Return to Devastation

Return to Devastation

Kevin J. McArthur

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Kevin J. McArthur

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover model and photograph, Jesse Steele. Photo courtesy of Shellie Steele.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

About the Author

More books by this Author

Angel Camden’s Journey

Acknowledgements:

When writing and completing the first book, Devastation, I had never intended to write a sequel. However, readership was so popular, and comments from the friends and family encouraged me to write it. While this book was a struggle to complete, I’m grateful for the opportunity to present it to you now.

I’m thankful for countless people for their encouragement. To my children: Shiloh, Kiley, Danica, Camden, Rachael, and Hailey, thank you for believing in my dream.

Thank you my longtime friend, Chris Ganoe, for reviewing the manuscript before the proofreaders. I’m especially grateful for Mel Bingham and his extensive proofing and suggestions in carving out the last chapters to improve the ending from the first revisions.

As always, if it hadn’t been for the inspiration of Trina West I may never have walked this writing path. Thank you, my friend!

Special thanks to Shellie and Jesse Steele for the incredible cover photograph.

As with each book, I’m fortunate to have Jared Garlock, for his help and suggestions and for his unending encouragement to ‘finish the next book!’

My special appreciation goes to fellow author Roger Roj Harrington, who has offered his invaluable expertise in writing and editing. I constantly refer to the notes you’ve sent, Roj. Thank you for your kindness and wisdom. Be well my friend.

I also owe unending gratitude to my friend and new bride, Tresa Jane McArthur, for her support through our daily struggles and blessings. Thanks babe!

A personal note to the reader: Without you, I wouldn’t have written the sequel to Devastation. It was through your encouragement that I present this gift to you.

For Riley

Prologue

Journal entry:

April 10, 2010

Today marks three days since Black set out on horseback for Illinois. Although Catherine and I realize that Jason intends to return to the River Settlement, we suspect he had another destination in mind though he never hinted where that might be.

I’m thrilled that Catherine chose to remain with us in Utah. She lives in our three-room basement apartment. We enjoy time together, cooking, cleaning and hanging out with my daughters. They’ve come to call her Aunt Catherine but to my daughters Black is still Black.

Upon my request, Jason promised to deliver a few items to the Ohio River Settlement, letters to Hailey and Hattie, and more that I pray will make Hattie’s life more comfortable. How I wish she were up to a return trip! I’m sometimes surprised how we happen across folks who we seem to have known forever. Even though Hattie and I spent only a few short weeks together, she will always hold a special place in my heart.

Our once united country is now a dichotomy, split by the Rocky Mountains and the destruction. States west of the mountains survived well. Life continues much as it always has. Survivors still purchase necessities although gasoline, meat and vegetables remain in high demand. Everyone is learning to economize, to spend little and make use of every resource.

Black read the newspaper reports before leaving. States east of the Rockies are a wasteland. Life in the east is rough. Citizens regroup in major cities to rebuild. Denver will be the first city he encounters where the military has built a base. The Denver we rode through last year was dead and lifeless and Jason mentioned he looked forward to seeing the change.

Our hearts and prayers go with Black. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to undertake such a journey; but Black is Black and try as we might, Catherine and I couldn’t convince him to stay. Travel safe, Marine!

Chapter 1

Below a high mountain peak, a lone coyote hunted several feet below a warming snowline. Snowmelt dripped from a ragged edge onto wet grass. The animal had fared well through the mild winter. Tufts of winter fur clung to his undercoat and would soon drift on the wind to reveal a dark thin summer coat.

His belly ached with hunger. A blue grouse he had snatched the previous morning hadn’t satisfied hunger from meager cold weather hunting. Though the winter had been mild, he had used up his stored fat reserves. Survival through the coming weeks hinged on successful hunts.

The coyote dropped his nose to sniff the ground scents. A forest hare had passed through not long ago; and there, a meadow mouse had scampered to the snowline and back downhill. A mouse wouldn’t be worth the energy to pursue but the hare could see him through another day.

The animal alerted and looked down the mountainside. With ears trained forward, he listened to sounds foreign to his mountain.

The coyote surveyed land tracts seven-hundred feet below and spied movement drifting through clearings. Ahead, an opening where on its present course the animal should emerge. Instinct urged him to flee. Curiosity held him fast.

The coyote backtracked for a better view of where the animal, no, animals, should appear. Yes, he heard three now, three sets of hooves tread heavy on the soft forest floor. Deer, even elk would not make such a ruckus and survive. These were disparate animals; prey unfamiliar with wilderness survival.

A shape entered the opening. When a trailing animal appeared, the coyote’s distant memory identified the creatures: horses. A man sat atop the first; the other two carried sawbuck pack frames burdened with panniers, saddlebags and sundries.

The coyote had rarely seen horses since dangerous men always accompanied horses. As a pup, he had chased one until his mother bowled him over in a meadow and forced him to follow her into the safety of the black timber.

The figure riding the horse was one of the dangerous men. With his hat pulled low, his body swayed in the saddle as though he would drift to sleep and fall to the ground.

