Only the Mountains

Chapter 1

That was weird. Three minutes ago the Big Dipper could be seen from the airship’s window. Now all that was visible was the distinctive southern hook of Scorpius.

What’s up? Mrs. Breyer leaned her amplitude over Kayta and looked out at the darkness, creating a cloud of heavy floral perfume, sour perspiration, and curry.

Kayta wound her strawberry hair into a bun and poked a chopstick through it. My ears just popped. We’re losing altitude. she whispered, so not to wake nearby sleeping passengers of the Sun Dance.

Airships have to ride currents. Mrs. Breyer tapped her husband. Right, honey? It’s a windy night.

Her husband grunted and shifted his sleeping son in his lap without opening his eyes. Hope so. The quicker we’re blown over Wrock territory the better.

Kayta tied off a thread, then stuffed her sewing kit into the large patch pockets of the woolen coat she had been mending. Her mother got it at a thrift store for the cold airship ride. Two more holes to mend and it would be good as new.

She looked out again. The silvery moonlight and eerie green northern lights showed the sharp backs of the Rocky Mountains, which, as Mr. Breyer said, were infested with Wrocks. To the south was the desert, every bit as brutal.

Mrs. Breyer patted the hand of one of her stirring girls. Is your bag secure? she asked Kayta. We can’t have anything happening to that.

I’ve checked it half a dozen times.

The starboard fan abruptly quit and the change woke other passengers. The tattooed mate flipped switches, swearing under his breath. Not that there was anything adversely indicative about that. He had been swearing for the past four days.

Ladies and gents, just a bit of trouble with the fan, announced Capt. Jake Holcomb. He kept the top buttons of his shirt undone so everyone could freely look at his ample muscles and chest hair. Just hang tight. We’ll have it fixed in a moment. He yelled at the stoker for more steam, cursed and kicked a bulkhead. By now the airship was spinning faster.

Are there Dackos down there? asked the younger girl.

The Dackos were just as bad as Wrocks, but with better weapons. Word was they even had Talon 2355’s, a fairly new weapon like a rifle, but which could be adapted to shoot knife-edged darts.

Probably not, said Mr. Breyer, nodding to Capt. Holcomb as he strode past.

Capt. Holcomb pawed through a toolbox strapped to the side of the ship. We’re too far south for ’em. This ain’t Dacko or Wrock territory, or at least it didn’t used to be. Damn it! Get that port side shut off or we’ll be spinning worse.

Do Dackos and Wrocks really eat you? asked the little Breyer boy.

No of course not, said Mr. Breyer. They’re humans, not cannibals or zombies.

His plump wife gave him a look that indicated she read lurid tabloids.

The thirty-five passengers on the airship fastened seatbelts and gripped other’s hands when a sickening hissing sound erupted. Strapping a lantern to his forehead, Capt. Holcomb peered into the machinery of the New America Airship Sun Dance.

A rivet’s popped, said Mr. Terrance, who was the self-appointed chairman of their eight day trip to the new capital of Seattle. His biblical-length beard lent him all sorts of undeserved wisdom. At the moment he was holding one side of his generous mustache like it was an unruly puppy.

Capt. Holcomb shook his head, "I doubt a rivet. Hang tight folks, no fixing it until we’re down.

I just hope it’s not the heebestoben, said Mr. Terrance.

Capt. Holcomb laughed.

The Sun Dance gave a lurch and tipped drastically to one side, then began a sickening plunge. The crew threw more silver nitrate into the burners to get the steam up and the fans re-engaged, then began yelling at each other.

Slow it down, yelled Capt. Holcomb, Murphy! Stop the spin.

I can’t Cap!

The crew were wildly scrambling and flipping levers, then Capt. Holcomb shouted, Duck and cover!

Mrs. Breyer clutched both her daughters’ heads to her life raft bosoms while Kayta yanked the nearest one’s seatbelt tighter.

