He had been separated from the rest of his group for hours. He had gone out ahead of them so he could stop and fix his pack. One by one he watched them pass. For hours he thought if he kept pressing on, he could overtake them again. For hours there had only been two choices: go back or press on through the canyon.
Now there was a break in the smooth canyon walls. Another river had carved its way from the east through the sandstone. He was no longer sure he could find his companions again.
He was sure that unless he found them, he would not make the rendezvous. If they were still in the canyon, they wouldn't make it either. Chances were they hadn't stopped for him or sent someone back to look for him.
They had left him. For all they knew, they left him for dead.
If he wanted to get back home, he would have to make it back to their camp. The day after tomorrow they would be heading north to home, more than 300 miles away. For now, he had 42 hours to walk 80 miles.
He could make it, but he had three things going against him.
First, the past three hours walking in the river had softened his skin. It wouldn't take long for the straps of his shoes to begin to rub his feet raw and cut his ankles. He had a small package of medicine in his bag, so he could treat his wounds when they came. And they would come. Short of taking off his shoes, he had no way of preventing injury to his feet. Even then he would only be changing where his feet hurt.
Second, he didn't have much food. They had eaten before they got on the river, but all he had in his pack were nuts and dried fruit. Maybe enough for one meal; not enough to keep him fueled for the long walk ahead of him. He had a decent supply of water, but if he was going to make it, he would have to ration himself carefully. He had once learned what plants or insects he could eat, but he hoped he would not get that desperate.
Third, the desert. The canyon walls were up to 1,300 feet high and 20 feet apart; only wide enough for the river. The sun was on its way down; until the canyon widened out, he would have enough shade. After an hour, he got to where the canyon began to flatten out into the plain. It was mid-summer, so the sun wouldn't set for five more hours. By then he would be well out of the canyon. There were some trees growing along the river, but there would be little shade for him.
While he was still strong, he decided to walk as long as he could; hopefully all night and much of tomorrow morning. If he hadn't reached camp by then, he would be close. Once it got too hot, he would rest under what shade he could find.
He left a message on the side of the road hoping that if his fellows were indeed searching for him, they would know he was trying to make camp.
With nothing else to do but walk, he kept recounting the stories he heard as a child of travelers around here being attacked by natives or wild animals. He knew the government had long since taken care of any Indian threats; appropriating their land for settlers and shipping the previous tenants off to “protected areas.”
He also knew there were tarantulas here as large as his hand, but they were harmless. There were birds whose wingspan was longer than his, but they were scavengers. Mountain lions might be a problem, but their range was so big, chances of running into one were small. They would rather go after deer anyway. Snakes were the only animal he had to worry about, and they came with their own warning signals.
Now as the sun was setting and it was beginning to cool off, he would have to keep his eyes (and ears) open. His lips were chapped and his feet were bleeding, but at least a breeze had picked up. A warm breeze was better than nothing but the sun in his eyes.
Once he got out of the canyon, there were a few other travelers. Most kept their distance, being wary of highwaymen and those who would do them harm. One traveler had stopped near enough to him he was able to go over and speak with them. They were willing to help, but were going the opposite direction.
The fear of road agents was justified. As he was turning off the river valley onto the open plain, he saw the remnants of town. Only a schoolhouse and a few houses were left.
He had gone sixteen miles when a couple drove past him and stopped. They had heard, probably from the person he had talked to earlier, a stranger was making his way on foot to try and find his fellows. Knowing how cruel the desert can be, they decided to help him if they could.
While the husband made some room, the woman explained they were from the Dakotas. She was a teacher and he was a metal worker.
He wasn't really paying attention. He was just grateful to sit down, tend to his feet and care a little less about rationing his water.
When they drew closer his camp, the moon and their campfires were the only sources of light. His companions would say they were grateful to see him, but he knew, no matter what reasons they gave, they had left him for dead. No matter what happened in the future, his relationship with them had changed and it would be better for him if he moved on.
So he did. He told the couple to avoid the camp and push on to the next town, some thirteen miles up the road. As long as this couple were going North, he would ride along with them.
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