“Did you remember to add tobacco to the order?” Marcus Crane leaned in the doorway and pushed back his hat.
Making a notation, Colt replied, “Now I have, Lieutenant. Do you think twenty crates of beer will be enough?”
Marcus snorted and rolled his neck. “Doubtful. Who knows when the next shipment of supplies will come, and they never send as much as requested. Better make it thirty.”
Colt and Marcus had developed a workable rapport. Marcus seemed more comfortable around him than at first, yet he hadn’t opened up or spoken further about his father. Colt wished for him to be a friend—especially in this godforsaken place. Maybe one day. He changed the twenty to thirty.
“I ordered fresh fruits and vegetables, but we’ll probably get institutional-sized cans, bags of flour, rice, and dried beans, and maybe some salt pork or canned emu.”
“At least we won’t starve,” Marcus said. “I presume you included soap.”
Colt looked up and gave Marcus a withering look. “First thing on the list. Here.” He held out the paper. Marcus strolled in and took it. “See if you can think of anything else.”
“Oh, I can think of a bushel and a peck else,” Marcus laughed, “but we won’t get it.” He glanced at the form while the overhead fan squeaked. “Looks like you’ve covered it.”
Outside the window, voices rose. A horse whinnied. Someone shouted, “Captain!”
Marcus turned toward the door, and Colt stood, curious about the commotion. Corporal Elias Mercer stepped in, his dark skin dulled by a layer of dust and the first honest expression Colt had ever seen him wear. Sweat glistened off his neck, and he panted out his breath. Colt tensed before Mercer spoke a word.
“What is it?” he asked, stepping around his desk.
Mercer swallowed, his muscles pulled taut. “I’m not sure. You need to see it, though.”
Several other men from Mercer’s morning patrol gathered behind him in the doorway. One pulled off his hat. Another rocked from foot to foot. A third looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Colt glanced at Marcus. “You’re in charge. OK, Mercer; show me.”
Because it was Elias Mercer—the man behind the crate crash and several other acts of harassment, a soldier who had never looked at Colt without spite or ulterior motive, who had come here on early prison release after beating a man half to death—Colt paid attention. Mercer had presented himself as a soldier without scruples, who disregarded rules and his comrades’ welfare, yet there he stood, in the commander’s office, giving a report. Either this was an elaborate scheme to try to murder him, or he had seen something extraordinary on patrol. The expressions on the other men’s faces pointed to the latter.
“Yeah, I’ll just throw a big party while you’re gone, Captain Irons,” Marcus said.
Colt stared at him gravely. “Make sure the requisition request gets sent.”
His grin fading, Marcus tightened his jaw. “Yes, sir.”
Colt strode across the sandy yard to the stable where Big Tony brought out his half-Arab Appaloosa, already saddled. He walked the horse back to where the morning patrol squad stood around holding their mounts’ reins, passing troubled looks.
“Corporal Mercer,” Colt said as he stuck a boot in the stirrup. “Lead the way.” He pulled up, threw his leg over the gelding, and tugged his hat tight.
“You heard the captain,” Mercer said, sounding like a genuine corporal. “Mount up.”
Colt exuded confidence as they rode out, all the while his instincts prickled.What if Mercer is up to something?His revolver held six shots before reloading. There were eight of them.At least I’ve got the faster horse.
They cantered east along a ridge, the ribbon of blue-green water contrasting beautifully with the red, ochre, and yellow stripes in the sheer cliffs the river had carved centuries ago. The sun beat down on them as it did every day. After a couple of hours in the saddle, Colt asked, “Where is it we’re going? And what exactly did you see?”
“Can’t say exactly,” answered a private riding nearest to Colt. “But it was just a little farther, past that butte over yonder.” He pointed at a tall, red rock, shaped like a castle spire—or a phallus, depending on where one’s mind wandered. “It’s across the river.”
Here, the banks lay at the bottom of the canyon, but, farther east, the slopes eased, creating a suitable crossing point. Colt would prefer to stay on this side of the river. It was the established boundary of the Red River Republic, and he wasn’t sure who, if anyone, lived on the other side. Tales spoke of tremendous beasts and brutal tribes of barbarians to the south. All Colt had ever seen were snakes, jackrabbits, and coyotes. If there were people there, wouldn’t someone have seen them by now?
I hope this isn’t a plot to murder me, he thought, wishing he hadn’t come. But Mercer seemed sincere. When Colt had given Sergeant Slater more responsibility, his attitude had improved. Mercer deserved the same chance.
When they rounded the butte, Mercer slowed to a trot, then a walk, finally halting near the escarpment’s edge overlooking the river. A kilometer or more across the plateau, a dust cloud rose. Slowly, shapes formed within the haze. Colt raised a spyglass to his eye and focused.
Low vehicles kicked up long tan plumes, light buggies built for sand with wide tires skimming the ground instead of fighting it. Figures rode in them wearing sun-bleached clothing the color of dust and dry clay. Alongside, dirt bikes and other riders on horseback bounced over the terrain.
“What is it?” Mercer asked. “And what’s that?” He pointed at something floating high above the creeping dust.
A balloon hung in the sky like a pale, sunburned fruit. “A balloon,” Colt answered. Something larger loomed behind the balloon, vast and silent, like a leviathan that had learned to fly.