VII - The Pass
“What did the mountains care about our plan to climb them, rafting the waters that divided them? They had eternity before us, and eternity after us. We were nothing to them.”
- Erica Ferencik, The River at Night
Doc Scurlock was quick to inform Bryan Lee that Billy had spent a fair bit of the last hour making James Dolan’s life hell. The Regulators’ leader had taken it upon himself to camp outside the storm cellar where Dolan was being held, dictating to Murphy’s lieutenant all of the terrible fates that might be awaiting him once the conflict in Lincoln was brought to a close. ”Billy didn’t rule out us takin’ Dolan up into the foothills and usin’ him for target practice,” Scurlock said, ”But he figured you might object, so he left it low on the list of possibilities.”
Scurlock led the group out to one of the line shacks, explaining that Bonney ”needed some time to carve up some of those special bullets he likes to use.” During the short ride, Scurlock said that he had learned that Governor Mosby had inserted himself into the selection of Lincoln’s new sheriff and had insisted that the court select someone who was truly neutral where county affairs were concerned. The man that ended up with the star was a sharpshooter and former buffalo hunter named Pat Garrett, who’d just come to the area a short time ago. No one at the ranch knew much about him.
Bonney emerged from the line shack as he heard the riders approaching. His usual brash manner was subdued as he listened to everything he was told, absorbing the information thoughtfully. ”’Course we’ll help,” he replied when all had been discussed, ”Hell, that’s part of the reason we started goin’ after Murphy’s people. To keep what became of John from happening to anyone else.” He nodded emphatically. ”I’ll make certain there’s a good watch set on Dolan and Baker. Everyone else’ll ride into Lincoln to keep an eye on the town. Anything happens we’ll be ready.”
As the group prepared to depart the ranch, Jose Chavez y Chavez caught up with them. He drew his mount up alongside Cooper’s, speaking to the gunslinger quietly. ”Say, Albert, if you happen to come across any sign of Tom O’Folliard, could you let one of us know? When we circled back from Blazer’s Mill, we all kept an eye out, but none of us saw a trace of him. If Dolan knows what happened to him, he ain’t tellin’. We’re all just, y’know, concerned.”
Roberts led the riders across the rolling expanse of the Tunstall Ranch, northward to the foothills. The bounty hunter said little, only speaking when he needed to clarify the route they were taking. His manner was pensive, unnerved even. But whatever his misgivings, he pressed on into the mountains, keeping a brisk pace as the posse made their way to Capitan Pass.
The pine forest deepens as the group reaches the Pass, the wide trail that cuts through the mountains. The hard soil bears no imprints of horse hooves or wagon wheels, ample evidence of how few now venture into these heights. Roberts slows his pace, calling Jacinta Castillo forward. He asks the scout to help him keep watch as they continue. ”We’re gonna find trouble up here. That’s a given,” he tells her, ”I’d just like to see it comin’ when it decides to show itself.”
”We are not far,” Shabbakasha says, a frown on his normally calm face. Reaching down, he pats the neck of his paint mare reassuringly.
The air grows colder, the crisp cool of the valley giving way to the sharper temperatures of the mountain heights. As the riders press forward, the tall pines seem to lean inwards, their thick limbs forming a dense canopy over the pass that keeps out all but a few brief glimpses of the sun. Everyone is suddenly aware of the quiet that has overtaken the ride. The sounds of insects, birds, and other forest creatures has subsided, leaving only the noises of the posse’s mounts and the wind passing through the pine boughs overhead.
Roberts tugs at his horse’s reins, bringing it to a halt, his eyes fixed on the trail forward. The rest of the posse is immediately able to perceive the change in the landscape ahead.
The canopy of pines remains, but all are dead, their branches dark and barren. The hard soil is dusted with gray, the earth itself almost the color of coal. The brush gathered at the base of the trees is likewise lifeless, patches of growth that sprung up years ago, frozen in their wait for a Spring that has never arrived.
Though the canopy is lessened by virtue of the trees’ bare limbs, the pass ahead is noticeably darker, the shadows tall and looming, even in daytime. For a moment, all is hushed, but the silence is broken by a pair of distant wolf howls, their mournful keening traveling down the mountain as though there is nothing present to muffle their calls.
Roberts turns in his saddle. ”Last chance to go back,” he says simply.