Crew, belt up! Passengers, brace yourselves! yelled Capt. Holcomb, whacking a brass pedal on the floor with his foot as the airship’s nose tipped forward. Sergio, leave that! We’re gonna hit!

Kayta bent forward and braced her neck and head in the horrible seconds as they waited for impact. With a screeching crash and jolt the front part of the ship collapsed and jammed her body forward. Through the screaming and swearing, crew members were thrown down, and children cried and clung to their parents as steam blew out of the machinery’s cracks and a crew member not wearing a leather apron barked in pain. The other crew members dragged him away and twisted hot brass levers as a massive belch of steam erupted. The ship shuddered and pitched sideways in a shower of sparks before sliding to rest at the base of the butte.

Capt. Holcomb hefted a fallen crew member. Thrusting down the door latch, he wrestled it open and ordered passengers out. Two crew members handed the injured down the steps.

Kayta crawled to the luggage net for her messenger bag.

Leave it, Holcomb hollered at her over his shoulder. Everyone out, now! The boiler might blow.

I need this, she yelled.

Leave it, missy, he ordered.

Kayta yanked at it out and threw it through the door, narrowly missing the captain’s head. He grabbed her arm and shoved her down the deployed stairway.

Help this guy, he yelled out the door to Kayta. Holcomb had an arm under Mr. Terrance, who had a gash on his forehead. Think you can follow those directions?

Get me the first aid kit, she said. She wasn’t sure he heard her. Holcomb climbed up the inside of the Sun Dance, and set a valve.

Mr. Terrance crumpled to the ground. The Wrocks are gonna get us, he moaned, stroking his mustache.

We’re too far south for them. Capt. Holcomb wouldn’t fly over Wrock territory, Kayta said.

Both the Wrocks and Dackos are expanding their territory every year, Mr. Terrance said, who had given up persuading his mustache to obey and was rubbing his corpulent belly. What he hoped to get it to perform was more of a question than Kayta wanted to consider. He ran his hand over the gash on his head and pulled away bloody fingers. They’re savages. They slice off parts of you to eat.

Mrs. Breyer erupted into a spasm of tut-tuttery, Please, Mr. Terrance, the children! But she whispered to Kayta Who knows what might slither out of those mountains? We’re a wounded rabbit to any predator out here. Human or otherwise.

It’s dark, Kayta said. Maybe nobody will see us. Clouds of steam curled into the black sky, where green northern lights silhouetted menacing mountains. Machinery hissed and struggled for breath like a dying man. Kayta shivered in the chill and slipped on the wool coat. Job one is getting you patched up, Mr. Terrance, and we will. The captain is getting the first aid kit. Best not to touch anyone without gloves. After the Hinarilla pandemic, the entire earth could not boast of a population more than 2% of what it used to be. No, best to wait until she had gloves.

Capt. Holcomb handed her a twist of backyard tobacco and a crystal bottle of a laudanum derivative, L2M. Original laudanum had been made with whiskey and opium, but this modern version had locally produced marijuana in it.

No gloves? Kayta asked.

S’all I got, Holcomb grunted.

Tobacco had pain-killing properties, so she wet it with a little L2M and placed it on Mr. Terrance’s wound. She had him hold the tobacco in place while she wiped her fingers in the sand to rid them of his blood.

Luggage came flying out the door and she stuffed the L2M and tobacco in the coat pockets while she helped the bucket brigade with luggage. She had no idea where her leather messenger bag landed when she threw it out the door, but at least it was safely out of the ship and wouldn’t get cooked in a blast of steam. Maybe the Breyers would pick it up with their belongings. Mrs. Breyer knew about the patent she sought, and once she did, so did every other passenger.

A piercing shriek erupted from the Breyer’s oldest daughter.

