The next morning, Annie remained silent, not engaging in any discourse at all and Henry considered he had pushed too far the night before. Knowing the truth about Annie, whether she was Annabelle, was important. It gave context to her desire to dole out justice to those that had taken the Potter family from the world. It would connect her to that tragic, avoidable event. As it stood, a mysterious stranger taking on the burden left too many questions unanswered.
The Drifters within the town continued to mill about, and it took a deal of care and delicacy to saddle the horses and lead them out of the gates without drawing attention to themselves. Once outside, Annie closed the gates and used paint and a brush, found in the livery, to write upon those gates, giving warning for any unwary travellers.
"ALL DEAD."
A more morose message Henry could not imagine. Even as they rode away, heading west, Henry continued to look back toward the town, wondering whether anyone would clear it of those voracious creatures and giving the town a new lease of life, or whether it would stand as a testament to the state of the world. A graveyard filled by the restless corpses that may once have called the town home. For now, Simmons had become lost. Henry did not wish it to become forgotten.
He had finally written something, words tumbling from his mind. Sitting upon the cot, the flickering lights of the lamps and candles giving no comfort, he had attempted to record what he had seen, scratching out everything he wrote more than once. No matter what words he used, he doubted he could give the events justice. His words incomparable to the horrors he had witnessed. Annie had slept. The sleep of the just, or the dreamless sleep of someone who cared only for vengeance, Henry could not imagine.
Without knowing exactly where Shipton's ranch lay, he could not begin to guess how long it would take to reach the place. The Santa Maria Mountains reached into a sky that had become clouded and overcast, as though a barrier prevented any conquering those rugged slopes from reaching the glory of the Heavens. The plains of Williamson's Valley stretched out before them like a parchment awaiting a pen to record the peaks and troughs of the landscape.
They soon reached a creek that stretched back toward those mountains and, on the other side, Henry saw a large herd of Drifters. Too far for them to sense Henry and Annie, but still far too close for Henry to find any comfort. They moved around, bumping into one another, swapping positions, making it difficult for Henry to count, but he estimated upwards of four score of the rotting, mobile corpses.
Further along, they had to cross the creek to avoid another large herd, causing Henry to wonder whether the evil of the man they hunted had some way of drawing evil to him. Of course, that was not possible, Henry's mind playing tricks upon him, causing him to ascribe supernatural means to a simple, post-Starfall, natural fact. The Drifters congregated. They migrated in search of the living upon whom they could feed. No other reason played a part in their actions. No sinister play by evil men.
Of course, it now appeared that Arthur Shipton could no longer be described as a man if Annie's thoughts were correct. Yet, Henry could not say for certain that she was. They had found nothing that pointed to Shipton being the cause of the massacre at the church in Simmons. Nothing to show that the man had ever entered the town, let alone transformed into a Murcie. Only Annie's intuition made that claim and only the words of one, vile individual even mentioned Shipton living in these parts.
"Is it possible that Hennessy lied?" Not for the first time, Henry adjusted the scythe tucked in his belt. What with that and the revolver, he had little space left to breathe. "Perhaps he remained loyal to Shipton? Sending you this way in the knowledge of Simmons' loss? Perhaps he hoped the Drifters within the town would put an end to you?"
"Maybe." Annie's head moved in slow, wide arcs as she watched the undulating landscape, ready for any chance of happening upon Drifters. Or worse. "Maybe Shipton ain't out this way. Maybe he is, but he ain't the Murcie that done killed those folks. Maybe he is on both counts. If'n I don't see with my own eyes, then I cannot say for certain."
She had no option. Annie had searched for Shipton and his gang for years and, from what Henry could tell, this was the closest she had come to the man since the tale she had told of their encounter in the New Mexico territory. She could no more ignore the possibility, the chance, of finding Shipton than she could ignore her own hand before her eyes. To her, he was there and that certainty drove her onward.
