The Last Speck

The driver’s white knuckles clung to Wyatt’s soaked shirt, stretching, and finally ripping it at the shoulder. The white water roared like endless rolling thunder in his ears as he wrestled against the current. Hugging the man under his left arm, Wyatt reached desperately with his right, pawing at handfuls of churning river water, hoping for purchase on the sandy shore. Between gasps, he searched for lifesaving strength enough for two men. His lungs burned, his biceps ached, the untamed liquid force of nature rolled over him; adrenaline jolted in his veins and he felt an indescribable ferocity swell up inside and, determined, he kicked his legs and beat against the current. The shore grew closer.

Then, just as mystically as the strength had grown inside him, something now gave way, and the fiery blush of blood coursing through his muscles was alchemized into an icy chill tightening his chest. The desperate iron grip around his left arm relaxed, and the cold body drifted away. Wyatt had pushed beyond his limits to find the strength for two men, only to realize now it was twice as much strength as he needed. The driver was already dead.

His fingernails tore into the silt of the riverbank and he heaved himself up and out of the uncaring deluge. Bittersweet tears of fractioned victory, both mourning and celebrating his journey, mixed indeterminately with his river water baptism creating new brackish streams running down his face. Exhausted, Wyatt collapsed into the warm wet sand. 

* * *

A slimy sensation rudely swept across his face. Wyatt flinched and coughed up a spray of spit and muddy water. He blinked away his groggy aching slumber, and as his blurry vision came back to focus he found a shaggy mass of gray fur hanging over him. He felt its hot breath panting above his face, and then he was again aggressively licked across his chin and cheek and open mouth by the shaggy dog.

He pushed aside the dopey mutt and sat up on the riverbank, his toes still touching the running stream. For a moment he stared out at the dark flowing current which cut a watery trench through the prairie, an otherwise dream landscape for a wagon driver. He remembered the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the coach, and the horse’s frightened whinnies. He thought about the terror on the face of the driver as he’d swam after him, and with a shudder he tried to steer his mind away from imagining that same terrified expression, now pale and lifeless, washed up on some rock downstream.

The sharp and sudden bark of the shaggy dog snapped Wyatt out of his stupor. Reflexively he turned to the dog and ran his hand across the coarse hairy head and scratched behind his ears. 

“I’m sorry pooch…” Wyatt said hoarsely “I couldn’t save your master.” 

The dog just looked back at him cheerfully, panting and gently wagging his tail. Wyatt thought about how easily the mutt had gotten over the loss and wondered if it was more of a blessing or a curse to be so dumb. In this harsh and barren frontier, he considered that this dog’s relentless optimism might be the only pure and innocent speck left west of Tennessee. This thought vexed him more than it comforted him; shoeless, and horseless, forty miles from the nearest camp or town, his own outlook was anything but optimistic.

Something shiny downstream caught Wyatt’s eye. He craned his neck to look past the dog and some one hundred yards down river he saw the wrecked remains of the stagecoach wedged against a stony outcropping. He hobbled to his feet and as quickly as he could manage made his way down the bank trying not to step barefooted on any sharp stones. The dog bounded playfully behind, and a few annoying occasions in front, of him as he went.

The majority of the wagon stood up out of the water, with its portside wheels buried in the sand. The black lacquered wood shone wet and glossy in the dawning light, and “The Westward Wagon Co.” read in white lettering across its doors. The hitch for the horses was snapped, and there was no sign of the team. He considered that a blessing for him, knowing there was no way the horses survived the wreck unwounded.

Wyatt was taken back to his first time seeing the coach two weeks earlier. He’d read in the papers about the “Flying Wagons” and “Speed Machines” that carted cargo and passengers up and down the eastern territories; promising hundred mile stretches in a day’s time, turning journeys that were once a month long commitment into a weekend jaunt. But he never expected that business, with its rigid schedules and particular men in suits, to come west to a land so vast and wild. The map of the American west had strongly resisted being drawn, but it outright refused to be folded. What men had lived here long enough to see its nature knew that the path to the Pacific would always be wet with tears, if not with blood.

“It is the dawning of a new age,” Mr. Jenkins had said with a wink and a twirl of his mustache. 

He pointed his cane at a colorfully illustrated map of “Nuevo California,” “Nuevo Mexico,” and “The Republic of Texas.” The irony being that his words were truer than even Mr. Jenkins could realize. For in this new age, many of the names on his fancy map were already considered dated as the arguments over who owned what redrew the lines day after day. 

