Part 26 (2/2)

But they didn't last long. When I stood up and breathed the fresh air and saw the pale blue sky and the green trees and the river running along, all the horrible things didn't stand a chance. I was alone in the wilderness, n.o.body around to cause me troubles or worry.

The water didn't seem so cold any more. It felt soothing on my sc.r.a.pes. I stayed in it for quite a while, paddling about and floating. Tom Sawyer himself likely never had a better time on the Mississippi than me in that river. I wished there was a Jackson Island where I could camp-but of course I had nothing to camp with. with. Even if I'd had matches for a fire, I had no food to cook on it. Even if I'd had matches for a fire, I had no food to cook on it.

My stomach, which was bruised on the outside from Elmont's knee, felt rather empty on the inside. That didn't worry me much, though. I allowed I could always find some something to stave off starvation, one way or another. I'd worry about it later.

For now, I was mighty content.

I gathered my footwear and nights.h.i.+rt, which were already dry, then waded over to a flat slab of rock hanging out from the sh.o.r.e. I climbed onto it and sprawled out. The sun warmed me up. Soft breezes with just a touch of coolness brushed along my skin.

I felt uncommon lazy. Everything seemed pretty near perfect, except I got to wis.h.i.+ng Sarah was here with me. We could swim in the stream together, and lay out on the rock to dry. I got an awful hankering to see her stretched out in the sunlight, all bare and wet and s.h.i.+ny. See her and feel her and so on.

Well, of course we'd never get together again if I didn't start moving.

I was loath to stir myself, though. It would be a shame to leave my river. I wished I had a raft or canoe. Then I could just float along peaceful, take a drink whenever I got the urge, jump in to cool off when the sun got too hot, and have a fine time. That'd be a blessing for my feet, too.

But I had no raft or canoe, and didn't see how I could make one.

I could follow the river, hike along its sh.o.r.e or wade and swim if the terrain got too rough. That notion struck my fancy, and I nearly decided to have a go at it. But there was no way to judge where the river might take me.

Part of me didn't much care where it'd take me. I could just roam along forever, exploring. But mostly I wanted to join up with Sarah the quickest way possible, and that meant returning to the tracks.

I took one more swim. While splas.h.i.+ng about, I wondered if there might be a way to carry some water with me. Of course, I had no container. I drank as much as I could hold, and pondered the problem.

The General once told me how the Apaches could carry around a huge load of water, enough to last a small party of warriors for days. What they'd do was kill a horse and take out its small intestine. They'd clean it out the best they could, then fill it up. When they had yards and yards of gut fit to burst with water, they'd wrap it around a horse they hadn't killed yet, and be on their way.

Well, I didn't have a horse available. I'd spotted some squirrels and gophers and such, but didn't hold out much hope of catching one. Besides, the whole notion seemed a trifle gory for my taste.

Thanks to Whittle, I'd seen my share of intestines. I wanted no more truck with such things.

But I did hit on a plan, thanks to the General's story. After wrapping the sleeves around my feet, I soaked my nights.h.i.+rt real good. Then I didn't wring it out or put it on. Instead, I draped it loose over my shoulders.

I started on my way, not at all happy to leave the river behind, but hoping it wouldn't wander far from the tracks so I might be able to find it later, if need be.

It was hot work, trudging back through the woods. The water in my nights.h.i.+rt stayed cool for a while, and felt good the way it dribbled down my skin. Pretty soon, though, it turned so warm I couldn't tell the difference between the water and my sweat.

Finally, I came to the embankment. I scurried up, sorely missing the shade of the woods. The sun felt like fire, and the breezes had traveled elsewhere. I wished I'd just stayed at the river.

All burning and breathless and drippy, I stumbled onto the flat ground at the top of the slope. And sat on a rail. And squealed and leaped up when it scorched my rump.

After a wait to catch my breath and allow the pain to fade, I unslung my nights.h.i.+rt and tipped back my head. I reckon I squeezed quite a lot of river water into my mouth. It was mixed with dust and sweat, but did wonders for my thirst. In my head, I gave thanks to the General for giving me the idea.

