A Million Tears (54 page)

Time became meaningless until with a shock he saw he was back on the plain. He was on a hillock, looking down on the vast expanse of grass he knew stretched to the Missouri. Somewhere up on his left was the Niobrara, though it occurred to him he might have passed the point where it joined the great Missouri. That night, under his bed of leaves and grass, he looked up at the myriad of stars and admitted to himself he was scared to leave the shelter of the woods. Would they still be looking for him? The thought haunted him to sleep.

He was awake before dawn, shivering, the light covering of leaves and grass not sufficient to keep out the heavy dew. He drank some water, wishing it was coffee, saddled the horse, carefully strapped one of the rifles across the back of the saddle and then climbed up himself. He checked his two six guns, his knife was at his side, and the other rifle was tied over his back, ready to be swung around, up to his shoulder and fired all in one fluid movement. An action he had practised ceaselessly. He sat the horse for a few minutes looking for any movement over the plains but could see nothing. It was so still not even the long grass was stirring.

He dug his spurs in and set off at a mad gallop, the only sound the pounding of the horse’s hooves.

38

Sion kept up a breakneck speed for as long as possible. Finally, he was forced to slow to a canter and then a walk. He gave a wry smile, so far so good. He looked about him continuously, paying particular attention to the left and rear. Were they still searching? How long had it been? Sion couldn’t tell. The nights were drawing in steadily and getting colder so it had to be either the end of September or the beginning of October. He wondered what his parents were doing. Was there anybody out looking for him? And if there was, what chance did they have of finding him? To his way of thinking, none. Therefore, he had to get to Sioux City on his own. He had no way of knowing how many miles more he had to go. He had not gone far in an easterly direction, which meant he still had most of his journey ahead of him. On the other hand his wrists had healed to ugly red scars, his ribs no longer hurt, and he was as lean as whipcord and just as tough. It surprised him how thin he was and now he could only keep his trousers up with his belt two notches tighter. He also had a scruffy thin beard, well past the itching stage of growth.

For three days he headed a few points north of east, his vigilance never relaxed, his fear alive within him. At nights he slept a couple of hours, woke, moved a few miles and settled down again. He thought of travelling at night and sleeping by day but decided against it.

It was the middle of the morning when he saw the ribbon of silver. Turning further to the north he broke the horse into a canter, eager to get to the water. He needed to refill his almost empty canteen and he wanted to wash away the accumulated sweat and dirt. It was further than he thought, an elusive glimpse from the top of a hillock, but each time clearer and nearer. An hour before sunset he arrived at the river. He stopped a few hundred yards short and examined the area. He saw no sign of either man or animal. But still he hesitated. So far Sion had seen no sign of being followed but guessed that if they were still looking for him it would be along the banks of the river. They would need to ride back and forth over a large distance until they cut his track.

He stayed where he was until the moonless night wrapped him in a feeling of security and then cautiously he made his way to the water’s edge. It was so dark he could see no further than a yard or two, but his ears were strained for the slightest sound. He stopped at the bank and waited a little longer. The water masked any small noise he made, whether it was the creaking of the saddle or the snorting of the horse. Sion walked the horse down the bank and a couple of paces to the water, where the horse drank eagerly. Sion sat there a while until he was satisfied there was nobody about then he climbed down, filled his canteen and only then took a drink. With the sun gone, the night was cold and Sion changed his mind about washing.

The next afternoon it happened. He was riding up the brow of a low hill when he stopped to look back. He saw nothing at first until a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He thought it was back by the copse he had passed half an hour earlier and had just put it down to his imagination when he saw it again. His heart missed a beat and then started hammering wildly. Within a couple of minutes he saw three horsemen. Sick with anticipation and fear he started the horse again, fighting back the urge to gallop until he was out of sight. As soon as he was over the skyline he broke into a mad, fast gallop. He kept looking back for signs of his followers and ten minutes later they came over the brow of a hill. It was almost a relief that they had found him. No more wondering, no more fear of a surprise attack. The worse thought that had haunted him was to have been taken alive.