A horse’s hoof could deliver a lethal blow even to an experienced hunter like himself. The man didn’t look dangerous, then again, the man had no idea that the coyote watched. The predator lowered its head and slunk downhill into the pine forest.

Less than a year ago, the rider, Jason Black, had ridden horseback through these Uintah Mountains though he didn't remember the ride. He had ridden the eastern end of the range until a mountain lion had nearly killed him. Kelly Cordova later provided details when he had fallen unconscious. Evident from the lion attack, a wide scar on the right side of his throat that overflowed onto his cheek. One claw had cut deep; a second left a trace parallel to the wide mark. His right eye had suffered damage. Doctors saved his vision; weak as it may be. He could focus on the iron sights of the pistol and rifle and his aim remained deadly although he had had to adjust.

The lion had raked his shoulders, leaving visible scars, and had bitten him below the rib cage.

What folks couldn’t see were the infrequent severe headaches that he suffered. When the pain came, he sought shelter away from others, specifically Catherine, to close his eyes and wait for the pain to subside. He wouldn’t burden his wife with his pain.

Kelly, or Rocky as Jason knew her, had said that after the attack a mysterious wild man had rescued them. She had called him a mountain man. The man’s name, Luke, had nagged Jason since Rocky had mentioned it. Jason had lost his brother, Luke Black, to the Iraq war. Luke had been a marine as had Jason.

Jason wondered if he had chosen college instead of the military, would his brother have enlisted? Jason or Black as most people called him, rarely considered what if or what should have been. He accepted the world as it is. Even after the comet had destroyed most of America, he had never considered what if it hadn’t happened? He left such thoughts to the dreamers.

For this mission he had left his new bride of six months behind in Utah. Catherine had supported his decision to return to the mangled world east of the Rocky Mountains. What in his spirit drove him east again? To leave civilization and his wife for an untamed wilderness wasn’t the reason of a rational man. Still, for him, there could be no other life until he fulfilled a promise to the others, to himself and a vow to his brother. Some might say that in this world, a man’s word isn’t as important as it was once. To Black, in this world of survival, a man’s word was more important than ever.

He came to the mountains to find the wild man, Luke; to repay the man for saving his life and he had no idea how to do that.

Jason had little to go on to find the stranger. Since he had been unconscious at the time, he had never met Luke. The clues that Rocky had provided were scant; the cave where the wild man lived had been near their last camp. Dense fog had blanketed the area on his last time here so finding their cold campsite would be akin to finding the proverbial needle.

Rocky and Luke had crossed a river a day after they left the cave. Through studying maps, he and Rocky had agreed that the river was likely the Duchesne, the lone major river between the Green River and Salt Lake City. She and Jason had crossed the Green the day before the attack, fording somewhere below Flaming Gorge dam, and, they estimated, not far below.

Jason had crossed the Duchesne River three days ago. Given the miles ridden, the cave must be behind him now. Since Rocky had pulled a travois and trailed a man on foot, he figured that he had made better distance in less time.

This Uintah Mountains were unique in that they ran east and west. Other mountain ranges in the country ran north and south, only the Uintahs lay askew. Before pitching camp, they had entered an area where trees stood tall. Trees behind them had fallen from the great wind. They had set camp at the edge of a small grassy meadow, a meadow like a hundred others he had crossed. The search area could cover a small state. Only by finding some familiar place, some small plot from his clouded memory could he retrace their journey to the last camp.

The horses began a long descent. Trees stood tall; a sign that he had yet to enter the destruction zone. From under the wide brimmed cowboy hat, he glimpsed a winding ribbon of green water below. The Green River, he knew. No river is as green or as cold, Rocky had told him.

When the trail leveled, he rode from a narrow canyon mouth to a path paralleling the river. He tugged the reins. Whoa boy. The horse fidgeted before lowering its head to graze. Jason dismounted and held fast to the saddle horn to allow his legs to adjust to his weight. The two packhorses dropped their heads to graze. Jason shrugged off the full-length oilskin duster coat more suited for his last trip through foggy mountains than it had been during this ride. Catherine had insisted that he wear the coat and it had come in handy on cool damp nights. Today the sun shone bright and the sky, while tinged a gray hue, had returned to a bluish tint.

He draped the coat over the saddle, raised the cowboy hat and wiped his damp brow with a shirtsleeve. Kneeling at the river, he scooped water with the hat and lowered his face to drink. Since leaving the Utah Valley, the hat had served as more than a head covering. He drank from it, had used it to fan flames and as a container to gather berries, mushrooms and edible greens.

While wintering in Utah, Rocky had taught him about wild plants which she had learned from Hattie at the Ohio River Settlement. On this trip, he wasn’t concerned with food since he had loaded the packhorses heavy with it. Before settling in each night, he had gathered identifiable fauna and sampled each to make certain that he had picked the right ones. Should he choose wrong and pick poison mushrooms for instance, well, the world is what it is.

Jason set the water-filled hat on the grass. From a pannier box, he pulled out two biscuits and a few beef jerky strips. Rocky’s daughters had baked the soft biscuits, which he hoped would keep for several more days.

