Everything’s getting greener, but not in the way Prescott’s mountains do. There ain’t any pines to be seen here, just ancient saguaro cactuses that tower like they think they’re trees, breaking up the horizon. Between ’em, shrubs and brambles crop up in abundance, surrounded by prickly pear and woody cholla. The vegetation slows us plenty, and I know it’s only the start of it. Ahead, the terrain’s getting angrier. Boulders and rocks lift outta the earth; heaving hills and miniature plateaus stand proud. If this is just the foothills, I ain’t sure the horses are gonna be able to take us far. Definitely not into the thickest parts of the mountains. We’ll be forced to travel in the shallows of the Salt soon, taking the path it carves through the wilderness.
Beyond Silver’s perky ears, I watch Jesse riding. He keeps whistling for Mutt even though the dog ain’t wandered outta the river once, and his hips rock side to side with Rebel’s movements, a standard horseback sway. My cheeks go hot. Feeling flighty and skittish, I reach for my six-shooter and start practicing draws. I pretend each cactus I sight is Waylan Rose, imagine shooting him over and over again. I won’t miss next time. I’m gonna hit his heart, not his damn shoulder. Soon I’m feeling much more like myself—sturdy and tight and focused. I stuff the pistol back in its holster and keep my gaze on the destination ’stead of Jesse’s back.
The Salt bows ahead of us, disappearing behind a section of rocky terrain. I picture the maps I examined this morning, calling up the river’s course. It will curve round that rough land ahead, then cut east again, driving straight through the Superstitions. Most of the clues leading to the mines gave directions approaching by way of Peralta Trail, as I’d told the Coltons, almost as if the original gold seeker had come from Tucson or farther south. Seeing how many of the pages were written in Spanish, it wouldn’t surprise me if the journal once belonged to a Mexican. But with our current course, following the river to Waltz’s and then turning into the mountain canyons once we’re north of the mine . . . I’ll have to reverse all them clues, use other landmarks mentioned among the pages to find our way. Least I got Lil to help.
If the Rose Riders are following the journal’s clues sure and precise, it means they’ll be coming from the south, riding their steeds north into the canyons, and this’d be ideal. We won’t be coming up on their heels; we’ll be cutting ’em off, taking ’em by complete surprise. But if they’re ahead of us . . . I don’t want to think ’bout the sort of race we’ll end up in.
We decide to call the day quits when we reach the bow in the river. The day’s fading and we’re all beat and covered in sweat and dust. The spot’ll make a fair camp—water nearby. But there’s upheaved rocks at our backs and ’cross the way, making me feel trapped. There’s four of us, though, and we’ll keep watch like always.
While Jesse sketches in his notebook and Will muses aloud ’bout how much farther it is to Waltz’s, I catch Lil wandering from camp. Worried she’s ’bout to run off, I chase after her.
“Where you going?”
“To find dinner,” she says.
“We got some cured meat already. And biscuits.” I don’t mention they’re hard and stale.
“To find fresh meat,” she amends. My mouth waters at the thought of it.
“Hang on, I’ll come with you.”
By the time I’s raced back to Silver and grabbed my rifle, Lil’s already disappeared among the dense vegetation. “Thanks for waiting,” I mutter to myself, and take to tracking her between shrubs and cactuses. When I finally catch up, she’s crouched low behind a boulder, some sort of net clenched in her grasp.
She puts a finger to her lips and nudges her head toward the other side of the boulder. It’s then I see the quail—maybe a dozen of ’em, pecking at the dry earth for what I reckon must be insects. I creep forward, but gravelly earth crunches beneath my heel. There’s a flutter of feathers and a chorus of squawks, and the birds go scampering deeper into the thickets of shrub.
Lil glares. “You walk like your feet are made of stone.”
“Oh, is that something else Tarak taught you? Not just riddles but how to float above the ground?”
“You have to look where you put your feet, not just charge forward blind.”
“There ain’t nothing but dirt and rubble here,” I says, pointing to the earth.
“Lead with your toes—stay light. Keep throwing all your weight into your heels and even the grub will hear you coming.”
“Grub don’t have ears.”
She raises her brows as if to say, Precisely.
Frowning, I load my Winchester and crank the action so I’m ready next time. I ain’t ’bout to scare them birds away twice.
“We will not need that,” Lil says, nodding at the rifle. “They stay in groups, quail. Shoot and you may hit one, but the rest will scatter. But this . . .” She raises the net. “Come.”
I follow her round the boulder and past a thicket of prickers, between cactuses and beneath the limbs of a rather large palo verde tree. She points out the quail’s tracks as we go. I don’t know how she’s doing it—tracking ’em, stepping sure and quick, not making a single sound. Every time I look where to put my feet, I feel like I’m ’bout to run headlong into a cactus. And when I stay on my toes, my balance feels shoddy, ’specially with my sore ankle. I like my heels. They’re sturdy and firm. I ain’t never noticed how much noise my clothing makes as I move, how my trousers scratch when I walk and my flannel brushes beneath my underarms.
But then there’s Lil. Silent, like she’s made of mist. Like she ain’t even really here.
When we finally close in on the quail, I’m sweating something fierce, every muscle in my body tense. I realize I’s been holding my breath to try to make less sound, and exhale quiet.
We crouch behind a low and sprawling cholla cactus. My calves are already tired from all the tiptoeing, and they don’t fancy this position at all. Lil quietly unfurls the woven net. It’s made like a giant cobweb, with stones secured round the exterior so the edges will be weighted to the ground once thrown. She must’ve had it packed on her pony all this time.
Lil extends the net toward me, as if I should make the toss.
“I don’t wanna scare ’em off again,” I says at a whisper.
“Then throw well.” She demonstrates. Net held at her side and stretched wide, then to be released like yer tossing a basket over the birds. I still ain’t sure why she’s trusting the job to me, and decide its ’cus her burned and bandaged hands ain’t up to the task. I take the net and give her my rifle.
When I stand, I do it so slow, it seems to take a year. I don’t wanna startle the quail, and if I pop up fast, or too loudly, I know they’ll bolt. And I gotta be able to clear the cholla cactus with my throw.
The birds don’t seem to see me, or if they do, I’m unthreatening enough that they don’t care. They go on pecking at the earth, beaks nipping, brown heads bobbing. Slowly—painfully slowly—I unfurl the net, position my arms for the toss.
And then, just like during my shooting lessons with Jesse, I picture it all: the extension of my arms, the point of release, the path the net will take. Before I can lose my nerve or doubt my injured shoulder or think too hard on how soured Lil’ll be if I mess this up again, I throw.
A dull pain throbs where that bullet grazed my arm, but the net flies out and over the cholla cactus, propelled by its weighted edges.