Rider at the Gate

Cloud just kept plowing ahead, dragging him with him, imaging <mountains,> while he returned raw anger, that was most of it, and, <road,> when he wasn’t fighting for footing. He was determined to win the fight, determined he wasn’t going to give in with the seniors watching from below, not if he had to walk for the next three days.

But Cloud was mad, too. Cloud took out on a particularly steep uphill and Da

At once he gave up his grip on the mane, which put the downhill under him—he fell through empty space, curled to protect his head, landed with his baggage under his back and skidded downhill over the slick, dusty grass.

He fetched up finally on a small grassy hump, momentarily out of slope to slide on, with the laughter of the strangers ringing out from below the hill. His feet were pointed upslope—between which he saw Cloud standing staring down at him.

He rolled over, struggled against the downhill slant to get his feet under him, and got up, with the thong-tied packets banging about his arms, without the weight of the pistol in its holster. He saw it downslope, beyond him, and he slouched down the hill in a fit of temper, recovered it to its holster and sulked on down to the road, walking aslant on the hill, because the Westmans and Hawley, having had their laugh, were going on, leaving him to sort it out, and he had to overtake them, afoot or ahorse, they clearly didn’t care.

He was mortified. He didn’t look back to find out where Cloud was. He limped on down toward the road, intending to intercept them, still finding bits of dry grass to pick out of leather seams and brush out of his hair.

Cloud couldn’t resist making him look the fool. It was one thing when he dumped him in front of the juniors. It was another, when he was working, when matters were serious and he was out on the road. He was furious with Cloud. The seniors were clearly disgusted with him. Their riding on meant they were testing him, whether he could get himself together and catch up.

And then he either misjudged where he should intercept the others, or misjudged how fast he had to follow, because by the time he reached sight of the road, having crossed over the shoulder of the hill—they were nowhere in sight.

He went downslope, not believing that they would have left the road and turned off cross-country, but not sure of that until he saw their tracks in the dirt of the roadway.

So he followed them, having no suppositions whatsoever that Cloud was going to leave him. Cloud was up there in the hills, not far, probably watching him, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge that fact.

So Cloud wouldn’t carry him. Then Cloud could trail him along the heights of the hills, playing his little games while he fell farther and farther behind the Westmans, and while the Westmans laughed at Cloud’s foolish junior rider, that was all Cloud had gained.

Meanwhile he was hurt. He’d bruised his backside, his shoulders, and all but knocked the wind out of himself. He had itchy grass down his collar that he couldn’t reach. He’d hurt his ankle when he hit the rock that caused his fall, and it was probably swelling. He might be lame for life. He hoped Cloud was satisfied, making him look like a fool, which Cloud had to do every damned time it was really important to convince somebody that he knew what he was doing, and he hoped Cloud really enjoyed his temper tantrum. Cloud’s rider was humiliated, and bruised, and ready to guard cattle for the rest of their lives.

Which would probably happen to them. He’d fall so far behind the other riders he’d never catch up. He and Cloud would have to limp back to Shamesey camp alone, their reputation would be ruined, all the high country riders would know he wasn’t to be relied upon, the juniors would laugh at them, and they’d never, ever, ever make it to the mountains.

He wasn’t sure Cloud heard him that far up the hill. He was too mad to care. The other riders were out so far ahead now he no longer tried to overtake them. He could only hope they stayed on the road, and didn’t put him to tracking them across open country, at which he wasn’t as good as he needed to be.

He could lose them if they got off the road and he’d be out in the dark alone with the goblin cats and the willy-wisps.

He was damnedmad.

<Rain> came to his mind.

Maybethat was his thought.

Fine, he said to himself, and sulked along, limping with his sore ankle on the rutted road, a mere track the trucks maintained, dragging chain on the undercarriages to keep the weeds down. It was a fine road for trucks. It was perfectly fine for nighthorses.

It was a damned sorry mess for human feet.

It was a damned long walk, measured in telephone poles and sore joints, and in the tracks of the riders in front of him, riders doubtless laughing at him. And he was more and more sure that Cloud was up there on the heights, as steep as the hills had risen above this section of road.

Maybe the other riders could stop for noon break, but he didn’t dare stop, for fear of not overtaking them before dark. He kept thinking, irritably, <Rain falling. > Cloud understood that. <Rain falling on hills. Rain falling on rocks and grass. Rain falling on Cloud. >

And eventually, when his steps were growing shorter and shorter, and his tailbone decidedly hurt with every step, he saw a dim image of <boy with a silly lot of baggage swinging about him, far, far below the hilltop. >

<Rain,> he sent. He’d learned stubbor

< Da

< Da