He spread the duster over the grass and sat. Downriver, white rapids suggested a shallow place to cross. Upstream the river curved and vanished behind a hill. He had brought a Utah State map and had packed an atlas for use outside of Utah.

Reading the map, he had set a course for just below the Flaming Gorge Dam. Once locating the dam, he intended to ride downriver to find the canyon that he and Rocky had ridden into the mountains. With luck, he would locate their last camp. From there, he planned to search for the cave, an enormous task. Precious days ticked by as he searched for one sole purpose, to say ‘thank you’ to a man who had likely forgotten him by now. Still he owed the man something, a few cans of beef stew or chili, of which he had many. He would offer a can of beer or a box of crackers. The man was welcome to all that he carried.

Jason had packed more than needed for the trip. When he reached Illinois, the three horses would serve as beasts of burden while he rebuilt the farm. The extra canned food he had brought for barter. East of the Rockies, food was more valuable than money.

The remaining horse carried building tools, boxes of screws and nails, hammers, a T-square, a hand drill, and screwdrivers. He had loaded two hundred feet each of rope and parachute cord, a handsaw, one forty-eight inch two-man crosscut saw and more. A longer crosscut saw would have been handy but he couldn’t figure how to secure it to the pack frames safely. He studied a black canvas rifle case; a weapon purchased for the trip that might be overkill but he brought it nonetheless.

After eating the jerky and biscuits, he drank most of the water, tossed out the rest and seated the hat on his head. The horses stepped into the river to drink. Jason waded in, tied the duster behind the saddle and mounted. An old cowboy had told him that if you mount a horse in water, she’s less likely to spin and stagger, unsure footing and all. He reined the gelding toward the bank and up to the path with the packhorses trailing upriver.

For over an hour, they rode on a well-worn game trail. A low rumble reached him before a turn when the towering dam came into view. A steep cliff abutting the river forced Jason and the mounts into the shallow river. The sheer size of the structure left him awestruck. He reigned up the gelding below the concrete wall.

Unlike other dams of his experience, this one had no spillway. Water surged from the base. A small concrete building reverberated with the hum of hydroelectric generators.

The dam held back water to form the Flaming Gorge Reservoir, a massive lake that stretched ninety miles into Wyoming. The articles he had read hadn’t done justice to its enormity. The five-hundred foot high arch spanned a thousand foot wide canyon leaving him feeling tiny in comparison.

Fat rainbow trout undulated in the clear cold water. He craned his neck to see birds soar high but still below the top of the dam. Jason turned the beasts to retrace their path.

When the horses scrambled onto the riverbank, Black pulled the map from the saddlebag and studied it. A red ‘x’ indicated where he and Rocky had figured they entered a canyon after crossing the river. He rode on, studying each canyon. Soon, they passed the canyon that he had exited earlier and continued south. Forty minutes later, he approached the map-marked canyon. The narrow snaking path looked much like the rest. He nudged his heels to the horse’s ribs and turned him up the trail.

The path rose steep and wound into the trees as he remembered. Scrub oak gave way to standing pines and aspens. Entering a darkened tree line, he rode deep into the forest. The rise leveled below rocky peaks and angled downward.

Unlike the previous ride, the forest came alive with birdsongs. A squirrel scolded. Ahead, rabbits and rodents scurried across the trail. An eagle soared overhead. He crossed a clearing to the forest with an unmistakable sense of someone or something watching him. The short hairs tingled on the back of his neck, reminding him of Rocky’s paranoia over a black wolf that she had seen.

The horses stumbled through a narrow stream, he was certain that he had followed the right path. Then again, the trails all looked similar up here. A familiar and enormous, rotted stump at the water's edge confirmed that he had been here before. He had sat on that stump to rest while the horses drank.

Daylight faded. His stomach grumbled from hunger and he swayed limp in the saddle. The horses and rider meandered from the trees and crossed a meadow. The gelding stopped to focus its ears forward. At the edge of the trees and beside the path lay scattered remains of a large, burned out campfire. He urged the gelding closer. The trees sparked a memory of their last campsite before he had entered the fog to hunt. His stomach knotted.

Black dismounted and tied the gelding to a low hanging branch. The animal bowed its head to graze when he hobbled the two packhorses.

The ground around the pit held charred remnants of tree branches lying at the edge, the ends too far outside the fire to burn. A short way from the pit, a hole just larger than his finger where a tent stake might have been. A dozen feet away an identical hole. He studied the trees off to the side and stood to search the soft ground. He knelt and traced a hoof print with his fingertip. Each sign fit like a puzzle piece. While uncertain that he had found the right campsite, this was too simple. A needle in a haystack doesn’t leap into your hand.

Black removed his hat and looked to the sky with an early twilight glow. Setting the cowboy hat on a boulder, he unloaded the horses and pitched the tent beside the fire pit. The hobbled horses grazed to the center of the clearing. When the saddle horse had nipped grass under the tree to nubs, Jason uncoiled rope and tied him to another tree freeing the gelding to roam in the meadow.

