The mastiff had taken the pill in the hind leg. The musket ball went clean through tissue and tendons near the muscles attached to the fibula. Hairs at the dog’s entry and exit wounds were matted with blood. Both holes needed bandaging, and there was no chance of the dog bearing its own weight.
Through the long night, the terrified mastiff lay motionless where it had fallen. Its mismatched eyes were watery and sad.
Sir Lucien was on the move. The mule hadn’t rested, even as the moon became obscured by slender cirrostratus and the stars went into hiding. Darkness did not hamper his progress so much as the rugged terrain. Each step was a scratchy hardship. The ground was ridged and unreliable. A thousand shards of stem and cane latched onto the mule’s hide.
The scent of the bodies was unmistakable. Pungent. Sir Lucien would know his master’s odour from a mile off. There was little need of light. The mule drove into the heart of the thicket. When the initial hints of sunrise arrived, he was halfway between open land his effusive keeper. The mule made another tentative step, and the scrub crackled in response.
The temperate night had saved Ott from exposure. His bed was cold rock, and he lost heat through his assorted injuries. Had a cavalry member discovered the body nestled beneath the great stone slab, he would have surmised it to be dead.
The slab too had saved him. Birds of prey were unable to spy what was tucked inside the rock wedge. Life forms scuttling within the maze of dense brush were safely hidden. The thicket and the stone formation were a sanctuary to those who dared enter. In the rock bed, a body could rest preserved for a century.
The sun was up a full three hours before Ott stirred. His vision was marred, and he blinked hard to correct the problem. For a minute, he saw only a chalky white backdrop. A ceiling of ivory. He had no clue where he was.
His brain needed reprogramming. His cold body was tapped. Anemic. Becoming aware that he was waking—that he had not perished—he tried to raise a hand to his temple. The hand did not respond. He tried his other hand. It clutched an object. Instinctively, he gripped the item, which was smooth and firm to the touch. Ott turn to see what he held, and the simple act reminded him that he’d taken a knock on the temple. The beginnings of a headache came. The object appeared to be a sphere of bone. Old bone. The shape was like no predator Ott knew of. The snout of a coyote or bear protruded beyond this. The wagoner propped himself on his elbow.
This was a human skull. What was more: the deceased’s skeleton lay next to it, partly concealed by the long grasses enfolded over the slab edge. A man—or woman—had been buried here. Or (the wagoner’s mind was clearing), someone had purposely chosen this place for eternal rest. Ott gently set down the skull.
Simultaneously, he saw the mangled face of the dead thief and his own skewered palm. In a rush, images of the night came back to him. The thicket, the thief’s attempt to nab Sir Lucien, the violent tussle—memory caused the wounded man to lean to the side and dry heave onto the rock structure. His whole body ached as the muscles of his stomach convulsed. He coughed and spat. There was nothing inside him to expel.
Light-headed, he caught the sound of snapping branches. It was Sir Lucien, entangled in the middle of the briar patch. Aiming for the rock slab.
“I’m tolerable safe, Lucien. Don’t be afeared.”
The sound of his master’s voice settled the mule. Flicking gnats and mosquitoes from its ass, it discontinued its painstaking hike.
“Glue yerself to that there spot. I willl come to you.”
The simple act of speaking drained Ott’s energy. He thought his surroundings were spinning. The face of the thief was repulsive. It was a faceless face. Ott averted his gaze. He had no recollection of delivering the fatal blow. The jaw had been crushed into the cavity of the mouth. Shattered. Ott lay on his back again. The long sheet of sturdy marlstone as his canopy.
He felt no remorse. The thief would have killed him. He had tried to steal Sir Lucien, which would have left Ott for dead. Lying on the shaded rock, Ott listened to the whistles of the birds and the wind passing through the thicket. A stinging pain cried out from his shoulder. He would need to rig himself a sling later. Drawing deep breaths, he tried to fix his resolve. If possible, he would execute the deed without looking. It was the looking that would undermine him. Out of sight, out of mind.
Long, slow breaths. Just a couple more. You can do this. The longer you wait, the harder it will be. What would Pender say? What would Granpappy tell you to do? Get it over ‘n done. One quick pull. Fuck it…
He got a firm grasp on the knife handle, and he yanked.
* * *
It was daylight yet when he came around. Warmer than before. Midafternoon of the same day, maybe. He waved a fly off his lip and had a desperate yearning for water.
“Eee.”
His shoulder was stoked with hot coals. Elevating it so that he might sit was agony.
“Aww. Moses motherfucker.”
