Chapter 35 Dust on the Horizon
Chapter thirty-five
Dust on the Horizon
Fort Desperado, the same day
Colt sat at his desk, filling out a requisition for supplies while the limp overhead fan creaked slowly in circles, stirring dust. He’d settled in as best he could and learned the names of all sixty men stationed at Fort Desperado.
He had earned the respect of some, but others remained wary or resentful of anyone in authority.
It was what it was. Though only a few weeks had passed since his exile, Colt missed his family.
He even missed Jace. I wonder what he’s up to?
“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.
“Yes, but what’s that?” Mercer repeated.
It looked like a small ship, a wooden hull reinforced with metal, supported by an even larger, oblong balloon.
Its hull bore a strange banner Colt had never seen before: a stepped pyramid beneath a green sun.
The craft moved slowly, deliberately, as if the desert itself carried it forward.
Riders below kept loose formation, rifles slung, scanning the horizon with patient discipline.
“A …” Colt lowered the spyglass and blinked. He didn’t know what to call it. “An airship?” He’d never seen the like.
“What do you think they want?” asked a patrolman.
Colt lifted the spyglass again, squinting into the glare, but the distance swallowed most details. Whoever they were, they moved in formation, not like raiders or wanderers. The column kept a steady pace, scouts spreading along the edges like hounds on the flank.
They did not look like marauders.
“Do you think they are traders or travelers from the Badlands?” Mercer asked. The garrison had taken to calling the area south of the river “the Badlands.”
“Should we go meet them?” asked another soldier.
“Or turn out the post with full arms to fight them?” suggested another.
“Maybe twenty or thirty on the ground,” Colt speculated. “No telling how many in that airship, but a recon balloon only holds four or five comfortably.”
“Could they be scouts?” Mercer’s gaze was intense, his tone serious.
Colt lowered the spyglass, folded it down, and met Mercer’s eyes. “Whose scouts?”
“Don’t know.” Mercer spat tobacco, his horse pawing the parched sand, its head bobbing.
“Well, they aren’t primitive barbarians,” Colt declared. “Not enough to cause trouble, but, wherever they came from, there must be more. Let’s head back to the fort. You were right to point this out to me, Corporal. Good job.”
Mercer nodded, sipped from his canteen, and spat again. “See, fellas? They’re just strangers out for a ride. Let’s go home.” Turning his horse away from the edge, Mercer led the patrol.
Colt took a sip from his canteen, then kicked his horse forward to catch Mercer on the ride back to the fort.
A few hours later, after bathing and changing his uniform, Colt sat back at his desk to compose a note to send to Fort Resolute in Dominion, informing them of the sighting. From what he’d read in Major Voss’s journals, nothing ever happened here. That alone made today newsworthy.
Strangers sighted across the river. Vehicles. A balloon. An airship. Identity unknown. Intention unknown. Deserves attention. Ochre flag with pyramid and green sun. Heading north. Please advise. —Irons
While he was rolling it for the pigeon tube, Marcus walked in. “So, what did Mercer find? The guys are all going on about a giant balloon and strange dune buggies.”
“That’s about right,” Colt said. “But we don’t know who they are, what they’re doing this close to the border, or what they want.
Could be traveling traders. They had weapons and were all dressed alike, but they weren’t like any uniforms I’ve ever seen.
And that ship suspended from a colossal, cylindrical balloon appeared to have a propulsion system. Never seen anything like it.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “I thought they were just shooting the breeze.”
Colt let out a laugh. “Dr. Venz would love to get a closer look at that airship. ‘Lost genius,’ he’d mutter while his beady eyes glowed.”
Marcus shook his head. “Sometimes I forget you used to be on the president’s council with … with the general.”
With the note tucked in the tube, Colt rose and crossed to Marcus. He clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “What’s the entertainment for tonight?”
“Slater has organized a round-robin poker tournament.” They walked toward the door. “Winners of each group move on to play each other. Losers are free to place bets. And no fighting.” He grinned. “I’ll be watching the games like a hawk. Wanna play?”
Colt blushed. “No poker for me, but I’ll help you keep them honest. Just let me send this note off.”
“Sure. Should we be worried?” Marcus stopped on the front porch, tilted his head, and caught Colt’s eye.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I want daily patrols in that area reporting any other activity—especially if they cross the river. They didn’t strike me as bandits or raiders. Too organized. Too well-equipped. Still, much too small to constitute a military threat.”
“Well, we know one thing we didn’t yesterday,” Marcus said. He glanced out at the troops performing their chores, milling around, or heading to the mess hall. An eagle screamed overhead as the sun sank low in the west. “We aren’t the only people surviving in this wretched desert.”