Otherwise only half of the head was exposed with the eye still blinking dimly from the depths behind it.

The well-dressed man perused the find as it came to rest on its side in the back of the wagon. When he reached out to touch it, Gen blocked his hand and challenged him.

“Best keep your hands off, friend. Unless you can pay the fare.”

The well-dressed man smiled. He was unfazed by the abrupt gesture and requested a consultation with Gen in private. They stepped away from the crowd and bent their heads together as though they were conspirators.

Soon Gen called out to his brother and Wooly, indicating that they were leaving. Jif questioned what was going on, and Gen pushed a small bag of silver into his hand. It was much more than any split of the catch would account for. Wooly received a clinking bag as well. The two crewmen both grinned, and then all three joined with arms across each other’s shoulders as they sang their way to the nearest tavern.

The man who had run to fetch the dandy approached the hired freighter. He consulted quietly with him and another bag of coin was exchanged. The freighter walked away without a second look at his horse and wagon.

Sauntering out of the shadows, a large man with a crushed cheekbone and a broken nose threw a dark blanket over the metal man and then mounted the rear of the wagon, sitting on the back tailgate with his feet almost touching the ground.

The dandy spoke some quiet words to the few men gathered and spread more coins among them. He and the man who had purchased the wagon soon occupied each side of the wagon seat, and the boney horse was urged ahead and into a darkening evening.

W
endover lay ahead, and the new animals were gaining weight. Even though they were given their fair share in the yoke, they had each gained over a hundred pounds and would continue to put on weight as long as they could find something to eat. With the bone structure they had, Edge expected to see another three or four hundred pounds on each. But that would have to wait. Past Wendover there was nothing to eat or drink for a hundred miles.

Beyond the remains of the small town lay the Salt Flats. A death zone because of high temperatures and the absence of drinkable water, light there bent in shimmers as heat radiated off the white surface.

Fortunately, valuable answers followed questions asked in Elko. Expecting to find water in Wendover, the miners informed them there was none to be had. The Traders filled their barrels as suggested in a nearly dry creek that ran under the highway. They did not even know there had been a town at one time until someone looked at the map. Deeth had disappeared.

This was the most dangerous part of the journey and all due to lack of hydration. The train would take fewer chances by traveling in the cool of night, and the barrels would still become dry. They would run out of water for the animals well before they got across the Flats.

Deciding to investigate for water, regardless of the miner’s information, Cy and Cable went ahead. They toured the remains of the little gambling town and found nothing. The spring that had provided a small stream to nineteenth-century pioneers was dry.

Meeting with the entire train, Master Till emphasized the risk they took. The barrels were going to empty, and they had a forced march ahead. Normally travelling ten or twelve miles a day, sometimes fifteen in an effort to get to good graze or water, these next days would see double or more than that. There would be no stopping. Three days of continuous use would see animals die, but the Wagon Master told his Company there was no choice. Going back was not an option.

Right away brittle, white bones littered the path. They seemed oddly evenly spaced, and a place with a deteriorating, strange sculpture to the east of the roadbed had several skulls mounted upright on sticks.

What water could be spared for the teams was used on those put to the yoke as they were hitched. Still, they were the ones that dropped. By the time they reached water in Tooele, sixteen fresh carcasses baked under the summer sun. Their bones joined others that had failed to make the journey. Only one horse had succumbed. The rest were oxen.

Edge had done what he could for his beasts. He had filled a barrel with algae at the last wet spot, advised to do so by Jody, and fed it to his charges as he felt they needed it. The wet vegetation seemed to go further and nourish better than water alone. Even the recently acquired additions made it through.

Of the wagons from Reno, only the horse and two oxen were lost. The rest were Company owned, and Arc was viewed silently to be at fault. He had been advised to stock barrels with algae but had ignored the suggestion. Now the Wagon Master and those depending on Company animals looked to him with lidded eyes. They said nothing but watched him closely and silently questioned his ability.

Looking at the poor animals pulling the Smithy wagon, Arc fumed. He was a mean-spirited man already, and he had begun the expedition with hard feelings toward the Smithy’s apprentice. Now he was learning to hate Edge and the girl that had shown him up.

The community as the caravan exited the Salt Flats was strange. The small town was a combination of people who had emigrated from city environs and those who were nomads on the land. Slab wood shacks, mud and stick hogans, and what was left of an ancient travel trailer vied with each other in small areas defined by stacks of rock. A few tepees filled space in between.

