Chapter 6 - The Mountain Man and No-Name

The ranger has followed the white drift-wolf through the night. He doesn't suspect who he's going to be crossing paths with.

          The white wolf lead him through the night - where, he didn’t know, but a gut feeling told him to continue chasing after the mysterious animal. With his compass dead as a shot-gunned pigeon, he saw no other choice. It had to know where it was going. Drift-wolves could sense things the keenest rangers were blind to. The animal, glowing softly by starlight, would go a ways, then pause to make sure the man and his horse hadn’t fallen too far behind. Though it demonstrated an abundance of patience, Radien pressed himself to keep up, in part impulsed by an illogical fear of which he was aware - that the wolf was in fact a spirit, and that when morning came, it’d melt back to whence it came, as night fog dispelled before the spears of the sun.
       The suspicion proved unfounded, for when dawn’s gold  arrived, the wolf remained, loping at the fore, relentless in its stride. Before the advance of the morning-beams the cryptic noises of the night receded into entombed silence. Later that morning the drift-wolf veered southwest, steering the ranger and his horse along the edge of Warkhan territory instead of straight through it. Zigzagging up a switchback of sharp cuts they went, pressing the flanks of looming cliffs. They reached the ridge-tops by the middle of the afternoon. Raiden was breathing hard, but the wolf gave no timeouts, and proceeded to guide him and the mustang along rims hugged close by burly bouldered uplands and sloping stone faces. Sweet savior! This thing can run! - Raiden thought to himself as the white drift-wolf swiftly advanced, agilely bypassing dislodged shelves of stone. He wondered if he should continue to follow it this far, and this fast, but found he couldn’t stop, like a rock that had picked up too much speed, bouncing hectically to who-knew-where.
       It was late afternoon when they came around a big bend. A grand view of the mountainous scapes that tumbled westward was provided. The wolf’s clip came down a couple echelons, and its ears perked, listening for a sound beyond the ranger’s sensory scope. Raiden scanned the sandstone slopes for any telling minutia.
       The inexplicable instinct that was second nature to Raiden gave him a heads up before the thing came bounding down the scarps. In one motion he drew the Roan .45 from the right holster. The thing moved at such speed it was little more than a barreling blur, but the gun sight closely traced the arch of its movement as it leapt and dove over lumps of rock. Raiden yielded, relaxing his hold on the firearm. Nothing but a fawn-tail. The wolf however, had launched itself after the furry four-footer, and just like that, his guide was gone.
       He was about to re-holster the six-shooter when his innate sense rang again. In a flash he redirected the cold barrel to a spot up the banks’ corrugated crest, about a stone‘s chuck away. He waited. A husky voice grumbled indistinctly up there, with - “son-b***h” - and - “won’t get away from me” - interspersed.
       Around a clump of limestone a stocky figure emerged. The stranger was humped over with a backpack that looked too big for him, and bore a very hefty rifle which hovered before his steps as if it were a wand being used to detect gold. Seconds too late the newcomer noticed the Roan. 45 aimed square at him from below. The stranger - a burly old man, aroundabouts late fifties, with a grizzled grey mountain-goatish beard - stopped dead in his tracks.
       He looked startled at first, then said, as if they’d been playing a game he’d just lost, “Looks like ya got the jump on me partner” and he set his arms akimbo in hopeful surrender.
       From the shadow between the wrangler hat-brim and coat collar, Raiden’s words were cold as ice, “Who are you, and give me one reason I shouldn’t blow you clean off that hogback”
       “Well, um,…uh” the old man fumbled, “Aint no need for no shootin“
       Raiden didn’t lower the gun an iota. He realized that the weapon the stranger was porting was a Buffalo-Barreler - not quite a rifle or a shotgun, but something in between. The rounds it fired came in the form of .50 caliber solid slugs, as well as scatter shot cartridges. It was one of the most devastating two-handheld firearms that could be found. Raiden made sure it stayed pointed towards the ground.
       The ranger’s eyes narrowed with purposeful vehemence, “Why’ve you been following me? Was it demons that sent you?”
       “What, me?” the stranger looked around as if the man asking the questions might be hallucinating. He attempted a calm and reasonable resonance. “Ya needn’t worry yerself. I’s just after some grub is all. No worries. Lost it by now, I reckon”
       Raiden squinted hard as he gauged the stranger. The Roan remained fixed, as if held in place by an invisible, unwavering lazar.
       With the beginnings of grave worry the old man asked, “Ya do believe me, don’t ya partner? Just take a gander, I aint nobody to be messin with the likes of gunslinger such as yerself“
       While the old man talked Raiden scrupulously analyzed the vibes given off his aura. He sensed no dark force, only the element of earth, grounded in rock and tree, resilient, practical in the flat sense of things. It could explain why he’d failed to notice the stranger’s presence until he’d been so close.
       Raiden holstered the gun, “I hope you understand, out here one can’t be too wary”
       “Yep. Of course. Draw first, then come the questions.” the old man shook the one free hand as if offering apologies, and nodded vigorously like  greater gumption didn’t exist. “Always got to be primed to fire first, especially in this country. It’s crawlin with baddies”
       “You took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else up here” Raiden’s tone invited further confidence, while remaining a tad suspicious, “What are you doing in the middle of these forsaken mountains partner?”
