I was surprised. He gave me the impression I was more of a nuisance than anything else. Moving slowly so as not to scare the sorrel, I joined him.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
The red splotch I had noticed was not the only one. There were more, on the saddle and on the horse, itself. The largest was behind the saddle. Scarlet lines streaked the animal’s sides and rear legs. Whoever the rider was, he had lost an awful lot of blood.
Zach touched a splotch and held his fingers so I could see the tips weren’t red. The blood was dry. “Whatever happened, happened hours ago. About daybreak, I would say.”
“Who could it have been?” I asked in puzzlement. “And what could have happened to them?”
He shrugged.
“Why did the horse follow us?”
“Maybe because it had our scent. Maybe because it is used to human company.” Zach paused. “Is it one of yours?”
“What? Heavens, no. I have never seen it before.”
Taking the reins, Zach led the sorrel into the woods. “We’ll add it to our string and take it with us.”
“You haven’t said what you think,” I prompted, eager to get his opinion.
Zach twisted and stared intently at the far end of the park. “I think we’d better light a shuck.”
Chapter Seven
The next two days were an ordeal and then some. Zach pushed us and our animals to the point of exhaustion. It did not help that rather than stick to open areas where the going was easier, he deliberately chose the most difficult terrain—the thickest timber, the steepest slopes. And to make matters worse, we never went more than a mile or two in any one direction; we would ride north, then west, then south, then west again.
I understood why. He suspected we were still being followed, and he wanted to shake whoever was following us. But we had five horses now, and they left plenty of sign of our passing.
Along about late afternoon of the second day, I piped up with, “This is pointless. A ten-year-old could track us.”
“Not after tomorrow,” Zach said.
“Our horses are going to sprout wings and fly?”
“Would that they could,” Zach replied. “But we will do the next best thing.”
He did not elaborate.
We pushed on until dark and made a cold camp. I missed not having a fire and dearly yearned for a cup or three of piping hot coffee. But Zach said the fire would give us away.
“We could be doing all this for nothing,” I pointed out. “Whoever killed that man might not even be after us.”
“Better cautious than dead.”
I was tempted to say his paranoia had gotten the better of him, but then I remembered the blood on the sorrel.
The next day we worked our way up a mountain until we were above the timber line. The climb was arduous. Deadfalls were everywhere, and had to be skirted. Narrow ravines necessitated constant detours. I did not think much of his choice of routes. I thought even less when he led us toward a wide slope littered with small stones. We were right out in the open, leaving tracks as plain as could be.
Zach drew rein and bobbed his chin. “Talus,” he said, as if that should mean something.
“Is that good or bad?” I had never heard the term.
“Stay close. Have your horse step exactly where mine does.” Zach reined to the left and tugged on the lead rope.
His reasoning escaped me, but I did as he wanted. It took us over half an hour to reach the south side of the mountain. Here the slope was bare except for a sprinkling of scrub vegetation. I figured he would keep on going to the other side of the mountain, but he reined to the right and headed for the top.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” I remarked.
The pinnacle was a stark spine of solid rock, but we did not climb that high. A quarter of a mile below the summit, Zach unexpectedly stopped and said, “Wait here.” He handed me his lead rope.
I was at a loss. There seemed to be no purpose to his actions. I watched as he rode along the base of the spine until he was directly above the slope strewn with small stones. He dismounted near a cluster of boulders. For a while he stood contemplating the slope, then he stepped to a boulder as big as a washbasin. It was perched on the very lip of the incline. He put his shoulder to it, dug in his heels, and strained.
I had to marvel at his strength. I doubted I could move that boulder, but he did. Inch by begrudging inch it gave way, until, with a loud crash, it went tumbling down the stone-covered slope.
I was not prepared for what happened next.
In my ignorance I assumed the slope was solid earth. But it was no such thing. For as the boulder rolled, it dislodged not only those small stones, but the earth underneath as well. Rapidly gaining momentum and mass, the talus, as Zach had called it, cascaded down the mountain, a river of dirt and rock that would have crushed any living thing in its path.
A great rumble rose and echoed off nearby peaks. It reminded me of the buffalo stampede.
The talus crashed into the timber. Entire trees were uprooted, limbs were snapped like twigs. Scores of trees disappeared, buried in the twinkling of an eye.
I was in awe of the devastation.
Zach came riding back with a smile on his face. “Not bad, if I say so myself.”
“Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You have wiped out half the mountain.”
“And our tracks.”
Sometimes I wonder about the gray matter between my ears. “If anyone is following us, they will never find us now!” I exulted.
“A good tracker could pick up our trail again, but that will take some time.” Zach motioned at the tendrils of dust rising from the broad expanse of displaced terra firma.
I had to hand it to my young companion. He was resourceful in the extreme. Presently, as we wound down the other side the mountain, he resorted to another of the wily tricks he had up his buckskin sleeves.
A stream bisected our course, flowing out of the northwest and off to the southeast. As with many mountain waterways it was fast flowing but shallow. Zach promptly reined into the water and started upstream, riding in the very middle. He beckoned for me to imitate him.
Yet another stroke of brilliance. Most of our tracks were washed away by the strong current.
“You think of everything,” I complimented him.
“Repeat that when you meet my sister,” Zach said. “She says my head and a tree stump have a lot in common.”
The affection in his tone was undeniable. “I gather you love your family very much.”
He glanced sharply back at me. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you care for yours?”
If he only knew. My father ran a dry goods business. He had expected me to take it over once he was too old to work. My decision to become a naturalist appalled him. He could never understand my fascination with the outdoors, or how deeply I disliked doing account books and juggling figures in my head. He shocked me one day by giving me an ultimatum: either give up my silly interest in biology or be banished from home until I came to my senses.
We had not seen each other in seven years.
My mother, bless her, approved of my work, but she was too timid to stand up to my father and tell him that. Whatever he told her to do, she did, even if she was against doing it. Tears moistened her eyes the day I left. She hugged me and kissed me, then stepped back to my father’s side.
I have a brother, but he and I are as different as day and night. He, too, has no interest in dry goods. He would rather spend his days loafing and his nights in taverns and saloons. But my father did not banish Edward as he did me. Ed has always been his favorite. Sour grapes on my part, you might say, but you would be mistaken. I am simply mentioning the facts.