Jason gathered wood and built a fire while he searched his memory and the campsite for more clues that that this was the meadow. From a saddlebag, he removed a can of chili, a can of sliced peaches and an apple. He opened the cans with a P-38; a small military issue can opener and possibly the army’s greatest invention. Simple to use on any tin or aluminum can, the U.S. military invented the opener during The Second World War. Old veterans referred to the P-38 as a John Wayne; The famous actor had used the opener on a can C-rations during a WWII training film.

With the opened can set beside the fire to warm, he bit into the apple and lay against the packs to watch the horses graze. The animals had worked hard today, grazing in short intervals while he ate. Good grass would refresh them.

The saddle horse was a sturdy appaloosa gelding that he chose to ride due to his size and manageable disposition. Jason liked his red spotted rump over a white blanket, the chest of a bulldog and the head of a Roman warhorse. The previous owner had named him Rampage, though he couldn’t imagine why; the horse rode as gentle as an old dog.

All three were experienced mountain horses, used often for deer and elk hunting in the high mountains. The packhorses, both mares, were young and fit and so far handled the loads well. Packhorses were followers; the gelding was a leader with a mind of his own. He wouldn’t have made a good packhorse due to being male, Jason figured. The old cowboy had mentioned that Rampage was gun shy and had warned him never to fire a weapon close to him. Despite the quirk, the man said the gelding’s stubborn streak would carry him out of any tight scrape. Black admired the horse, stubborn, hardheaded, and dependable.

In the still air, the smell of his own sweat reminded him of Rocky’s admonishments to bathe while on their previous ride. He made a mental note to find a stream in the morning to freshen up, not that anyone would notice out here. The horses needed water too. For now, he imagined, they would get enough moisture from the grass.

When he finished dinner, a quarter-moon cast its light over the meadow. He stacked three large branches on the fire, laid the duster coat on the ground and spread a sleeping bag on top with the backpack serving as a pillow. He stared up at the night sky with visions of Catherine until he fell asleep.

Chapter 2

Jason woke to the smell of wood smoke, chirping birds and early sunrays warming his face. At the far end of the meadow, the horses lay content.

He sluffed off the sleeping bag, tossed branches on the coals and fanned with the hat until flames licked at the dry wood. He drank from a water bottle and poured two cups into an aluminum coffeepot. After adding ground coffee, he set the pot beside the fire. The coffee addiction he had acquired last year from Rocky and he had packed plenty for the ride to Illinois.

Over coffee, biscuits and beef jerky, he thought of how his life had changed. Before the destruction, he had been an active duty marine when each day held a measure of consistency. Back then, he knew what to expect from day to day. Training sessions, five-mile hikes and work duties were routine. Even before the military, while working construction, days were just as predictable. During the past month, he had planned each day to gather this, to hunt for that, to work where he could. Each day had again become routine.

Here in the wilderness, whatever he might happen across dictated the moment, the day, or the week. Today he intended to search out clues to the campsite.

Any number of circumstances would help him decide whether to stay or ride on. One of the mountain’s many rewards; freedom to go with the wind, follow a stream, or climb a mountain for a better view. Lately he often sat at the edge of a meadow to watch horses, the sky or wildlife. Jason was certain that in the mountains, a person would always find water downhill. He tossed the empty cans into the fire, dug three empty water bottles and a hand pump from a pack and snatched a lead rope off the saddle.

He stuffed the bottles into his shirt, snapped the rope clip to Rampage’s halter and led him from the meadow. Since the mares had become accustomed to following the gelding, they trailed.

In the forest, a wide game trail wound downhill and into a short canyon. Soon, he heard running water. When reaching a stream, the horses drank cool clear water.

Jason laid the bottles on the bank and dropped a short hose from a water-purifying pump into flowing current. He unscrewed a cap from the bottom of the filter, which then screwed onto threads of a water bottle. By pumping the handle, water trickled into the bottle. He hadn’t needed the pump while on the Green River as the water flowed from the bottom of the dam, as pure as water gets. Since he hadn’t fallen ill after drinking it, he figured that he’d been right. Up here, on a small stream, carcasses, animal droppings, urine and parasites contaminated water.

After twenty minutes and changing out the bottles, he had filled all three. Jason drank most of the first while filling the bottles. Before wrapping the hose around the pump, he refilled the first and left the bottles and pump on the bank.

While the horses grazed, he tied Rampage to a tree and wandered the bank and the trail. Rabbits and squirrels had left their footprints and droppings among deer tracks. Paralleling the stream were signs of small birds and a badger, marmots, and dog tracks. The dog tracks were coyote since they were too small for wolves. Large, cloven-hoof prints wound uphill, ignoring the trail. Elk, he imagined.

He wandered a narrow path up the far hillside and looked back to check the horses. Farther on, he entered a clearing a dozen yards across. A sunlight shaft cut through the treetops. He drew up short when he spied a cross of tree branches, bound with tree bark, protruding from a soil mound. A circle of weathered cloth of various hues hung from the top.