       “I meant to ask the same of ya stranger,…” he sighed, grateful he wasn’t going to get shot today. “But if we’re to continue our little palaver, I think it best I go down where ya are. Call me crazy, but these desolations hide devilish eyes and ears. It‘s best to be hush than holler”
    Raiden waved him over. The brisk and calculating manner in which the old man maneuvered down the sediment layered moraine was indicative of a power and equilibrium that few young men ever attained. As he came closer Raiden saw that he was a stout ale-barrel of a man, disheveled and kind of chalked over, like he’d been asleep under gravel and sand for a long while and had only recently busted free. He wore the tough garb of a hinterlander; dark brown buckskin hunting shirt under a hooded and frayed capote that hung knee-length. Rough-cut sorrel canvas trousers tucked into hard-soled ram-hide and fur boots. Cinched to the leather belt at his waist - a sheathed boar-carver knife, and on the other side a brawny one-handed hatchet. As the old man approached he lay the Buffalo-Barreler on the shaley ground and raised his calloused hands nigh shoulder height to show he had no tricks up his sleeves. He lowered his hands, took a few steps closer, more casual.
    “Howdy now partner. The names Jeb Harner” his leathery features crinkled into a hardy and forthright grin. He removed a cap of various furs, no doubt which he’d stitched himself, from his balding sun-burnt head crowded with wrinkle lines.
    “Howdy” he tipped his hat in response, “I’m Raiden”
    “Well met son.” said the old man, furrowing his brow against the late meridian light which struck his face. Raiden caught on quick that the squinting-grin of Jeb’s was a more or less permanently engraved hallmark, a result of the great outdoors. Below bushy grey eyebrows were a pair of bright blue eyes, shockingly clear amidst the thoroughly dust mantled man. In those hard gems dwelt a sturdy keenness, of one who knows the world and its ways, yet at the same time had become distant to it all.
    “If you were worried about making a ruckus, that big piece of hardware sure wasn’t going to help” pointed out Raiden, “Might as well set off a stick of dynamite”
    “Damned thing aint got no strap” complained Jeb, “Nowhere else to put the hefty hoe but in me hand. What I’s gonna utilize was this mean poker here” he turned and lifted a fold of the capote, disclosing a small crossbow latched to the big backpack.
    Raiden raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, “I see you’re well equipped for the purposes of survival”
    “Strivin, but not thrivin. Been stuck up in these ugly-screw sierra for two years and a lump of months and countin. But been a frontiersman a lot longer. Gotta be geared with the proper tools if ya’s gonna have any chance cuttin it”
    Raiden nodded. He didn’t doubt the old man’s claims. He could’ve guessed as much by the asperous skin he wore, more not too unlike the bark of a tree that had withstood many an interchanging season of blistering heat and screaming hoarfrost. Raiden had come across people of this stock before - ridge-runners and trailblazers that belonged more to the land than any framework or vestige of civilization. The old timer here was no doubt of that dwindling breed of true mountain man that yet roamed the ranges of the earth.
    “Not many can pull through an alpine winter in a place like this. Figure that’s why I aint come across no one but them diablos” his tufted brows scrunched up, “That’s why I’s so surprised to cross yer path son”
    The old man had been sizing Raiden up with his glacial blue eyes. Noting the clothes he wore and the weapons he bore, he remarked, “Well I’ll be darned. Yer one of them rangers aint ya?”
    The way he said it was as if he were invoking a mythical power of which he was deferentially awed, and a mite scared of too. He whistled, “Haven’t seen one of ya ramblers in a mighty long time” he scratched his head, “Been so long I got to thinkin maybe yer whole outfit had been smoked. Glad I’s wrong. The world, specially the outlands, need big-game hunters willin to put in work”
    “That it does” agreed Raiden, “But it also needs a lot more than that”
    “And this here is an actual ranger’s horse! An abraxas! Looks stronger than an ox!” the old man gave an admiring hoot, and said to the mustang, “Aint that right ya big beefy bruiser!”
    “He is a strong one, and fast as falcon diving for trout. But that wolf over there isn’t to be underestimated in his own right”
    The white coated canine had reemerged unassumingly from around the bend, the fawn-tail rabbit hanging limp from its fanged jaws. The Drift-wolf eyed them sheepishly as it slunk off to one side, as if it’d stolen something and was trying to be discreet about it. In the shade of a sandstone spur it sat, pawing the lifeless critter like a favorite toy.
    Jeb slapped his knee, “There yar Shenso!” the relief in his exclamation quickly traded with remonstration. He took a few stomps in the wolf’s direction, “Where the hell ya been!? I’s lookin all over for ya creation-be-damned!”
    The wolf’s ears hung and its eyes widened in a strikingly human expression of guilt.
    “So he’s yours I take it?” said Raiden.
    “Don’t think a man can ever truly be master of a Drift-wolf, but Shenso’s been me only company for two years. Three days back he went off like he always does, but when he didn’t show by nightfall I started frettin, thought maybe them Red Skulls had finally trapped him like they always been meanin to. Thank the good Lord them gore-clots didn’t get their hooks in him!”
    Jeb called the wolf over, more amicable, slapping his thigh, “Come on now! Get over here! Aint got to worry, I won’t take it from ya. We always split the goods don’t we?”
    With a dab of hesitancy the wolf approached and plopped the slack fawn-tail on the ground in front of the mountaineer like a present it forced itself to part with. Jeb picked the kill up and inspected it, then patted the Drift-wolf and hugged it with one arm. “Thatta a boy! I’m a cut ya half cause ya came back. Hell, maybe I’ll let ya have the whole darned thing. Just don’t go leavin no more ya hear”
    Then he said to the ranger. “This wily coon-dog done helped me through thick and thin. I’d a been ghosted by now wasn’t for him” he knelt down and pressed his bristly face to Shenso’s. The wolf wagged its tail.
    It made perfect sense for a cragsman to keep a Drift-wolf thought Raiden. It was an uncommon companion, but once their trust was won, it was hard lost. Drift-wolves were more intelligent than the best trained hounds, and when it came to hunting and protecting - forget about it. Endowed with an olfactory sense keener than a grizzly’s, and a sweeping auditory range, anyone spending much time in the wild would do very well to have such an ally.
