“You don’t have to,” Caleb said.
George dismounted. “Lead them by the reins,” he said. “Calmly now.”
It took them fifteen minutes to work through the depression, waist-deep in mud, the gnats hovering but the animals unfazed and, if anything, happy to greet the intermission, and when they emerged on the other side they were greeted by the noise of another man not of their party. Caleb, already in his stirrups, swung around, rifle at the ready. George shuddered, then turned himself. A stallion stood on the other side of the swale, its tail swishing placidly. Hackstedde slouched upon it with indifference, yet he somehow appeared more vibrant in the wild—his skin golden, eyes alight.
Without a word he unstrapped his saddlebag, removed a pouch of tobacco, and placed it against his saddle horn.
“Boys,” he said.
They were all consumed by silence. George stood stock-still as the sheriff unspooled a clod of tobacco, deliberate in his slowness. Then a hand was upon his shoulder. Prentiss helped him aboard Ridley and the three of them set out at a clip. The donkey could not keep pace with the mare but Caleb never let George fall far behind. He could still feel Hackstedde’s presence at his back when he finally brought Ridley to a halt. Caleb and Prentiss rode some distance beyond him before they noticed that he’d stopped and were forced to circle back.
“We have to keep moving,” Caleb said. “They’ll be over that marsh in no time.”
The crossing was what had done him in, and with the last light seeping out of the sky, George felt himself giving way to sleep, his body racked by the past few days—by a whole lifetime. He patted Ridley once, this animal who had been as trustworthy as any man he’d known, then gave his son a faraway smile.
“I believe I am done,” he said.
“There’s no being done,” Caleb said. “You saw Hackstedde just as well as I did.”
“I’m tired, Caleb.”
“You ain’t thinking straight,” Prentiss said. “Your boy is right. We can’t stop this run now.”
George dismounted. “I surmise they might make camp before they cross,” he said. “They’re in no rush. Their pace is steadier than ours, their mounts faster.”
“And so you suggest we surrender here?” Caleb said.
George breathed in, paused, then let the breath out. “I believe I have a plan.”
They stared at him with impatience. He was hardly unaware of the moment’s urgency and yet both times he made to speak his voice failed him. The vicissitudes of the past few hours had been astounding. He knew what was required of him and still he did not possess the means to carry it out. He thought he had shed all of his fears some time ago but he now quivered in apprehension, unable to meet the gaze of his son, who would be either disappointed or relieved by his decision, neither reaction one he could bear.
When he spoke again his voice was thin, but he got the words out.
“You’ll go on foot,” he said. “And you will leave me here.”
*
There were no stars that night. The forest seemed to observe him from every angle, shimmering eyes beaming from the cavity of a tree, shadows lurching violently in the distance. The whispers of the river and the insects built to a clamor whenever the wind dulled to a hush. He’d fastened a rope between the horse and Ridley and was making his way on his own, leading them both by the reins. The lightest canter was misery-inducing and he had resigned himself to walking. They had left no trace except the trail of the animals’ hooves, but having seen Hackstedde’s eyes fixed on the ground at the swale, he knew that was what kept the sheriff on their heels. Out in the swamps the boys would have a day’s lead, and without their mounts he felt confident that any hint of their progress would be concealed by the water. His only function now was that of a decoy, and he walked endlessly, his body burning up, his shirt soused in sweat.
He grew used to the voices rising over the noise of the night. Whether they were within his mind or without he couldn’t tell, nor could he distinguish what they were attempting to tell him. He chose to believe they were no more than instructions to keep marching, empty babble to occupy his mind. He thought of the Indians who spoke to the trees and to the spirits and yet even as his senses offered evidence to the contrary, he could only protest it as superstition. His feet had gone numb and his tongue was thick with thirst. His son had insisted on giving him his pistol and he had the thought to pull it out now at some looming, unknowable danger, then changed his mind. A garish haze had invaded the night sky and the moon was branded red. Something was amiss yet what that might be was beyond him.