TRUMPETS BLARED AND SOMEONE fired off a canon as we mounted our horses and sped away. It was a most impressive display of animosity, shaking me to my bones, and I felt it all directed toward me individually. For I had stolen their angel. A most egregious and unpardonable sin. One that I felt sure would lead to a torturous Old Testament rebuke if we were ever caught up.
We rode north at a full gallop.
Ours was the advantage of a half-mile head start at the top of a hill; theirs was the advantage of many men and fresh horses. As for conviction – that motivator so nebulous and powerful in such cases of righteous determination – we were both parties about the same. They were driven by the justification of the Restructured Truth; we were propelled by our revulsion to the same.
In a questionable move, not necessarily prudent, I decided not to take one of the available guns. A rifle might have been a handy card to have in the gamble we were now undertaking, but it was the principle of such an act that caused me to abandon my good sense. I figured that in the end, I would want it to be as I had agreed back in Independence. That is how I would prefer the story to be retold. Perhaps I was already preparing for my impending martyrdom. It was admittedly a bit late in the journey to be so admirable, but it turns out that even the lowliest beast can rise to scruples when pressed. And maybe, just maybe, some god might look down on me and see this decision as noble, therefore providing us with safe passage. I could only hope. It was, I suppose, a matter of faith.
Brownie, Puck, and Genevieve seemed to understand quite clearly our predicament. They ran fast and hard. I noticed a slight limp in Puck’s stride, but he muscled onward and did not let it slow him down.
The plain was wide and barren north of the City of Rocks. The hills flattened out and the expanse stretched before us for miles. Peering back over my shoulder, I could see the faint cloud of dust rising from the pack of Jack Mormons hounding our trail. I figured there were about twenty of them. Like us, they were running at top speed. For the first hour, the distance between our two groups seemed to be staying about the same. But as the afternoon progressed, I sensed that the intervening space was diminishing. Our horses were doing their best. They were greatly lathered and heaving with labored breaths. One could feel their determination. Still, I figured we had but one desperate chance to pull ahead. And even then, I could not make a guarantee.
On and on we dashed.
*****
I had been in this part of the world before, during one of my previous deliveries, and I was hoping now that my memory was correct in regards to its topography. I spied what I believed to be the butte I was looking for, and we angled toward it. We were drawing close to our moment of truth.
One could see a cleft in the landscape up ahead. I knew this to be the Snake River – a wide and powerful band of churning hydrology. My hope was that we would come to the river’s edge at a fording place that was right at that teetering point between possible and not. My hope was that we could cross over and survive, but that the place at which we did so would be too intimidating for our chasers to take the risk. I was counting on my memory not to let me down.
“Well,” I said, as we came to the river. “At least it is not so wide as I recalled.”
We paused on the waterway’s high bank.
It was true that the river was narrower here, but it seemed that that very narrowness was what made it such a formidable piece of turbulence. A large volume of water was being constricted into a too narrow channel, and this resulted in a most tumultuous and rollicking width of whitewater. Tall waves raised up and collapsed beneath their own frothy weight. The noise of it was incredible. It did not appear passable.
I peered downstream and up. I glanced back behind. The evening was coming on, the light was growing dim, but I could see that the riders were close now. Not more than a quarter mile away. I quick figured up how much lead we would require to work our way downriver to a better crossing. But the bank was thick with willows and runneled terrain and I knew that this would cost us too many precious minutes. They would surely be on us in no time.
“Virtue,” I hollered. “It is not too late. You can go to them if you want. They will not blame you for our attempted escape.” I looked at the water. “I can take my own chances.”
She looked at me for only the slimmest part of a second, just enough to convey all the insult and incredulity she felt at my suggestion. Then, in a snap, she kicked Genevieve in the ribs, urging the mare to leap into the mighty Snake River.
What could I do but follow?