    “Perhaps I wouldn’t have made it as far either” said Raiden. “Last night he found me about thirty clicks east, and lead me here”
    “Aint that something” said Jeb, eyes loading with surprise. He scratched his beard and looked at the sky for deep thinking. “Seems he’s got a habit of seeing to those who’ve lost their way. First he done fetched No-name, and now he done the same with ya”
    “Who?” said Raiden turning to regard the old man straight on, “Is there someone else out here you forgot to mention?”
    Jeb swatted his forehead, “Ah, cripes, did it slip me to mention that wild boy?” he looked around the chine-tops, sounding a mite irritated, “Where’s that whippersnapper?” he whistled a series of high pitched chirps, “Come on out, the man aint gonna shoot ya, least I don’t think he will”
    Raiden’s hand was on his gun grip, but he didn’t draw. A few minutes later they saw him coming. A couple hundred strides back, slinking soundlessly over a ridge, a thin figure moved at a cautious lithe-footed jog, hunched a bit as if to be inconspicuous or maybe reading sign. A tribal boy indeed, no more than fifteen years old, arrayed in buckskins and moccasins. Long raven-black hair drifted easy in the wind. In his hand he bore a juniper-cedar longbow, but Raiden descried that no arrow was notched. Bouncing against the young warrior’s back was a strapping tomahawk that looked more fitting for a big full grown brave than someone his age.
    By the looks of him Raiden reckoned he was Irasheya. That was odd. The Irasheya dwelled far to the northwest, up in the Blue Peaks, in the Giant Forest, by the Smokey River. The kid was a long ways from home.
    The tribal boy stopped at about thirty meters out, from where he eyed the ranger with the sly wariness of a bobcat. Raiden knew if he was given reason, the boy would put that longbow to use at the drop of a hat.
    “What, ya just gonna stand there and say nothin? Not even a howdy? Bah, suite yerself, but least put that splinter-shooter away. Hunt’s over. See, Shenso come back and got one of‘em coneys we was after”
    The boy’s unfazed demeanor yielded when he smiled at the wolf. Raiden knew that he might be an Irasheya, but he was still a kid no matter where he was from. The boy went over to the wolf, speaking to it in his language - of which Raiden understood very little, but enough to catch on that he was saying kindly things to the animal.
    The old man spoke confidentially to the ranger, “Damn tribals, don’t understand hardly a thing I say sometimes. Ya don’t know how glad I am to talk to someone that speaks normal like. The boy’s talk sounds like gibberish to me. But don’t let him fool ya. He speaks his share of the standard jargon, nuff to figure out what’s what”
    There was a note of chariness in Raiden‘s voice, “I thought you were alone up here” he let his words sink into the gap for emphasis, his eyes calmly digging for truth, “Anything else you’re forgetting? Haven’t happened to see anyone else pass through these parts? Anyone at all?“
     The old man took a moment to double, then triple check his recollections, before shaking his head, “Nope, can’t say I have. Less ya was to count rattlers and magpies and such. No people. I’d remember that. Guess I spoke as I did before cause I been here so long I got used to thinkin of meself on me own”
    Raiden had hoped to get some info on Tall-Bill. The mountaineer’s mind wasn’t as sharp as it‘d once been, not a hundred percent sure thing to bet on, but if he had to, Raiden would wager that the old man was telling the truth as far he knew it.
    “So how long you been trooping with the Irasheya?“ asked Raiden.
    “The youngin turn up three weeks back. Right prior Shenso run off for a few days like he just done. When he come back the wild kid was followin. Lucky he did. Had gotten in some pipin hot water. A party o Red Skulls was houndin after him. Only reason I’s ready for em was cause I heard Shenso barkin before he come up the gulch, and I knew what that bark meant. I seen the kid first, and was primin to shoot him, but got to second thinkin. Then two gore-clots come up the way and I shot both their asses graveyard-dead. Ever since, don’t know why, but he keep a followin me about. Don’t get it. Why’d he want to stick around in a place like this?”
    “Hmm” with gloved fingers Raiden rubbed professorially at his chin chin. “The Irasheya are a bona fide warrior tribe, I don’t mean they’re bellicose without due reason, they’re among the most honorable of all tribes. Part of it is that they abide by a strict code. You saved his life. I think he means to hang around until he can return the favor”
    Jeb sighed as if it were bad news, but bearable. “Well, guess two pairs of eyes is better than one. Got to admit he done bagged more game in the last few weeks with that long-darter of his than I got on me own in over two months”
    Whilst they conversed the young Irasheya had started playing with the big wolf. The animal comported as one who is in the company of a very good friend, romping in the yard between chores.
    “So what’s his name?” asked Radien.
    “Good question. I tried figurin that out me self. Alls I know about him is he’s on some sort o mission. Came here all the way from Blue Peaks country on his own. Why? - to find his name he says! Don’t make sense to me. Till then, seems he’s missing one. In the meantime he told me to call him No-name, and that’s what I a been doin. Makes sense I guess”
    Of course - thought Raiden. It was the most plausible explanation for a lone tribal boy this far from his homeland. The Irasheya were known for sending out those nigh of becoming young men on the valor and vision quest at a much greener age than other tribes. The rites of passage to adulthood and full-fledged warrior status consisted of two things; one - an act of power to be carried out - and two - the obtaining of a vision to learn one’s spirit name. The act of power could be the killing of a couple enemies, or maybe something along the lines of sneaking into a grizzly’s cave and grabbing it’s balls and taking off before it could take your head off, or killing a puma with nothing but a spear and knife. Raiden wondered if the kid had come this way in search of a Warkhan scalp to deck his new name. From the way his first encounter had gone he’d bitten off more than fit in his gob. Rites of passage or no, coming to the Broken Horns was a bad call. Then again, the kid might’ve chosen the desolations exactly for that reason - the Irasheyas could be a crazy bunch when it came to seeking glory.
