“The horse cain’t maintain this pace,” Sallie yells back at us. “The wagon is too heavy!”
“We have to slow down the horde,” I say. I pull out my sidearm and take aim at one of the nearest dead. My first shot misses, but I cock the hammer again and pull the trigger, and this time I manage to clip its knee. It goes down, tripping a few of its neighbors and causing a moment of localized catastrophe.
My third shot misses widely again, and Katherine lets out a huff beside me.
“Save your bullets,” she says, pulling out her rifle. “This wagon is bouncing all over the place, and we both know you are a middling shot, even in ideal circumstances.”
I swear, that girl would criticize God himself if he were to come down and grant her a few miracles. Still, she’s right. I put my gun away. “Here, I’ll play tripod,” I say as she begins to take aim down the length of the rifle.
She takes up position in the wagon, sinking down onto her left knee, and she plants her right foot on the floor, propping her right arm on her upper thigh. I sit in front of her, legs crossed, and plug my ears with my fingers as she rests her left hand, which cradles the rifle’s forearm, on top of my right shoulder.
“Call the count?” she says, yelling to be heard over the noise of the wheels as we hurtle along the road.
I nod. “Old white woman with a blue dress,” I say, picking out a target. “Fire at will!”
The wagon bounces along, and there’s a momentary pause as Katherine takes a shallow breath and releases it before she pulls the trigger. The shambler’s head explodes in a spray of blackened blood, its body falling sideways and collapsing the column so that at least a dozen of the others fall with it.
“Next,” Katherine calls.
“Um . . .” My mouth goes dry as I spot one of the dead toward the edge of the pack. It’s an old white man, his shirtfront covered in dried blood, and a stab of recognition zigzags through me.
It’s Pastor Snyder, the miserable preacher from Summerland.
I’d left him bleeding out from a gunshot wound in the sheriff’s office. The bullet hadn’t been mine—an errant shot from his dying son had been the cause—but I’d left him to the approaching horde all the same. Either the shamblers found him before death did, or he returned on his own with no one around to drive a nail into his forehead after he expired. And seeing him run toward the wagon ignites a fire in my chest, a determination that ain’t been there the past few hours.
I did not survive the miseries of Summerland to die on some dusty road in the middle of Kansas.
“Jane?” Katherine yells, and I realize she’s still waiting for me to call the shot.
“Indian woman wearing homespun,” I say, picking out a more centrally positioned target.
Katherine fires again, and again the shambler falls. Her rifle is a repeater, so she has four more shots before she has to reload. I thank whatever misbegotten funds supplied the armory of Summerland. The place was terrible in every single way, but at least their weapons were top-notch. The dead have already fallen a ways behind us thanks to the commotion that Katherine has caused.
We continue, me calling out the shots and her taking them until the horde falls back far enough that they’re out of range of the rifle. We can still see them, maybe a mile away.
Katherine didn’t miss a single shot.
“Best at Miss Preston’s,” she says, a mischievous grin on her face as she reloads and stows the rifle.
I roll my eyes as I turn around and sit against the back of the wagon. “If you say so.”
Sallie glances over her shoulder at the horde. “I’m glad you girls gave us some breathing room, but we got another problem.”
“What else is new,” mutters the Duchess. She holds Thomas and Lily toward the front of the wagon, and while the children both look scared, they’ve got their wits about them for the moment.
“The horse is wiped,” Sallie says. “He’s gonna run himself to death if we’re not careful.”
And, as if on cue, the horse goes down.
I grab for the side of the wagon as we skid to a sudden stop, everyone sliding around. Nessie takes a tumble, and I vault out of the wagon after her.
“You okay?” I ask as I help her to her feet.
She nods, but her face crumples immediately. “We’re going to die, ain’t we?”
I shake my head. “No. No we ain’t. Not today.”
The horse lies on his side. He’s not dead, but he’s dog-tired. I know how he feels. There have been a dozen times I’ve thought about just lying down, giving up. But that ain’t my nature.
Which is why I’m going to do what I’m about to do.
I pull the knife from my boot and cut the horse loose. He looks at me with wild eyes, panting, his sides heaving, and I feel terrible. I push the sorrow aside and swallow thickly.
“You’ve been a good horse,” I say to him. To Sallie I ask, “Is there a way to get him on his feet?”
Her eyes widen as she realizes what I mean. “We can try,” she says, coming to stand next to me.
She grabs his reins and tries pulling him to his feet. At first he refuses to budge, so I walk behind him and push his rump like I can will him to rise. The horse tries to roll over, back onto his feet. It’s no use.
He’s finished.
“Let’s try once more,” Sallie says.
She pulls on the reins, and I get my shoulder behind the horse. This time he gets up, unsteady. His sides heave and there’s a wet, soapy-looking coating all over him. But I’m hoping he can serve one last purpose.
One of the first tenets of instruction at Miss Preston’s is that an Attendant must be willing to do whatever is necessary to protect her charge. Anything, no matter how distasteful.
Katherine draws up beside me. “Jane,” she says. She knows what I’m about. It seems that today is all about doing the most regrettable things.
Once the horse has gained his footing, I take the reins from Sallie and turn the horse toward the plains. I draw my pistol and fire a shot right next to him. Just as before, it’s enough to spook him. And this time, no one is holding the reins to keep his burst of speed under control.
The horse takes off across the prairie, perpendicular to where we stand. How light and free he must feel without the weight of the wagon behind him. But as he runs, so, too, does the following horde, shifting to sprint after the movement of a potential meal.
“Come on,” I say after it’s clear that the horde is on the horse and not us any longer. I don’t wait to watch the horse fall again. I can’t.
I won’t mourn the horse. I’ve already got enough grieving to do.
I take Thomas and help the Duchess out of the wagon. “Let’s not waste any more daylight.”
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.
—Psalm 23: 1–3
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 8
Notes on a Struggle
It is with a dark mood that we set out after losing the horse. Jane carries Thomas, and after only a little while Lily begins to fall behind, so I carry her as well. We had to abandon all but a few of the provisions we were able to scrounge up at the homestead, and after only a short ways I realize that having to leave behind the jugs of water we pumped is a huge blow. The landscape is desolate, nothing but grass and a few scrub trees, and the sun unforgiving. We will be lucky to make it to Nicodemus.