Ralph Compton the Empire Trail by Jeff Rovin & Ralph Compton

Author:Jeff Rovin & Ralph Compton [Rovin, Jeff & Compton, Ralph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Joe Deems experienced an unexpected sense of euphoria as the drive proceeded along the ledge. With Mitchell and Buchanan ahead of him, and Haywood in the distance; with the night breeze carrying distant, aromatic scents and silence from all but the occasional night bird below—with the stars blocked by the cliff to the north and a peak to the south—he had the sense of being an ancient pilgrim on a journey to some sacred place. The destination was not necessarily a physical spot. His soul seemed to be on a journey as well. In any event, out here he felt as connected to God as ever in his spiritual life. He felt that if he were to die here, he would be that much closer to heaven. Strengthening that view was the mystical sight ahead and behind: a long line of indistinct shapes, slow-moving and shifting under spots of flickering torchlight. They could be pilgrims on a journey or souls bound for heaven or hell. Deems felt closer than ever to the Bible in his saddlebag as a sense of the vastness outside of creation came near to overcoming him.

None of the other cowboys had anything on his mind but surviving the passage and bedding down. Whether they were filled with faith or hope, no man could afford to let his attention lapse. Every step brought with it a sound of small stones crunching, sliding, or being kicked forward. Those had a sameness after a time. What they listened for was a crack like the one they had heard when the wall came down. It was less likely to be the cliff than the ground below them, unaccustomed to the weight of cattle and weakened after each one had gone past.

Griswold was the most anxious of them all, riding tail. He had lashed his torch to the side bar of the seat so it wouldn’t burn the canvas. His arm was good enough so that he did not need the sling, and it kept getting burned by grass ashes that fell from the fire. He was as vocal as ever about his discontent.

“They got me between four horses, an’ none of ’em wants to be on a cliff in the dark,” the cookie muttered. “An’ I’m far back enough so I’m the only one who can’t hear orders from up front. I can imagine the folks, though. ‘Old Griz can handle things on his own, don’t worry.’ I’m tired o’ bein’ so reliable. It ages a man. Plus these pebbles are makin’ everything ring like the dang earthquake did. I feel like I’m inside a spittoon.”

There was buzzing conversation making its way along the line.

“What is it, Miguel?” Griswold demanded.

“Hush!”

“Hush? I need to know!”

“If you stay quiet, then perhaps I can hear!”

Griswold turned down the muttering to mumbling just long enough for Miguel to inform him that the ledge was beginning a downward slope.

“It’s not bad, they tell me.”

“‘Not bad’ to a horse ain’t the same as ‘not bad’ to a wagon.

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