    “Yep, still rutted in their backwards ways” said the old man, then spat. “Visions and deeds of valor. Bunch of blarney and bull” he leaned a bit closer. “If ya ask me, I say he’s lost as a groundhog trying to follow a flock of geese”
    The old man gave the ranger a circumspect look, as if some feature of his had come into focus for the first time, “And so what prey tell brings a ranger to this godforsaken wasteland anyhow?”
    Raiden weighed the question. He saw no problem in revealing a sliver or two about his business to the cragsman. Who knew? - he might learn something from the old man that’d help him on the assignment. But before getting into any nitty gritty, first was first. After all that hustle and bustle the wolf had dragged him on, Raiden saw no harm in extending this interlude a little. He swung his rucksack over and dug into it until producing the rusty flat-tin cylinder.
    Jeb gave a hopeful, scarce-tooth grin, “Say, ya wouldn’t happen to have any tobaccy chaw in there?”
    “Nope. Got something better. What say you to lighting a bit of sacred herb with me and making this palaver one of those laidback kinds?”
    The mountaineer looked incredulous at first, then yawped, “Oh, most definitely! Don’t mind if I do!”
    “Call No-name over. It’s tribal custom that when you meet a stranger in the wild you share a smoke if you got any”
    The young Irasheya continued goofing off with the wolf, goading it as he dance-dodged around.
    “Hey kid” said Jeb, “If ya want to be a big man, best learn to draw yar smoke first”
    No-name unstrung his bow before joining them to receive the sepia-sage. The sharing of the sacred herb was an act of friendship and peace.
    Raiden guardedly rolled one in paper and with cupped hands carefully lit her with a match that the wind almost snuffed out. The young Irasheya stood beside them, observing closely. Raiden noticed that the boy smelled of pungent resinous herbs - in fact, so did the old man, but the kid had smudged on a lot more. Raiden thought they’d done so to conceal their scent from game, and enemies. The boy also wore a necklace of many wood beads and a few stones of lapis lazuli. Raiden wondered if his mother had not given it to him before he’d set out, hoping it’d protect him.
    The ranger let the first tendrils rise to the sky powers, then inhaled the crispy, dreamy aroma, finding rest in it.
    When taking the sepia-sage the boy said, “Thank you Tall-Rider” bowing his head slightly.
    Already coming up with nicknames are we? - thought Raiden.
    No-name also let the first curls rise, then said, “Wakantanka” which meant the Great Mystery, and in his language also called upon the six energies, which were the four directions, the earth and sky, and Great Spirit.
    They stood, nearly huddled, as they passed the sepia-sage between them, the breeze‘s soft lamentations washing over the burnt ochre and off-white coffee hued canyons. The mountaineer’s cough came from a scratchy lung, “My, my, this sure is the good stuff. Been a long time since I had me some proper leaf. Haven’t been able to pluck any up here. Thought I might never come by it again. Now that I got some, never was so good!”
    A little later Raiden said, “To answer your question, as to what brings me the Broken Horns. I’ve got an important errand to see to out here”
    “Is that so?“ Jeb’s baffled look and the subsequent silence said - Maybe ya aint firing on all chambers. What on earth could be worth a cowplop out here?
    “I’ve been hired to search for someone. A princess to be exact”
    The result was another lapse of silence, at the tail end of which the mountaineer was on the verge of bursting into laughter, but beholding that the ranger was dogged in his claim, he managed to pull the reins on it and nonchalantly wheeze it out the side of his mouth. The Irasheya noted nothing of humor, indeed, talk of questing inspired him, and he took a keen interest in what the ranger had to say.
    Jeb ironed the bumpy waggery from his voice, “Hmm, so eh,… what kind of a princess are ya after?”
    “One from Noroest Parifica. She’s been missing for quite some time. I’m not certain of her whereabouts, but there’s reason to believe she came through this country, headed west”
    Raiden withheld any info that would give the location of his destination away, because, if one of these two were later captured by enemies they’d be tortured until they spilled the beans on it, not to mention their guts.
    “Neither of you’d happen to know anything about such a young lady?”
    “Ya say she went westward?” Jeb rubbed his beard with notable disquiet, “How long she been gone?”   
    Raiden told him months, because if he said years it wouldn’t make sense and would sidetrack the conversation to a place he didn’t want it to go. The cragsman grimaced bleakly, as if tasting the bitterness in the bad news he had to deliver, “Best hope she didn’t come through here. Wouldn’t have lasted long if she had, especially that way. These is among the most accursed outlands. Lord knows what the gore-clots wouldn’t a done to her. Sorry to say, but I’m afraid she’d a been killed, or starved at best”
    Raiden nodded somberly, “Regardless, I’ve got to keep on until I’ve found her, or at least learned what fate has done with her”
    “That is the true way” said the Irasheya, “To walk the path to its end”
    Jeb eyeballed the boy like he must be stupid as he puffed on the smoke. He asked the ranger, “So how much was they offerin to bring her in?”
