Tempe read all the notices off the message board in the feed store. He had stopped at nearly a dozen having no luck in obtaining any news or sightings about his son. What he found curious was the notice about the Wagon Train from out west that was touring the East Coast to raise money for Boy’s Town. It would make the perfect concealment for Cris and his stolen horse. Who would notice one extra rider among the thousands?
He read the itinerary and saw that the closest stop was at the Lilly Farm in Portent. Back in his truck, he looked it up on his on his iPad; it was a two-hour drive from his present location. He left the feed store with only a soft spin of tires.
*****
Eachann and Jake met Sanderson at the food court. He had long since finished his pizza and beer but as soon as the server saw the pair join him, she brought six more slices and two beers.
Jake, ever the gentleman gave her a sweet smile and thanked her. Eachann kicked him under the table.
“Behave yourself, Romeo,” he said dryly. He picked up his first slice and let the olive oil drain onto the paper plate. Rolling the end of the point, he took small bites, blowing on the hot cheese.
“Why here, Sanderson?” Matt looked around the high-end mall. Even here, the economic decline of the retail stores was evident with all the empty smaller kiosks.
“He used credit cards that he’d taken off a parked RV. Bought himself a nice little camping outfit. Food, cookware and a new water tumbler guaranteed to filter any kind of water and makes it safe to drink. It’s called a Life Straw. The only thing that he didn’t find was a saddle.”
“Why does he need that?” Jake asked. He was already on his second piece.
Sanderson explained, “Imagine riding a 2x4 hours a day and trying to balance loaded backpack. I talked to the clerk at Dick’s, he said the carry-all weighed at least forty lbs. That’s too much for most adults, let alone a child just out of the hospital. He also asked the clerk where the nearest Feed and Ranch store might be. The clerk didn’t know. I also found the spot where he parked the horse in the woods, found his cart and where he headed out after he packed his outfit. I looked up feed dealers on my iPhone. There are dozens within an hour’s walk from here.”
“Which one do you think he went to?” Matt asked.
“Of the six I’ve already called, they hadn’t seen a kid or a horse. But one told me about a Wagon Train re-enactment traveling from Oregon to the East Coast. It stopped at a lay-over on a farm about a six-hour ride from here. About 40 miles on a horse. Doable in one day with a good horse. It would provide good cover for both, all the way to Florida.”
“I doubt he’s heading to Florida. That’s too close to where his Dad lives. No, he’ll head west where a kid on a horse is as normal as a kid on a bicycle,” Matt said. Jake looked at him curiously.
“Do you know this kid, Sarge?”
“I feel connected to him, somehow,” Matt admitted. “Are we headed there, now? You coming with us?”
“Yes, and yes,” Sanderson agreed. He picked up his gear and waited for the pair to take him to the car. Only minutes after that, they were heading toward the Lilly Farm.
*****
Crispin walked with me, alongside Ballycor who seemed to find him in no way abnormal. He even pulled his nose out and tried to nudge the ghost boy yet didn’t fuss when he couldn’t touch him.
“Where are we going?” I asked. I was unnerved that we were traveling along the side of a major Interstate. There was a lot of traffic even though it was 4 a.m. and the sun hadn’t yet started to rise. I thought that it was really dangerous for us – a dark horse and rider on a well-traveled road with a high rate of speed that would not allow the drivers to see or stop fast enough to avoid hitting us. I trusted that Cris would not let that happen, let us get smashed by an 18-wheeler.
“There’s a trail near here that will take us over to some old railroad lines that are abandoned. Closed and torn up. You can ride them all the way into the Carolinas. It’s where my Dad hid the gold. I’ll show you the exact spot.”
“How long will we be on this highway?”
“Not long. Maybe a couple of miles. You can canter if you want.”
“The cars?” I was nervous as they flew past, even if I was on the wide shoulder.
“I’ll watch for dangers,” he promised. “You must hurry. Johannsen is on our trail.” His eyes widened as they glowed eerily in the dark.
“Johannsen? You mean the man who stole you and tried to kill you?”
“The half-breed actually strangled me, but it was because of Johannsen. He would have done worse if he had caught me first. He is responsible for my death and my Dad’s. His soul is in the man who is looking for you, the one who calls himself your father. I recognize him, and you do, too. That is why you fear him, why he chases you. He will kill you all over again. Just as he has done for the last two-hundred years.”
I nudged Bally into a rocking canter on the grass, trying to avoid the stones kicked up by traffic. Even so, he occasionally stumbled as his bare feet encountered the rocks and concrete. His feet had been worn down by the constant scraping against hard stone. In much more riding, he would become lame unless I could protect his hooves. The only way to do that was to have him shod. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t take him to have it done, because shoes just for front feet were around $65 dollars and horse-shoers didn’t take plastic. I might be able to steal some Easy-boots for his front feet, but those were hard to put on by myself and harder to keep on. Too bad I hadn’t thought of that back in the barn where we’d spent the night. Probably were a whole bunch of them lying around.