Capt. Holcomb pulled a jacked-up Widowmaker 500 from an oversized holster, and shot at the ground behind the fleeing girl. He walked over, took a stick and lifted up his dead-eyed handiwork, a rattlesnake specimen six feet long and as thick around as a man’s wrist. It was missing its head. Kayta gaped at it.

A low groan and then a death rasp came from the airship’s machinery. A crew member hollered, Captain, you better come here. This doesn’t look good.

Capt. Holcomb flung aside the headless rattler and took the stairs two at a time.

Holy crap, she heard him say.

Chapter 2

The six Wrocks let their horses pick their way out of the mountains into the southern bluffs. It was dark already but they were determined to make better time. Tarken, the leader, pulled in his red horse and pointed at the red and green lights on the descending hulk.

An airship, he said. It’s going to crash."

His fellow Wrocks hooted at their luck.

Supplies, said Chabo. He scratched his crotch. That would suit me.

Even better, perhaps a new woman for Tarken, grinned Lote. He reined in his pinto.

But you never know if the passengers are eager to bash your head in, said Chabo, or get you sick with the fever."

Tarken grunted. He didn’t know why they even brought Chabo. They’d been riding south for ten sleeps and an airship crash was wild luck. There would no doubt be weapons, ammo, and metal to salvage. Maybe like Lote said, a new woman, too. Who knew? After the long trip down here he didn’t care how or where he got any of them. If it hadn’t been for that damnable bear, none of this would have happened. It made him so mad he could eat someone.

* * *

Pink and ochre dawn light revealed the crippled ship splayed on its belly at the base of a cliff. Kayta climbed over one of the Breyer girls, picked up her boots and eased outside, stretching. Those chairs were not made for sleeping.

A huge gash ran down the airship. Mr. Holcomb and his crew dozed with their weapons in their laps. One crewman was awake, smoking a pipe with sweet Rio tobacco.

Nodding at him, Kayta sat on the stairway and fastened the buckles on her boots. Protesting when her brother Stephen sold two of his paintings to buy them for her to have on this trip did little good, but it turned out to his favor as well, for the paintings he sold caught the eye of a patron who was now financing his art studies in St. Petersburg. She patted the boots and smiled.

Her sketch pad and pencils were another present from Stephen, who insisted that she was talented. A nearby knoll looked like the perfect place to sit and draw a beckoning witchy rock formation. Good to get away from this snoring crowd and their morning breath. Fresh air would be just the thing. She scanned the landscape. No threats. A pretty little bird sang. The knoll was near enough to the airship she could run for it if she saw any Wrocks coming, and besides, she had her grandfather's knife, with its secret buttons that revealed clever expanding blades.

She slung her messenger bag over her shoulder, not willing to risk some curious passenger digging through it and discovering the patent application. It had taken years for Dad to get what he called The Leviathan working. The tricky part had been inventing the fuel. The patent deadline for this year was approaching, and their plans had been stymied when Dad got kicked by an insubordinate mule. Kayta volunteered to get the plans to Seattle. Dad waffled, thinking he would recover and go himself, but when one of his workers quit and Dad suspected him of stealing plans, Kayta was hastily sent on the first and cheapest airship they could find.

That disreputable crew better wake up soon and fix the ship, because those creepy mountains looked even nearer this morning than last night. Capt. Holcomb said it was too far south for Wrocks, but Mr. Terrance was right. Kayta read the newspapers. The Wrocks were getting stronger and controlled most of the central north of New America.

The patent was not her only hope for Seattle. She was twenty-four and unmarried. She took stock of her attributes in the shiny metal of the airship’s outer skin. Her thick, golden-red hair was attractive. Her classic face had delicately arched eyebrows over intense blue eyes, a thin nose, full lips and dainty chin. When she scanned her body, she saw curves like polished porcelain, which back home were about as worthless as lace on a plow. None of the skinny, silent folk there were interested in beauty or fashion or books or conversation, only who could do the hard work necessary to scratch out a living. Dismal hole, that town was! The people there were of weak backbones and stiff necks. The town had little imagination and was thankful for the fact. The only one with any sense of humor was that wizened tinker with the jack-o’-lantern grin who slapped his knee and asked her twice if they could git hitched and high-tail it out.