    “Oh, enough to sit pretty for a long, long time,… then again, money comes and money goes. What matters is that things be set aright”
    Upon the mention of heavy coinage the mountaineer squinted a beady eye with deepening interest, but its shine, like an ember rising to be devoured by the night, quickly faded, “Reckon that makes sense. Was the promise of riches that lured me to this infernal waste. A mistake I shall forever rue”
    Raiden set a sifting gaze on him, “You mean to tell me you came to this chain to strike it big? Hmm, by the looks of things, I’d say you never cashed in on that prospect”
    A bit of ball-busting didn’t sit bad with the old man. His wider grin revealed a scant lineup of stubborn chompers. “Not a life of luxury, that’s for damn sure”
    Raiden slowly blew the sage fumes out his nostrils, “So where’d you start out from? I got a hunch you’re a long ways and a far time from home”
    “That’s a long yarn ranger, but seeing as ya got a damsel in distress to pin down I’ll make it short” before passing on the smoke he took a big crackling hit of the smoldering leaf, “Seems like forever ago. Back west in Montora, during the ory-mineral rush, me and some partners plied our trade for many years, spendin just about every season diggin hill and mountain. We done hit some rich veins of metal in our day, a few knots of gold too, but what we was really after was a big cache o quartsel. By and by we caught wind of rumor of a mining town, place called Rokeden Grames. Was said that folks there had excavated mines of quartsel and was getting disgustin rich. We was shellbacks by then. Thought the stars had lined up for us, so we struck out to get our share. That was about ten years back. ”
    “By the time we arrived most of them hills around Rokeden was bought up by private investors, and overseen by teams of riflemen. So we grinded on our own, set our first camp up north, not far off the Cimrel. There was plenty of other expeditions like ours, most punchin nearer the Inner Range. For years we combed dirt and grain, more persnickety than foxes, and dug harder than mule-driven ploughs. We scooped ourselves wagonloads of silver, copper, and even panned ourselves a little gold, but quartsel, bah, that loveliness ever eluded us. We drove them wagons back ourselves, but being Montora hardheads, we wasn’t gonna throw in the towel. We’d promised our folks we’d buy half the damned state by the time we was done”
    “Was thereabouts of ten years ago when the Warkhan came out the north. Should’ve realized then that mining season was over. They forced the folk out the east end of Reyenn River Valley. There was about fifty of us in our camp, armed, but we knew we couldn’t fight off all them gore-clots. Little by little we backed out the north and shot for the southern belts, and believe it or not, as fate would have it, that’s where in due time we struck ourselves some deposits of quartsel” he took a desultory drag as the smoke came back around. “But fate can be one twisted b***h”
    “Once they took over the north ranges the Red Skulls made a deal with us, and all folks in the southern Horns - they’d let us conduct our business long as we didn’t trespass their territory. Seemed to work out, for they let us alone, at first. The wisest of us, not many to be honest, loaded their carts and called it a day and wheeled for home. Majority of us was too damned greedy. Was always just a little more, another handful o nuggets and it’ll be quits” the old man shook his head wistfully, “Damn, if we’d a left then, I’d be back home today, cash-cow dandy, sipping on Blazin Bailin’s Whisky”
    “That treaty with the gore-clots has to be the stupidest accord ever accorded on. We learned the hard way that they truly is devils and aint no barterin can be done. Sick b******s was bidin their time, schemin. When killin season came around they set for us all, howling down out the hills”
    “The blood spillin got goin three years back. Everything slammed to s**t for anyone with any stake in and around the Broken Horns. The gore-clots raided in and outside the mountains, and south of here all the way onto the Dry Plains. Cut off supply routes. Wasn’t just Warkhan neither. About the same time that the big trouble got thumpin, a big band of gun-toting demons, jackals smelling blood, rode in from the west. These beastly boys packed a lot of firepower. The western outposts didn’t stand a chance. Nobody did”
    “Hmm,” observed Raiden, “I guess all that explains why Rokeden Grames is nothing more than a ghost town”   
    The weathered mountaineer was visibly disturbed by the observation, and shivered as if there were a iciness in the gust that only nipped at him. The Irasheya was unaware of any ominous vibe, in fact, he wasn’t really listening in anymore, but had gone back to play with the wolf which was rolling over on its back so its belly could be scratched.
    The old man cleared his throat, “Yep, what with them infernal gore-clots on one front and the hard-chargers on the other, folks headed for the horizon. P*****s I say. Should a stayed and fought like the rest of us” Jeb spat to drive the point home.
    Raiden’s curiosity regarding the ruin of Rokeden had been piqued. The old man knew more than he was letting on, but Raiden didn’t press the matter further, less he cause the old man to bob and weave and draw his secrets deeper within. Raiden appraised the history, “Bad times. When it rains it pours. Most people aren’t willing to ride out the big storms”
    “Storms indeed. And when it s***s it roars” scoffed the old man, still reminiscing, “The last ranch south and west was burnt about two years back I reckon. Another Warkhan tribe has since moved in on the Dry Plains, the Bad-Dogs I believe. So ya see, that’s why we got stuck up here. Every exit was barred with spears and poisoned arrows. The last of me pals was dry gulched in an ambush when we tried headin northwest. Some of them had their families with them too. F****n massacre” he shook his head as if it was still hard to believe.
    “Stupid f****n idear to have come scrounging for that crap! Should a left it all behind and we might a gotten away!” Jeb sounded to be tremulously holding back a howl, his fists clenched, “Can ya believe it? We was loaded with so much ore and quartsel it weighed us down. That’s why all me partners got snagged, torn, and eaten by them diablos! Ever’one cept me! I dropped what I had so’s I could run faster” his opened his mouth with a dismay fresh to this day, “Now it’s all gone, and don’t know where it went. Everything we’d worked so hard for. Gotta be some kind of sick joke”
    An interim of quietness spread between them. The wind warbled as they finished off the sepia-sage smoke. Raiden thought the cordillera surrounding them was indeed a country that could keep you forever if you lost your way. How many lives had it swallowed up over the years?
    “Ever since I been stranded here, livin crazy hermit like. I’s lucky Shenso found me when he did. That wild-dog is what’s kept me alive more than any of me wits. Found us a little hideout, one that the rancid gore-clots don’t know about. Been holing there the whole time.” he spoke in a tenebrous whisper. “But always gotta be careful. The ones the Warkhan go after hardest is the ones that got away. But Shenso sniffs their smelly asses out before they come around, and so we’s always three steps ahead” the last part he said puffing with a bit of pride, then let it out, like the air going out of a balloon, “I reckon I may very well be the last of the mountaineers. Hell, maybe the last human, that is, until I seen the kid, …and now seen ya ranger”
    Raiden breathed in the herb of peace. Welcome to the Broken Horns. Population three, unless you’re willing to give the man-eaters a vote.
