Deadly Shoals by Joan Druett Read Free Book Online Page B

clay. As Wiki cantered closer, they proved to be heaps of salt piled up on the bank of the Río Negro, blindingly white against the background of the black water. They had been pushed into the curved shapes of dunes by the wind, so that Wiki was yet again reminded of Arabia. A rough pier extended out into the water, but no vessel was moored there. Nor were there any craft at anchor, the only feature disturbing the rushing water being the willow-swathed islets dotting the way upriver.
    Here by the dunes, the wagon wheel ruts became denser than ever, their furrows, both old and recent, interspersed with the hoofmarks left by the bullocks that had drawn the carts. It was impossible to distinguish one mark from another in the dusty muddle, Wiki thought. He watched as Manuel Bernantio walked his horse back and forth, leaning precipitiously from his saddle again, and was not at all surprised when the rastreador straightened, reined in, and said regretfully, “The trail is lost.”
    When Wiki translated, however, Stackpole exclaimed, “No!”
    The rastreador contemplated him with the disdain of a man looking at someone who refuses to see the obvious—that they had reached a dead end, that the prints were irretrievably confused with the tracks of many wagons, many bullocks, and many horses. Instead of troubling to reply, he lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. Then he set to scraping a plug of tobacco with his huge knife, and delicately prodding the shreds onto a thin piece of paper, which he rolled into yet another skinny cigar.
    Stackpole said to Wiki, “The schooner must have been moored at the wharf when they loaded her—so where has she gone now?”
    Out to sea with whatever crew Adams had been able to scrape together, Wiki thought, but, instead of saying so, he asked, “How long would it take to stow the provisions and load salt?”
    â€œDays! How much salt do you think a sealing voyage requires?”
    The whaling master knew what he was talking about, Wiki supposed, but still thought he’d been wildly overoptimistic to hope to find the schooner here. He slid down from his horse, at the same time keeping a firm hold of the rein, because if the mare ran away it was a long walk back to the village. Then he went over to a trench that had been dug out of the side of the nearest dune, and hunkered down to study its shape. The edges were crumbling and falling in, making it evident that the digging had been done some days ago. He scooped up a handful of salt and let it run through his fingers, surprised at the size and squareness of the crystals, rather like the brine that crystallized on the surface of old salt meat, only pure white instead of brown.
    The gauchos sat on their saddles and watched him. Most were smoking, and none of them spoke. Instead, they watched and waited. Wiki had the strong impression that the leadership of the group had moved from Bernantio to him, and they were waiting for him to make the decision about what to do next. Brushing his palm against his thigh to dislodge the last of the salt, he looked around, disturbed by the empty desolation of the scene. Where there had been bullocks, horses, and men, there was no one, and he wondered where the salt harvesters had gone.
    And the packhorses—where had they been driven after the Grim Reaper had taken on the provisions, and finished loading with salt? He was very conscious of the strong tang of dried brine overriding the warm sweat scent of the mare and the musty wool smell of his saddle fleece. When he looked up at the sky, the scudding clouds were spreading out toward the horizon, their edges shining gold and pink with the late afternoon sun.
    Then Wiki’s quick eyes spied black specks high in the sky, revolving over an unseen spot that could be as far as several miles away.
    Vultures. Their slow, circling, apparently motionless mode of flight was unmistakable. He pointed them out to Bernantio, saying,