Chapter 8 - The Long Ride North
The journey north toward Prescott began in the pre-dawn chill, the wagon creaking under the weight of their meager possessions, Nia resting on a bed of blankets laid out in the truck bed. Elias drove the team from the bench, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of riders, while Mara rode alongside on her mare, acting as an advanced scout along the rugged foothills.
The landscape grew steadily wilder and more forbidding as they climbed out of the low desert scrub into the rugged pine forests of the central plateau. The air grew thinner and sharper, carrying the scent of juniper, damp earth, and pine resin. Every mile put more distance between them and Vance’s immediate reach, but it also brought new physical challenges. Nia’s leg, though healing, throbbed with the constant jarring motion of the wagon over rocks and ruts, requiring frequent stops to re-bandage the wound and administer cooling water from their dwindling casks.
On the third afternoon, as they navigated a narrow defile flanked by towering crimson cliffs, Mara reined her horse sharply and trotted back to the wagon, her expression tight with concern.
"Smoke," she said, pointing toward a high ridge half a mile ahead. "Not a campfire. Too thick, too dark. Looks like fresh timber burning."
Elias pulled the team to a halt, setting the handbrake with a sharp click. He stood up on the wagon bench, shading his eyes against the glaring afternoon sun. Sure enough, a plume of dark gray smoke was rising from the exact pass they needed to cross to reach the main territorial road to Prescott.
"Could be forest fire from a dry lightning strike," Elias murmured, though his instincts told him otherwise.
"Lightning doesn't smell like burning oil and salted pork," Mara said flatly. "That's a camp. And judging by the location, it's right where the trail narrows between the cliffs. If Vance sent riders ahead of us to cut us off at the pass, they're sitting right there waiting for anyone coming up from the south."
Elias climbed down from the bench, walking back to check on Nia, who sat up among the blankets, her face pale but determined. "I can go ahead on foot," Elias said, turning back to Mara. "Check the pass, see if it's Vance's men or just travelers passing through. You stay with Nia."
"No," Mara said, dismounting with fluid grace and handing her reins to Elias. "You are too tall, Elias. You move like a rancher on flat ground. I know these rocks. I can move through that brush without a sound. Give me twenty minutes."
Before Elias could argue, Mara slipped away into the thick scrub oak lining the base of the cliffs, her movements swift and silent as a ghost.
The minutes dragged by with agonizing slowness. Elias checked the priming on his rifle, his ears straining to catch any sound above the steady whisper of the wind through the pines. He glanced back at Nia, offering a reassuring smile that felt hollow even to himself.
Thirteen minutes passed. Then, a sharp whistle—the clear, mimicking call of a mountain jay—echoed from the rocks above the pass.
May you like
Elias didn't hesitate. He grabbed his rifle, tied the team securely to a sturdy juniper trunk, and scrambled up the steep incline toward the ridge, his heart pounding in his throat as he prepared for whatever awaited them at the summit.
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