Kayta walked to the top of the knoll, stretching her arms out to the horizons. She couldn’t resist a little twirl. Today the crew would fix the airship and they’d be on their way. The sun hit sandstone buttes and turned them mesmerizing shades of ginger and russet.

No, the patent wasn’t the only thing in Seattle. Mom's sister wrote to say there were plenty of young, eligible men out west, as well as an opportunity to make something of oneself. Aunt Isabelle convinced Mom, who then convinced Dad, that Kayta should seize this opportunity. After all, wasn’t the American woman hurled into the unknown from the first Pilgrim’s step? Hadn’t American women in history gone into an unforgiving and wild land to make their way? They were women who bore the brand of capability, who could choose swiftly, act decisively, and not remain digging their toes in the dust, idly musing over town gossip.

She climbed on the back of a wide boulder that that looked like a turtle crawling across the windy stretches of Wyoming. It was misfortunate that the wretched mule kicked Dad, but she was going to do right by him. His patent was going to be bought by the government and they would be rich. She was going to see new places and experience the best the world had to offer. The future belonged to her.

* * *

Tarken Red Horse rolled himself tighter in his elk skin. None of his comrades were stirring and he wouldn’t mind a few more moments of sleep. Maybe he could even have a pleasant dream for a change, rather than the nightmare of his bloodied and half-eaten wife. That airship was ripe. Last time he came home with a motorcycle from someone brazen enough to try crossing their land on it. People praised him for his generosity after raids, and said that Tarken Red Horse warred with good medicine. Pah! They didn’t consider the reason for it. He could war and raid with untold courage. That was not the problem.

Lote’s wife Shaille knew. She hid the mourning knives and told him to quit cutting himself. He didn’t care, he just poured whatever whiskey he could find down a hole that could not be filled.

* * *

Kayta added the eastern sky to her picture with her colored pencils.

There were said to be modern dance clubs in Seattle. That cute little dress in her suitcase was a knockout. Bet Jake Holcomb would like it. Maybe he’d stay in Seattle awhile. He was in his early thirties and had a sexy mustache and goatee.

A stick snapped.

Capt. Holcomb?

Chapter 3

Kayta hoped that the teenage boy she kicked in the shin was nursing a bruise, and saw with satisfaction a cut puffy lip she gave to the fat man. All she could see of the Wrock behind her was that he was wearing jeans and he had disturbing cuts and scars down his bare forearms which wrapped around her as they rode together on the sweaty sorrel. His long hair brushed her and his hard chest pressed against her back. He smelled like smoke, horses, and the rich sweat of meat eaters.

Where are you taking me? she asked.

Quiet, he snarled in her ear and held her tighter.

One of the other Wrocks watched her incessantly. He was a piece of work. He had incredibly long hair, some strands dyed blue and green, and four eagle feathers tied on the side. He had black paint across his eyes and multiple earrings. His clothing was a mix of pleats, leather, hand-pounded metal conchos, and beading. His pinto had a more detailed saddle framework than the others, including stirrups and painted collar, which would be better suited to a city parade than out in the heat and dust. When he caught her staring at him, he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head up in what she took to be some sort of acknowledgement, but he never smiled.

Her captors had rifled through the messenger bag with Dad’s application, but discarded it when all they found were papers. She snatched it back and slung it over her shoulders before they put her on the horse.

Fatso with the puffy cut lip glared at her. The others called him Chabo and teased him. He had a well-made pair of leather boots that were distinctly too big. She needed to be wary of him, for nobody would put that much work into something that didn’t fit, so those boots had been won somehow. It was disturbing that the other men teased him so much, because teased men usually found a dog or woman to kick.

