“No. Best check the blasters.”
That statement brought the urgent memory of the missing J.B. and Abe.
The men looked at each other, stricken by the thought that their oldest friend was gone.
“Crossed the river at the ford. Went after the spooked animals,” Trader said.
“Sure. And Abe went after him.”
“River rose.”
“Trapped them.”
“Be cutting out the horses. Get them corraled and gentle them.”
Ryan nodded, brushing sand from his hair and picking grit from both ears. “That’ll be it, Trader. Probably having to go all the way along the rim on the north side. Eventually they’ll find a trail down and we can meet.”
“How far?”
“What?”
Trader also stood, limping heavily on his bruised leg. “Stiffened,” he explained. “Wondered how far we might’ve been carried down the gorge.”
“No real idea. Might have been only as little as four or five miles.”
“Bullshit! Fifty miles if it was a fucking inch, Ryan. You lost some of your skills being away from me.”
Ryan sniffed, taking his time before answering Trader. “Might be twenty miles. No more. Still a double-long way for them to go. Lot farther overland. Wouldn’t be able to do much moving until after dawn.”
“Might be a full day before they see us. Reckon we should get us out of here.”
“Right. North rim?”
“More like east by the sun.” He peered up into the brightness, shading his eyes. “That some kind of building up there? See where I mean?”
“Saw it before. Can’t make it properly against the rising sun. But it looks too big to be a house. Mebbe a church or something like that.”
Trader looked around. “Well, a man never got to sit and rest himself in the shade of a tall oak tree until he planted the bastard acorn.”
“How’s the knife wound?”
“It’s about as welcome as a poxed-up gaudy slut at a Quaker christening.”
“Worse than it was?”
His grimace might have indicated pain or humor. “Little of this. Little of that. On the scales, I’d say better. Cold water’s often good for an open wound.”
Ryan had been looking more carefully at the river below them, trying to make out any sign of a trail that could offer them a way out of the canyon. But the red rock walls were still drowned in deep shadow.
“Only way is to keep moving. Get in closer to the cliffs and take anything going.”
“Long as it doesn’t mean too much free climbing, Ryan. I hate fucking climbing.”
“Funny. But I hate climbing and like fucking.”
They were both laughing as they set off together, moving in what was a roughly southerly direction.
IT HAD BEEN thirty minutes of hard slogging over soft, tiring sand before they found anything.
There was a rectangular steel sign, corroded and weathered by a hundred years of climatic extremes. Its iron supports had rusted away, but it leaned against the trunk of an ancient juniper. The paint was long gone, but the blind-embossed lettering could still be felt and read.
“Overlook Trail. Three and one-quarter miles. Twelve hundred feet elevation. Average trail time three hours. Warning. Carry sufficient water.”
Trader laughed harshly as Ryan finished reading the notice. “Nearly drank enough water to float me clear onto the last train west.”
With the loss of the pack animals, they had lost all of their provisionsmeat, fruit, fuel and water, as well as most of their spare ammo. But both men, from long force of habit, carried a couple of spare clips for their blasters in their pockets.
“Best drink our fill while we’re down here.” Ryan went to the edge of the river and glanced cautiously around him before kneeling and cupping his hands into the icy water, drinking long, slow and deep.
Trader joined him. “Tastes better when you have a choice about how much you take.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Over three miles and over a thousand feet. Really fucking looking forward to this, Ryan.”
IT HAD PROBABLY BEEN a popular hiking trail, back in the lost, innocent predark days when, if it could be believed, people used to walk up and down mountains for their own pleasure. Ryan had seen enough references to this absurd practice but he still found it hard to credit.