The local rural natives had been one of the tribes to embrace others and accept them into their territory, and the two cultures had melded and become one in this valley. In some ways that was good for the travelers and in other ways, not so much.

Intending several days of trade to refresh the animals, the travelers parked their wagons in a circle and set watches. The Traders welcomed and encouraged the locals, but right away things began to disappear if not under guard. The people were thieves and saw nothing wrong with acquiring anything that was not nailed down. Cy had warned them, but as the businessmen wished to do business, they did not want to insult those they were intent on. At first small items left camp. A spoon or pocket knife left out on a tailgate. A copper bowl. By day three, the sentries were tripled, and no one was allowed into camp that did not live there. The amount of trade was not keeping up with the losses they sustained.

Expecting a renewed interest in thievery when they announced they were leaving, Till decided they would not tell their hosts. They would hitch up in the morning and depart.

As the sun came up, two things were discovered missing. The cow so shortly acquired in Elko… and a child.

Putting the finely woven bull whips he had acquired in trade for the cow that was not his in the wagon, Arc mulled over the child. If the train was delayed, he might be found out. He had planned on the cow being worth so little that they would leave without any effort made to locate it. But the only young child on the train was different. He cursed under his breath until the Wagon Master rode past and urged him to hook up. They would be leaving after all. He was so relieved that he volunteered to join the search party.

As the wagons formed up in a line and pulled onto the highway between the mountain and the salty lake, ten well-armed men on horseback split off. They knew where the leader of the community housed, and they pulled up in front of his home in a cloud of dust and thunder. The men were excited and ready for whatever was going to happen, and they had communicated their agitation to the newly rested animals they rode. The horses were skittish and milled around as Till, Cy, and the missing child’s father dismounted and approached the flimsy door. Till placed his arm across the father’s chest and indicated he should hang back. This was the Wagon Master’s job.

The missing child was the only person on the train under sixteen. A girl of twelve, she was allowed to come over the objection of everyone offering an opinion, and there had been plenty. A pretty, little dark-haired thing, she was a whiny brat prone to sudden outbursts. As her parents were well respected, she profited by their position. The girl had not begun to understand that being well liked and helpful was valuable, especially among people with high priorities in moving on. She was fortunate that her parents paid for her behavior through their own value.

The wizened leader of the community answered his door, and after a short and to the point communication, denied knowing of anyone who would take the girl. The people he knew, and he knew everyone living here, had no use for a young girl. But he had an idea.

On the south side of town there had been a camp of southern tribesmen from far away toward the old highway 70. They were a motley and savage tribe that was said to practice cannibalism. Also known to trade in slaves to other tribes, they had often been connected to vanished children. The best news was that these particular men had been trying to trade for horses, and as far as he knew they had been unsuccessful.

The elderly man offered to come along, but his son came up behind and laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. The boy told his father that he would go instead and save the old man from what might turn into a hard ride. Till was thankful as the father made a proper introduction with some amount of small ceremony. The old man was probably a great horseman in his day, but the younger man, Clint, would be better now.

Catching up the reins of the scrubby pony at the side of the house, the young man did not hesitate. He spurred the little cayuse hard and took off. The horses of the Traders were hard put to keep up, but it was only a short distance to the vacated camp. The local man circled to search for sign. There was plenty so close to camp, so it was difficult to find the path away, but he found it. Setting a fast pace, he put his skinny pony in a fast lope, and the rest followed.

There was sign, easy to follow, and there was only one broad exit from the valley to the south. The tracks said they had horses. Cloven prints spoke to the fact they had cattle, and if they did, the bovines would slow them down. If they abandoned the cattle, though, they might be hard to catch.

Riding the buckskin, Edge rode alongside Cable on one of his Company horses. They followed directly behind Till and Cy. Everyone had chosen from the fastest mounts in the remuda, and Arc sat a rangy chestnut on which he looked even shorter than usual. The horse liked to run, and Arc used his pony’s tendency to crowd Edge on the buckskin. It was a dangerous game because the buckskin might kick, but Arc was having fun.

Topping a rise as the mountains fell away into low, rolling hills, the rescue party searched what could be seen and noted a cloud of dust rising several miles ahead. The head start that the tribesmen had, leaving with the girl as soon as they had her, was already being cut.

Spreading out to keep the dust down and urging their horses again into a fast lope that ate up ground, they kept them from the dead run that would close the distance in the last moments. Pushing them too soon, they would tire their ponies and never catch up. Besides that, the more nonchalant they appeared, the less likely the pursued would spook. The trick was to sneak up if they could. That was unlikely, as the band of men was too large to be anything but a rescue party.

