The Crossing, Part 2 of 2
by Chad Strong

It was well after sunrise when Barton woke. Blinking his sleep-stuck eyes, he reached for his boots. Something rattled in the second one as he went to pull it on. Puzzled, he looked inside and then threw the boot across the camp.

"Jesus!"

A scorpion.

Barton shivered despite himself. It was a moment before he got up and cautiously approached his cast off boot. There was no sign of the crawly thing along the way. He poked at the boot with a stick, flipping it this way and that before venturing to pick it up and shake it out and poke around inside it with a smaller stick. Finally satisfied the threat was gone, he pulled on the boot.

He started a new fire just to calm his nerves before he shook the girl and told her to make coffee. Then he checked his saddlebag to make sure the money was still there.

A sudden impulse made him saddle the bay and ride to the top of the bluff. On the way up, his mount shied and skittered sideways on the treacherous rocks. He slapped it with the ends of his reins, not caring what had spooked it. At the top he scouted his route back through the shrub-covered hills as far as he could see. The horse jigged in place, champing at the bit and tossing its head. He slapped it between the ears. "Knock it off, ya stupid –!"

At that moment a dark spot in the south caught his attention. He strained his eyes to the distance. It was moving. The traveler family? No. It was a herd – no – riders.

"Oh, Christ!"

A posse.

He wheeled the horse around and clambered down the bluff. At the bottom he leapt off and ran to the woman still curled in her blankets.

"Get up!" He yanked the blankets off her. "Wake up – we gotta go!"

She stirred, mumbling and blinking. He bent and hauled her to her feet. "Get up!"

"Rick? What's the matter?"

"The posse's comin', stupid! Now get movin'!"

Her eyes sprang open and he hastily began rolling blankets. She stood motionless, numbed. Then she spied the empty coffee pot near the fire.

"Aren't we going to eat first?"

"No time!"

"But you know I have to eat in the morning, else I faint."

He stopped his mad packing and considered it. She might slow him down even more if he didn't let her eat. And his stomach was a touch on the hungry side too.

"All right, eat. Just be quick about it. And make me somethin', too. They ain't that close yet." He strode toward his horse and tied on the carelessly wrapped pack.

As they rode north, the shrub-covered hills slipped behind them. Plant life survived only in deep coulees and the trail became more barren. They were completely exposed to the blistering sun at all times now, and had not found water in two days. They were forced to creep over treacherously smooth rock, then to pick their way along jagged inclines, down into gullies and back up the next ridge. He had to stop and pick the reddish brown spines of small, brittle cactus out of the horses' pasterns and fetlocks. Just in time to change direction and avoid it, Barton had caught sight of a large rattlesnake loosely coiled on a rock shelf. Beyond the odd lizard scuttling across the ground and a few turkey vultures soaring on low thermals above him, he and the woman were the only things moving in the shimmering heat of midday.

"Aren't we going to rest, Rick?" asked the woman plaintively. "It's so hot."

"This's when they'll rest, stupid," he answered with barely a glance at her. "We gotta stay ahead of 'em."

She was silent for nearly an hour before attempting to speak again. Her voice was little more than a squeaky rasp. Clumsily, almost dropping it, she lifted her canteen from the saddle horn and drank the last of it. Before she recapped it, she patted the lathered neck of her mount. "I wish I could give you some, Sugar. When is there going to be water for the horses, Rick?"

"When we get there."

A jolt lifted her sagging shoulders. "We're almost there?"

"Tonight." He sounded far more certain than he felt.

Her spirit brightened like a newly-lit candle, then abruptly sputtered. "But that's a long time for the horses with no water . . . ."

"They'll make it."

He watched the thoughts play across her face as she noticed that his mount, too, was lathered where tack rubbed against its body. And all they had done was walk and trot. Had it been two days or three since they'd left the spring? He didn't know anymore. And he didn't know where they were according to the old miner's map in his head. He knew there were forested mountains to the west. He knew the great Columbia River was to the east. But he didn't know the mountain routes and he dared not go down to the river road – the law would be looking for him there. He needed to find the old timer's secret route again.

A few hours later he heard her gasp as she woke with a start, having almost fallen from her horse. He glanced back, certain by the look on her face that her heart was pounding with the sudden awareness of her peril. She squinted against the glare, looking for him, and seemed surprised to locate him several horse lengths ahead of her. Her horse had dropped behind and was plodding slowly, stumbling frequently.

"Rick? Rick? We have to stop. I need to rest. So does Sugar."

He looked back at her. He drew rein and his normally spirited gelding halted instantly without protest. Her mount gradually caught up, and stopped when its nose touched the gelding's flank. The gelding did not even flick its tail in protest.

"Please, Rick, can't we stop?"

From beneath the brim of his dust-coated, sweat- and weather-stained hat, he inspected her. Her hair hung in stiff, lifeless coils, plastered to her head with sweat from beneath her bonnet. Her clothes were filthy, her face and hands streaked with dirt. He was aware that he likely looked no better, but appearances were not important right now. His fingers tightened in irritation on the reins.