    “That’s a hard tale old timer” said Raiden, “I’m sorry to say I believe it. I’ve heard too many of its order to be much of a doubter. At least in your tale you’re yet alive to do the telling”
    Indeed, Raiden knew it was the kind of story too many people could relate to, himself included in a way. Lots of folk worked hard their whole lives, chasing after a dream, only to come up with a lot of grief and sand spilling through their fingers. Raiden suspected Jeb had an even longer story to tell. One of more hopes busted. He would’ve like to hear it so as to ease his burden, but he reckoned it wasn’t the kind of yarn the old man wanted to unroll just now. In any case, the day urged Raiden. The sun would set within an hour. This was no jaunt. He had to continue covering ground.
    “You’ve been left in the lurch for far too long” said Raiden, “Don’t you think it’s time you tried trekking back to Montora? You’ve beaten the odds until now, but this aint the kind of country to tarry in overlong. And take the kid with you. Shouldn’t be a problem since he’ll follow wherever you go. The only vision he’ll see come true up here is the grim-reaper coming to count coupe”
    “Yep, this prospectin has been a decade and then some down the squat-drain. I’m lookin to hightail it for certain. Me and No-name been scoutin with the field-glass, but like I said, there aint no good way outta here. South is a no go. Too much open country on the Dry Plains to cross with the Bad-Dogs riding their ugly mounts out there. North and west is teeming with hellion. All that leaves is east, and from what I heard that’s an impassible waste flattened to hell and back” then he looked speculatively at the ranger, “But that’s the way ya done come from, aint it? Hmm, how’d ya pull that? Aint got much in the way of provisions by the looks of yer gear. Think ya could draw up a map? Or better yet, since now ya know ya aint gonna find no lassie, what say ya to the chances of us all headin back that way?”
    Raiden would’ve liked to help the old man and the kid, but going back meant losing a lot of time, and the more of that that got away the worse Yarokia’s chances were of being freed from the Dark Nexus. “I’m a ranger. There’s no turning back in my cards” and he warned them, “You’re wise to have not tried east. It’s a charred, pathless waste, four weeks ride, ten on foot. No streams, no shade. But looking every way, it’s your best bet. Makes for one heck of a slog, but you can hack it. All you need is more water-skins, or you’ll dry up worse than burnt corn husks”
    The old man gazed across the mountainous scapes, then looked at the kid. No-name was yet talking to the wolf in his tongue, and tossing a stick for it to fetch. It was amazing how oblivious he could seem to the danger they were all facing. Finally Jeb sighed, “I don’t know”
    Raiden had also been contemplating the barren country. It’s vastness was definitely daunting. The day was waning, the sun hovered barely above the barbed skyline. It was a ranger’s duty to offer aid to the lost and at peril. What if they came west with him? Heck, they could turn out to be worthy companions. They’d survived longer than he would a given them a chance. And the old man surely knew more than one way by which to reach Rokeden Grames. Of course, he wouldn’t take them to the Valley of the Winds, most definitely not, but if he got them that far, that might be far enough.
    “The day beckons” said Raiden, throwing down the smoke butt down, letting it smolder a few moments before crushing it under his boot heel. “I can’t stay, but if you wish, you and the Irasheya may accompany me as far as you see fit. I can offer some protection, but if it will be enough, I cannot say. The more guns the better, especially that Buffalo-Barreler your packing, and a longbow can‘t hurt. My assignment is my priority, but if by fortuity I can aid you to leave these wastelands, then so much the better. I could use someone with mountaineering skills such as yourself, and I know that kid aint no slouch. The Drift-wolf would come as well of course“
    A gleam of adventure twinkled in the old man’s sapphire eyes. Raiden had his attention, and the kid’s as well. The young tribal warrior sat calmly on a rock, petting the wolf, but focused on the palaver between the two men. Jeb furrowed his brow in consternation. Raiden tried to help him out, “You know these mountains better than me. Lets just say for a moment you were going to try it. Which way would you shoot for?” 
    “Good question, one I‘ve thought of many a time” said the old man, scuffing his bushy beard as a serious scholar searching his memory banks for the answer to an intriguing conundrum. “Let’s see. Before the Warkhan came, us mountaineers and tradesmen took many routes to Rokeden and the outposts. That was a long while ago. Nowadays the Red Skulls and their rock-face sentinels are liable to keep a watch on every pass in and out of the Broken Horns, ...so, there aint no good trail, …but if I had to choose one, I reckon it’d be Old Bones Ridge”
    He pointed southwest, about thirty five miles to a low chain of climate coarsened tors that ran, falling and surging up amid a myriad of headlands. “The gore-clots don’t usually go that far. Their main haunt is that’a way, fifty leagues or so” he indicated the direction by jerking his head and hawking a spit.
    “But looky. Problem is, even if ya was to make it past them, yer only jumpin from one deep fryer into another, cause beyond is Rough-Rider domain”
    Raiden squinted, “What else you know about those pieces of s**t?”
    Jeb squinted and wagged his head, “Alls I can say is they’s a group of the baddest kind of killers. Only good mention I can give em is they don’t get along with the Red Skulls. Then again, doubt they ever hit it off with nobody”
    Raiden considered the information. Aiyanna had warned him of a gang of gun-slinging outlaws, but she hadn’t know what kind of riders they were. He wished he could glean further details on this demon posse. Whoever they were, he didn’t have a good feeling about them, not at all.