With their quarry in sight, they picked up the pace as they neared them.

Four men were pushing a small number of animals ahead of them. The mixed bunch of cattle and horses were tiring from the pace that was set. It seemed they were trying to get away with more than the girl if she was there.

One of the natives in back suddenly whirled his pony and looked hard at the men gaining ground on him. He yelled at the others, and they all gathered to the rear of the herd. They realized by the size of the pursuit that they had no chance in a fight.

One of the ponies was a lean appaloosa, ridden by a man who seemed to be in charge. Ahead of him on the withers of his horse and against his chest was a splash of pink, the child they were looking for.

The four horsemen wrenched their mounts away from their pursuers and spurred them viciously. The dead run had begun.

As the cattle were abandoned, they stopped and spread out to forage. They were passed and left to be gathered on the way back.

A wide, flat area ahead provided little cover, and the ponies ate up the ground in long strides. Ahead lay a wash with heavy brush growing on the banks, and the pursued plunged in without hesitation. They were lost to sight as they did not come out the other side.

The horse Till was riding was already starting to flag, and he arrived just in time to find Clint waving the men in two opposite directions. The four native men had split up, two going in each direction. They knew the terrain and had an advantage. Five pursuers went one way, and four the other. Clint approached Till on his heaving horse and, indicating the long rifle with the large scope, asked him if he could really use it. The others were out of sight when the local kid and Till pulled up and out of the gully on the other side, urging their ponies toward the top of the hill.

The four pursuers who split to the right and upstream were Edge, Cy, Arc, and the father of the girl. They followed the hoof prints that were the largest. Appaloosas are not known for their small feet. On fast horses they sped through heavy cover, trying to stay seated as low limbs and clinging brush tried to scrape them off.

The trail they followed split again. One track went left and up over the bank, and the other continued on. Without any thought, Edge followed the one out of the arroyo. Another horse followed him, and they both saw the appy ahead, pounding away from them.

Arc laid his quirt into the rangy chestnut’s flank, and the tall pony stretched out and surged ahead of the buckskin. The race was going to be close. The appaloosa was built for speed and endurance, but the two following were as well, and the leggy chestnut closed the distance. Pulling his reacquired pistol, Edge cursed Arc for being in the line of fire. The man being pursued looked back and made a turn in order to follow a dry watercourse, and Edge was far enough behind that he could see a shortcut across a small rise. Without thinking he turned his horse and surged through the sagebrush on a course toward the fleeing native. Just before pushing the buckskin into the appy, colliding with the lanky, spotted horse, Edge realized the man was riding solo. There was no girl with him.

The impact dropped the appaloosa to the ground, tumbling, and almost threw the buckskin. The gold pony reeled in an effort to stay on his feet.

Ejecting and rolling, the rider of the downed horse was unhurt and scrambled away, running like a deer.

The chestnut thundered past, and homing in on the man, ran him over. As the horse impacted the man, he was thrown solidly to the ground and did not move.

Arc wrenched the chestnut to a stop, the horse spinning around and rearing, and Edge jumped from his saddle to check the man in the gravel. By the time Arc dismounted, Edge stood up and, wordless, shook his head. The man was dead.

“The girl isn’t here.” Edge stated the obvious.

The thrill of the chase had made a temporary common bond between the two. Arc looked down at the motionless man and then at the horse now standing.

“He must have handed her off as they divided. Back there when they dropped out of sight.”

There was nothing to be done. If the others had caught up with those they were after, the girl might have a chance. If not, she was likely gone.

Gathering the winded buckskin’s reins, Edge inspected the pony. He had taken a beating with the impact of the collision, and Edge considered him carefully as he moved. Then he walked quietly toward the loose horse and caught up his reins as well.

Neither horse seemed injured, though Edge was sure they would be sore in the next several days. When he turned around, he found Arc standing over the fallen man.

The little Ox Master had stripped anything of value from the body. He was tucking his booty into a saddlebag. Edge was relieved that Arc seemed uninterested in the man’s scalp. As Arc turned and found Edge’s eyes on him, he squinted, frowning. The intensity of the chase was over, and they were enemies again.

Mounting, one followed the other as they returned. Neither said anything, but they each looked for sign along the trail back. It was possible that the girl had been tossed aside without them seeing her. Just barely, but possible.