When I couldn't wrestle any more water out of the nights.h.i.+rt, I put it on and started following the tracks. I'd learned my lesson, and stayed off the rails.

They were so s.h.i.+ny in the sunlight that they hurt to look at.

I walked between them, keeping my eyes on the gravel and cinders. I kept my ears open for trains, too. Another was bound to come along, sooner or later. For all I knew, several might've gone by while I was away. I probably would've heard them, but maybe not.

Anyhow, I didn't hanker to get run over. And maybe I could even get one to stop and pick me up.

The farther I walked, the surer I got that a train would whistle in the distance. From behind me. I'd turn around and wave my arms. It'd toot for me to clear out of the way, but I'd stay put so the engineer didn't have any choice but either to put on the brakes or splash through me. In my head, the train always stopped with a few feet to spare. The engineer and fireman, they leaped down to shout at me, but I acted quite meek and polite, explained my situation, and they settled down and asked me aboard. They gave me a ride to the next station, and there stood Sarah on the platform, thrilled to pieces and weeping for joy as I ran to embrace her.

It was a splendid daydream.

I played it out quite a few times in my head. Even improved on it, having the train approach from the front, heading north, with Sarah riding in the locomotive to keep a lookout for me.

Reality came back to me, though, when I spotted a bridge in the distance.

A bridge meant a gorge. A gorge might mean water. Maybe this was a place where my river cut across to the other side of the tracks. I was mighty cooked by then-wet on the outside and dry on the inside. The river was precisely what I needed to set matters right.

I hurried along smartly, eager to get there.

By and by, the rushy sound of water came along. This just had to be my river!

But I stopped dead, just short of the bridge.

The rail on my left was almost where it belonged. But not quite.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Desperados The spikes meant to pin the rail down firm had all been yanked and scattered about. The rail was off to the side by half a foot.

The next train to happen along would wind up chewing earth. If it had much speed at all when it derailed, it'd likely pitch over and plunge into the gorge.

That's the first thing that ran through my mind. The second thing was how to stop the train in time to save all the lives certain to be lost in such a catastrophe.

I doubted my ability to repair the damage. The only other choice was to hurry up the tracks and have a go at stopping the train. But what if it came from the other direction?

I never got to thinking about the third thing. What it would've been, of course, was that somebody had done done this to the rail. this to the rail.

Before I reached that stage of my thoughts, however, a gunshot barked. I jumped. And looked up from the rail to see a horseman charge up out of the gorge alongside the bridge. He came galloping straight at me, waving his pistol.

I chose not to bolt. After all, the only escape seemed to be a dive off the embankment. That was likely to bang me up considerable. And the fellow might shoot me. So I stayed put and raised my arms.

He slowed his horse to a trot, and reined it in just in front of me.

This was the closest I'd been to a real cowboy. Of course, I judged he wasn't an actual cowboy, but a desperado instead.

Not that he looked especially desperate. Other than the revolver in his hand, there was nothing fearsome about him. He wasn't ugly. He wasn't much bigger than me. He had a weathered, dirty face with a few days' worth of whiskers, and didn't seem to be much older than twenty. He was frowning, but not in an angry way. More like he was confused and rather amused.

Not saying a word, he gave his reins a shake. He walked his horse around me in a slow circle, studying me while I turned around to study him.

He was all decked out in a big hat with its brim turned up, a red neckerchief the size of a bib, and a bandolier chock full of cartridges that hung across his chest from one shoulder. His dusty old s.h.i.+rt was dark with sweat. Around his waist, he wore a belt with holsters on each side. The holster at his left hip was empty. The one on his right held a six-gun with its handle to the front. The holsters were tied down around the legs of his leather chaps. His boots had silver spurs that looked too fancy for the rest of his outfit.

After circling me a couple of times, he halted his horse and said, ”You fall outa bed or what?”

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