The landscape began to change as they became enclosed by the stretching fingers of the foothills of the Santa Maria Mountains, entering a valley between two rises. One to the north, the other to the south, with the creek running almost exactly through the middle. The land had flattened. The rolling, rugged landscape giving way to a more lush, tree-filled area, much more suited to cattle farming than almost anywhere else between here and Prescott.
Even with his limited tracking skills, Henry could see well-used trails weaving between the separated stands of trees. Not quite roads, or even paths, but used often enough to leave signs of passage. Passage by horses, if the sight of hoof prints were not his imagination. Someone came this way, on fairly regular schedules, and now Annie began to bring their pace down to a slow trot.
Without warning, the woman dropped from her horse, swinging her pitchfork from her back and into her hands. Keeping low, she began to creep forward, circling a copse of trees and, as she did so, Henry heard what Annie had already sensed. The sound of a Drifter, hissing and growling. Henry's curiosity overruled his sense of self-preservation as he dismounted, taking the scythe from his belt and following Annie around the stand of trees.
He found her, stood not a foot away from the reaching fingers of the Drifter, teeth snapping as it tried to reach her, but she had little to worry about. Someone had attached the Drifter to a stout fence. A fence strong enough to hold back cattle. It was not the only Drifter held in this fashion. The fencing stretched out to both sides, heading north and south, meandering through the trees, cutting across the creek Henry and Annie had remained close by as they rode.
Not in the fashion that Hennessy had decorated his cabin. These Drifters did not appear to serve the purpose of ornamentation for the pleasure of a madman. These were set here purposefully. With care and attention to detail. Not ripped apart by an axe to adorn cabin walls, but as a deterrent. Or as a warning. One Drifter, every five feet or so. Each held secure by ropes to the cattle fencing. Even upon the gate that sat only ten feet away.
"I believe this is intended to keep prying eyes from what lies ahead." Henry heard the sound of Drifter hissing rise in volume as the Drifters on either side noticed their presence. "I suppose it's one way of securing your privacy. Cattle rustlers would think twice about entering here."
"I don't reckon its all for that." She used her pitchfork to point away to the north. "Reckon it don't only keep human folks out."
A Drifter had wandered through the trees, unseen by Henry and even Annie until that moment. It shuffled and stumbled forward, its jaw opening and closing as it stepped, as though imagining the taste of human flesh. Upon reaching the fence, however, the Drifter did not try to continue walking forward. Nor did it shift to move to its right, toward Henry and Annie, or to the left and further north. Instead, it appeared to peer at the Drifter attached to the fencing, sniffed its brethren twice, turned and began to walk the other way, back where it had come.
"Fascinating!" Even in his excitement, Henry remembered to keep his glee under control. "I've never seen that before. The Drifter upon the fence appears as though it walks the other way. The other Drifter followed its example! Calling their gatherings 'herds' is far more appropriate than I thought!"
"So, Shipton keeps Drifters and human folks away by having these here corpses attached to that fence?" She gave an appreciative nod before leaning forward, sniffing the Drifter before her. "Good to know. Get back to the horses. I need to get a good look at this place."
She pointed up toward a ridge that climbed up, above the height of the trees. Before Henry turned to return to his horse, he watched as Annie continued to observe the Drifter tied to the fence. Several times, the reaching fingers of the Drifter almost caught her, but she held back far enough. Barely. She took her pitchfork and, instead of piercing the creature's brain, she dug the tines into the Drifter's body.
Taking out the pitchfork, she touched the gore covered prongs of the pitchfork, lifting her fingers to her nose before retching and turning her head to the side. With a nod, she crouched, wiping her stinking fingers in the dirt. Henry had no idea what that entire scene entailed, but it appeared to satisfy Annie. She cupped dirt in her hand, allowing it to drift from her palm as she looked beyond the fence, nodding to herself.
Whatever she had learned from piercing the Drifter, it involved the cattle ranch beyond the fence. If Shipton were within the confines of that fence, he had no idea what was coming his way.