THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

By Jo

CHAPTER 4:

It was a two-day ride to Sedona. John only went into town long enough to gather supplies then headed out to camp for the night among the red rocks.

As dawn began the following morning, he looked grimly back down the trail. Javair was picking his way along, looking for sign. How had the man known which way he'd gone?

Franklin Javair had decided that this time Valshaun would not elude him. This time he would go personally after him. He found a man who'd seen Valshaun leaving Prescott on the trail to Flagstaff.  Yes, the fugitive did have a tendency to go north, probably because the place where he rightfully belonged, Yuma Prison, lay to the south. At evening on the second day, he'd gone into a mercantile in Sedona, asking around, and a clerk remembered a man who'd been there earlier in the afternoon, buying supplies.  If he were a fugitive from justice, where would he go for the night? Not along the main route to Flagstaff, no; he would go into red rock country with all its pinnacles and canyons.  Valshaun was a practiced fugitive. That's where he'd go.

Where? Where would Javair expect him to go? North, that was the most likely direction...so John quickly broke camp and headed some eight miles south to the canyon where the old Indian ruin sat high up in the cliff.  Montezuma's Castle, they called it. John had no idea who Montezuma might be or if he even had anything to do with the ruins, but the limestone canyon was deep and rough and currently uninhabited. (NOTE: this was built around 700 in pre-Columbian times and had no relation at all to the Aztec emperor)

He sat his horse, looking up the cliff, thinking what a good place it might be to hide...but there was no water, no way to get more supplies, and so he continued through the canyon, now heading east into the world's largest stand of Ponderosa Pine. A stiff wind was blowing as he picked his way toward the Mogollon Rim. (pronounced Muggy-own) He'd never been there before but some of his customers back in Prescott had told him about it, how there was cool, high country above it and burning deserts below. The rim of the plateau was 200 miles long and in 1872 General George Crook's troops had begun a trail along its top, leading from Prescott's Fort Whipple to Fort Apache. It was rugged country from what he'd heard tell and hopefully a man could get lost in it.

He found the army trail and followed it for several miles, but decided it would be better just to cut through the pines.

Before long he came to a more open area of young Ponderosas, their bark smooth and dark brownish black for their first 80 to 100 years. Blackjacks he knew they were called but the openness made him uncomfortable and he turned his horse to the larger, older pines with their orange-brown color and deep ridges.

These were enormous, straight trees and he admired them as he rode, trying still to make as little sign of his passing as he could. Nightfall again and he was tired, hungry and needed to camp so he searched until he found a small, tucked-away ravine that would hide his little fire from view.

By some instinct, Franklin knew that Valshaun was no longer heading for Flagstaff. He rode through the red rocks, finally finding a horseshoe print heading south. It was fresh and he smiled. Perseverance was its own reward. He put himself in Valshaun's position, his need to hide from the light of justice, and headed for the old castle ruins, finding more tracks leading easterly. Ah, he would be making for the edge of the Mogollon Plateau. That's what he would do were he a fugitive.

There were occasional signs of Apache, among them an abandoned wickiup, half its thatch blown away.  From time to time the hair stood up on the back of his neck as he felt his passage was being watched.  But he continued on. He had Valshaun on the run and he wasn't going to stop for anything.

Night came and he made camp, not indulging in a fire, hoping to make his presence somewhat more covert.

The sky darkened into a deep blue fading upwards to black and the evening star winked into view, alone for a moment in the velvety sky. Franklin settled back against a pine, watching, waiting for the rest to appear. It was his favorite time of day, and the sure knowledge that they would return as they always had gave him comfort and peace.  Everything was right, was as it should be when the stars were visible.

There were times he felt so aware of their paths, as though they circled around him, and he was centered and in his place in the midst of their courses. It assured him of who he was and what life was all about and the utter rightness of it settled about him like a blanket and he slept.

John, though, did not sleep well. Every crack of every twig in the night made him start as though Javair were right there.  He could almost feel the irons around his wrists again, the sharp, piercing sting of the lash on his back.

He sat up most of the night, gazing past the firelight into the blackness of the vast forest. Surely Javair could have no idea of his whereabouts. Surely he could not. A grim heaviness settled over him as he thought that again Javair had taken his life from him and it seemed no matter where he went, what name he used, the lawman would always come, always find him. Perhaps...if he could make it out of Arizona altogether...maybe go east, even as far as New York or Boston, maybe then...maybe?

He dozed during the wee hours, too worn not to, and woke to find he was nearer the rim than he'd realized. He found a narrow trail that led dangerously down to the dry lands below the plateau. Winslow lay out there somewhere across the desert. He could get more supplies there, decide where to go. Right now he'd concentrate on getting to Winslow...one thing at a time.

Franklin, waking, moved his hand, brushing it over something that felt odd to his touch. Turning to his side he smiled. It was a Ponderosa seedling, its seedcap holding the young needles together in a delicate, curved shape. Very carefully he pulled the cap off and the needles fanned out to the morning sun. Yes, there was an order to things and when some aberration happened, some behavior that was out of order, then it needed to be corrected. Valshaun was not in prison where he belonged. He, Franklin Javair, would correct that mistake. It was not only his right as a lawman to do so, it was his duty to the universe. Once a man like Valshaun had headed down the path of disorder, he remained on the path, always and ever he would. Disorder was an abomination, an affront to God, a fall from grace that could never be changed, never be

redeemed. It could only be locked away where it could do no further harm. Valshaun had earned what he would get. There was no doubt about that.

Saddling his black, Franklin headed toward the Rim.  Somewhere along there the fugitive would head down into the desert. He was sure of it.