    “And if by hapchance they aint patrollin, then ya still got to brave the open deserts, and that’s all there is now that the trade routes have been chopped, sands for farther than man or beast can survive. Considerin all them various ways of getting dead, ya see why gettin across the Broken Horns, especially this time of year, rings an awful lot like givin yerself a hanging”
    “Leave getting past all that to me. That’s what rangers do. And I’ve been across the western deserts before. There are deep spring watering holes that my horse cannot fail to find. How do you think I get across all these wastelands?” he patted Night-Wind. “His memory for water sources is unrivaled”
    The old man chewed it over awhile, and it looked to be an uncomfortable mulling, “Say we find that lassie, what say you to splittin the profits?“
    Raiden leaned towards the old man as if to confide a secret, “You help me get through these mountains, I’ll make sure to set aside half. And you know a ranger is good for his word. This is a win-win for you old timer. Live and get rich, or stay poor and get dead”
    There was no renumeration for bringing Yarokia back, but the old man didn’t know that. Raiden, did however, have stashes of gold he’d buried in different spots, mostly for bribing honchos in positions of particular power. It was amazing the doors a little dough could open and the connections if could buy.
    The old man beamed, and looked to be on the verge of saying to hell with it sign me up, but the boldness broke down as he turned to pondering and doubting again. Raiden saw that the mountaineer was afraid of more than the journey. Many years had gone by and many things had changed. Home could get to feeling so far away, across oceans one could never hope to swim or paddle. Not once had the old man mentioned any family. Maybe there was nothing for him to go back to anymore? Facing the past could be to relive it, and for some people that was too much to abide.
    Jeb exhaled his resignation, “Reckon it’s too dangerous a walkabout for an ancient fart like me. Best I stay put, least for the time being. Come spring, maybe it’ll rain again, and there’ll be fresh streams running the deserts, and maybe,…” the smile he forced was more of a wince. “Yep, I’ll soon be shovin off, on back home,…or somewhere that’s nice, …before it’s too late…”
    The mountaineer hardened himself against his plight, faith for the future turning about as parched as the windblown outcrops. An abrupt afterthought shot life back into him and he sort of blurted, “But you can take the kid! He’s a good shot with that splinter-shooter.” then he said to the Irasheya “What ya say No-name? It’s best you put a stop to this foolishness and head on back to the Blue Peaks”
    The young warrior stood up and addressed Raiden, “There is much power in your quest Tall-Rider” and he gestured with a fist to his chest, “And I would go with you, but I cannot, not without Grey-Beard”
    Jeb got pissed off, “Listen up and listen good. If ya don‘t skedaddle, ye’ll have yer hide drying in a Warkhan camp before the season is out”
    “I am bound by honor, and friendship. If I ignore these things it would bring great shame to the spirits of my ancestors”
    “Oh man” said Jeb in disbelief, placing his hand to his forehead as if he had a temperature.
    Raiden knew it was no use arguing with the Irasheya code of honor. It took Jeb awhile but he finally gave up, sounding disgusted when he did and shaking his shaggy head as he grumbled full of cussing, “Then we’re both cooked turkeys” and he looked at Raiden like a starving beggar asking for a handout. “Ya got to forget about it ranger. Goin east is the only ticket. There aint no young woman out west. If there ever had been, by now they’d a torn her to jerky. I tell ya, alls I seen is death out that direction”
    “Perhaps that be so” said Raiden, stuffing the sepia-sage tin back in his coat, “But for me, it’s onwards or bust”
    Jeb ogled the ranger, astounded at his mule-headedness. 
    “This can’t just be about the money. That lass must be mighty important.” the old man mused, not expecting an answer
    “Aye, that she is“
    Raiden didn’t show it, but the truth was that as this parlay wrapped itself up, he found himself more browbeaten about the journey ahead than he’d been before. The sun was getting darned close to the taloned horizon, and the westering light was in their eyes as the colors of the vaults shifted. Raiden felt pity for the lonely mountaineer, lost for so long he could no longer budge, and the kid, full of big dreams - he wasn’t going to find his name or power. Whether or not the old man stayed up here until he turned to stone, and the Irasheya to his demise for adhering to tribal credos, Raiden had to push on.
    “I’m indebted to you old timer. Though I’d much like to stay and continue our parlay, urgent matters beckon. But before we go our separate ways, I’d like to give you and No-name a few tokens for your time”
    Raiden opened one of the saddlebags and produced a package of dried fruits. The old man was very grateful and placed the parcel in his backpack. Neither he or the kid had eaten anything sweet in ages.
    “And this” reaching into an inner coat pocket he tossed the mountaineer a small object that shined in the sun as it flipped through the air. Jeb caught it and gawked in disbelief at the small transparent yet multicolored gem he held in his hand. About the size of a rock, the prism wielded a heavenly radiance from the departing light. It was an ingot of quartsel. The fragment alone was enough to get piss drunk for years and still have enough left over to purchase a little plot of land with a few chickens thrown in to scratch around on it. Jeb thanked the ranger, but stared sadly at the translucent gem. When you got old you saw how the plans you’d laid for the future, once sparkling lakes, could become reduced to beds of cracked slate. Raiden reckoned the mountaineer didn’t ask him where he’d come by the bit of quartsel, because it’d only make the futility his search more grievous. Coming across this shard must feel cruel, yet compassionate, a single tear that encapsulated his woes.
