Chapter Twenty-Six

We walked along the dry edges of the creek bed, and both Sheridan and the horse seemed to find the going easier than yesterday. As the day progressed, the trees got increasingly small and scruffy, the spaces between them growing. The tops of the distant mountains were draped in white, and a strong wind was blowing, bringing the scent and chill of snow with it.

Had I made a mistake, once again, in not taking my chances and fleeing while Sheridan slept? We were heading toward nothing. We would not round a corner and see a white church steeple in the distance; we would not happen upon a welcoming inn at the crossroads (there being no roads); we would not see a smudge of yellow smoke marking a town or village on the horizon; we would not encounter a cheerful, ruddy-faced farmer bringing eggs and cheese and vegetables to town for market day.

Nothing lay ahead except the endless forest, distant mountains, and the frozen sea beyond.

The elevation rose, gradually but steadily, as we travelled. Suddenly, the woods cleared and the path broke open on the left. I could hear the welcoming sound of water moving swiftly, and the horse needed no encouragement to follow it. A flock of geese lifted into the air and flew low overhead, honking loudly as they settled into formation. A Kingfisher came from the opposite direction. Its wings didn’t move, but it travelled fast above the water, drifting on the wind. The clearing was full of wildflowers in shades of yellow and white, and low bushes were thick with clusters of dark purple mossberries.

I was opening my mouth to mention the berries, when a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye and I looked downstream. A moose stood knee-deep in a patch of gently moving waterweeds. It lifted its head and looked at me, a long strip of grass dripping out of both sides of its mouth. It was the most ungainly, ugly beast, all knees and joints and ribs beneath a massive head, but its eyes were beautiful, huge and liquid brown. Sheridan had put his rifle on the ground and was bending over the water, filling his bottle. I didn’t draw his attention to the animal.

It took another mouthful of grass before turning and walking away without a sound. It disappeared into the bush with only a gentle sway of branches to mark its passing, and I wondered that such an apparently lumbering beast could move so silently and gracefully.

“Tomorrow,” Sheridan said, “I’ll do some fishing. For now, I want to keep moving while the weather’s good.”

“Do you know if the berries on that bush are safe to eat?”

He eyed them. “Better not try. Anyway, we don’t need them. I’ve enough food to last until we get there.”

I doubted that. I’d seen what he had in the saddle bags. After the tent, bedroll, blankets, dishes, frying pan, and coffee pot, almost no room remained for food to sustain two people for more than another day or two.

Sheridan might be able to live on his obsession, but I could not.

I might come to regret not mentioning the moose.