"Don't you get it? If we stop, they'll catch us! We gotta stay ahead of 'em!"

She made no response, merely stared at him with dull, calf-like eyes. She was so stupid! For the first time, he seriously questioned having brought her along. There would be dozens of new beauties he could have over the border. But he hadn't wanted to wait for them. And if he got tired of them once he did get there, he wanted a woman of his own available.

"Look," he said, speaking as inspiration struck. "Sure, you're tired now, but just think about what's waitin' fer ya in Canada. We'll head for the west coast after you rest up good. It's cool there. Think about our spread, and our big house, and all the land we're gonna have. And all them servants I'll hire fer ya. You'll be a real lady. Think about all them fine dresses I'll buy ya, and all the jewels. We're rich, girl! All we gotta do is get there."

She ran her sleeve across her sticky face, her hand limp.

"But do ya know what'll happen to ya if they catch us?" he asked. "The rest of your life behind bars. They'll figger you were in on it with me, and I won't tell 'em no different if it's yer fault I get caught." He had her attention now. "They'll shove you into an ugly grey prison dress and feed you scraps you wouldn't feed a dog. And you'll have to work. Hard work, girl – every day, all day, out in the crop fields in heat like this. Scrubbin' laundry'n all that stuff. And no men 'cept the guards and they're mean, I hear. O'course they might not be so mean if'n yer real, real nice to 'em. Know what I mean? And won't one of 'em treat you good like I do."

He saw the horror gradually cover her face as the reality sunk into her consciousness. He grinned to himself. "So you think you can handle a little more heat till it's over, or a lot more forever if you get us caught?"

She nodded, acquiescing.

"Good. Now, listen up. See that bluff over there?" He extended his right arm toward the northwest, pointing until he was sure she had focused on the right one. "You ride straight to it. I'm gonna ride to that one." He swung his arm northeast. "After you get there, head for the one farther on, sorta in the middle. I'll meetcha there. Then we can rest and then it's all downhill to the flats and a few more miles to freedom. Got it?"

"But what if I get lost?"

"Just keep headin' for the bluff and you won't. Look down once you get there and I bet you can see the lake. We can stop on the Canadian shores and drink and swim and wave at the posse. Even if ya think yer lost, I sure won't be, so I'll find ya even if ya do. We gotta throw them lawmen off'n our trail."

"All right," she answered.

Her horse refused to move at first, but Barton slapped it hard with his reins and jolted it out of its heat-induced stupor. He watched her go, and she seemed to be on the right track, so he reined his gelding northeast.

He had to cross back toward her bluff to meet her and lead her down the gullies to the dry creek bed that the prospector had told him never dried up. The old fool must have never seen a drought in all the years he spent up here. Barton's head swiveled nervously at every sound, but he had no choice – they had to ride all the way down to the lake shore to reach water. He had no idea how long it had been since his horse had stopped sweating. He touched its hide. No sweat, not even next to the skin.

He dismounted and let the gelding drink next to him on the sandy shore. He was careful not to let himself or the horse drink too much at once. Standing, he pulled it away from the water and stared at the girl sitting like a lump in her saddle.

"Get down and take a drink," he told her. "And fill yer canteen." When she did not respond he cocked an eyebrow and a sneer at her. "Did you hear what I said? Get off and get a drink!"

She stiffened in the saddle, and then slumped again, limply dozing in the heat. Her mare's head hung low and still and her nose did not seek the bay gelding.

"Geezuz! You been whinin' 'bout bein' thirsty for hours'n now you sit there like a dumb doll. Well, drink or don't. I don't care!"

He scanned the flats along the long lake and the barren hills of his back trail. So far, no sign of the posse.

He'd for certain strangle that old man if he ever saw him again. He'd assured Barton that there were water holes and creeks aplenty up in those dry hills. They'd almost died of thirst.

He heard the woman getting down behind him. She whimpered and stumbled stiffly toward the water. She'd dropped her reins, but the mare followed her just as stiffly.

"Watch you don't drink too much," he told her. "You get sick on me and I'll leave ya behind." He stood up after filling his canteen and jerked his gelding's muzzle from the lake. The horse was not yet satisfied, but Barton didn't need it succumbing to colic. "Same goes for that mare," he tossed over his shoulder at the girl.

He sat down a few yards from the bank, intending to relax a minute or two. But the gelding kept trying to return to the water. Barton jerked on its mouth repeatedly. The horse was weak, but still determined. "Knock it off!" he yelled at it, tired of this game. Then he noticed the woman sitting in a silent heap on the bank, while the mare still sucked up water as though she'd never get enough.

"Get that horse away from there!" he ordered.

