Adversaries

Adversaries

When Seth takes off his hat, the sweat that has accumulated under the brim floods his eyes, washing away some of the dust that has accumulated on his forehead. He wipes his face with his bandana and surveys his surroundings. From where he and his horse sit on a small ridge, the territory looks pretty much alike in all directions—flat, brown, dusty, and what little vegetation there is seems dead except for wandering tumbleweeds. Dust-devils swirl in tiny tornadoes, sometime picking up a tumbleweed and shredding it before the cone disintegrates. Heat makes the horizon sway slightly and distort, as though the parched earth wants to rise into the cloudless sky. He imagines viewing a reflection on water rather than seeing the very heat itself.

If only it could be water. His mouth is dry and his lips are sunburned. He wants to reach for his canteen, but he knows he must ration his water for a few more hours until he reaches some sort of civilization, or the sun goes down. His horse probably needs a drink more than he does. And if his horse goes down, they will both be dead soon after.

The trail is hard to follow in the dry and rock-strewn dirt, but occasionally, a hoof print, a wagon track, or a displaced rock reveals that his adversary passed this way earlier. How much earlier? Hard to say, but certainly no more than a day. The distance between them is shrinking.

His trail turns toward some distant hills. Makes sense, he thinks. That’s where I would go. If there’s any water to be found, the base of a hill would be a likely spot. Just before sunset he confirms that there had indeed been a creek, but nothing remains of it now but a shallow gulch and an occasional mud puddle. Enough to quench the horse’s thirst. He gratefully unloads his gear and rinses his mouth with the last of the canteen. The water trickles slowly down his parched throat, even though every dried cell in his mouth begs for gulps. If we don’t get to some sort of civilization by noon tomorrow, my survival odds will be about zero.

With darkness, the temperature drops quickly. Tumbleweed is useless for anything more than fire-starter. Nevertheless, he gathers some, hoping for a supply big enough to get through the night. He doesn’t like hiking around this terrain in approaching darkness when critters emerge from hiding places. He has no desire to disturb a nest of rattlesnakes.

Snakes! That describes his adversary, always two slithers ahead of him, always one town away, always disappearing and slithering into the unknown. Always avoiding him.

The sky is clear, as always, displaying a million stars. For some, it would be beautiful. But Seth is practical. A bit more light would be nice. He tosses a stick into his campfire, lies down, puts his hat over the side of his face, and welcomes some rest. The howling of a coyote only a hundred yards away fails to disturb him.

When the first light of day creeps over the horizon, Seth wakes up. His bones ach from sleeping on the hard ground, but it is a familiar ache, and he ignores it. By the time the sun peaks over the horizon he has already saddled his horse, hoping to put in some miles before wicked heat once more slows everything to a crawl.

After about three miles, the creek bed’s soil turns a soft white, clear evidence of recent moisture, and shortly afterward a trickle of water appears. A good sign. An hour later, a dusty road emerges alongside the creek. A very good sign. The creek water is now almost two feet wide. Seth lets the horse drink from the brown water, then steers onto the road. He figures it is about ten o’clock when he passes an abandoned mine.

Makes sense, he thinks again. Digging in the ground is the only reason anybody would choose to come to this godforsaken place. No farmer would ever want this land. The thought of nearby civilization lifts his spirits. Wagon wheel tracks and an abundance of hoofprints buoy his anticipation even more.

The sun burns directly overhead when he wanders into a small collection of heavily weathered buildings. Most are made of adobe and stone, but several display wooden facades. He wonders why, and where the wood came from. There couldn’t be a tree within miles of this place. It looks deserted except for a couple of horses and a wagon in front the biggest building in town, a saloon.

After hitching his horse at a watering trough, Seth walks under a battered sign that says, “Welcome to the Ends of the Earth.” In the shadowy interior, he hopes for both a drink and the sight of his adversary. He cracks a smile when he sees both at the bar. Only half a dozen people occupy the place.

“Whiskey,” he whispers to the grizzly old man who stands behind the bar. He hadn’t meant to whisper and is surprised that his own voice is a struggle in his scorched throat. The whiskey burns its way down his gullet.

His adversary turns to look at him and freezes with a look of recognition.

Both men stare at one another without saying a word. No words are necessary to let others in the saloon realize that trouble is about to happen. Two men at the bar shuffle away to a table to sit and watch.

“You been lookin’ for me?” says his adversary.

“Yeah,” Seth squeaks. “Mama’s Dead.”

His adversary blinks, looks stunned.

“Her last words to me were, “Find your brother. Forgive him. Give him this letter.”

He pulls a stained and rumpled envelope from his shirt, hands it to the adversary, then turns and walks out of the bar. No further words are exchanged. As he climbs back onto his horse, he turns his head once to see the other man standing at the bar, still staring at the letter. Tumbleweeds roll down the street as he rides away.