A Million Tears (53 page)

When he could no longer hear the screams Sion climbed painfully to the ground. Breathing was still painful. He guessed he had probably broken or at least cracked a couple of ribs. Taking strips of the sheet from the kite he bound his chest tightly and immediately his breathing became easier. Back in the saddle and the horse once more at a canter, he gave himself up to thinking what to do and where to go. He was sure the remaining men would be after him. How long would it take them to bring their horses down the butte? Would they risk doing it in the darkness? Two hours? Not much less. Sion was honest with himself and recognised his limitations when it came to tracking and woodsmanship. So he could never hide his trail, of that he was sure. Therefore he had to outrun them. But how far? All the way to the Missouri and the crossing? All the way to Sioux City? He was aware that the men after him were tough, able to go days and nights without food and water, and more importantly, sleep. The only way Sion could think of to cover his tracks was to cross water. That could possibly delay his pursuers for a while.

The moon dipped out of sight, bathing the landscape in blackness like the extinguishing of a faint but huge lamp. Sion turned the horse further south and broke into a gallop, panic spurring him recklessly on.

An hour later the dawn was breaking, a pearl and yellow hue far to the east. At last he saw the glitter of water and in his eagerness to get to the river spurred the horse on again.

For a while he sat looking at the rushing water, as the sun chiselled open the sky, dazzling him when he looked at it. The water was fast and turbulent, four feet below the bank, clear and deep.

Sion walked the horse along the edge, searching for a way down. After a couple of miles the bank began to lessen perceptibly and soon it spread out in a large area, obviously flooded by heavy rains. He let the horse drink and filled his water bottle. Wearily he climbed back into the saddle a sharp needle of pain stabbing his chest. He sat still, indecision tearing through him.

Come on you idiot, decide! With that thought he suddenly spurred the horse hard in the flanks and headed for the centre of the river. Almost immediately the current caught them and began sweeping them along, faster than the horse could move its feet. The horse panicked for a second, put its nose under water and came up spluttering while Sion tried to calm him, talking and stroking his neck. The horse tried to swim but after a few seconds sank and started the spluttering routine again. Sion slipped off the saddle, held the saddle horn and swam alongside. The horse settled down and now swam steadily back for the bank they had just left. Sion pulled on the reigns and got the horse to go towards the further bank, a good thirty yards away. They were being swept downstream by the strong current and only occasionally did the horse’s feet touch bottom. Whenever they got too close to one bank or the other Sion pulled the horse’s head around and got him back into the middle. Somehow, for three hours, Sion kept the horse swimming. By then Sion was exhausted, shivering continuously and aching all over. When he felt he couldn’t manage another minute in the water Sion let the horse have its head and steer towards the furthest bank. Now the bank was steeper than ever and even at the edge the water was too deep for the horse to stand. Sion became desperate, aware he could not hold on for much longer. With a superhuman effort he took the lariat and wound it tightly around his wrist, ignoring the pain, and tied it to the saddle horn. After that he couldn’t remember what happened. He kept passing in and out of consciousness like opening and closing a door. He lost track of time and was not sure how long he stood on dry land, hanging from the saddle, the pain in his wrist finally bringing him to his senses.

He was shivering violently although the sun was burning down and, tired beyond endurance, pulled himself once more into the saddle and turned towards the east. He knew he dared not stop. He thought of his friends and tears came to his eyes. He cursed himself for not having pulled out the stake earlier, before it had all begun. But how was he or the others to have known what the men had intended? There had been no way of knowing, but still he cursed himself. After that first night, surely then would have been the time? The other two might now be alive, he told himself, if only . . . If . . . only . . . If . . . If. He wandered into a nightmare not knowing how he stayed on the horse, only sure he was still heading away, putting distance between himself and the devils he was sure were following. Sometime in the late afternoon the earth moved up to hit him and he fell unconscious.

