They took the two fastest horses. It was not far at all to back-track without the wagons and the slow pace of their train. As they reached the stagecoach, Marston did not pause, but Brooke slowed his ride.
“What do you think they were transporting?” said Brooke.
“Gold,” said Marston. “Or someone influential. Perhaps a gang leader or a prisoner or a political figure. The men were armed. They wore holsters and pouches. Whatever it was is gone, though. The cave’s to the left. In that larger of the two red rocks.” He gestured with the reins of his horse in the direction he was headed.
Brooke dismounted and examined the stagecoach. It was nearly unrecognizable with all the weather had done.
“Must have been gold,” Brooke yelled to Marston. “The back seat is a hollowed bench, emptied.”
Marston was just beyond earshot. He signaled for Brooke to join him, so Brooke mounted his horse and rode to meet the man.
“The back seat is a hollow bench,” said Brooke.
“So it was gold,” said Marston.
“Looks like,” said Brooke.
“Imagine,” said Marston, “even if it were still all there to be collected, Wendell would not allow us to take it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too heavy. An unnecessary burden. We would be sore to leave it but he would figure it the same as if we had never found it.”
“And you all listen to him?”
“Always have,” said Marston.
“And he brought you out here?”
“It was a group decision. It is this one,” said Marston. They entered the cave, filled all they had to fill, and climbed back upon their horses.
“But it was his idea?” said Brooke.
“Wendell has fond memories of Wolf Creek,” said Marston. They rode at a good clip for some time then, slowed when they spotted the wagon train in the distance.
“And what did you think?” said Brooke.
“That it would not be as he remembered it,” said Marston. “But we were out of money and nothing would grow, so we needed a new plan.”
“You sold your land and headed out.”
Marston nodded. “Bought the wagons and what else we could with the money.”
“What is Wolf Creek?”
“A town in a valley. Small, fertile, lonesome. I’ve only heard stories. Snows come in every so often and wreak all kinds of havoc. The valley’ll fill up in the worst of them. Heard a family died one winter, holding out for the snow to pass. Most people use it as a place to stop off in between.”
“In between what?”
“Where they’re coming from and where they’re going,” said Marston. “There’s water there. And cheap land. We don’t have to stay forever.”
“How long have you been moving?”
“A long time,” said Marston.
They were quiet then. They joined the train shortly after and separated.
The woman Brooke met in the snow was up and walking alongside Irene.
“John has come back,” said Irene.
The woman looked at him, confused for a moment, and then smiled.
Brooke lowered himself from his horse and loaded the water into the back of the wagon. That evening, he treated the water and sat with the woman he met in the snow. She watched him and learned the routine, then set to treating some of the water herself.
“It doesn’t get rid of everything,” said Brooke, “but it tastes a little better and the smell goes away.”
“Is it still dangerous?”
“Not really,” said Brooke. “It might come out your far end a little aggressively, but you’ll recover and it won’t happen again. Your stomach gets stronger like an arm.” He flexed.
“You are not John,” she said.
“I know,” said Brooke.
“I do not know you.”
“We met by the creek while you were wandering. I was wandering too,” said Brooke. “You saved my life.” He poured the water slowly and steadily over the handmade filter.
“I remember,” she said.
“Who was John?” he said.
“My husband,” she said.
“Where is John?” he said.
“Gone.”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I am tired,” she said. “They trust us. They like you. You have not asked much of me. We can continue as we are, if it suits you as well.”
“It suits me,” he said.
“You are not a bad man?” she said.
“No,” he said.
“But you have done wrong,” she said.
“In the past,” he said. “But not with you.”
“You see that it remains the case,” she said.
The water was treated and safely stored. It was a warm night, so they slept on their backs in the dirt, without a fire.
In the morning, Brooke sought out Marston. He was unblocking the wagon wheels and digging the anchoring stakes from the dirt. Brooke helped him. They worked in silence, circling the wagons and drawing up the stakes that held them steady. They untied the horses and harnessed them. They gathered the rocks from the fire pits. They were sweating as the wagons began to roll. They brought up the rear, trailing the third wagon, with two mules in tow.
“Is there money to be made in Wolf Creek?” said Brooke.
Marston shook his head.
“There’s a life to live,” he said. “Or that’s what we hope. It’s all we’re after. I’d like to raise a family.”
“It sounds easy enough,” said Brooke. “What you’re working
on.”
“Few things wind up actually being that way,” said Marston, “but it’s a straightforward plan.”
“That it is,” said Brooke.
Bird and Mary slept a good night’s sleep with that family, their first in many. Bird slept outside. The man’s daughter brought him furs and a few flints, sticks, and logs to make a fire. Mary slept inside, in a pile of furs. She did not bother to evenly distribute them upon the floor. She set them in a pile and worked her way into them. They sat heavily beneath and upon her.
In the morning, the man, whose name was Clark, brought them into town in a wagon he hitched to the back of his horse. His daughter brought up the rear, directing the ponies they were planning to sell that very day. Clark let Mary and Bird off the wagon near the center of town. Bird and Mary thanked them for their kindness and hospitality. Clark and his daughter were more than happy to help. They rode on to tend to business and left Bird and Mary standing together, but a few feet apart.
Town was busy, bustling, loud, and dirty. Men and women splashed through the mud, dashing from here to there. Shouts came from windows and doors swung mightily with the bodies of suited men and drunkards alike. In the very center of town there was a spiraling staircase. It curled up toward the sky and then stopped, as if there was a trapdoor at its top that might have led them from this world to the next.
“What is this?” said Bird, fingering the carving perched atop the banister at the bottom of the polished stairs.
“An eagle,” said Mary.
“I know it’s a bird,” said Bird. “But why is it here?”
“I do not know,” said Mary.
“I like this place,” said Bird.
“It does not suit me,” said Mary, holding the hem of her dress an inch or so above the mud.
“How can you know?”
“It’s a feeling. The place is busy and loud. I preferred the ranch. I even preferred our building with a kitchen, on a good night.”