A Boy Lost

Night fires smoldered in the eastern hills and the valley glowed a sultry orange. The ridge top blaze unnerved my horse and sent her skittering off. I caught her down the empty riverbed. The mare’s eyes, wet and wild, glittered in the wavering light. I looped a rope around her head and rubbed her neck. “Don’t fight and don’t you run,” I told her. “I don’t need any of your grief.”

I packed my saddlebags and rode up to the summit of a small rise. Fires raged in the distance, a golden serpent belching out venomous flames. Our spindly shadows bled down the hill and died in the valley. The inferno blazed until morning, and smoke continued to fill the sky.

In the afternoon I cooked a rabbit on a pile of gathered brush, then began my descent into the valley called Northern Powder. Snowcapped mountains reared over the plain, while something glimmered in the flats farther below. Darkness fell before I reached the valley floor. I hunkered down and fell asleep on exposed ground.

The sun reappeared in the morning, and I decamped. By the time I reached the flats, the prairie schooners, and the glossy cooking ware of the passing emigrants were gone. Several hours later, I found a spindle of water and let my weary horse graze by the creek. I rode all afternoon, and into the night. We ambled on for a time by moonlight. After the moonset, I burrowed beneath my tackle because of the terrible chill, and tried to sleep. The cold kept me from true rest. Come daybreak the mare seemed relaxed, but I felt like death. I coughed up some greenish phlegm. Ill and vexed, I rode with my eyes half closed, bellowing out the song The Rose of Allendale.

“The moon was bright, the night was clear, no breeze on the sea,” I sang. “Mary left her highland home, wandering forth with me. Oh the Rose of Allendale. The sweet Rose of Allendale.”

From the pitch of my horse, I knew we continued along the wagon ruts. My head boiled, and my skin became icy to the touch. My suffering caused me to weep shamelessly. Even though normal for a twelve-year old child, I still felt like a coward for crying.

The mare picked her way down a serrated precipice. The trail leveled out, and the temperature dipped. Water ran, and trees soughed. Small animals scampered across the soft ground. Everything about this place was bathed in moisture. A light snow dropped through the wood and pattered the trees. The horse sauntered along with sluggish steps. I widened my eyes. Wet needles lined the path, surrounded by gentle pine.

I dismounted and drank from a clear stream, then piled on a mound of clothing to keep from shivering. More snow alighted. “This wilderness is trying to kill me,” I mumbled. Another stream took us deeper into the wood. Muted light slipped through the brawny branches. The snow transformed into sleet. The mare’s heavy breathing overwhelmed my senses.

In due course, the sleet turned into rain. Droplets pelted the trees, and water leaked onto my hat. I fell into a sleepy trance. Suddenly the gray stopped. Three wagons and five oxen blocked the trail. Several dozen cattle had sought refuge among the pines. Cowbells clanked in the forest as raindrops tapped their spines.

“Hello,” I called out through the mist. No one answered me. The wagons were stocked with goods, but devoid of souls. The cloth canopies sagged under the heavy moisture. A harsh sound broke from beyond the surrounding trees. I cocked my hat back and listened. Someone screamed.