Hedge of Thorns: Balks
I lead the black donkey, zig-zagging down from the ridge top via the game trail. The travois poles scrape along through the dust and clatter over rocky patches. After a particularly rough area, I stop and tighten the ropes securing the load.
As we go, I’m watching for signs of bear. If there’s one about, it’s far enough away not to alarm Carbon.
That’s actually not so bad, since delaying to hunt increases the odds my venison will spoil. What the soil does betray is the recent passage of a coyote pack. Driving them off if they circle to attempt attack will cost me more ammunition than I’d prefer to use.
Carbon snorts behind my shoulder. In my peripheral vision, his ears are laced back flat.
“So the coyotes are near enough to smell? Don’t you dare stop now.” I tug the lead rope. He’s a mature beast, and unhitched from the travois, likely to be a skilled coyote fighter. But I need him to transport this portion of my winter’s meat.
Up to this point we’d made very good time, and reached a spot along the ridge above my property. “I know where we are, and how I climbed up here, but there’s no way fit for you to go down, donkey, even without the travois.”
He bumps my shoulder with his muzzle. The overlapping coyote tracks head east. I scuff them with my boot as I consider the terrain. That way, there are few ways to evade the predators, if laggards catch scent of the butchered venison.
Turning west, I get spurred to greater speed by the lowering sun. The trail sloped steadily away toward the valley spreading out below my property. “Let’s go, Carbon. The sooner I start smoking this venison, the better.”
Down, around, and up again, I trudge for almost an hour, leading the beast to my gate. I sigh, remembering all the pains I had taken to disguise the trail damages caused by Bobby and Tumble’s departure. I’m returning with a donkey and loaded travois. All that work to do again.
I unlock the gate, which now squawks, making Carbon flinch and back.
“No, no you don’t. No bolting allowed.” Shoving the gate open, I flick the donkey’s flank with the end of the lead rope. “Keep moving.”
All four hooves firmly planted, he balks. I smack the rope down on his back. He kicks at the near travois pole, and the clack of his hoof on the willow echoes.
“Quiet, Carbon. Walk on. As far as I’m concerned you can stuff yourself on all the kale in the garden.”
Hedge of Thorns: Balks is a short Post-Apocalyptic story in which a young artist survives with her family. Check for new posts on Fridays.
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