Crow Bait

Three

A step…

…then a second…

…and a third.

Good, Lancaster, you’re almost walking.

Then, when the fourth step came down on a sharp rock, he cried out and sat back down, hard.

“Goddamnit!”

He wasn’t going to get far trying to walk in his socks. After a few moments of thought, he decided he could do without the bottom parts of the legs of his jeans. He’d tear them off in strips and wrap them around his feet. That would give him some protection, though probably not as much as even a pair of moccasins.

He was thirsty and beaten up, but was not yet weak. At least, he had the strength to tear his pants legs into strips. By the time he was done, his feet were wrapped and his jeans came down to his knees.

Time to try to get to his feet again.

As he put his hands down on the ground to push himself up, he felt something next to him. He looked down and saw that it was his hat. He hadn’t noticed it before. At least he’d have that to keep the sun out of his eyes and off his head. He grabbed it and jammed it on.

He repeated the stages, getting his feet beneath him, standing with hands on his knees, and then straightening. He arched his back, winced at the pain in his ribs but did not give in to it. He looked around him. In every direction he saw nothing except an occasional Joshua tree, which was indigenous to the Mojave Desert.

Lancaster knew that the Colorado River was approximately fifty miles to the east. Under normal circumstances—being on horseback—it was an easy ride. On foot it would be more difficult. On foot, with no boots, no water, and having been badly beaten, it would be nearly impossible to get there alive.

But that’s what he had to do. The nearest town he knew of was Laughlin. He remembered more now. He had actually been heading to Laughlin when his attackers set upon him. They came riding at him and, being the cautious type, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d kicked his horse into a gallop, rather than stand and draw down on them. In retrospect, he probably should have stood and fought. It’s what he would have done in the old days. The rest was still a blur, but he remembered his horse going down and throwing him. Next thing he knew he was being beaten and kicked…

He took a few steps, testing his denim-wrapped feet. It was better—better than socks, certainly better than bare feet.

The sun had long since hit its zenith and was on the way down. He had a few hours of daylight, which was good. He’d last had a drink of water just before the riders came up on him. He wouldn’t have to walk in the hot sun for very long. Once it got dark he’d keep walking, make as much time as he could in the dark.

There were four-legged predators he’d have to be careful of—snakes, coyotes, and bobcats. If he ran into any of them, he’d have to be able to defend himself. He’d have to find something—a club, a rock—something he could use if and when the time came.

But he’d have to rest if he was going to make it, and that’s when he’d have to watch for insects—spiders and scorpions, mostly.

Resting was far from his mind at the moment, though. What he had to do at the moment was get moving and keep moving. The one thing that could most kill him was if he lost consciousness—and there was good chance of that. He knew he’d been kicked in the head at least a couple of times. His dizziness was not completely gone, but if he gave into it and passed out he knew he might never wake up.

So Lancaster started walking.