The rock was the first thing he saw as he opened his eyes. It was a tall slender spire and the rising sun sat square atop it like a great blazing lighthouse still surrounded by the darkness lower down. That was when Arney knew he had been here before and that was when the weight in his stomach seemed to turn to stone.
He stretched sore muscles and rubbed the sand from his face and wanted to wash the grit from his eyes and his teeth. But that took water. He felt the grains imbedded in his skin like a thousand needles and now he worried.
It had been most of a week ago, give or take, he remembered, when he had awoke beneath this same pillar of stone. He had been traveling with other two miners headed for the Nevada silver country, the Comstock they were beginning to call it.
He and his companions had stopped here beneath the lighthouse rock, taking a break and getting their bearings. It was a wild, rough, dry country and dangerous. It seemed to Arney that the only things that thrived around here were out to get you.
The “Sand Eating Savages”, that’s what the old man had called them, they topped the list. How else the old man had said, could they live out here? Anyway they were leaving tracks and sign all around. Even the rattlesnakes seemed more cantankerous than normal. And they were as thick as the old man’s hair used to be. That’s how he’d put it anyway, Arney remembered with a wry smile. Damn, he thought, he’d liked that old man.
That day the three had ridden out to look for the small spring, by a large butte where they planned to lay up for a real rest. As it turned out it was the final rest for his companions. As they camped at the spring, Arney had ridden out for a simple look-see at the surrounding country. And what he’d seen of it convinced him that just maybe the rattlesnakes were the best part of it.
At least, in a pinch, you could eat them if they didn’t set their teeth into you first. Away from the spring it was all just rocks and sand and more of the same.
Then he’d returned and found his companions, minus their hair and shot full of arrows.
That was a hard thing to look on. They hadn’t been together long, but when you’re riding this kind of trail, any companion counts. And these two had stood the test well. To look on them like this, killed and cut so bad they were hardly worth burying, that left a hole in a man’s heart like it was him that was shot.
Their packs were scattered and their horses were gone and the small spring was tinged red with blood. Even this small oasis had become an evil place in a hot and hellish land.
He had set out then hoping he was headed in the right direction. He’d had a full canteen and a rested horse. But the only one who really knew the trail was buried back by the spring.
So he had ridden alone for a day, carefully watching his back trail. He’d avoided the rocks and ridges, wary of ambush. He gave a wide berth to anything large enough to hide an Indian.
It wasn’t fear, he told himself but caution that guided him now. Yes a man in these straits needed a healthy dose of caution. But deep down he knew, fear rode with him now.
Arney thought about how he had arrived in these straits. A wish for wealth in the silver fields was his excuse. But that really wasn’t it, he knew. It was more a simple wish for change. An excuse to travel a new trail, to see things he hadn’t had goaded him on. The silver fields and then on to San Francisco had been his plan a week ago. Now to just see another day was what he hoped for.
So he made poor time and covered less distance than he had planned. But that night he was still alive. He still had his horse and his canteen was still three quarters full. All in all he figured he couldn’t complain.
The next day the wind had picked up and the sand began to blow. He had holed up among some rocks to dodge the storm but it had blown for two days before it stopped.
Somewhere in the blinding blowing hell of fly sand, sometime during the forty eight hours he had spent sweating and choking beneath his slicker, trying to breath air instead of dust, his horse had wandered away. And when the wind had gone so had any tracks. Now he was afoot, lost and down to a few good swallows of water. Complaints he’d guessed were justified. But there was no one to hear.
So yesterday he had walked, not sure of the way and when night had fallen he’d just kept walking. Hell, he’d thought, when you’re already lost what’s left to lose?
He’d walked and then stumbled as the weariness overtook him. He’d swallowed his water and forced himself on until even the rattlers didn’t matter much anymore. Sometime during the night he’d just stopped and slept. Weariness was a good pain killer.
So now here he lay. Dawn breaking over the rock that looked like a lighthouse. No friends left. No horse, no water, no help.
A pair of quail flushed from somewhere nearby and he heard the soft scuffling sounds of moccasins on rock. Many pairs from all around.
Yes he thought grimly, now might just be the time to worry.
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