Dotted across the map was a trail with a stylized drawing of a stage coach at Sacramento, Fairview, Salt Lake City, and so on. Mr. Jenkins explained to the small crowd that the technology from America’s titans of industry was coming west, and that for a “mere twenty-five dollars” he could take a passenger anywhere on this route and back in less than five weeks. Of course he would charge much less for a simple package, only three cents per pound.

Wyatt was intrigued at first, he needed to make Denver before the winter, and the only horse he’d ever owned for himself had broken its ankle this year. So much for finding his fortune. 

But who had twenty-five dollars? He thought to himself as he had passed by the demonstration the first time. Apparently he was not alone in that thought. Making his way back from the saloon he saw an even smaller crowd of all new faces, and Mr. Jenkins rehashing the same speech, albeit with less enthusiasm.

“Technology has given us wings!” Mr. Jenkins said. “Travel the modern way.”

Disinterested, the last of the onlookers departed.

“I guess we’re too primitive for your ‘new era’ Mr…?” Wyatt said, holding out his palm for a handshake.

“Jenkins,” said the mustachioed salesman in the pinstripe suit. He reached out and shook Wyatt’s open hand.

“Wyatt,”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Wyatt. What can I do for you?”

“Can you really make it to Colorado in less than four weeks? I’m only going one way.”

“I just did it in three.”

“Wow, ain’t that something,” Wyatt rubbed his chin. “The problem is… I don’t have twenty-five dollars.”

“Well… it’s been a slow day for my miracle machine. I can sell you a ticket for eighteen.”

“Well… I don’t have eighteen dollars. See that’s my problem, work’s been hard to come by out here, but I have a pal out in Denver who sent me a letter saying he needs some extra hands and he can pay. So I can’t afford your trip without work, but I can’t get to work without your trip. It’s quite a dilemma.”

“Hmm. Let’s say I listed you as postage? Three cents a pound, you probably weigh what? One eighty? So that’s… five dollars and forty cents. A steal if I do say so.”

“I have four dollars fifty cents? Same numbers different order”

Mr. Jenkins hesitated for a moment. “Are you good with horses?”

“Outstanding,”

“You’ll work along the trip, you stable the horses when they stop for the night, and help change the teams at stops, make sure they get feed etc.” He holds out his hand.

Wyatt goes eagerly to shake, but before he can Mr. Jenkins yanks it back.

“Eh- and, when you get to your last stop, you talk to whoever will listen about how amazing the Westward Wagon Co. was and that it was worth every penny,” he holds out his hand for the new deal.

“All twenty-five dollars of it,” Wyatt grins and shakes his hand.

Mr. Jenkins was not the driver for the full trip. What made the relentless pace of the Westward Wagon possible was partially the modern design of the wagon that the salesman was so proud of, but it was also a whole lot of leg work. Spread out along the route the company had established camps roughly five hours apart, where stable hands waited with teams of fresh horses. At the first stop Mr. Jenkins swapped out with a different driver, he would head back to town the next morning to make sales for a new wagon-load; Wyatt and his new driver hitched a new team of horses and continued east towards Colorado.

Two weeks later, Wyatt had traveled with four different drivers and almost a hundred horses. This last one, his final driver, hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself, nor had he introduced his canine companion who now looked up at Wyatt with his tongue happily hanging from his open mouth. Wyatt had expressed concerns about fording the river, but the driver assured him he’d come this way just three weeks earlier with no problems. However, the water had been much lower three weeks ago.

Looking out at the wrecked wagon, it reminded him of an illustration he’d seen in the paper of the whalers who sail out from Nantucket. A large hole was bashed in the roof of the wagon and debris drifted out and into the river like blood from an open wound, in the likeness of the oil-slick beasts brought low by a harpoon.

Wyatt waded into the water and began to inspect the wreckage to see what he could salvage. He grabbed all the best looking parcels he could get his hands on and shuttled them to the shore. Many were letters completely destroyed by the muddy water. He found a spare set of boots left by one of his many drivers; worn but better than nothing. He also found a silver dollar, a wad of jerky, a smashed picture frame, a half-full canteen, and a pair of cattleman revolvers. He was actually a pretty good shot, but the powder in the bullets was undoubtedly ruined; he took the sidearms anyway, better safe than sorry.

He climbed back into the broken stagecoach for one last look. All of the meager cargo was waterlogged and ruined, but before climbing back out he noticed a leathery pouch with the drawstring caught on a splintered piece of the wagon’s frame. It hung precariously above the waterline, twisting lazily. The corner of an envelope poked out of the little pouch. Wyatt carefully leaned forward and grabbed the pouch, and as he did the beached wagon shifted slightly and he lurched forward. His hand accidently dipped below the surface and he scooped up a little bit of water in the pouch. He snatched the envelope from the bag, and holding both over his head carefully climbed out of the wreck.

