Thunderhead

the valley concentrated the entire watershed of the Kaiparowits Plateau in one hideous floodplain.

At the far end of the green valley, at the point where it joined the sheer cliffs, the stream passed through a canebreak, then disappeared into a narrow canyon, riven through a sandstone plateau. Such narrow canyons— known as slot canyons—were common among these southwestern wastes but practically unheard of elsewhere. They were thin alleys, sometimes only a few feet across, caused by the action of water against sandstone over countless years. Despite their narrowness, they were often several hundred feet deep, and could go on for miles before widening into more conventional canyons.

Nora peered at the entrance to this one: a dark slit, slicing into the far end of the great plateau. It was perhaps ten feet wide at the entrance. That, Nora thought with a rising feeling of excitement, must be the slot canyon my father mentioned. She pulled out her binoculars and looked slowly around. She could make out many south-facing alcoves among the cliffs across the valley, ideal for Anasazi dwellings, but as she scanned them with the glasses she could see nothing. They were all empty. She examined the sheer cliffs leading up to the top of the plateau, but if there was a way over and into the hidden canyon beyond, it was well hidden.

Dropping the binoculars, she turned and looked around the windswept top of the ridge. An overlook like this was a perfect place for her father to have carved his initials and a date: the calling card of remote travelers since time immemorial. Yet there was nothing. Still, from the top of the ridge it seemed likely that Holroyd would finally get his GPS reading.

Swire had settled his back against the rock and was rolling a smoke. He placed it in his mouth, struck a match.

“I ain’t bringing my horses up that trail,” he said.

Nora looked at him quickly. “But it’s the only way up.”

“I know it,” Swire said, drawing smoke into his lungs.

“So what are you suggesting? That we turn around? Give up?”

Swire nodded. “Yep,” he said. There was a brief pause. “And it ain’t a suggestion.”

In an instant, Nora’s elation fell away. She took a deep breath. “Roscoe, this isn’t an impossible trail. We’ll unload and carry everything up by hand. Then we’ll guide the horses, unroped, giving them their heads. It might take the rest of the day, but it can be done.”

Roscoe shook his head. “We’ll kill horses on that trail, no matter what we do.”

Nora knelt beside him. “You’ve got to do this, Roscoe. Everything depends on it. The Institute will replace any horse that gets hurt.”

From the expression on his face, she saw she had said the wrong thing. “You know enough about horses to know you’re talking through your hat,” he replied. “I ain’t saying they can’t do it. I’m saying the risk is too high.” A truculent note had crept into his voice. “No man in his right mind would bring horses up that trail. And if you want my opinion, I don’t think we’re on any damn trail, Anasazi or otherwise. Neither does anyone else.”

Nora looked at him. “So you all think I’m lost?”

Swire nodded, pulled on his cigarette. “All except Holroyd. But that boy would follow you into a live volcano.”

Nora felt her face flush. “Think what you want,” she said, pointing toward the sandstone plateau. “But that slot canyon out there is the one my father found. It has to be. And there’s no other way in. That means he brought two horses up this trail.”

“I doubt it.”

Nora rounded on him. “When you signed on to this trip, you knew the danger. You can’t back out now. It can be done, and we’re going to do it, with you or without you.”

“Nope,” he said again.

“Then you’re a coward,” Nora cried angrily.

Swire’s eyes widened quickly, then narrowed. He stared at Nora for a long, silent moment. “I ain’t likely to forget you said that,” he said at last in a low, even tone.

The breeze blew across the fin of rock, and a pair of ravens rode up the air currents, then dipped back down into space. Nora slumped against the rock, resting her forehead in her hands. She didn’t know what to do in the face of Swire’s flat refusal. They couldn’t go on without him, and the horses were technically his. She closed her eyes against a growing sense of failure, terrible and final. And then she realized something.

“If you want to turn around,” she said quietly, glancing over at Swire, “you’d better get going. The last water I remember was a two-day ride back.”

Swire’s face showed a sudden, curious blankness. Then he swore softly, as he realized the water the horses so desperately needed was in the green valley that lay ahead, below their feet.

He shook his head slowly, and spat. Finally, he eyed Nora. “Looks like you get your wish,” he said. And something in the way he looked at her made Nora shrink back.

By the time they returned to camp, it was noon. A palpable air of anxiety hung over the group, and the thirsty horses, tied in the shade, were prancing and slinging their heads.

“You didn’t happen to pass a Starbucks, did you?” Smithback asked with forced joviality. “I could really use an iced latte.”

Swire brushed his way past them and stalked off to where the horses were hobbled.

“What’s with him?” Smithback asked.

“We’ve got a tough stretch of trail ahead,” Nora said.

“How tough?” Black blurted out. Once again, Nora could see naked fear on his face.

“Very tough.” She looked around at the dirty faces. The fact that several of them were looking to her for guidance and reassurance gave her another twinge of self-doubt. She took a deep breath.

“The good news is, there’s water on the far side of the ridge. The bad news is that we’re going to have to carry the gear up by hand. Then Roscoe and I will bring the horses.”

Black groaned.

“Take no more than thirty pounds at a time,” Nora went on. “Don’t try to rush things. It’s a rough trail, even on foot. We’re going to have to make a couple of trips each.”

Black looked like he was about to say something, then stopped. Sloane stood abruptly, walked over to the line of gear, and hefted a pannier onto her shoulder. Holroyd followed, walking a little unsteadily, then Aragon and Smithback. At last, Black raised himself from the rocks, passed a shaky hand over his eyes, and followed them.

* * *

Almost three hours later, Nora stood at the top of the Devil’s Backbone with the others, breathing heavily and sharing the last of the water. The gear had been brought up over the course of three arduous trips, and was now neatly lined up to one side. Black was a wreck: sitting on a rock, soaked with sweat, his hands shaking; the rest were almost as exhausted. The sun had moved westward and was now shining directly into the long grove of cottonwoods far below them, turning the stream into a twisted thread of silver. The sight seemed inexpressibly lush and beautiful after the barren wastes behind them. Nora ached with thirst.

She turned to look back down the hogback ridge up which they had come. The hard part, bringing the horses up, was still before her. My God, she thought. Sixteen of them . . . The ache in her limbs fell away, replaced by a small sickness that began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

“Let me help with the horses,” Sloane said.

Nora opened her mouth to answer, but Swire interrupted. “No!” he barked. “The fewer there are of us on that ridge, the fewer are gonna get hurt.”

Leaving Sloane in charge, Nora hiked back down the trail. Swire, his face dark, brought the animals around, bare except for their halters. Only his own horse, which would lead, had a rope clipped to the halter.

“We’re gonna drive them up the trail, single file,” he said harshly. “I’ll guide Mestizo, you bring up the rear with Fiddlehead. Keep your head up. If a horse falls, get the hell out of the way.”

Nora nodded.

“Once we get to the upper trail, you can’t stop. Not for anything. Give a horse time to think on that ridge, and he’ll panic and try to turn around. So keep them moving, no matter what. Got that?”

“Loud and clear,” she said.