The hand hurt worse. Ott winced and grimaced. His hand lay palm-up on the chalky bed. While he’d been unconscious, the blood had caked. The red mixed with the white sediment of the marlstone. The wound needed cleaning.
Ott untied the bandana on the neck of the thief. He unbuttoned the dead man’s shirt and started on tearing strips, using his misaligned teeth.
It was awkward work and painful. Once he wrapped his palm, he fashioned a crude sling for his arm. Tears leaked from his eyes. Routinely, he took breaks to converse with the mule.
Sir Lucien had forged his way nearer the stone berth. Ott was grateful for, though his legs were uninjured, the prospect of pushing through the thick bramble was defeating.
“God bless you, Lucien. God bless. I know I don’t say it enough. I been a right miserable bastard, I have. A ingrate. I think that’s the word. I been a ingrate to ye…”
The mule lowered its jackrabbit ears. Twenty hours on its feet with no place to lie down were taking a toll. More than twenty, counting the trek from the abandoned beaver lodge. Its legs trembled. Ott risked the mule’s life to linger on the white rock. He knew it. There was no option but to rise and go. The slit through his hand was a mere inch. Too small an injury to undo a man.
He appraised the decayed skeleton. What age or status of man it had been, he could not guess. Was he a white man? One of that initial wave of settlers to the frontier, steeped in fortitude? Did he succumb to a severe winter and crawl into the crevice in surrender? Was he Blackfoot or Assiniboine? Crow? Anishanaabe? Ott was not educated in the customs of the Indians. Stretching out in the crux of the crevice may have been a rite of some import to the man or to the tribe—an homage to their god or nature. Whatever the case, the collection of bones had a calming effect on the wagoner.
He seized the skull anew and pondered its contours. A slender crack at the crown spoke of a notable accident. Injury from a brawl, perhaps. Teeth were missing. Ott stared into the gaping sockets which had once contained eyeballs. This man had seen things. Smelled things. He had had his own thoughts and worries. Triumphs. A wife. A grandson, maybe.
This is what Granpappy will look like, Ott realized. An assemblage of bones. Silent things. Absent of flesh and blood. Clean. This is what I will be. The skeleton was not a horrible sight. On the contrary, it had its beauty. The inevitability of this result was palatable to the wagoner. Acceptable. In reverence, he set the skull in its place, at the apex of the spine. Single-armed, he squirmed to his knees. Having fought for his life and won, Otto Hoff wanted to live again.
A pouch rested on the slab bed, precisely where the fingers of the skeleton would have been, had the fingers endured a hundred summers and winters. The wagoner wriggled closer and leaned over the body. Reaching, he freed the pouch from a netting of cobwebs and grasses.
It was heavy.
The mule brayed and Ott reassured it that he was coming. The leather of the pouch was thin but intact. Tied tightly with sinew of deer or buffalo. Ott worked at the knot with his fingers and teeth before remembering the thief’s knife. He brought the pouch to the knife, red with Ott’s congealed blood, and quickly cut the old sinew. The pouch had been secured for such a time that it maintained its previous shape.
The wagoner inserted thumb and index finger to pry open the sack.
Coins.
Drawing one out, Ott was amazed at the weight of it. It was comparable to one of Granpappy’s small wrenches. The coin was large, blotting out nearly his entire palm. Mouldings of attractive lettering had eroded to a smoothness. They encircled the perimeter, spelling a word Ott did not recognize. Notches at the edge of the disc had also worn away. An ornamental pattern from a different age. The coin was cool to the touch: it had not felt the sun’s warmth for a long, long time.
Ott brought the currency close to his eye and squinted. The colour gave the piece an ancient quality. Ott tried to put a name to the tint but failed. At the centre of the coin was the profile of a bearded man. A king, no doubt. A king from an unknown realm who had commanded mighty armies and conquered advanced cultures. So the wagoner supposed. The visage had a bumped nose and a strong jaw. It almost stared back at its holder. Proud and imposing and eternal.
Ott shook the pouch. He estimated twenty-five gold pieces at the least.
“Hm.”
Like a decrepit old-timer, he went to his trusty mule.
Leaving the thicket was excruciating. Every rattle and lurch made by the mule was felt in Ott’s shoulder. He was no physician, but it seemed his shoulder and arm would fully detach and drop to the ground if he eased his grip on the limb. He winced and whimpered. It was no mean feat to stay in the saddle during the dicey exit. He didn’t bother trying to grip the mule’s reins.
“You did it, Lucien. I can’t believe it. You ain’t near the simpleton I pegged you fer. No sir.”
Ott was panting like the accomplishment had been his.
