The horse, evidently as relieved as they were to be back in (quasi) civilisation, plodded on determinedly down the main street. Young felt the eyes on him, or, more accurately, on his uniform.
It struck him again, acutely, as it had been doing occasionally during their long ride here, that he was the last. His column were all dead. He and this foreign doctor, the only remnants of their respective lives. He felt rather than saw Rush staring around them, as if looking for something specific. Probably the general stores. There were a few signs of life in the early day: the gawkers already out on the porches, a woman leaning warily out of a window, shaking out a battered-to-unrecognisible garment.
No children. That was odd. Not even really any animals. There was something clogged and unhealthy about the air in the place, as if it had been dead for centuries and was having a hard time of its resurrection. Sound seemed muffled - the horse’s dragging hooves made soft, dead sounds in the dust of main street.
If this place was really someone’s Destiny, Young couldn’t help hoping that it wasn’t his. Something smelt wrong here, like the rank closeness under a porch in high summer when something had crawled in and died.
A tug and roll of the saddle drew his attention back to immediate things. Behind him, Rush was starting to dismount, even though the horse was still continuing its determined search for a trough or a stable. Young yanked on the reins, starting to feel an ache starting behind his eyes as the sun began to brighten into its habitual searing brilliance. The man didn’t even have to talk to be a pain in the ass.
“Trading post is that way,” he said, raising his voice as Rush freed his boot from the stirrup and strode off in a contrary direction, his gait rapid and strange. “Hey. If you’re in such a hurry -”
Dirt scraped loudly as Rush stopped, not dead still but swaying now. In that moment Young abruptly recognised the way he was standing, recognised the posture, and swore under his breath before raising his voice.
Rush dropped, all of a sudden and all of a heap. Dust puffed up in clouds around him and Young’s horse skittered, huffing nervously, as Young swung down with alacrity.
There had been a man in Young’s column who had been a veteran of the first Indian skirmishes - Franklin, his name had been - and he’d managed to hide a gangrenous slash across the ribs for over three weeks before finally just falling from his horse during the longest, hottest day of the year. The smell should have tipped them off, but nothing smells good after almost a year in the saddle. That and the fact that he’d kept his coat buttoned tight despite the heat. Franklin had died out there and they’d buried him unmarked, doing the best they could with the empty landscape. A few rocks. A stick. That loss had hurt Young more than most because he felt he could have done something. No, should. Should have done something. Franklin had had a family. People who would miss him. And now that family wouldn’t even have a body to bury decently.
Rush had been standing the same way Franklin had stood every time they’d stopped and dismounted for that three weeks. Taking too much care, holding himself too straight.
Goddamnit, the man was wounded and Young hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to notice because the man was such a piece of work. His sense of responsibility, blunted by the trauma of losing his men, roared back up into life as he approached the crumpled form. Rush was face down in the dirt, his head and his dirty hair spilling over his outflung hand.
Young turned him over carefully, reaching down to his own belt and digging out his flask. He dribbled water through Rush’s cracked, pale lips.
“Were you even drinking, you stupid son of a bitch,” he murmured. Rush didn’t stir. Water leaked from the corner of his slack mouth and out into the dust.
Young looked up, squinting, hand raised against the climbing sun. A woman was silhouetted against the light, wisps of blond hair escaping her hat and haloing her head.
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