The horse kept up the mad pace for sometime. The men behind him neither came closer nor dropped further back. Darkness fell rapidly and Sion was forced to bring his flagging mount to a walk. In the pitch black night it was foolhardy to try to go too fast. Sion took consolation in the fact that the men would be forced to slow down for the same reason. On the spur of the moment he turned the horse and headed back for the river. There were very few places to take cover where he was and if he did end up having to stop and fight, he wanted somewhere he could protect his back.

Sion kept the horse to a walk throughout the night, but with the first streaks of grey in the east and as the ground beneath took shape, Sion coaxed him into a gallop. The sun had risen when Sion saw the three horsemen again. With a shock he saw that they were barely three miles away and coming as fast as ever. With the river in sight Sion spurred the last ounce of effort out of his mount. He needed a place to stop and fight.

The distance closed between them. They were less than a mile away and Sion knew it was time to make a stand. Ahead, near the river bank, was a copse of trees. Griffiths’ last stand, he said to himself. He now recognised the horsemen. The leader was in the middle, the one on his right seemed unharmed but the other was riding awkwardly.

Sion rode around the low hillock and the copse until he was out of sight on the other side. Pulling up the horse he tore off his rifles, some smoked meat he had prepared and his canteen. He slapped the horse’s rump hard and with a pang of regret watched it canter on along the river’s bank. Picking up his gear he ran back to the shelter of the trees and up the shallow incline. Carefully, he crawled the last few yards to the top. If they saw him now then his strategy would have been for nothing. The grass and bushes gave him shelter, the four tall elms shade, and a fallen trunk protection. They were now less than half a mile away and closing steadily.

It was cool in the shade after the heat of the plains and the gentle breeze was refreshing. After travelling all night Sion felt bone weary and his legs trembled slightly from the effort of gripping the horse for so long. He was nervous too, which was probably why the rifle was not quite steady in his hands.

He waited until they reached the foot of the hillock, less than a hundred yards away. Sion took aim at the leader, held his breath, took up the slack on the trigger and squeezed. Sion had concentrated so much on the man in the middle that he had not noticed the nearer man spur his horse and as Sion fired the other rider crossed into his sights and took the shot through the neck. Before he could fire a second shot there was nothing to aim at. Except the horses which, still surprised by the sudden lack of riders, kept on galloping. The man he had hit was lying, unmoving, half hidden by the grass. No movement betrayed the whereabouts of the other two. Sion strained his eyes but could see nothing. After about ten minutes he had the uneasy feeling they could be approaching from any direction and with a start he sat up to look about him. It was nearly the last thing he ever did as a bullet chipped a chunk out of the tree about his head. He ducked, lifted his rifle but could see nothing to fire back at.

It was a long day. Sion moved behind the fallen log from time to time and though occasionally a shot rang out making him duck he saw nothing to shoot at. They were playing on his nerves. He wanted to jump up and go screaming down at them, his gun blazing to get it over with once and for all. The quiet, the flowing river, the buzzing of insects was so soporific that, more than once, Sion caught himself nodding off. He would come awake with a jerk and look around frantically in case one of them had closed in on him. With his heart hammering and the adrenaline flowing he would be alert for a couple of minutes and then sink into a semi-stupor. By evening Sion realised he had to move. His biggest fear was falling asleep and being taken alive. He thought of suicide but now he had come so far he was determined to go down fighting. If he could stay awake long enough.

After leaving he had to make them think that he was still there. How was he to do that? Think fool, think, he told himself. If they couldn’t see him they had to hear him. But hear him doing what? Coughing? Sneezing? Ridiculous. So what was left? A gun shot? But how? He looked at his rifles laid out at his feet, the two six guns on his thighs. He had his lariat, water, the canteen.