Oh geez, he said.

Before approaching the mound, Jason looked through trees to count the grazing horses. He stepped forward to make out letters carved in the crosspiece. Weathered carving was visible: Tashka, a brave companion.

Oh, Tashka, Jason said with watering eyes. How I wish we could ride together again.

His mind filled with memories of the malamute who had wandered into their camp early last year. The hungry dog awakened them at dawn. Rocky, leery at first, had warmed soon enough. Jason had named Tashka after Rocky’s childhood pet.

Hailey and Tashka had bonded in the Ohio River Settlement. Hailey, the self-appointed keeper of all animals, had taken Tashka in. The teenaged girl protected her when Jason had laid explosives to deter the Scavengers. His heart ached when they left the settlement. Hailey parted with her friend and encouraged her to protect him and Kelly. She had done that. Jason owed his life to the dog. If Tashka hadn’t tackled the mountain lion, Rocky might have buried Jason here rather than the dog who had saved him.

We found civilization in Utah. Rocky is safe with her daughters now. He picked a blade of grass and chewed it. I wish you had made it with us. Rocky’s house has a big yard to play and her couch is comfortable. We found Catherine, or she found us I guess.

Jason focused on the crude wooden cross. Wind had dried the wood and cracks opened at the ends. The cloth collar, woven by Hailey, was sun-bleached with faint colors visible.

I took quite a beating from that cat, you know. It took me some time to heal up. He put a hole in my skull and my right eye isn’t as good as it once was. If you hadn’t taken her, I’d be a cat turd.

He wiped a tear. I’m riding to Illinois to rebuild the farm. I figure it’s time. I thought I’d stop by the Settlement to see Hailey. I wish you were coming along; it’ll be tough to tell her you didn’t make it.

For a moment, the man sat in silence and said, I’m lookin’ for a man named Luke. Haven’t seen him around have you? Jason stood and brushed the seat of his pants. Listen, I’d better get back to the horses. You take care. I’ll be around for a bit and I’ll stop by before I leave.

He forced a lump down in his throat and hiked toward the stream. At last, a sign that he had found the right camp. He hadn’t counted on finding Tashka’s resting place. You don’t always find what you’re looking for but sometimes you find something better. Searching for their last campsite was an insurmountable task, but through the grace of God, he had done it.

He smiled and wondered if he was beginning to believe in God as Rocky had often encouraged him to do. No, he wasn’t beginning to believe, he had always known. After losing his brother, he had turned his back for a time. He didn’t intend to take up prayer as a habit but welcomed any guidance that came his way.

The horses raised their heads at his approach. Jason slowed when he neared the grazing animals. He gathered the bottles and pump, and spoke soft when stepping to Rampage.

Steady, it’s okay. He untied the lead rope. Let’s get back to camp. We have riding to do.

Back at camp, Black tied the horses with long ropes to reach into the meadow and spaced apart to prevent tangling. He lifted a coarse-toothed handsaw from the supply pile and returned to the forest.

From beside the trail he cut a large green branch and dragged it to camp. After dropping the branch next to the fire, he saddled the gelding and tied the older mare off to a tree.

Jason donned the cowboy hat, tied the duster over loaded saddlebags, slipped a hunting knife on his belt followed by a gun belt and holstered pistol. He mounted and turned Rampage onto the game trail and into the forest.

Inside the tree line, Jason paralleled the meadow searching for trails leading into the woods. When he had completed the circle, he turned onto the next uphill trail leading away from the clearing. He rode in for a half mile, searching each hill and cliff for a cave opening. The trail split off to other trails. It would take him a day at least to search a suitable distance from camp on each of these trails. What's more, every trail branched into smaller trails, any one of which might lead to the cave.

The gelding snorted and stared into the shadows. Muscles quivered under Jason’s thighs. He eased the reins back. Steady boy. What’s got your ears up?

The horse pranced sideways. Jason nudged with his heels to still the beast. Easy now, it’s okay. He peered in the direction between the animals ears. There, fifty yards out, a movement in the shadows. The horse snorted, pawed the ground and huffed. Steady, he can’t hurt you. It’s just some animal checking us out.

Jason listened to catch a sense of the moving animal. Birds quieted. Squirrels that earlier were eager to scold fell silent. The only sound was the gelding’s heaving breaths. Soon, the horse calmed. Jason patted the gelding’s shoulder. Atta boy, I think he’s gone now.

Deciding on a different strategy, he returned to camp, unsaddled the horse and tied him off near the meadow. Then, he retrieved the larger mare, a ‘bay’ as Rocky had called her, and saddled it. The horse’s name was Chloe. He saw no sense in naming horses. Dogs should have names and he had seen a cat or two that responded to their names. Horses don’t have the sense to care what you call them.

Chloe, Jason called and as expected, the horses paid no attention. He whispered, Rampage. The gelding raised its head from grazing and looked toward him. Coincidence, he thought, though if Rocky were here she would argue that there are no coincidences.

Jason ate an orange, a half box of crackers and slices of hard Gouda cheese before setting off on horseback again.