When they stopped to water their horses, Chabo ordered the three teenagers to tend his horse. They half-heartedly minded it, but mostly eyed her and thrust their pelvises at her, hooting and giggling.

The Wrock she rode with stood next to her and pulled his shirt off, posturing to the boys, who quit giggling and poking each other. Kayta looked up at him. Wow. If Stephen ever wanted to paint a half-naked Wrock, he would have appreciated the study of cords, sinews, veins, and distinctly developed muscles. The Wrock pulled open a bag and invited the others to stick their filthy hands in it.

"Take some iaxshe, woman. Pemmican. Standing with his legs spread, he held the pemmican in front of his crotch. Come on."

Who knew what animal or even a human might have gone into its manufacture? In spite of being a vegetarian, Kayta’s hunger propelled her to the bag. She reached into the pouch and dug around for a handful.

The Wrock grinned. Look at her go, my friends. She’s a wildcat. The men laughed and the boys hooted.

The stuff was purple and brown, and tasted greasy. When she asked for more the men whistled, and her captor again held the pouch in front of his groin and made her struggle for it, watching her with amused green eyes.

Kayta wanted to spit on him and thought the better of it.

* * *

They continued heading north, following a weak creek, passing through more amber and pink rocky hills. Kayta had been the only prisoner taken, for the airship crew had seen her capture and fired their weapons. None of the Wrocks had been hit, but then neither had she.

She wished her dad could somehow save her. But even if he could magically materialize, he, a studious biologist and inventor, could not possibly mount a defense, not against the weapons they were carrying, which were baffling in their operation but left no doubt as to their capabilities. Her captor had a chopped rifle strapped to a holster on his right leg. The blue-and-green-haired one had a heavy automatic crossbow. Chabo had a pistol as long as her forearm.

Prior to inventing The Leviathan, the most dangerous thing Dad had ever wielded were garden clippers. She grinned, imagining him in camouflage face paint crawling through the bushes to rescue her. Her bookworm father in war paint! Or how about the bespectacled pharmacist from Harrisburg? She snickered. What would he look like in war paint and his too-tight trousers? He would design smeary squiggles on his plump cheeks, that’s what, to show off his overgrown sideburns. Or the tall, skinny English teacher from freshman year? He’d be giving hasty elocution lessons in war cries as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Bubbles of laughter tickled to escape.

Trying to stop it made it worse. The Wrocks reined up, thinking she was laughing at them.

Shut up, woman, said her captor.

A woman laughing at men was foolhardy, and she tried to stop. But she simply couldn’t, especially when she remembered the time she got the giggles during silent prayer at church. It came out through her tightly-held lips like a fart, which made her brothers about die laughing, even when their dad smacked them on the back of the head. By now she was laughing hard enough tears rolled down her face, shrill and hysterical.

Her captor was not amused. He drew his knife. Her unbidden imagination had the war-painted English teacher yodel a challenge, and the pressure to hold in her laughter grew when she imagined him chasing after them in his foppish cart, bouncing along, blowing his little whistle. Toot, toot!

She erupted laughter through her nose and sprayed boogers on the Wrock. He pulled back from her besmirchment, wiping snot off his thigh while the other Wrocks howled with laughter.

Wouldn’t it be horrid to be executed for laughing? They were all laughing now, except her captor. She pushed his knife away, giddy as a drunk. It was said the Wrocks spared crazy people, and she qualified. She slipped down from the horse, braying with laughter. Who laughs when captured by Wrocks?

Her captor dismounted too. The others sat motionless as he strode to her and held the knife in her face, the glinting blade blinding her. Shut up. When she didn’t, he flipped his long hair back and inserted the knife up her nose. The point pricked the inside of her nose and her hysterics ended. She stood frozen, holding her breath.

Neither of them moved for silent moments. Kayta tilted her chin in defiance and let the blood run over her lips and down her chin. Her captor smirked. He was teasing her! If experience with four brothers had taught her anything there was only one way to handle teasing. She forced herself a step closer, well-knowing his knife would cut her. More blood gushed out her nose, into her mouth, and onto her blouse.

