Alone, Book 3: The Journey by Darrell Maloney Page B

This appears to be the best way to do that.”
         “How long before you figure you’ll be back?”
         “I honestly don’t know. If I can keep my vehicle running and keep anyone from taking it, it might be as soon as a week or two. If I have to go on foot, and if we have to return on foot, it could be early summer.”
         “Well, I wish you well. If you do come back this way, stop on the bridge to Screaming Woman Creek and fire two shots. We’ll come running to say hello.”
         “It’s funny you should mention that. I saw the sign that said, ‘Screaming Woman Creek: 1 Mile.’ There’s got to be a story behind the name.”
         “This used to be Indian Territory. Apaches, mostly. The story goes that a long time ago, a brave went out on a war party and never came back. His squaw cried in sorrow, and to this day you can still hear her wailing on a windy day.”
         “Interesting.”
         “Of course, some say it’s just the way the valley interacts with the winds, whipping through the mesquite trees. But me, I’d rather believe the legend. Despite all of our so-called ‘progress’ since the wild west days, I still believe this part of the country has its own magic. And as long as those old stories live on, the old west will too.”
         “I agree. And if I come back this way with my family, we’ll definitely stop to say hello.”
         Shadow never got off his horse, but leaned down to shake Dave’s hand.
         Stan handed back Dave’s loaded handgun, butt first. Dave had won his trust. As Stan mounted up he said, “Good luck to you, partner. I don’t like your odds. But I hope you make it.”
         “Thank you.”
         A few minutes later Dave was back behind the wheel, cruising once again at fifteen miles an hour. He was still just a bit shaken by the whole ordeal. It’s not a pleasant thing for a man to have loaded weapons pointed at him.
         But at the same time, his faith that the nation would continue to recover from the blackout was renewed.
         Somehow, just knowing there were still men like Dakota, Shadow and Stan around, still riding fences the old way, still protecting their cattle, made him proud to be a Texan.
         But for now he couldn’t dwell on that. He had a mission. And he had to focus. He’d let his guard down once and was stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t let it happen again.
         He pressed on, changing roads a couple of times and having to briefly stop and make sure he wasn’t getting himself lost.
         And he got better at reading the horizon. The tree line was a couple of shades darker than the night sky beyond it. Once he figured that out, he could glance up from the road every few seconds.
         If he saw a break dead ahead in the slightly darker tree line, where the highway cut through it, he knew that the road was straight for half a mile or so.
         No break meant there was a curve ahead.
         Once he figured that out, he was able to speed up a bit.
         Hopefully enough to outrun any other cowboys, or marauders, on horseback.
         Granted, it was a small thing. But it was a combination of small things he’d learned over the past couple of years that had kept him alive this long.
         He also noticed that there were far fewer abandoned cars on the road. And no big rigs at all. Big rigs never used the smaller county roads and state highways. They slowed them down, and they had deliveries to make.
         The absence of the trucks and the fewer cars allowed Dave to depress his accelerator even more.
         The last time he checked his map, he was only a few miles from Highway 281, and he had a full hour and a half before sunrise. He’d make it after all.
         Highway 281 would take him past Austin and allow him to reconnect with the I-35 later.
         Or, it would give him the option of following 281 all the way to the top of Texas,