Written in Blood Read Free

happier. Through watching and talking with travelers I meet on the trail, I have ascertained something of the habits of the creatures that live hereabouts, enough at any rate to snare some fresh meat on occasion. I am also getting better at reading the land, spotting the places where the trail is easiest and the gullies, arroyos they are called here, most likely to carry a stream for fresh water. And I have a book, which I read in spare moments and from which I am attempting to improve the Spanish that my father taught me.
    After the first day or two inland from the coast, the land becomes rough and harsh. It is almost as if the earth is wrinkled like old skin into mountains and valleys that run north and south so that the trail is an endless repetition of crossing wide, dry plains and winding through rugged mountain passes. Rain comes in violent evening storms that can turn a dry arroyo into a raging river in minutes. All this is so different from the wet lushness of home. I miss seeing decent-sized trees.
    As the jackrabbit sizzles before me, I squint at the campfire only two or three miles away. If the man were stalking me with the intent to rob or murder me, surely he would not let me see his campfire every evening. I find myself almost eager for him to catch up. Alita is a fine companion, but it has been a lonely journey, and, even with my determination and the pride I feel at my good progress, I do miss my mother and my previous life.
    Six days ago I crossed the Colorado River on the new bridge at Yuma and headed into Arizona Territory. This time tomorrow I should be in Tucson, and from there I shall confirm my best route to Casas Grandes.
    I reach forward and lift the jackrabbit from above the fire. It cools quickly in the evening air, and soon I am pulling the flesh off with my teeth. It’s a scrawny beast and it has a bitter taste that I don’t recognize from the similar creatures fed on the exuberant vegetation of British Columbia.
    I suck the last of the rabbit bones clean, build up the fire, wrap myself in my blanket and settle down. Is the follower settling down as well? In the distance I hear a coyote bark. Lightning flashes harshly and thunder rumbles to the west. I wonder if I’m going to have a wet night, but I’m asleep before I can think too much about it.

3
    S omeone or something is watching me. I can’t see them, but I can feel their eyes boring into my back. It’s almost fully light and I am lying staring over the dead ashes of the fire. What if it’s a wolf? I’ll never be able to rise, cross the fire and retrieve and load my revolver before the beast is on me, ripping out my throat. With my heart racing, I roll over.
    The man is squatting with his back to a tree, looking at me. For a gut-wrenching moment, I think it’s my father. The man is middle-aged and has a drooping mustache, but his skin is too swarthy and he doesn’t have my father’s smile.
    The stranger is dressed in worn traveling clothes and wears a battered wide-brimmed hat. His hair is long and straggles over his ears. His eyes, peering out from under bushy eyebrows, appear almost black. His skin has the weather-beaten look of someone who spends his life in the open. He carries a large Colt Navy revolver tucked into his belt.
    â€œHowdy,” the man says. It’s an American expression, but the accent has a hint of Spanish.
    â€œGood morning,” I reply.
    â€œDidn’t want to startle you awake,” he says with a slight smile. “You never know who’s carrying a pistol beneath their blanket and who ain’t afraid to use it afore they think.”
    â€œHave you been following me?” I ask, sitting up.
    â€œFollowing you? Naw. Reckon we’re just headed in the same direction and I’m moving a touch faster than you.”
    â€œWhere are you headed?”
    â€œTucson,” the man replies. “After that, who knows?
    I hear there’s work over in