The mastiff lay in open land. Its injury was visible—a bullet blast through the hind leg. Ott made clumsy work of dismounting from the seat of the saddle. He stooped at the head of the dog and spoke sympathetically. He stroked its neck. The musket ball had been meant for him, and the mastiff had taken it in his place.
“Look at you. Yer all laid up, I’m afeared.”
If the mastiff was conscious, it wasn’t letting on. Ott tied a strip of cloth from the thief’s shirt around the leg. He attempted to heave the poor animal up behind the saddle, using his knee as a second arm, but he was unable. Forcing the mule down made more sense than lifting the dog up.
“Thatta boy. On yer belly, fella. That’s it.”
His shoulder was burning when he finished. In the saddle, Ott rode in a twisted posture so as to keep his good hand on the neck of the dog. He longed to see the mismatched eyes of onyx and milk, but the mastiff was too weak to open up. Sir Lucien had gotten to his feet, with considerable effort. Out of character, the mule awaited instruction.
“A’right, fella. We’re goin’ home.”
The wagoner deliberated over the sun, then urged his mount on a course north-northwest. The mule obeyed.
* * *
One cannot drink a pouch of Spanish gold medallions. The barren terrain continued, and it was unfamiliar land. Neither homestead nor smoke string was in sight, which meant there was no one to beg for a pull of a water flask. Around each bend of low hill, Ott hoped to find a slough or, better yet, a lake. The bends led only to more dry bends. Scattered cloud crept in as daylight weakened. Soon, the slumped mastiff began to shiver. Ott considered how he might fabricate a blanket for the suffering thing.
“I’m sorry, boy. I’ll get ye aside a fire soon.”
He massaged its flank and gave the dog permission to rest. Despite the onset of darkness, the wagoner perspired. Every half mile or so, he tugged gently at his clothes to fan himself. His skin was slick. It was the pain from his shoulder. Ott resorted to dead reckoning until it became too strenuous to see. He was loath to make camp before they’d located water, but water refused to be found.
When they did stretch out for sleep, sleep was slow to come. The wagoner’s dreams were fitful—of choking jungle vines and grotesque pursuers. Often, he woke distraught. And thirsty. The mastiff, beside him, made no sound.
They were not long in walking when the grasshoppers appeared. A few promptly turned to hundreds. They soared through the air helter-skelter, colliding with Sir Lucien’s neck and belly. Smacking Ott in the side of the head, appearing out of nowhere.
“Jesus H. Christ! Ptuh! Why, you little brutes…”
Futilely, he swatted. The insects changed directions as they flew. A clicking sound accompanied each brief sortie. From the tall grass they cannoned, landing on Sir Lucien’s ears. On the dog.
“Git the hell off there!”
They were solid projectiles: three and four inches in size. The force of the impacts surprised Ott, and he wished for his limp hat to have as a swatter. The mule entered deeper into the swarm and a constant hum penetrated the area.
“Damn these things. Let’s climb, Lucien. Climb.”
They detoured from the low grass. Squashed thoraxes and wings stuck to the saddlebags and to Ott himself. The swarm was thinner atop the hill. The mule halted, tucking its snout down into its body. After a baby hopper landed inside Ott’s mouth, he tried to refrain from cussing. The mule continued in the direction of uninfested air.
Movement incited Ott’s shoulder pain. He rode as motionless as he could manage. The mastiff lay oblivious to the locust invasion, even when Ott flicked the pests off the animal. It appeared to have succumbed to a coma state. It needed rest. They made for higher land, hoping to spot a watering hole in the area.
“There y’are. Good work, boy. Whew.” Ott began to recover breath.
A thought came to his head. Bees and finches. Granpappy insisted that bees and finches—the bright yellow, fleeting kind—had a knack for finding water sources. Follow the path of a yellow finch and you will find water. Ott hadn’t seen a bee or bird in days. Well, other than hawks and sparrows. There were hawks and sparrows to keep the frontier colonized long after mankind vanished. Ott scanned for a glint of light hitting water.
“Come on,” he self-talked. “Got to be…got to be…”
A set of field glasses would have served well. Ott had seen a model of single eye field glasses in a magazine. A telescope it was called. The words were engraved on the wood casing: Signal Telescope. In the advertisement, there was a cartoon rendering of a soldier eyeing a troop mate, who stood far off in the distance behind a bunker. Through the enlarged view of the field glasses, the soldier could easily read the troop mate’s handheld flag signals. Telescopes were an extraordinary gimmick of the modern world.
