The Road to Amarillo by Harvey Stanbrough

Author:Harvey Stanbrough
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
Published: 2023-05-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The sun bore down on the desert of northeast New Mexico Territory. Several hours earlier, the sunrise had quickly evaporated a few wispy clouds that teased the eastern horizon. Since then, no other clouds had dared to appear.

Through that heat six men on horses plodded along at a walk. Two of the men rode alongside each other in the front. The other four followed in a row across in the back. Three of those led one pack horse each. They moved over bleak terrain. The almost-flat land was populated with black and blood-red lava rock strewn with chips of white granite. There were occasional clumps of dried yellow grass, a yucca stem protruding here and there from a ball of green spikes, and a smattering of prickly pear cactus. Drab, dusty green creosote and mesquite bushes provided contrast and limited shade for jackrabbits, cotton tails and the occasional rattlesnake.

The men had been in the saddle for over 20 hours, with the exception of short breaks. They had traveled all night and seen the sun come up. They had seemingly fled shadows that stretched away behind them and continued to grow shorter until they were only stubs. And for the past five hours they had followed the same shadows as they stubbornly stretched away to the east and continued to grow longer.

Now, mercifully, Paco Messina and Jorge Rivas had reined in. That action alone transmitted a sense of anticipation that the journey was almost over. All that remained now was a final short leg. The hooves of the seven horses behind the two leaders shuffled restlessly. The men on four of those horses all but slumped in their saddles.

A layer of dust had accompanied them, hovering around the horses’ knees since their previous stop when the sun was directly overhead. Now it settled over the tiny leaves and branches of the grass and brush nearby.

For a long moment, all six men only peered to the east as if finally within sight of a longed-for destination. Then one of the men in the back broke the spell. He lifted his canteen, jiggled it, then pulled out the cork and drank. Another man and then a third did the same.

The fourth left his cantina where it was, dangling from a leather loop around the saddle horn. But he untied the bandana from around his neck. He flattened it on his right palm, then removed his hat with his left hand. He glanced at the man to his left, then wiped sweat from his thin, bony forehead. “Hot,” he muttered, then continued wiping his cheeks, lips and chin, all thick with black stubble.

As he cupped the bandana in his palm and reached to wipe the back of his neck, ahead of him Jorge Rivas leaned slightly toward Paco Messina and raised his right hand. He pointed at a low line of buildings in the distance. Without excitement, he said, “There it is, Patrón. That should be Kiker, verdad?”

The man in the back put his hat on again and pulled it down snugly.

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