Caroline

Texas: The Last Road

Texas was just on the other side of the canyon. Deak and I had to ride around the entire canyon on mules that were slow and already needed a rest by the time we had crossed the bridge that held soldiers patrolling a toll. Literally, they just checked if we were white. We were sunburned, that was for sure. I even rolled down my short sleeves to protect my arms from the sun, not that it did much but peel off the blistering skin on my arms.

Texas was green all over when we first got into the giant state. It had been years since Deak and I stepped foot in Texas, and that was due to it being practically controlled by Sheppard's. We both knew we had to keep our eyes peeled more than ever here. We followed a dirt road south. Flint Plaines wasn't that far when I looked at the map, just six more miles. Deak had made me stop because he spotted a water hole. A water hole was a makeshift well travelers made in desperate times to find water, they would dig into the ground that in the line of sight from a body of water. They'd dig, and dig until they finally struck water, then they'd dig more to keep a flow of water going through it. There was a bucket atop a circular rock wall that had about a ten foot piece of rope tied to it. Deak grabbed the rope and threw the bucket into the engulfing hole.

I dismounted my mule and walked it to the hole, once Deak had had his sum of water, I filled my canisters with it before allowing my mule to drink from the bucket. I dropped the water bucket back into the well to retrieve more water, so Deaks mule could rejuvenate. We heard pig calls in the distance, but assumed some farmers had lost their livestock.

Once the mules were refreshed, we mounted up and rode on. Deak adjusted his tall frame on the saddle, for his mule had most certainly been too small, and I was sure he was regretting agreeing to the mule idea. Admittedly, so was I. The pig calls were heard once more.

"Whatever happened to that map you had? Of the treasure?" I wanted to spark a conversation.

Deak shook his head, "I read the map further, that treasures in Clements grave, in Clements Avenue. Back in California." I nodded in acknowledgement.

The pig calls were getting closer, Deak stopped abruptly. "You know what them sounds remind of?" He asked me.

"Yes, I didn't want to think about it." The Sheppard's have this unique way of alerting each other of hostile presence, or it was a beacon to see if any Sheppard was around. I weighed the two chances, and figured they were calling for a hostile: Deak and I.

"Neither did I. Should we proceed?"

"I think, either way, we're gonna need to kill them." I shrugged, he nodded at that and proceeded south. I followed.

We were on a dirt road, the dirt finally a deep brown rather than the red rocks Deak and I have been seeing since our travel from Gallants Swallow. The sun beat down on our backs as we traversed the rest of the five miles. Two miles later, the pig calls started again. I could hear Deak let out a loud, frustrated sigh. I chewed my cheek and listened extremely closely, Deak sped up a pace, so did I.

The air became thick with tension. The atmosphere quickly became humid, and it felt as if a storm cloud was weighing down on my shoulders. Another pig call, closer this time. The humidity became suffocating. My mule began nickering in order to breathe. A figure emerged in the distance, a man dressed in all gray and with a forage hat. Deak stopped abruptly again, and I slowed my horses pace and rested my hand on my Mauser.

"Howdy, gentlemen." A lanky man with a bushy mustache and a Confederate uniform spoke to us.

We didn't respond, and he snickered at our silence. I finally halted my horse a little bit in front of Deak. Deak already had his hand on his pistol by the time I approached his side to move in front of him. The wind fell dead, there was no breeze.