They started into the west as fast as the horse could carry them. The poor beast had gotten a workout the past twelve hours, but she poured her heart into carrying the riders through the sagebrush. Her hoofbeats drummed a driving rhythm, a staccato that matched Boots’s whip of the reins and Jack’s pounding heart.
They reached the base of the mountains in no time at all, as if the horse had sprouted wings and flown. Once to the base, they headed south, the shadows fully encasing them as dusk settled across the land. Jack’s thoughts were solely on Laura, as if he had turned into a knight from the round table, galloping toward a castle tower for his princess. But though the scene smacked of old-school chivalry, the fear welling up in his stomach scared the life out of him.
For all the daydreams of laying the wood down on people who ticked him off, he had never been in a fight. Had never thrown a punch, save for the swing of the shovel at an old desert hermit not more than an hour ago. He didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that Laura and Molly were in trouble and he had to do something to save them.
Boots had grabbed the shotgun and slung it in a sleeve attached to the saddle horn. Perhaps Jack would just follow the old man up to wherever Laura was and let him do the talking, the bullying. It was the only thing in this whole chaotic mess that brought him comfort. Somehow, Boots seemed like he had this under control. Best to rely on him—a thought that Jack still could not believe was racing through his mind.
The slope to their right slowly subsided, and Jack could see a worn depression running across their path that headed up the mountain. A two-track. The entrance to Mordor. Boots pulled back on the reins and the horse came to a grateful stop. They got off and Boots patted the mare, thanking her for her good work.
“We walk from here.”
Jack looked up at the winding path, walled in on both sides, as it snaked upward out of sight into the increasing blackness. Once on that road, anything coming up or down would plow right into them. There was no escape exit on either side. Boots sensed the apprehension in Jack and stepped up next to him.
“What are you waiting for, Jack? Laura is up that road. No use wasting time.”
Boots started walking up the trail without hesitation. Jack followed, his bravery razor thin as he forced one foot in front of the other. Once inside the mountain walls, he looked behind. The desert floor stretched out to the horizon behind him. He wondered if it would be the last time he would see it. A photograph of emptiness forever etched into his mind. Turning his back on the entrance, he looked up at Boots, who was standing a few yards ahead. The old man didn’t say anything, no biting jab for this singular moment. Instead, he gave him a look of weathered reassurance.
The walls seemed to be moving in on him, their mottled jaggedness resembling an animal’s jaw ready to devour him whole. The rock appeared to feed on his trepidation. But Laura was up there, somewhere past the winding bends and the dark.
The vision of Laura in the car, baking in the heat, her life ebbing away from her, returned to him full force. He could not do anything then. He could not save her from the highway and his foolishness. Now, he could do just that. Now he could become something she needed.
“Come on, Jack,” Boots whispered in a voice he had not used before.
Is it the actual blow that causes so much suffering, or the anticipation of it? The waiting for the strike of pain that we know is coming and every fiber in our body tenses in macabre expectation. The road before him was the physical embodiment of the question. He could not will himself to the end of the story; he had to walk the gauntlet of fear.
And with nothing but guts and faith in Boots, Jack stepped, and stepped again, slowly up the mountain to whatever fate was in store for him. He did not look back again but trained his gaze forward on the rock, the trail, and the slow swaying of Boots’s awkward cadence.