Riding into the forest, he circled the meadow. Each time he completed a circle, he steered Chloe further out keeping his last trail within sight. A large boulder he had passed, a tall dead tree, and a pile of stones that looked out of place. He searched and made mental notes of landmarks further out from his path. On the next pass, a long meadow with budding wildflowers marked the end of each circle where he widened the hunt. Hills and rock outcroppings required close study. Often, he rode around them or high up and followed trails until he had inspected every inch before returning to where he had left off.

Before nightfall, he estimated that he had ridden thirty miles without a sign of the hidden cave. On occasion, he again felt the sensation of something or someone watching him. He chalked it up to paranoia or fatigue until again a shadow moved just beyond where he could see. He remembered Rocky’s story of the black wolf and realized that encountering the same wolf would be as remote as him finding the cave.

Today he had ridden the three horses and the gelding twice. By riding the horses in turn, they would exercise without overworking any one of them. He had watered each in the stream before returning them to feed. The animals had had an easy day, not so for him. He was exhausted and hungry.

After downing a bottle of water, he set an opened can of beef stew on the coals. From the green branch, he cut a two-foot section from the end, split it with a hatchet and split it again. After four splits, he held a two-inch thick piece the shape of a two-by-four board. Next, he cut a four-foot section and split it twice, leaving a board about twice the length and thickness of the first.

After dinner, he rolled out his bedroll and lay beneath the stars to watch wispy clouds.

***

The following morning Jason slept past sunup. He reviewed his previous day’s exploration while eating dried beef sticks. The beef sticks weren’t the packaged variety like those in Chicago. Catherine had found a local rancher who processed his own beef. To hear her tell it, the old guy had always been quite a chef and enjoyed experimenting. The man dried the beef in salt and pepper, after marinating in flavors like teriyaki, or soy sauce and even cherry juice. The spicy soy sauce sticks were Jason’s favorite though Catherine had packed a variety. Juicier than jerky, they wouldn’t last as long but the spices preserved them for a time.

He hadn’t ridden out far enough in his search. After all, Rocky said she had been unconscious when Luke carried her to the cave. Who’s to say the cave was close to camp? After mulling it over, Jason saddled Chloe and set out again.

Black rode ever-widening circles to inspect each hillside and cliff opening. None revealed a cave large enough to match Rocky’s description. By late afternoon, he turned the gelding toward camp. Dark clouds threatened rain that he and Rocky hadn’t had to deal with last year.

On the return ride, he rode through dark pines. A blue speck on the forest floor caused him to pull the reins. In his time spent in the wild, Jason had noticed that few objects occur in nature with the color blue. Blueberries sure, this was no blueberry. The rider dismounted and knelt to pick the blue fragment from fallen leaves. Blue cloth, also foreign to nature.

He found two more pieces, larger than the first, and a finger-sized shred of camouflaged cloth, which resembled the camo material from his marine pants that he wore on the day the cougar attacked. He tried to recall the color of his T-shirt and was reasonably certain it had been blue.

Black felt no attachment to the place that was quieter than the rest of the forest. He pulled into the saddle and nudged the gelding forward.

At camp, he opened two sardine tins and downed the contents with a pack of saltines and a warm beer. He led the mares to the stream and dropped his last two remaining beer cans into the stream to cool.

During early evening hours, he smoothed the green wood with the hunting knife, scraping and scratching the surface to a sanded edge. Then, he carved letters. For a short time, he worked the longer piece, sharpening one end to a stout point. With the carving complete, he nailed the pieces to form a cross.

Dinner consisted of dried and smoked trout, washed down with the cold beers. Under the sunset, he laid on the bedroll reviewing the two-day search and wondered what tomorrow might bring.

***

Jason slept sound and awoke before dawn to water the horses. At the stream, he shaved with a straight razor and washed his hair. An overcast sky blocked the sunrise as it had each morning since he had left the Salt Lake Valley. The memory of three rocky outcrops discovered during his search nagged at him. All three lay northwest of camp and he decided to resume his search with those.

After saddling the youngest mare named Rain, he tied off the gelding and hobbled Chloe. He mounted and rode into the forest angling northwest.

Soon, he reached the closest outcrop, which lay within a few hours’ walk of camp. This would be a doable distance for a fit man to carry someone the size of Rocky, he said to himself. He patted Rain’s shoulder. Let’s check it out, eh girl?

The hill stood over one hundred feet high and twice that in length. A hogback since the mound resembled the back of a great pig. The ragged stone face could hide an entrance that he might have missed on his first inspection.

Jason tied the mare to a burly quaking aspen and set about examining the rock crevices. He worked along the outcrop and located two openings large enough to enter. The fissures only extended a few feet in. Neither sufficient to house Rocky, him, and the wild man.

He continued to the end of the outcrop and around the back of the hill. The rear of the hogback sloped with a slight grade so he hiked to the top. Quaking aspen trees dotted the top with an earthy smell, and a clear view over the treetops. The mare grazed below. From the sun's glow through dingy clouds, he estimated that he looked southwest which covered much of his ride for the past week.