Ott made an awning of his fingers and put the awning over his brow. He wished he knew the region better. He wished he possessed a detailed map.
“There maybe.”
He drove the mule toward a promising cut in the earth.
Sir Lucien’s speed became sluggish. It wasn’t his feet—Ott now performed daily inspections of the mule’s hooves. It was fatigue and malnutrition. Nettles and darts from the thicket underbrush still clung to the mule’s legs. Ott needed only to look down at his own hands to see that he was in worse condition than the mule. Two of his knuckles were split open. All the fingers of his right hand were swollen and tender. The knife wound needed a doctor’s attention. Ott knew that his lip was busted, too. It felt fat on the tip of his tongue. His headache hadn’t left him.
“When we git home, we’ll repair the fence,” he said to the mule. “And clean out the well. Oh, ‘n there’s the leaks in that sorry old ruff. I’m most positive I can stop up them holes with a few good planks.”
Sir Lucien had never heard such talk. Such tone from his master.
“Granpappy told me. He said hogs is easy to maintain. They don’t need a whole lotta room. And they ain’t fussy eaters, neither. Bones, leftover cobs, throwaways…they’s likely to eat whatever you toss in front o’ them.”
Ott chattered on. The grasshoppers had all but disappeared.
It was elation when they found the stream. The water was shallow but flowing. Some minor vein of a stronger, unknown current. Unknown to the wagoner. Ott slid gingerly from the mule and guided it toward the water’s edge. With due care, he lifted the mastiff from the mule’s ass and trickled cold water onto its teeth and gums. It wasn’t long before it showed life, swirling its tongue and raising a heavy lid.
Ott was relieved.
The water was sweet ambrosia. Instant invigoration. Ott got on his knees and cupped the crisp drink into his face. Splashing. He couldn’t get it inside him fast enough. The mule lapped up bucketfuls. The bed of the stream was pure mud. Not a pebble to be seen.
“Thank God. Oh, water ain’t never tasted so good.”
He watched the dog come back to life beside him. Turning attention back to the water’s surface, he saw a battered version of himself. Long gauges of skin were missing from his face. A hematoma had formed on his temple. His lip was a mangled chunk of flesh. The reflection was of a different man than he who’d set out from his home with a coffin-loaded wagon.
When Ott spied signs of colour in the bush along the shore, he quit the wet mirror.
The berries were dark and plentiful. More than enough for the three of them. Would a dog and mule eat berries? They’d better. The plant leafage was parakeet green, the vine a burgundy red. Ott dragged a handful of the berries from a branch and popped them into his mouth. Delicious. He devoured the succulent fruit, cramming in more. To eat again was euphoria.
“Mm…Oh…Mm…”
The fruit was not fully ripe, but this was no time to quibble. His stomach demanded the grub. He needed the renewal of strength. Home was days off—a week, maybe. Ott chewed on the inner seeds. He gathered two handfuls off the vines and carried them to his companions.
“Lucien, git these into ye. Here.”
The mule nudged the little round offerings with its nose. He stuck one to his tongue, anteater-fashion, and spat it out. Both the mule and the dog preferred the issuing stream water.
“Come on now. Eat.”
Ott gorged until his middle was bloated. He led the mule to the berry bushes and filled a saddlebag with the glutinous fare. After washing the dog’s bandages, he retied them.
* * *
The queasiness came on fast. To preserve Sir Lucien’s energy, Ott had been walking. His boots were a shambles, the toes of them riddled with holes and the scuffs so bad that he wasn’t certain what the original shade had been. As the nausea in his belly developed, Ott kept his head bowed. He stared at his run-down boots.
“Ain’t feelin’ proper, boy. My insides…they’s fixin’ to rebel on me.”
The mastiff was more alert. It responded to the sound of Ott’s voice, and Ott was pleased to see its wonky eyes again. The group made another half mile. Ott paused repeatedly along the way to sip from his canteen—conservative sips, for he had no notion when they would meet with another water supply. The contents of his stomach refused to settle. Temporarily, the pain of his shoulder was forgotten as the partially digested berries leaked their poison into the wagoner’s system. Ott released the reins and staggered sideways.
“Don’t go runnin’ off on me, Lu—”
The putrid sludge shot out his throat with force. Projectile vomiting of purple, which pooled in the dirt before him. It came through both mouth and nose. A butterfly or moth, persimmon like the dawn and stippled in decorative markings, hovered over him. He collapsed and braced for the next wave.
The odour was vile. Ott shuffled away from it, drooling.