The woman looked up at him, her head wobbling on her neck. Barton grabbed the nearest stone and flung it at the mare. It scored on her rump. She started, but barely lifted her muzzle from the water. Cursing, Barton got up, strode over to her and yanked the reins viciously, hauling the little chestnut away from the lake. He kicked the ground near the woman. "Ya stupid – !" Then he spotted the bay heading back to the shore and had to drag the mare after him to catch the gelding.

Holding them both close to the bit, he shouted at the woman again. "All right, enough o' this! Get the hell on – we're movin' now!"

She struggled to her feet, too weary to protest. She tripped over her skirt twice before she made it to the mare. Then she tried to mount, but hadn't the strength. Her hands gripped the saddle horn, and she hung there, exhausted.

Cursing again, Barton stomped over and hefted her into the saddle. Then he snatched up the reins, ignoring the dry lather coating the mare's hair. Mounting the bay, he kicked it and reined north, leading the dehydrated, exhausted mare and oblivious girl.

Still too early for the heat to abate, the sun angled cruelly down upon them. But the dry heat ceased to matter to Barton – he had spotted the distant, shimmering landmarks that the old prospector had told him would put him in Canada.

"We're almost there, darlin'!" he called. He'd expected an elated response from her, but she made none. He turned his head just in time to see her slip from the saddle and fall into a dusty heap on the ground.

"Shit!" He stopped the bay and stepped off. Walking back to her, he said: "Didn't you hear me? I said we're almost there! Ya can see the damn border if ya'd open your stupid eyes!"

He bent and took hold of her upper arms, lifting her to her feet. Her head lolled, and he finally noticed her dull eyes and cracked, bleeding lips. He shook her hard. "Come on, stand up!" But she would put no weight on her feet.

At that moment Barton caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He looked up, and saw six riders a couple miles back. They, no doubt, had seen him as well. "Goddamn it! Come on!"

He turned her around in his arms and shoved her toward the mare, which had halted right where the woman had fallen. He tried to lift her into the saddle like he had before, but she was lifelessly limp, giving him no help whatsoever. For a brief second he wondered if she was indeed dead, but a tiny whimper escaped her parched throat. Frantically he fumbled with her canteen, pouring water into her raw, parted lips. But she would not swallow.

"Would you drink the goddamn water!" He glanced in the direction of the posse. A dust cloud was slowly rising into the still air – they were moving faster now. He grabbed better hold of the woman and lifted. But the instant her weight collided with the mare's side, the mare stumbled sideways and collapsed into the dust with a deep groan.

Standing there with the woman hanging in his arms and the mare flat out on the ground, he screamed in infantile rage. Then he dragged her toward his gelding, tripping over her skirts himself. The bay, as worn out as it was, sidestepped the weight of her as Barton tried to shove her up behind the saddle.

"Why does this have to happen to me?" he screamed to the empty air. A shadow slipped over him, and he looked up to see a turkey buzzard circling in the white sky. Where there was one, there would soon be more. Well, it wouldn't be him they feasted on today!

"Fine!" he yelled into the woman's ear. "You wanna stay here? Then stay!" He thrust her away from him. For the briefest of seconds she stood as though suspended like a marionette, and then she collapsed. He eyed her crumpled form in the dirt, then spun on his heel and swept up his reins.

A shot split the silence, charging the oppressive air with a sudden strange vitality. Barton leapt into the saddle and spurred the horse, whipping it out of its dullness and into the fastest gallop it could muster. He was certain he could make it – the posse wasn't far behind, but the border wasn't that far ahead.

Barton cast a look back over his shoulder and a jolt of adrenalin hit him. How had he let them get so close? No, it hadn't been him – it was the woman. He should've left her a long time ago. Well, she couldn't say he hadn't given her enough chances.

A bullet whizzed by, not three feet from his ear. He yanked out his pistol and twisted in the saddle, popping off a shot at his pursuers. He missed and pulled off two more as he drew within a mile of the border. His fourth bullet found a mark – he saw one of the men almost lose his seat on the run. Barton grinned to himself – he was going to make it.

Then his own body jerked with the impact of the bullet in his right shoulder. It threw him off balance. He overcompensated to the left. His horse, exhausted but still running, stumbled under the strain of balancing this awkward load. Barton pitched forward over the gelding's left shoulder. He twisted in pain, trying to grab the saddle or the horse. His hands scraped the sandy soil. The bay faltered and leapt sideways, away from him. For a split second Barton felt suspended in midair, then his whole body knotted with the impact as his low-heeled boot slipped and jammed his ankle in the twisted stirrup leather. He cried out in pain and anger. He tried to take aim with his pistol, kill the goddamned horse to stop it. He'd run across the border on his own two feet if he had to! Sand and dust invaded his eyes, nose and mouth. He choked. Dropped the gun. He couldn't see the reins he was flailing for. The sand burned through his clothes, seared his skin. Rocks battered him and scrub tore at him.

By the time the posse caught up to the spooked gelding, it had dragged Rick Barton to death over the scorching sands of the Canadian border.