    Raiden mounted up, “Well, looks like our meeting here has come to an end. Perhaps we shall cross paths again. In any case, I wish you luck in soon finding a safe way back to where you’re from, the both of you”
    “Well met Raiden” said the old man, “And good luck to ya”
    Raiden tipped his hat to the cragsman, “I bid you farewell Jeb Harner” and to No-name he said, “May the Great Spirit go with you kid, and may you find a worthy name”
    “And may you find what you are looking for Tall-Rider” said the Irasheya putting his hand, palm open, against his chest, then lowering it as he bowed slightly and took a half step back. “Tanyan omani po ye”
    Raiden wheeled Night-Wind. The wolf didn’t lead, but whined distressfully at the ranger’s parting. Raiden doubted he’d see the old man and young tribal warrior again. Without turning to them he said, “Remember, don’t stay up here forever. We aint got forever”
    Jeb and No-name watched the ranger go. He didn’t look back. They’d been amazed to see another person after such a long time. He seemed a ghost returning to the fog. They knew they wouldn’t see the dark rider again, for, albeit bravely, it was to his doom he went. The eerie sorrow of the wind susurrated through the passes and over the moraine where they stood. Jeb looked around at the empty mountains, feeling a loneliness and despair countered in small measure by knowing he could fall back on that one little safe spot where he’d hidden for the last few years.
    The next time he looked, the ranger was gone.

    Raiden focused on what lay before him and tried to forget what was behind. He couldn’t take any extra qualms with him. He picked out a way down shattered boulder studded slopes. The projected path had deviated yet again, for he aimed to take the mountaineer’s advice and make for Old Bones Ridge.
    About twenty minutes later, the sun torching the heavens, Raiden heard a noise from behind. The bark of the Drift-wolf. It came loping effortless and eager. Next came the low shout of the old man, “Wait! Wait I say!”
    Raiden didn’t look back. He slowed down, and smiled faintly.

    After the ranger had gone, Jeb had held the quartsel up to inspect the fiery rays refracting through it. He was in a mesmerized torpor, not really looking at it, but past it, trying to forget, trying to remember. It may be exquisite and priceless, but he was on a shrinking island amid devouring desolations. The kid too. S**t. What the f**k was they gonna do? Them gore-clots was closin in every day.
    What his glassy-blue eyes saw in the light of the prism caused a precipitous tumult to rise in him - a foreboding strong as a punch in the gut, or a kick in the nards - and he nearly keeled over. They wasn’t gonna last to no springtime. That they’d made it this long was a categorical miracle. And when them Warkhan rooted them out of whatever hole they were hiding in, well, that was gonna be a day ugly beyond words.
    But maybe there was a better life after ya kicked the bucket? Like the pious and the tribals believed. Hmm, … good Lord, he certainly hoped so. Something to dream about at least...
    No, hell no. He also had to think about the kid, at least a little. Something good, or real bad was on its way, maybe both, and this haul was the last chance, a train that had to be boarded, even if ya had to hang on to the outside railing. It was that or be marooned forever. And aside from those compelling enough reasons, in the dazzling light of the quartsel he’d seen a glimmer of a vision he’d forgotten was his own.
    He tucked the prismed ingot in a pouch and got to his feet, “Boy, string up that damned long-darter. Time to hit the trail”
    No-name smiled a smile he’d been hoping for.
    The ranger was brave, so they should be too. Jeb sensed the ranger had a secret power in him, like a shadow that couldn’t be moved under the sun. This was not the type of man that could be dissuaded by guns, knives, or hell‘s darkness. With a gunslinger of this brand on their side, along with their grit, they might stand a shot. Whatever the outcome, it was better to be on the move and go out and face that death-robed pale-rider everyone was afraid of than sit around waiting for the w***e’s-son to come collect.
    Raiden came to a halt until Jeb and No-name caught up. He was glad to see that the old man was fired up. Now that he was of one mind, the mountaineer had a new spring in his step and vigor in his talk. “Still need another gun ranger? And hows bout the longbow?
    “I know every Irasheya can hit the mark, but are you any good with that Buffalo-barreler old timer?”
    Jeb swung the hefty caliber around as if to take a shot at a target on the opposing side of the gorge. “Good’nuff to shoot me a big-horned bison down with one go from over three hundred licks. This baby packs nuff power to punch me one of em Red Skull suckers in splatter half”
    “Good to know, but lets hope your aim doesn’t get tested. We’ve got to do our best to steer clear of them. And another thing - the both of you best keep your step, for time is ticking away for this lovely young lady”
    “Ha! I’ve been a frontiersman for forty blasted years! If anyone can keep up and get us past those dung-gulpers I’m the one to do it”
    Raiden nodded, “Alright then partner”
    “Hetchetu aloh” said No-name, and gestured with his hands, “Many currents to make a strong wind. This will carry us across the mountains. The princess may yet live!” and then he hit his chest and sprang ahead, crying out eagle-like in bridled exultation, “Eee-ahh! Eee-ahh!” and Shenso bounded after him, always pausing not too far ahead, showing them it wanted them to hurry.
    The old man yelped, “The oddest outfit I ever did come across I daresay; a ranger, a monster of a mustang, a scrawny wild kid, but fast as a whippet, and a wolf that can do about everything shy of talk! Wouldn’t a believed it less I seen it!”
    Thus the little company set out over the ragged terrain towards Old Bones Ridge. The languishing sun bathed their brows - always apocalyptic while bestowing power. It was day three in the mountainous desolations for Raiden. He’d thought he’d be leading the way, heck, he thought he’d be alone, but he wasn’t, - the drift-wolf went at the forefront, sprinting intently, sniffing this and that, ears perked, sensing that a serious no-bullshit endeavor had just gotten underway. On the ground ahead of Raiden No-name advanced cat-quiet, his bow stung, his body and mind merged with the instinctive intelligence of the Irasheya, slightly hunched as he went, reading for tracks, or any clues that would help keep them alive. The old mountaineer brought up the rear, combing the canyons and hogbacks with eyes saying - Come on, I dare ya b******s to try it this time.

Author's Note

come on guys, it can be done!