“Oh, shit patties. That’s rancid. Gimme a minute to rest, boys…Gimme a minute…”
He gabbed on, sitting dizzy in the field. The thought of the extra berries loaded inside the saddlebag were now repellent. He would dump those and resign himself to the water. He knew there were berries fit for eating and berries that were not. Now, he remembered. The damn mule and dog had known better. Ott stared at his companions, panting.
“I’ll be square shortly. Got to git on afore the dark. It were m’own fool fault.”
The pain in his shoulder spiked. The butterfly had found a partner and the couple fluttered in a bizarre but courtly dance. The empty wagoner dragged his feet toward the snorting mule.
* * *
In a lithium sky the sun began to plunge. Ott welcomed the reprieve from the heat. He consumed less water. His shins and heels hurt. Callouses were forming on the soles of his feet. He could not recollect a day he had spent walking like this.
There was progress with the mastiff, as it deigned to descend from the mule’s back and test weight on its leg. Ott encouraged the tenacious hound and muddled alongside it at the same listless pace. Sir Lucien was temporarily free from the burden of a load.
Ott regarded the line where land met sky and was satisfied that it was flat. Hopefully, there were fewer hills ahead than behind. He had expected to stumble on a wagon trail or a riding party. A band of wild Sioux or Crow, perhaps. It had been only thin scrub and undulating country. Far-reaching and deserted was the open range. As the trio coursed through it, Ott was assured that the frontier would never be the bustling, citified existence Granpappy described when he spoke of the east. Streets teeming with horse-drawn carts and bridges that circumvented rivers. It would take a million years for rows of schoolhouses and solicitors and general stores to clutter the frontier.
“I’d wager m’own arse on it,” he spoke to himself.
They walked the dirt until nightfall. Gathering cloud cover made the evening nippy. Ott made a larger fire than usual.
“Uhh. I shouldn’t oughtta et them tainted berries. Damnation. Think my arm is bust. And we ain’t got no rabbit to put over the flames.”
He let loose a lengthy, wet fart and belched audibly. The fire’s crackle was a comfort. The smoke would mask the lingering smell of berry juice emanating from the saddlebag. Ott doled out the last of the water, leaving none for himself. Tomorrow would be a trial if they did not find a fresh supply.
“There you go, boy. I wish there was more for ye.”
Mosquitoes bobbed around the column of smoke, lusting for blood. There was no moon and no stars. A meadowlark’s two-part whistle broke through the quiet. Ott’s shoulder provoked him, and he struggled to find a way to lay out his body.
The morning following, the mastiff wanted to walk. It favoured its wounded leg but did not whimper or pull up. As before, it settled into a position behind the mule and slightly on the right. Ott checked himself after an hour’s scouting for game. If by good fortune they did scare up a fat partridge or hare, there wasn’t a thing he could do. He’d run out of packing for the old peashooter. The rifle wagged uselessly at the mule’s side.
They maintained a northerly tack through parched land. There was not a puddle to dip toes into. Ott felt perspiration in his pits and saw that the sky began to blue. An unwanted heat was generating.
Was it Pender or was it Granpappy who had once said that a man starved and crazy in the desert might drink of his own urine? The idea was ridiculous to Ott. Repugnant and ridiculous. He’d giggled, as he so often did when he was uncertain if Pender was sincere or jesting. Pender said that a man could strain the impurities out of the urine and be left with a drink that was, essentially, water. The human body is, after all, comprised mostly of water. Ott’s stomach groaned. His mouth was becoming dry again. The thought of consuming his own warm piss was not appealing. He would need to aim it into his canteen, he realized. Would he be required to collect Sir Lucien’s piss for him to slurp up? The mastiff’s? Ott had witnessed the mule relieving itself: he would need a dozen canteens with much larger openings.
Spotting the shade of a few dead oaks, Ott went in that direction.
The sight of the woman damned near caused Ott to leak impurities inside his new breeches. He jerked apart from her, as did the dog. It was like discovering a leprechaun leaning casually against the tree trunk. Or a unicorn.
It was neither. Sir Lucien woke the woman with his snorting and sidestepping. Her head lolled briefly, then her eyelids began to quiver. Ott, for no logical reason, was wary of any exchange and tried to hide himself behind the mule. Too late: the slumbering woman had awoken.
“Oh, no. Please, suh. I meant no harm. No, suh. ” Clutching the water bladder on her lap, the petite woman heeled her way behind the tree. She kept her head down, as though bowing. Neither she nor the wagoner spoke until it dawned on Ott that the haggard woman was frightened of him.
Inching to where he could glimpse her arm and knee, Ott was dumbfounded: “Why, you—you’s a nigra.”