something once… about me.
I remember being carried as we ran. There was yellow grass and a blue sky. Someone, a woman, was screaming.
And the feather.
And…
“I think it was once my name.”
She stared at the feather.
Then she looked at the Boy.
She said nothing.
IN THE MORNING, the Boy smelled other horses coming out of the north.
They could have been anyone’s horses. Even wild ones, roaming. He’d seen them before.
But he knew it was a lie even if the voice of Sergeant Presley didn’t tell him so.
They’d be coming.
“Let’s go.”
Soon they were dressed and away from the bones of the old lodge sinking into the dunes. Horse threw up a great spray of sand as they kicked away from its ruin.
Farther down the beach there was no smell of horses. The Boy listened to the wind.
He heard no
No cries of men calling to one another as they searched.
Behind him, the Boy saw the trail of Horse through the sand and grass and knew they were not hard to follow.
There was little left of the place once called Monterey, the skeletal remains of a few tall buildings, the foundations of many smaller buildings consumed by fire and forest. Massive green pines grew in wicked clumps up through the old roads and foundations.
They rode up a long hill of once-neighborhoods that were now little more than ancient charred wood overgrown by sea grass and pine. Just before starting down the other side, the Boy turned to scan their backtrail.
He saw the men on horses coming for them.
A line of riders picked their way along an old road. Ahead of them he saw individuals running back and forth across the fields and ruins, searching for their trail.
The Boy urged Horse and they rode hard over the small saddle of the mountain and down into a forest the map would name Carmel. Huge foundations of houses that once must have been little palaces dotted the sides of their track. The forest floor was littered with pine needles and thick brush.
‘They will follow us easily,’ thought the Boy.
Off to his right and down toward the rocky coast, he could see the remains of other ancient stone palaces crumbling into the sea.
Don’t just run, think.
You would say that, Sergeant, wouldn’t you?
We can’t run. Horse might fall and then that would be then end of us.
I could start a fire to cover our trail.
Too damp from the storm.
Stay ahead of them for now and look for a place to lead them into a trap.
It’s all I can do.
“Is everything… good?” asked Jin.
“Yes. We are good.”
But he heard her worry. He thought of what traps he might make.
What do I have?
The tomahawk.
The rifle.
What remains of the parachute cord.
Two knives.
It’s not much.
It is all I have.
‘THEY KNOW WE are on their trail,’ thought Shao Fan.
He rolled a cigarette and wished it was the weed he smoked at night, alone, in the dark.
I have been too many days at this.
You are an assassin.
There is no rest for the assassin.
No rest for the wicked.
He looked at the marks on the ground.
The horse had turned several times. They must have watched them come up the valley.
We will have to watch their trail for traps now. It is their only chance to escape us.
‘Savages!’ he thought, and spit bits of tobacco out onto the forest floor.
The afternoon was ending. Shadows long and blue surrounded his company.
How much longer can I push them? They are cold and hungry and if they miss a sign or the makings of a trap… then disaster.
He told them to make camp. They would sleep until morning and be fresh for the trail.
Besides, the savage and the girl are running into the poison lands where no one may go and live long. They are up against a wall. They will have to turn or stand and fight.
He thought of his lacquered box of weed. Since they are camping, he reasoned to himself.
“Be careful who you love,” he mumbled and set to loading his pipe.
Chapter 49
The next day, Shao Fan watched the old house as his men entered it. The day was hot and the air smelled of pine and mustard.
Spring is upon us.
Think about this business, he chastised himself.
They’d risen early and the sleep had done them good. They’d picked up the trail of the fugitives in the first light of the cold and misty morning and followed them down into the hot valley.
They are heading for the coast road, Shao Fan told himself all along. Which seemed a good thing, at least as far as he, Shao Fan, was concerned. He could increase speed, now that their prey’s options were narrowing between the sea and the mountains.
But in the dry and dusty ruins south of Carmel, the trail drew them to an old “mansion.”
‘Perhaps they were not aware of our pursuit after all and have stopped to enjoy rest and forbidden pleasure,’ thought Shao Fan.
The two scouts, long knives in hand, crossed the open yard and entered the rotting house through two separate broken windows. The scouts thread the remaining shards of glass nicely and are in with barely a noise.
Well-trained men make work easy.
After a moment there was a creaking groan, too quickly followed by a thunderous crash. Plumes of ancient dust expelled themselves through the broken windows like smoke from the mouth of a corpse.
When the dust settled, the hunters and Shao Fan moved forward to find that the second floor had collapsed onto the two scouts within, crushing them.