As part of his plan Sion began firing one shot at approximately fifteen minute intervals, not aiming at anything, just setting a pattern. In the hour before sunset he firmly fastened one of the rifles to the log and ran a strand of rope from the trigger to a bush. Next he tied his boot to the rope so that it dangled above the ground. He poured water from his canteen into the boot and when the canteen was half empty the weight in the boot caused the rope to tighten and the rifle to fire. He fixed the second rifle alongside the first and ran another strand of rope from the trigger to the bush. This time, it wasn’t as tight. When he finished pouring the water from the canteen into the boot the second rifle fired. By now it was dark. He used the water from the boot to refill the canteen and hung the canteen over his boot. Next he dug a small hole in the bottom of the canteen and tried to gauge how fast the water seeped out. It didn’t seem fast enough and so he enlarged it a little. As he finished, he heard a sound and panic-stricken he pulled out his two six shooters and blazed away in the direction he thought the noise had come from. There was no response and with shaking hands he reloaded the guns. The wind freshened and caused the leaves above him to rustle and the grass to sway, fear of the unknown bringing him close to panic again.

Sion slipped silently down to the river’s edge. The cold water made him gasp as he swam slowly out to the middle. He could feel the current sweeping him along. A shot rang out and he realised it was the first of his rifles firing. He began to swim the breast stroke to increase his speed away from the copse. Too soon, the second shot rang out.

Now he was fighting to keep his head above water. The guns on his hips were dragging him down. For some reason he had kept on the right boot and, full of water, it too was making swimming difficult. Holding his breath he struggled to remove the boot, gasping and spluttering as he did. Once it was off he found it easier to stay afloat. Ten minutes later he began to tire, the guns still weighing him down. Awkwardly, his fingers going numb with the cold, he untied the thongs around his legs, undid each buckle and with a sigh of regret let them fall. Now he felt he could stay afloat and let the current wash him downstream at least for the remainder of the night. But soon afterwards tiredness and cold crept through him and he knew he had to land.

Sion swam towards the other bank. He had been in the water over two hours and the cold was sapping his strength. With despair, in the faint light from the sliver of moon, Sion saw that the bank was a good three feet above his head and that there was no way he could reach it. He kept going but there was no change to the bank. Sion could feel his strength ebbing and thought he was going to drown. Kicking became harder, his feet dropped and he held his breath. It was a shock when his feet hit the river bed and his head stayed above the water. His tired brain got the message and he stood in about four feet of water, his legs like rubber, shivering hard. He waded in closer to the bank and found the water down to his waist but the top of the bank was still out of reach. He waded further downstream and eventually the bank dipped a little closer and he decided to try and climb out. He scrabbled at the bank, grabbing at roots and tufts of grass his feet dislodging stones and earth. With the last of his strength he dragged the upper half of his body onto the bank. He stayed still for some minutes, too exhausted to move and in danger of falling back. He gathered his strength and rolled onto the bank, gasping and shivering, unable to move. He drifted into a half sleep, half unconscious state, haunted by nightmares and what would happen when the men caught up with him. He was still there when the sun rose, warming his body and drying his clothes.

When he woke Sion had a splitting headache and a dry mouth. It took a few seconds to remember what had happened but as memory flooded back he sat up quickly to look around. He saw nobody and with a sigh of relief sank back down. He had to move from where he was, but how? No horse, no boots, and no guns. Only a knife with which to protect himself. Move he told himself, move. Stifling a groan, he got to his feet and began walking from the river. Once they discovered the trick he had played on them they would be after him again. On foot it would not take them long to catch up. They would see where he had gone ashore and have him before the day was over. His walking faltered and then he stopped altogether. This was not the way. It had to be by river, but how? More swimming? Find a place to hide? At least if he hid he wouldn’t be leaving any tracks.

Reluctantly he returned to the bank and for a few seconds stood looking down at the swirling water, cold and uninviting. He jumped in, the shock making him gasp. He swam to the centre and let the current take him again. Soon the cold began to take a toll of his strength. When he could go no further he headed towards the southern bank. He hoped that if they rode both sides of the river they would find where he had gone ashore. The other would cross and thinking Sion was armed would surely follow carefully. Sion’s tracks would lead them in a semi-circle back to the river and there would be a further delay while one of them crossed again. Then there was the difficulty they would have in climbing the banks on either side, especially with horses. In fact, the more Sion thought about it the better it looked if he could just find the energy to go back and forth a few more times. There was even a chance he could survive until night fall. He did not try and think further ahead than that.