James Axler – Trader Redux

A gila monster dragged itself slowly across the dusty trail, some fifty paces in front of the mule, but Judas took no notice of it. A little closer and the mule might easily have been tempted to charge at the reptilian intruder and trample it to pulp under its sharp hooves.

They were up into the lower slopes of the foothills that surrounded the basin where the ranch lay, climbing through sagebrush and mesquite, past the weathered mesas. There were only a few wisps of high cloud, off to the north. The thunderheads with their threat of stormy weather had vanished.

Doc found that his mood was intensely changeable, veering between exultation at the beauty of the day and despair at his own predicament.

“Not mad,” he whispered, making the mule prick up its ears again. “Let me not be mad.”

The afternoon drifted by.

Jak had given Doc careful instructions on the best and safest places for camping, pressing home the warning that he’d seen the tracks of a big cat, not far from the corral where they kept their own horses.

“Mutie fucker, Doc. Cougar that size could take head off in one bite.”

But he had also pointed out that Judas wasn’t likely to allow any large predator to creep in too close without giving some sort of warning.

“Such as breaking its tether and running away like goose shit off a shovel, Doc, leaving you out there.” Mildred had been amused at the picture.

Doc was aiming for a box canyon for his first night’s camping. There was a trail from its mouth that would then lead him higher, into the total desolation of the mountains, opening up limitless options for the rest of his journey. However long it might eventually be.

THE CANYON WAS ALIGNED east-west, so that the setting sun flooded through in the last hour before dusk, heightening the vivid reds and oranges of the sheer walls, throwing the cracks and fissures into deeper relief.

There was a shadowed pool at the end, just as the albino teenager had described it, surrounded by some scrub willows and feathery tamarisks. Doc walked around it, trying to see if there were any tracks that might give him cause for concern. But it hadn’t rained for several days, and he found it impossible to guess how old some of the spoor was.

“Deer,” he said. “That is less than difficult for an old frontiersman like myself. Doc Tanner. Last of the moccasins. A man whose eyes focus only on the far, misty horizons. Known to the Native Americans by his Apache name of Trail Breaker.” He laughed, his voice echoing back from the rocks around. “Talking to oneself is supposed to be the first sign of incipient insanity, is it not? Well, I care not for that. There is nothing so satisfying as having a conversation with someone who is your perfect intellectual equal.”

There was a set of tracks to and from the edge of the water that he thought might have been wolves. Or coyotes. And another set that he squatted and stared at for several seconds, wishing that he had Ryan or Jak with him to help him out.

“Far too big for a feral cat,” he mused. “Not a bear? Though a big grizzly might No, I confess myself totally defeated by this one.”

THE FIRE BLAZED brightlyat the sixth attempt.

Doc had his pan of water bubbling merrily, with a small stew of meat and vegetables that Krysty had prepared for him to take and cook.

Judas was securely tethered to a tree within easy reach of the water and ample grazing.

The flames gave enough light for Doc to be able to read the slim volume of verse that he’d brought with him. He browsed through some of his old favorites, by Herrick and Marvell, some Frost and even a little Emily Dickinson.

Finding that his eyelids were drooping, Doc carefully tucked the book back into his pack, unrolled his quilted sleeping bag by the fire and climbed in, dutifully checking that his Le Mat was ready at hand.

The flames died down to a ruby glow and Doc fell asleep, content with his first day.