We cantered for ten minutes and when I slowed to a walk, I wished that we could have kept going for hours. His canter was so smooth and light that I felt as if we were floating on clouds. Crispin had disappeared, I was sure that we hadn’t outrun him, just that he had decided it was time to leave me on my own. Who knew what a ghost did in his spare time?
I checked Bally’s stride and he was short, not lame yet. Slipping off the saddle, I held the reins in one hand and checked his hooves with the pink hoof pick from the barn. He had a slight stone bruise on his near fore but the only thing I could do for him was to stay off his back and lead him on grass.
I looked ahead. All I could see was the dark expanse of grayish black highway, the white lines that glowed in the headlights of passing traffic. It was interspersed with flashing red and white lights as they approached and passed us.
There were trees on both sides of the lanes and separating the median. Tall red pines with red bark and fine needles. The ground was red and sandy, with plenty of rocks on the shoulders. I could not see the shapes of mountains, yet I could feel them as we climbed higher and then, descended into the valleys. The air smelled of pine resin and misty water sprays, diesel fumes and French fry grease.
I heard the constant chatter of engines climbing the grades and the chittering of brakes as they coped with the downhill switchbacks. The whistles as the air sucked at passing big rigs. What I did not hear as each vehicle pass another was the sleepy mutter of birds ready for the new dawn or any human noises.
Faint traces of red, orange and violet crept up the curtain behind me as the sun rose in the east. The west was still darkness and uncertainty.
I wondered where my father was and if he was in one of these vehicles that flew past me on the far eastbound lanes or might he find me heading westward like the pioneers of old. Either option was enough to make me shake in the saddle.
“I got to go,” I said aloud, my stomach in knots. I was afraid that I was going to poop my pants. Pulling Bally’s reins in, I led him down the shoulder at a run, heading for the tree line. Only to be stopped by miles of fencing six-feet high. It was to keep the deer and other wildlife off the highway. I’d seen enough mashed bodies to know that it didn’t always work.
Tying him to the wire, I pulled my pants down as I squatted, just managing to go before I messed my clothes. It squirted out like an explosion, all over and left me sore and sticky. I used a whole mess of wet-wipes to clean my butt and my hands. It wasn’t over for a long time. Every time I thought I was done, the urge hit me again until I was crying because it hurt so much. It burned. My insides were raw. My butt and thighs felt like road rash and the worst sun burn.
I didn’t know what to do or why I felt so bad. I hadn’t drunk from any streams, only spigots and bottled water.
Then, I paused. I remembered the non-potable water that I had had at the state park campsite. Even though I had boiled it, maybe I hadn’t done it long enough. I pulled my underwear and pants up slowly, taking care not to rub anything against the sore spots. I walked away from the smell to find another spot, but it hurt to walk. My stomach muscles were cramping, and my butt hurt.
I dreaded the thought of mounting and sitting on the hard seat of the saddle. Yet, walking made both my belly and rear end hurt as they rubbed against the stiff denim jeans. I was sure learning about saddle sores.
The sun started to come up and burned away the slight misty chill and the heavy fog in the valleys. I could see the tops of the mountains above me, but not much as the road disappeared over the crests. Down the long valleys, I could see until the roads turned in broad curves. There weren’t very many signs and very little development on both sides of the Interstate wherever this was. Just miles and miles of piney woods and concrete – four and six lanes.
Eighteen wheelers of every color, size and company roared by going at least 80mph. I barely saw and heard them before they already gone. I was hidden from their view on the sloping shoulders; the only way one could spot me was if they pulled over next to me. Or had to take the hills in the slow lane because they were so heavy loaded that they couldn’t make it up faster than 45mph.
Looking back, I couldn’t find anything this side of the fence where I could use something to climb on. So, I kept walking along the wire fence, idly counting the metal posts every ten feet. After a painful hour and five hundred and three posts, we came across a downed tree that had smashed the fence to the ground, bent the posts and allowed us to climb over. The mess of branches from the crown made a tangled web that I wasn’t sure we could maneuver through. I wasn’t sure if I could make it, let alone a four-legged critter. It took us a while but Ballycor managed to crush, push or jump enough to make a path through the jumble of dead branches and roots. We left the fence, tree and road behind to enter the deep woods.
Once inside the neatly ordered rows of pines, I found a stump that I could use to gingerly set my rear down on the hard leather of the saddle. Once mounted, I guided him through the open lines of red pines, so evenly spaced that I knew the trees must have been planted. They rose over my head by seventy or eighty feet. Straight as a telephone pole with no branches hanging until twenty feet up. Mom had said they were ‘self-pruning’ and I could see what she had meant.
We found a deer trail and followed it, heading deeper into the forest until neither the sound of traffic could be heard, or the cars seen.