He yanked his knife away.

It was mere bravada. Her heart had ceased beating. She forced her watery knees to keep from buckling and her stomach contents to remain inside. She was so close to him she could smell his meat-eater breath. His big arm and chest muscles had more scars than she could count. He was used to foes. She lifted her bound wrists and said, So you have to tie up a woman to control her?

The two stared at each other with unblinking eyes, then he stuck his knife under her lashings and sliced her wrists free. The other men heckled with cat calls, but he ignored them and swung up on his horse, indicating she could ride behind him where she wouldn’t get bruised by the horse’s withers. He gave his arm to her, she took it, and he pulled her up.

My name is Tarken Red Horse, he said. What are you called?

Miss Kayta Corrigan.

He laughed and said, Mistake Corrigan?

No, she began, but Tarken's head shot up.

The Wrocks kicked their horses into a gallop, and there was nothing she could do but wrap her arms around his waist and lean into him, which filled her nostrils with the musky scent of wood smoke from his long hair. It was repelling to touch him, but her breasts and thighs rubbed against him, moving rhythmically like husband and wife.

If she could fling herself off the horse, perhaps the Wrocks would abandon her if they feared the airship was repaired and coming after them. Even if they stopped to pick her up, they would be slowed down. She had never jumped from a galloping horse, and was not quick to find the courage. Tarken must have felt her grip loosen, for he reined up and yanked her around in front of him before he kicked the horse back into a gallop, thwarting her plans. Her frustrated squirming only made him hold her tighter.

Eventually they slowed. There were hours of dogtrotting, bumping, and thirst. Her mouth was cotton, she had a sick headache and felt dizzy and nauseous, but still managed to keep looking behind her. If she could escape, she’d have to have landmarks.

They went on so long she hoped they would bury her when she died so coyotes wouldn’t eat her body. When they finally stopped and let her off the horse her knees buckled. She was sunburned and dehydrated, which could just get in line behind stiff limbs, bruises, headache, and hunger.

The pale evening sky had a herd of puffed clouds grazing across it, mimicking the white puffed rumps of fleeing pronghorn antelope. A raptor flew past with a mouse, and wind blew over the hills. A go-for-broke plan whipped up in her like a dust devil. She’d steal a horse and escape.

Tarken’s friend with the insane hair and eye makeup might have read her mind. He hobbled his pinto with a braided rope, making a show of tying knots. The younger boys were at the creek, holding the reins as their horses drank. Tarken circled the site, still on his big sorrel horse.

Chabo scuffed to Kayta in his sloppy boots, flinging down a water bladder, ordering her to get water. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

She yanked away. He drew back his right arm and swung at her with a right hook.

She brought her hand up to push his arm past her face in a continued arc as she leaned back to avoid the blow. The motion spun him off balance, so she stuck out her boot. It was luck, really, but she caught him and he sprawled to his knees. She kicked him as hard as she could in the face.

Tarken saw Chabo down and blood spurting from his nose. He trotted over and dismounted to smooth the feelings of his featherless friend, who bent over on his hands and knees, yelling as blood gushed from his nose. The Wrocks gathered around him, offering advice to stop the bleeding.

Tarken’s unguarded sorrel horse was close enough to smell its sour sweat. She calculated her strides to it, inching up her skirt and glanced sideways at the Wrocks, who were now berating their comrade to get up. She darted to a boulder, leaped upon it and onto the horse’s back. Go, go! She kicked the sorrel into a grunt then a gallop, vising her boots around his muscled body. Her chopstick hairpin tore loose and her red hair fired backward at the Wrocks.

"Dasshipík!" Tarken yelled.