Again, he felt eyes watching him. Maybe he had grown wary since the lion attack or felt uneasy alone in the wilderness. The feeling was powerful. Two hundred yards beyond the grazing mare, at the far edge of a clearing he spied movement. From this distance, he couldn’t identify the four-legged creature that was a charcoal black color. The creature melded into the tree line and was gone.

In the distance, a row of high voltage transmission towers. He doubted the lines were live since no building east of here was still on the grid. No signs of civilization, no roads or buildings, no scars of humanity aside from the lattice steel towers. He turned and made his way downhill.

At the foot of the hogback, he searched the remaining hillside. He returned to the mare and pulled into the saddle.

A search of the remaining two locations resulted in a few outcrop gashes that didn't resemble the cave Rocky had described.

On the return ride in the late afternoon, he reviewed all the information she had related. The cave couldn’t be far from their last camp since it didn’t take Luke long to walk it. He had found the right camp, evidenced by the cloth fragments and Tashka’s grave. She had said that tall pines surrounded the outcrop housing the cavern. That wasn’t much to go on; tall pines blanketed the hills for a hundred miles this side of the destruction zone. The cave had been large. The hill that surrounded it must be large. Unless she had painted the hillside fire engine red, he had little chance of finding it.

Approaching camp, he again had an uneasy feeling of a creature watching. Rain’s muscles twitched. She trained her ears to the side of the trail. Jason inspected each tree opening for movement.

The sensation didn’t subside when he reached camp, brushed the horses and prepared dinner. All the while, he sensed an animal just beyond the tree line. Wary horses kept watch on the trail. The animals grazed far from the place where they focused their attention.

Jason gathered a rope and tied it between two trees at the near edge of the clearing. He tied off each horse with enough lead to graze preventing the possibility of searching for spooked animals after dark. He loaded the Winchester 30-30 rifle and leaned it over the saddle near the fire.

Rocky would enjoy his paranoia. He laid his palm on the holstered pistol and scanned the edge of the meadow. The sun dipped below the trees and the breeze cooled. He constructed a twig teepee in the center of the fire pit and lit it with the flint and steel. As the flames took hold, he stacked twigs on top and followed with larger dried branches until the flames reached six feet high.

Jason gathered tin cans and wrappers emptied since his arrival and tossed them in. Fire devoured paper and cellophane. In minutes, the cans shriveled and dissolved to ashes. His uneasiness vanished in the roaring blaze.

For dinner, he cooked freeze-dried beef stroganoff and dried cherry cobbler for dessert. One of the best meals he had eaten since the destruction; barring Rocky and Catherine’s home cooked meals in Rocky’s warm home.

He favored Catherine’s lasagna. She added a long loaf of bread covered with butter, minced garlic and parmesan, broiled in the oven. Rocky’s specialty was Boeuf à la Bourguignon, a beef stew slow cooked with red wine, onions, bacon and mushrooms. Heaven. How he missed those Sunday evenings by the fireplace when Rocky’s daughters beat him at scrabble. He imagined Rocky and Catherine preparing dinner and chatting in the kitchen.

Since Rocky’s return home, Jason had seen a side of her that he hadn’t suspected during their journey. She was more than busy with her real estate business and a sage when raising her daughters. A woman most comfortable at home surrounded by family, as she had often told him. Catherine had learned a new appreciation for family through Rocky and her daughters. Catherine belonged with family, with young girls who admired her. His plans were to rebuild the family farm and transport Catherine to Illinois. He wondered if pioneer life would suit her.

He sat up late, watching the horses with an eye on the meadow for any predator’s glowing eyes. Stars blanketed blessings over his humble campsite. Flames dwindled to glowing embers. Jason slipped into the bedroll to sleep.

Chapter 3

Dim light woke Jason before sunrise. Over the past year, in those moments between sleep and awake, clarity often crept into his thoughts. In that brief period, his body and mind were at rest, allowing clear thought. He believed that great ideas were borne in such moments and he sorted his thoughts to devise his plan for the day.

Marines loathe defeat. His intention to find Luke had been honorable, but surrender might be wise. He had searched where Rocky believed Luke’s cave had been. If Luke had carried her beyond this territory then the man was more than mortal. As she had related, the entrance was visible if one were near, unprotected by trees or boulders. He couldn’t have missed it. Perhaps the cave wasn’t for him to find. If Luke were in the area, he would have shown himself, wouldn’t he?

Jason tossed off the sleeping bag cover, stood and stretched his spine and legs. The horses grazed. He scanned the meadow. Butterflies and a blue jay that was more concerned with pecking seeds and insects than directing attention to a man and his horses.

Jason strapped on the knife and pistol and settled the hat on his head. He hoisted the cross over a shoulder and lifted the Winchester before turning onto the forest trail.

Sunlight shards perforated the darkened forest as he descended the hill and crossed the stream. He leaned into the hillside and climbed the trail to the small clearing. Before stepping into the clearing, he leaned the Winchester against a tree trunk.

Hey, girl. He removed his hat and knelt. "I’m riding on today. I’ve come to say goodbye.

