When he finally stood face to face with Shasta, he fell upon his knees. He wept, as if the tears would relieve the wrinkles that had come to him under the summer sun of the west. He could relinquish his claim in the north. He could relinquish his own being. But how would he account for the souls of his brethren.
When the blood began to spill in John Day, he made sure he wouldn't be caught unaware. The mines they'd built and the ground they broke bore nothing yet a few pounds of silver. It was which could have been found more easily in Nevada. The Painted Hills were beautiful, but what gave the red rock their color was attributed legendarily to the spilling of blood.
Having dealt with the native Klamath tribe, the pass made unto him seemed impossible. The mountain called to him, beckoned him towards redemption. If he could reach her backbone or maybe just her feet he could rest soundly.
Between the highwaymen, and the natives the probabilties seemed to evaporate. Nevermind the fervent intensity that elapses after a man rides devilishly through hard conditions. His family all cut down. Nobody left in his corner. He was confused. He hadnt spoken to anybody besides himself in three days. He drank from sulfuric waters, chased scavengers away from the questionable carcasses of pronghorn and deer.
He could see the dust of a group coming from the south. It was from exhaustion. He didnt want to succomb anymore. He'd made his escape which had become a sheltering within ruins. Now there was more space to cover than he could afford. Shasta wanted him, she drew him to her breast like the mother of a recent stillborn. But so it would remain.
The revolvers blast thundered across Butte Valley. A couple of natives looked up from their present occupation before going back to work. The tribe would discover him afterwards and strip him of skins and his pistol. Afterwards, the scavengers went back to work.