When Sion came to the first thing he was aware of was the cold and the second, his raging thirst. With a sense of shock he saw it was night and the moon had risen. He sat up quickly, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and the wave of giddiness that swept over him. He sat still for a few seconds and then staggered to his feet. Fearfully he looked around for the horse and with an overpowering wave of relief saw it standing in the shadow of a tree less than a hundred yards away. Calling softly he approached the animal and patted his neck. He climbed stiffly into the saddle and set off at a canter. The cloths around his chest had slipped and were no longer effective. The pain finally forced him to stop to replace them. His clothes had dried whilst he had been unconscious and he had stopped shivering. A drink of water from his canteen refreshed him and he felt a little less tired. The rest had done the horse some good but Sion desperately wished he knew how long he had lain there.

Sion continuously looked around him imagining all sorts of things, convinced half the time that the men chasing him were about to pounce. All night he rode. If he kept going he estimated he would reach the Missouri in about ten days. If he could keep going. Both he and the horse needed sleep and rest, regularly too, if he did not want the horse to collapse under him or for him not to fall from the saddle again. The next time he fell he could hurt himself badly, last time he had been lucky, very lucky.

By the time another dawn lit the sky he and the horse were all in and Sion knew he had to stop. He sat on a rise overlooking the confluence of a stream and the river. After a few minutes he spurred the horse into the stream. With the water barely above the horse’s knees he walked the horse into the middle of the stream and headed upstream.

Sion kept moving for hours while he looked for somewhere to hide. The land gave way to thin brush and then woods which got thicker the further Sion travelled. And then he found what he wanted. From the stream’s edge was a large flat rock leading up to a jumble of boulders and an isolated mass of rock about thirty feet high. All around was thick undergrowth and tall trees, impassable except along the stream. Getting off the horse, Sion led him out of the water and over the rock. Around the back was a patch of tall grass, well hidden from view, with enough fodder to keep the horse happy for a week. Sion tied the horse so that it couldn’t wander, removed the saddle, tied the end of the lariat to the saddle horn, and with his guns over his shoulder, scrambled up the rock face. He pulled the saddle up after him, found shade behind a large boulder and thankfully lay down. Within moments he was asleep.

He awoke in the middle of night. He was shivering cold and had an empty, gnawing belly. His back and chest ached, his wrists pained him and his memories filled him with anguish. Eventually, he dropped into an uneasy, dream filled doze. He woke well before dawn and lay listening to the sounds of the night. He took a drink of water from his canteen and tried to sleep again. Whether it was from the cold or his hunger or both but after a few minutes he gave up, stood and stretched. Cautiously, he crept to the edge of the rock and looked down, studying the land in the moonlight. The moon was so close to the horizon the deep shadows could have concealed an army. He listened but could hear nothing out of the ordinary. He unsnaked his lariat, made it fast around a large boulder and threw it over the edge. With a rifle slung over his shoulders and a six gun strapped to his side he climbed down to the ground. He stood for over twenty minutes studying the area while the moon vanished from sight. In the dark, just before dawn, he crept deeper into the woods.

The sun had risen when he found what he thought was a rabbit run and settled down to see if one came his way. Luck was with him and after less than an hour a big, fat buck came into sight. He took aim. His mouth was watering when he took up the slack on the trigger. Common sense suddenly prevailed. Any shot would be heard for miles. Slowly he lowered the gun and sat for some time, his head slumped between his shoulders, tears of frustration in his eyes. Finally, with a sigh, he rose and started back to the horse. Before blundering into the camp he examined the area until he was as sure as he could be that all was clear. He derided himself for his excessive caution because he knew in his heart of hearts, if they wanted to, the men could hide a few feet from him and he would never know they were there.

By now it was the middle of the morning and his stomach was rumbling in protest. He cut two feet off the lariat and tied a whipping in the end to stop it unravelling. He made his way back to the rabbit run and, untwisting the rope into three strands, made a trap with the aid of a small, springy sapling. Now, thought Sion, as long as a stupid and blind rabbit blunders into it, he might get something to eat.