I didn’t find Luke or the cave. If you see him, give him my regards, will you? He pulled the weathered cross from the dirt mound and cleared twigs from the grave.

I figure if Rocky were here, she’d put in a better marker. He pressed the new cross into the soft earth. Maybe this one will last longer. I hope you like it.

He silently read the inscription, Tashka, a brave companion. Loved and missed by all.

Black picked wildflowers and laid the bouquet at the base of cross. His eyes moistened. "You know girl, it’s a damn shame losing you. After all you’d been through, surviving the wind alone, trekking cross-country, scrounging for food, you get your butt kicked by a cat. That’s irony, isn’t it?

Maybe I should have left you with Hailey at the Settlement like she wanted. I remember you every day. Always a shame to lose a friend.

He stood with a groan. Well, girl. I’ll say hello to Hailey, Hattie and Max. He nestled the hat on his head. Take care. I’ll be thinkin’ of you. He brushed away a tear, snatched up the rifle and stepped into the forest.

As Jason made his way to the stream, the eerie sense returned. He knelt on the path to scan the hillside. All was still. The sensation remained strong. He removed the hat, laid it on the ground and eased down the Winchester lever to seat a cartridge. Birds were quiet. Squirrels and chipmunks stood stock-still. His breaths rushed like a waterfall.

Fifty yards off as a spot in the shadows, he spied the animal darker than its surroundings. Black focused on golden eyes fixed on him. Time stood still. Neither man nor beast blinked. Jason’s heartbeat thundered.

The wolf stood so still and for so long that Jason thought his mind was playing tricks; the wolf must be a trick of light but its eyes were unmistakable.

From across the stream and to his right Jason startled to a thud and snapping branches. A mule deer bound uphill, turned broadside and froze. The doe stared toward the wolf. Black followed her gaze. The predator had vanished.

When he turned back toward the deer, she watched him now. Jason raised the Winchester, aimed and fired. Harrumph! The doe collapsed.

Black wiped his brow, surprised that he was sweating. He replaced the hat, stood and hustled to the stream, crossed, and climbed to the doe. After laying the Winchester, the hat and pistol on a boulder, he slipped the knife from its scabbard and gutted the deer. Steam rose in the cool air with a metallic blood stench. After clearing the chest cavity, he slit the liver from the entrails and packed the organ inside. He washed his hands in the stream with an eye to the slope.

When he returned to the deer, he heaved the carcass onto a shoulder and carried the rifle back to camp.

Entering the meadow he called to the startled horses, Easy, kids. He slipped the doe to the ground. Just meat for breakfast. The horses fidgeted from the blood smell.

Jason heaped wood onto warm coals and fanned with his hat until flames appeared. He dragged the deer to a tree and hung it by the neck with a short length of rope. Then he cut away the hide. Fire devoured the wood and settled to low flames when he had finished with the deer.

Black tossed the hide into the meadow for birds to pluck hair for their nests. Other critters would eat the remains. By the fire, he sat on a boulder, doused his hands with water and scrubbed off the blood. If Catherine were here, she would scold him for unsanitary conditions.

The meadow edge yielded wild onions, which he washed while ridding more bits of blood from his hands.

A fry pan with fat cut from the deer hide would serve as cooking oil. When the fat melted, Jason laid in liver strips with sliced wild onions. His stomach growled. The horses wandered close to gawk at his strange ritual.

After devouring the organ meat and packing the remainder in tin foil, he washed the pan and plate and packed them away. He spent another hour cleaning horse hooves with a pick and prodded for tender spots. Finding none, he tied horses to trees, loaded sawbuck frames and secured the panniers. The tedious point in packing was in weight balance. The old saddle tramp had said that time spent packing saved hours and lost gear later. If the load shifted at the wrong time, a beast could tumble down a hill or cliff.

The gelding was easy to saddle and pack with saddlebags and the bedroll. He packed in the day’s food to nibble on, along with water and a change of clothing in case the packhorses ran off.

Jason tied Rain behind Chloe, held her lead rope, slid the Winchester into the saddle holster and mounted Rampage.

He clucked to turn the gelding toward the far side of the meadow. He sat to look over a shoulder and down the trail to remember Tashka. Then, he nudged the gelding forward.

Moments after the horses stepped into the forest, the meadow stilled. A chipmunk stopped its chatter. Butterflies flitted and a rabbit hopped from cover to investigate the foreigner’s disappearance.

The doe carcass hung in stagnant air. Buzzing flies scouted for a place to land. A magpie with splashy black and white plumage soared over the grass and lit on the deer’s shoulder.

All wildlife except for the magpie stole into forest cover. A charcoal shadow stepped out and sniffed. Behind honey colored eyes, the black wolf stalked the hanging doe. The magpie scolded with shrieks. The predator's head hung low, glancing over a shoulder to where Black had disappeared before converging on the carcass to sniff. Teeth crushed a hind leg and shook the naked prey. The magpie screeched and took flight.

By early afternoon, Black led the packhorses to the Green River.