On the shore he shook the envelope in his hand trying to fling off the excess water and dry the document. Much of the ink on the outside had already started to run, but he thought he could make out the letters “VER” and surmised it must be addressed to someone in Denver. With a blatant disregard for privacy and an overwhelming curiosity, he tore the envelope open in hopes he could prevent the damage of the water soaking through to the page within. He took out the letter with a flourish and held it out into the warmth of the fading sunlight.

“Dear cousin,” it began, but he was too late. Most of the message was lost. “Believe myself to be the first,” another line read, “a shovel, two bolts of canvas,” more water damage, and then lastly “angel creek, north of the,” and the rest was almost entirely unreadable.

He didn’t know why he was so invested, none of this postage would be of any use to him now. But seeing the wagon had allowed him to hope, it had taken his mind off his current desperation, and given him something to do. Wyatt had always been restless, he didn’t do well without something to look forward to.

His salvaged inventory left much to be desired, but the setting sun made his next order of business very clear. He would need to start a fire. He set off to gather dry brush with the last of the daylight, and the shaggy dog trailed him every step of the way.

As the embers burned he thought about the long journey ahead, and he, and the dog, drifted off to a deep and heavy sleep.

* * *

He had thought about waiting on the trail, hoping for a passing traveler who would take pity on him and give him a lift. But travelers were uncommon on this trail. A solo traveler wouldn’t allow him on their horse anyway, and the only wagon he’d seen this way in months had just been lost, with him inside. Not to mention he was equally as likely to cross with bandits as with honest folks, and so help on the trail did not seem likely to him.

He woke just before sunrise, and decided to hike for the foothills. Following the river, if he could make it to the foothills there would be better chances for foraging and for game if he could catch it. He had lived off the land before, although never so direly. If he could make it to the foothills perhaps he could get just enough nourishment to make it the remaining twenty miles south to the nearest outpost. It wasn’t on his way to Denver, but death would be a much longer detour.

So he made off with only a handful of jerky, two worthless sidearms, a soggy leather pouch, and a dog too ignorant to be depressed by their condition.

The morning air was cold, but by noon the sun would be blisteringly hot. The river would help with that. In the shallow stretches he could wade in the water and cool himself, but wet feet would make for miserable boots. Every choice he made from hear out would include similar exchanges of consequences. For instance his stomach was already growling, but scarfing down his jerky now would mean nothing to look forward to later. Wyatt needed that motivation to look forward to. He nibbled on the corner of the jerky, the smallest bite he could manage and saved the rest for later.

That first day he walked at least eight miles, he was sure of that. He had managed to catch a cricket in his hands which he was quite proud of, and against his preferences wolfed it down. The shaggy dog followed him the whole way panting happily, but gone were the perky playful steps running out ahead of Wyatt and uselessly circling back that had characterized the first several hours of the hike.

The next day he made it to the more wooded terrain of the foothills. He managed to find a crop of overripe out of season wild strawberries. He gathered as many as he could find, ate half of them, and stored the other half in the small pouch. Reluctantly, he gave a scrap of jerky to the dog who chomped it down eagerly.

Every hour he would allow himself one berry. Knowing this was not truly enough sustenance, but hoping to trick his mind into believing he had an ample reserve to look forward to.

Two more days passed and no more nourishment could be found. Wyatt held one of the worthless guns in his hands and idly squeezed the trigger a few times. The chamber revolved, but of course nothing else occurred. Perhaps if he’d had good bullets he could have shot a squirrel, but currently it was just dead weight. Maybe I could throw it at one passing by? He thought to himself in desperation.

He was delirious, out of supplies, and out of hope. He shook the little pouch over his hands, but no more berries fell out. Violently he shook it again, and something unexpected dropped into his chapped palm, a small misshapen lump of gold, as big as a marble. This little nugget was more valuable than anything he’d likely ever held, and it was worthless to him now.

He snapped, he licked the little nugget and thought about eating it. He giggled at the thought that he’d lost everything only to find a fortune he could never spend. That was it… that would be the end.

Wyatt lay on the ground blistered with sunburn, aching all over, and so hungry he felt like a hollow shell. Then suddenly, he remembered the letter. The pieces fell into place and he knew what it was. Gold had been found in Colorado, and there would be more. His fortune was still to come. The mysterious life saving strength from days before returned to him and he lifted up, this time from the depths of the river Styx. But he knew now that it was only strength for one.

When Wyatt arrived at the outpost, he arrived alone. When they asked how he had survived, what had he eaten? Wyatt only said, “I ate the last speck of innocence west of Tennessee.”