When The Dust Settles: A Western Adventure Novel (A Sean Prentis Western Book 5) by Stuart G. Yates

Author:Stuart G. Yates [Yates, Stuart G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DS Productions
Published: 2022-07-06T04:00:00+00:00

19

They crossed the open prairie at a steady pace, Charlie knowing the way back into Nebraska as if he recognized every stone and blade of grass. His companion, if he was impressed, did not utter a single word. They camped the first night by a small brook, ate some simple fayre, then slept. Charlie hesitated, thinking one of them should keep watch, but the silent scout did not make the offer. Charlie slept, albeit fitfully. When he awoke it was to the smell of fish roasting over an open fire. The scout, having risen well before Charlie, had been down to the nearby brook and caught their breakfast. Skewered on a thin, gnarled branch, the fish took little time before they were ready. Charlie wolfed his down, afterwards licking each digit and nodding favorably towards the scout. "That was damned fine," he said. The scout did not respond, merely cleared away the cooking items and packed up his horse ready for the next leg.

It took them three more days. By now, the sun was ferocious, a hateful burning orb that beat down upon them, and Charlie, soaked through with sweat, leaned over his horse's neck and did his best to sleep. The nights were sometimes cold, sometimes warm depending on the geography of the land. Often bare rocks acted like radiators, pulsing out heat throughout the night. If this was the case, Charlie would stir at the first hint of dawn, exhausted from gaining no sleep.

It was the scout who found the remains of the burned-down farmhouse, something which Charlie missed as he steered his horse across the grassland.

This was the first time since leaving the reservation that the scout spoke, having dismounted almost immediately to study the ground.

“These signs are old,” he said, his hand lightly moving across the dried earth.

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

The scout shrugged. “I know which direction they went but I cannot say for certain how many. This is something,” he said, pointing to what seemed to Charlie nothing more than a scuffed-up piece of ground.

“What is it?”

“A man. He walks like this,” and the scout stood up and shuffled forward in an awkward gait.

“He walks with a limp?”

“Maybe. But his boot. It is ...” He pointed at Charlie's boots, caked in dust, in need of repair. “This part,” he patted the heel, “it is ...bigger?”

“Higher? It is built up?” Charlie stared at the ground in wonder. “So, one of them walks with a limp, using a built-up boot?”

The scout shrugged. “If that is how it is said, yes.”

“All righty,” said Charlie. “So, in which direction?”

The scout pointed and Charlie groaned.

“Damn it to hell, that's Heritage!”

It soon became clear, however, that just as the tracks died, their direction changed.

“I can’t believe this,” said Charlie, knocking back his hat and running a hand through his matted hair. “You’re now telling me that they are headed to the very same place I have come from? Bywater Creek? Which town is it, can’t you say for sure?”

“I know not these names,” said Walking Bear.

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