The three youngest Wrocks grabbed their horses, spewing whoops like lassos. She jeered back, Try and catch me now, Tarken, you thieving varmint! Nobody can hold Kayta Corrigan! As soon as she yelled it she felt sick to her stomach. Tarken was not a man to taunt.

Too late now.

The sorrel bounded up a hill through prickery brush that tore at her skirt. Over the crest, they skidded down loose gravel, clattered across a dry creek, and charged up the other side. The horse jumped a clot of squatty cactus and she heeled him into a gallop across the sandy swales, the Wrocks behind her yelping like coyotes. Wind stung her eyes and foamy horse saliva flicked back onto her billowing skirt as the horse’s chesty breathing kept rhythm with his hooves. The sorrel was big, and was probably the fastest horse she’d ever been on. She just hoped he was faster than the others. They headed for the horizon, pounding across the hard earth, her fingers wound in the horse’s mane and reins. The wind whipped her skirt like a quirt to the horse. The pursuers’ dust indicated they were still trailing her, but the dimming light and sudden rocky terrain forced her to rein down. The horse willingly slowed and dropped his head, breathing hard, as was she. She stroked his muscled shoulder. Quite a prize. Tarken might shrug off the loss of his captive, but it was highly doubtful he would concede such a horse and go home. She’d pay for this escape if he caught her, and the broken airship wasn’t much to get back to.

The sorrel jerked up his head, nostrils blowing, fine ears pricked. With jolts of adrenaline, she kicked him into a trot, nearly falling off as the horse lunged up a steep sandstone hill. Tumbleweeds, spiny yuccas, and steep angular rocks barred her way. A sudden screech from a dying animal caused her heart to pound until she gasped for breath. She gripped the horse’s mane as he pranced in fear. The scream came from a ridge of boulders where black pines clawed out a living. Did she have to think of claws right now? What if it was a mountain lion?

She came to a dry streambed. Did we come this way? The horizon was shrinking as night came on, and she squinted to search for the arthritic witchy rock formation near the crash site. They couldn't keep going all night, and the horse at least must graze and rest. An overtaxed horse would mean colic and death. The moment stopping crossed her mind, her body voted approval and presented a list of convincing ailments. Her back ached, her knees and limbs were stiff. She was cold, hungry, sunburned, and utterly past exhaustion. Pity for herself did little good. She could indulge in that when she made it back to the airship and Mrs. Breyer would enjoy a good fuss over her. Would there be some of those mushroom and potato patties left? Kayta had eaten only two meager handfuls of Tarken’s foul mashed stuff in the past twenty-four hours. Mrs. Breyer had brought along delicious food. A hot bath would be nice too, with plenty of soap and bubbles, but there hadn’t a been real one of those for two months, since May. There wasn’t much water where she came from. Little more than peeling paint and fading hopes. She would get to Seattle. She would.

* * *

She let the horse graze, then urged him on. It was easy to close her eyes and let the horse pick his way, and she dozed off.

When the horse stopped, she woke with a start. Everything looked so different at night. She strained to see. Could that be it? In the distance? Wasn’t that the pass? Her confidence grew when she spotted Witch Rock. Glancing back at landmarks earlier in the day now paid off, even if it vexed her captors.

Keeping her eye upon Witch Rock, she turned the horse along the sandstone outcroppings until she found grass for him. As she slid off, her legs buckled. She grabbed mane to stay upright. Oh, that was stupid! She could not mount again without a log or rock, and fling her skirt over him. Of all times to be wearing a skirt. The horse was huge, perhaps sixteen hands. She could barely see over his withers.

Were bears nocturnal? Best to keep an eye out for rattlesnakes, too, especially if they were python-sized like the one Jake Holcomb shot. Alone in the immeasurable wilderness, she laid an arm over the horse’s comforting back.

Behind the cliff rose the ubiquitous northern lights in an endless sky, and a three-quarter moon bathed the hills and craggy rock islands in a silver wash. A silky breeze riffled tiny white milkwort flowers at