Joe gazed down at the herd, his eyes viewing the distant past. “To the best hunters belonged the buffalo’s liver, and when the chase had run its course, they would jump from their horses, cut it out and eat it rawseasoned with gall and still steaming with body heat and dripping blood.”
Mildred shuddered. “I think I’ll stick with the beef jerky, thanks.”
Joe consulted the position of the sun and heaved a sigh. “Time we get through the canebrakes and ford the river, it’ll be too close to dark for a hunt.”
The party remounted their horses and made for the river. Ryan tried to keep the buffalo herd in view during the ride down the hill and across a wide, grassy swale that led to the river. The banks of the river were enclosed on both sides by huge brakes of cane.
The canebrakes were of a sort Ryan had never seen or even imagined. From the hilltop he had figured the stuff to be the same height and thickness as cane he had seen growing elsewhere, maybe ten feet high, an inch around at the base.
But these stalks of cane were thicker, and the shortest grew to a height of at least twenty-five feet. The bases were the diameter of his wrist. The growth was so densely packed that upon entering it, he was under the impression that a great cloud had passed over the face of the sun.
The ground was marshy and soft, and snakes, frogs and things less identifiable wriggled out of his horse’s path. Insects whirled in abundance around everyone’s faces and the eyes of their steeds. J.B. pulled off his fedora and tried to wave the buzzing, stinging horde away. What little sunlight that pierced the foliage arching overhead was of a pale greenish hue. The odor of rotting vegetation and sulfurous marsh gas became so strong that they all breathed through their mouths, though they ran the risk of inhaling a handful of bugs.
No one spoke as the horses forced their way through the heavy growth.
Finally a new sound replaced the steady tramp of hooves and the swish of brush the sound of flowing water and chirping birds. Then there was a draft of clean, untainted air. Sunlight, strong and warm, fell upon them. Ryan tried to suppress a heartfelt sigh of relief at leaving the canebrakes, and he saw that the others were doing so, as well.
The river was a shallow one, with clear, frigid blue, mountain-fed water. It showed white foam in places and small wavelets on the surface. The place where they were to ford was perhaps sixty or seventy feet wide.
Joe leaned back on his saddle blanket and cut himself a strip of jerky with a knife. Popping it into his mouth, he said, “River is only six, seven feet deep here, but it’s running faster than usual. Be careful, gentlemen” he nodded toward Krysty and Mildred, “and ladies.”
J.B. moved his horse close to Mildred’s, and Ryan stood shoulder to shoulder with Krysty. The animals were fearful of the crossing, and many of them balked and whinnied. Only the mules displayed no nervousness. Ryan and Krysty hung back until most of the others had gained the opposite shore, then they urged their mounts into the water.
The water lapped at Ryan’s shins, his thighs, then his waist, and to the base of his horse’s neck. The animal was forced to walk across holding its head almost straight up. He took the SIG-Sauer from its holster and held it free of the river. Krysty did the same with her Smith amp; Wesson. There was nothing he could do about the Steyr scabbarded to the saddle but thoroughly dry, clean and oil it at the first opportunity.
The current was very strong, and Ryan could feel it tugging at his body. He and Krysty were at the halfway point of the ford, with Joe only a few feet ahead of them, when a flicker of furtive movement caught the corner of his eye.
Ryan turned his head, looking toward the shore behind him. He saw nothing, only the muddy tracks of their horses. Joe called his name, and he turned back.