He returned to the stream and after a few minutes saw a number of trout swimming under a rock in a pool about four feet deep. For some time he sat and thought, occasional prods from his stomach stimulating his brain. He had nothing with which to make a hook, and the only line he had was the lariat. He thought about tickling trout but knew from past experience that he was hopeless at it. He cursed himself for not having brought some of the fishing gear they’d had. There had been gut and hooks to spare. And he only wanted one hook and a short length of gut. He forced himself to think of a solution and not waste time cursing his stupidity. He thought of the stories of Bridger, Crocket, Bowie and the other plainsmen. It was in the back of his mind. There was something one of them had done. And then he remembered.

Back in the woods he cut down as many thin straight saplings as he could carry. He then followed the stream for about an hour until it widened out and was only about six inches deep. He started at one side and pushed a length of stick firmly into the stream bed every inch or so. He made numerous journeys into the woods to find more saplings. The sun was setting by the time he was finished. His back ached, and his feet were a cold, wrinkled, sore mess from being immersed in water for so long.

He lay down on the bank watching the water. He was so tired that after a few minutes he closed his eyes and the last thing he remembered was the sound of the water and the rustling of the trees.

Sion awoke with a start and lay for a few seconds recollecting his wits. He sat up, still groggy, to look into the trap and in the moonlight he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The pool was packed solid with fish. Eagerly, he got to his feet and waded in. Even with so many to grab they somehow had the knack of wriggling out of his hands and after a few minutes he still had nothing to show for his pains. He knelt down absolutely still, one hand in the water, palm up. A trout came and sat virtually in the middle of his hand. Sion closed his hand tightly, picked up the fish and broke its neck. He went through a similar routine twice more and clambered onto dry land.

He was considering returning to his camp when he changed his mind. Instead he went deep into the woods and built a fire. He skewered the fish through their gills with a green stick and set them to roasting. The aroma made his mouth water and it took a big effort not to eat them before they were cooked. When he could stand it no longer he took one of the half cooked trout and began stuffing his mouth with it. He finished the meal, was about to put out the fire and return to where he had tethered the horse when he paused. Why go back? He was safe here. Or as safe as he was anywhere. He banked the fire, lay down staring into the flames and was thinking about what he should do next when he fell asleep.

The sun, hidden from him by the trees and undergrowth, was high in the sky when he finally woke up, feeling refreshed for the first time. Going down to the trap he saw there were so many fish they looked in danger of smothering one another. He caught another three, threw them onto the bank and then pulled out a few of the stakes. The fish streamed through the opening and he waited until it was almost empty before he replaced the stakes. He stoked the dying fire and grilled the trout on a hot stone. After two fish he could eat no more, so wrapped the third in large leaves and headed back for the horse.

Although feeling better he was still a long way short of being well. His ribs hurt like hell, his wrists were swollen and aching and he tired quickly. He needed rest to regain his strength. He led the horse into the woods and tethered it to a tree. He climbed a tree and then painstakingly clambered from tree to tree until the horse was no longer in sight. He tied himself to the branch of a high cottonwood and fell asleep.

After two days in the area of his trap Sion pulled up the sticks and headed further upstream. He had enough fish to last him at least three days although he was already getting sick and tired of speckled trout.

His breathing was becoming easier and the pain in his chest had reduced to an ache, turning to a sharp reminder only when he exerted himself. He was also getting used to sleeping in a tree with his lariat around his waist to prevent him falling. Although he saw no sign of being chased his fear made him continue with his precautions. For a few days rainstorms left him feeling like a drowned rat but also gave him hope that any signs he left was being washed away.

For over two weeks he wandered alongside the stream. When he came to the end of the woods he set his horse towards the east once more. It had been so long since he had escaped he now felt it was safe to use his rifle and one afternoon he shot a deer. His meal that evening was a feast of smoky, burnt and raw meat. He skinned the animal the next morning, scraped the skin as best he could and wrapped the best pieces of meat in it. Three days later he acknowledged the fact that the stink was more than he could stand and he buried what was left. From then on he shot only small animals like a rabbit and sometimes a wood pigeon or two.