Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to go that far,” Nora replied.

Swire parceled out the horses according to ability and temperament, and soon everyone was holding a pair of horses by the halters and reins. Nora lofted herself into the saddle, Goddard and Aragon following her example. Nora could see from Sloane’s lightly balanced seat that she was an expert horsewoman. The rest stood around, looking nervous.

Swire turned to the group. “Well,” he said, “what’s taking you? Git on up!”

There was some grunting and nervous hopping, but soon everyone was sitting in the saddle, some slouched, some ramrod straight. Aragon was moving his horse around, backing him up, turning him on the forehand, another clearly experienced rider.

“Just don’t make me unlearn any bad habits,” Smithback said, sitting on Hurricane Deck. “I like to steer with the saddlehorn.”

Swire ignored this. “Lesson number one. Hold the reins in your left hand, and the pack-horse lead rope in your right. It’s simple.”

“Yeah,” said Smithback, “like driving two cars at once.”

Holroyd, sitting awkwardly on his horse, let out a nervous bray of laughter, then fell silent abruptly, glancing at Nora.

“How are you doing, Peter?” Nora asked him.

“I prefer motorcycles,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.

Swire walked over first to Holroyd, then Black, correcting their postures and grips. “Don’t let the lead rope get wedged under your horse’s tail,” he said to Black, who was letting his rope droop dangerously. “Or you might find your horse with a sudden bellyful of bedsprings.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Black said, hastily drawing in the slack.

“Nora plans to ride point,” Swire said. “That’s up front, for you dudes. I’ll ride drag. And Dr. Goddard over there, she’ll ride swing.” He leaned over and looked at Sloane. “Where’d you learn to ride?”

“Here and there,” Sloane smiled.

“Well, I guess you’ve done a bit of here-ing and thereing.”

“Remind me how to steer,” Black said, clutching the reins.

“First, give your horse some slack. Now move your reins back and forth, like this. The horse gets his cue when he feels one rein or the other touch his neck.” He looked around. “Any questions?”

There were none. The air had grown sullen in the late morning heat, smelling of sego lilies and cedar.

“Well, then, let’s jingle our spurs.”

Nora put heels to her horse and rode forward, Holroyd and the rest falling into place behind her.

“You’ve taken a reading?” she asked Holroyd.

He nodded and smiled at her, patting the laptop computer that peeped, wildly out of place, from one of his weathered saddlebags. Nora took a final look at her map. Then she nudged her horse forward and they headed into the sandstone wilderness.

17

THEY MOVED UP SERPENTINE CANYON SINGLE file, crossing and recrossing the little creek that flowed in its bottom. On both sides of the canyon, windblown sand had piled up against the stone cliffs in drifts, covered with a scattering of grass and desert flowers. Here and there they passed juniper trees, stunted and coiled into fantastic shapes. Elsewhere, blocks of sandstone had come loose from the canyon walls and spilled across its bottom, creating piles of rubble the horses had to pick through with care. Canyon wrens flitted about in the shadows, and swallows darted out from beneath overhanging lips of sandstone, their mud nests like warts on the underside of the rock. A few white clouds drifted past the canyon rims, a quarter mile above their heads. The group followed silently behind Nora, lost in this strange new world.

Nora inhaled deeply. The gentle rocking motion of Fiddlehead felt familiar and comforting. She glanced at the animal. She was a twelve-year-old sorrel, clearly an experienced dude horse, wise and melancholy. As they proceeded, she proved herself sure-footed in the rocks, putting her nose down and picking her way with the utmost attention to self-preservation. While she was far from handsome, she was strong and sensible. Except for Hurricane Deck, Sloane’s horse Compañero, and Swire’s own two mounts, the horses were similar to Nora’s: not very pretty, but solid ranch stock. She approved of Swire’s judgment; her experience growing up had given her a low opinion of expensive, overbred horses who looked great in the show ring but couldn’t wait to kill themselves in the mountains. She remembered her father buying and selling horses with his usual flair and bluster, turning away pampered animals, saying We don’t want any of those country-club horses around here, do we, Nora?

She twisted in the saddle to look back at the other riders trailing behind her, pack horses in tow. While some of the riders, notably Black and Holroyd, looked lumpy and unbalanced, the rest looked competent, particularly Sloane Goddard, who moved up and down the line with ease, checking cinches and giving suggestions.

And Smithback was a surprise. Hurricane Deck was clearly a spirited horse, and there were a few tense moments at first while Smithback’s oaths and imprecations filled the air. But Smithback knew enough to show the horse who was boss, and he was now riding confidently. He may be full of himself, she thought, but he looks pretty good on a horse.

“Where’d you learn to ride?” she called back.

“I spent a couple of years at a prep school in Arizona,” the writer answered. “I was a sickly, whining brat of a kid, and my parents thought it would make a man of me. I arrived late the first term, and all the horses were taken except this one big old guy named Turpin. He’d chewed on barbed wire at some point and torn his tongue, and it was always hanging out, this long pink disgusting thing. So nobody wanted him. But Turpin was the fastest horse at the school. We’d race down the dry creekbeds or bush-bend through the desert, and Turpin always won.” He shook his head at the memory, chuckling.

Suddenly, the smile on his face was replaced with a look of shock. “What the hell?” He spun around. Following his gaze, Nora saw Smithback’s pack horse, Beetlebum, dart back. A rope of saliva was dripping off Smithback’s leg.

“That damn horse just tried to bite me!” Smithback roared, full of indignation. The pack horse looked back, his face a picture of surprised innocence.

“That old Beetlebum,” said Swire, shaking his head affectionately. “He’s sure got a sense of humor.”

Smithback wiped his leg. “So I see.”

After another half hour of uneventful riding Nora brought the group to a halt. From an aluminum tube tied to her saddle, she removed the U.S.G.S. topo onto which Holroyd had superimposed the radar data. She examined it for a moment, then motioned him over.

“Time for a GPS reading,” she said. She knew that six miles up Serpentine Canyon they had to branch off into a smaller canyon, marked HARD TWIST on the map. The trick would be identifying which of the endless parade of side canyons they were passing was Hard Twist. Down on the canyon bottom, every bend looked the same.

Holroyd dug into his saddlebag and pulled out the GPS unit, a laptop into which he had downloaded all the navigation and waypoint data. While Nora waited, he booted the computer, then began to tap at the keyboard. After a few minutes he grimaced, then shook his head.

“I was afraid of that,” he said.

Nora frowned. “Don’t tell me it isn’t powerful enough.”

Holroyd laughed crookedly. “Powerful? It uses a twenty-four-channel GPS reader with an infrared remote. It can plot positions, geocode locations automatically, leave breadcrumb trails, everything.”

“Then what’s the problem? Broken already?”

“Not broken, just unable to get a fix. It has to locate at least three geostationary satellites simultaneously to get a reading. With these high canyon walls, it can’t even pick up one. See?”