The Flight of Michael McBride by Midori Snyder

Author:Midori Snyder [Snyder, Midori]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0812522710
Google: 499FHQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0812522710
Barnesnoble: 0812522710
Goodreads: 1214406
Publisher: Tor
Published: 1994-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Eight

The ceremony for the Strayhorn brothers was short. From the stripped branches of a cottonwood, Joshua lashed together two crosses with a length of braided rawhide. They planted the crosses among the sagebushes and, with their hats held in their hands, listened as John O’Connor spoke a few words. Then they moved silently away from the bank, and each man mounted his horse and took up his position on the trail. Their faces were grim beneath the shadows of pulled-down hats, jaws set in hard, stoic lines. They hollered and whistled, kicking up dust, as they spurred their horses and set the cattle moving north again.

Michael took a position at the drag, his bandanna covering him from his chin to his eyes, hiding his face. The air thickened into swirling clouds of dust that filtered the sunlight with a reddish haze. All he could see through the rising dust was the long sloping backs of the cattle, bony hips swaying with their tread, and the rise and fall of the curved horns as their bobbing heads measured the pace.

They drove the cattle without rest throughout the length of the day and they were still driving the tired herd in the early evening. Michael guessed O’Connor had wanted to put as much distance as possible between his men and the tragedy at the river. The evening dew had dampened the worst of the dust and made the march at the drag almost endurable. An evening star winked brightly on the deep blue lid of the night.

“Do you really think it was snakes?” Ned asked Michael as he rode beside him. The remuda was scattered alongside the herd, only Mo Neart staying close at hand.

“I suppose so,” Michael lied.

“Last year on the trail I seen a cowboy drown when his horse took cramps in the middle of a crossing and sank. Cowboy couldn’t swim well enough on his own. But I ain’t never seen anything like what happened back there. The river turned … so red,” Ned finished.

“It’s all right, Ned,” Michael said, wanting to reassure the boy and wanting more than anything not to have to think about the dark slithering shadow at the river. One foot in front of the other. Just keep moving, he told himself.

“I’m sorry Barney and Ludie are dead,” Ned said softly, “but I’m sure glad it weren’t me.”

Michael turned to Ned, for the first time seeing clearly the boy’s frightened face. The wind bums on his cheeks had grown whiter as the skin of his nose had freckled and browned on the trail. The small white scar on his chin made him look more fragile, like a crack in a china cup. He took off his hat to adjust the band and his wheat-colored hair fell across his worried eyes. It could have been Ned at the river, Michael realized. It could have been any of them.

Ned put on his hat and gave Michael a brave smile. He squared his shoulders and pushed out his child’s chest.

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