Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 51 of 150

Ben walked west at a sick man's pace. The linen scratched his mouth. The paste itched under his jaw. The first scout had cleared the road for him. He counted that as one, and kept moving. A half mile on, boots crunched behind him. Not close. Matched to his own stride, then slowing when he slowed. Ben coughed once, loud, and glanced back under the hood. Two men. The first was the scout from the stump, bread still in his hand. The second walked ahead of him, taller, no rag over his face. That one had come back. That one did not fear the smock. Ben kept his shuffle. His mind ran ahead. Payne's paste bought half a day from strangers. It did not buy anything from a man who had already seen him walk. The tall one had watched the first scout run, thought about it, and fetched someone who would not. Two miles to the hearth. Two miles to Chris and the chest in the flue. If he led them there, he lost everything. The track dipped into a stand of pine. Ben stepped off it as if to be sick, hand to the linen. He put a tree between himself and the road and crouched. The boots kept coming, then stopped. "He's in the pines," the tall one said. "Wait him out." Ben eased the paste off one hand with his thumb. He had nothing on him but the smock, the rag, and Payne's tin of ash. No knife. No box. A branch cracked to his left. Amanda crouched behind the next trunk. Dirt on her cheek. Pack over one shoulder. She had come back from the eastern trail. "Justin's fine," she whispered. "Two men peeled off the group. Followed you." "I see them." "Tall one's a tracker. Not a scout. Different pay." Ben looked at her. "Why are you here." "You're slow in that costume. I'm not." He thought. The tall man would not clear off for a plague rag. He would follow Ben to the hearth and put a horn to his mouth. "Take the smock," Ben said. Amanda blinked once. Then she nodded. They traded fast behind the tree. Ben smeared paste on her jaw and hands. He wound the linen low on her brow. She pulled the smock over her sweater. In the dim of the pines she was a smaller sick figure, but sick enough. "North fork," Ben said. "Cough at them. Lead them past the split oak, then lose them in the creek." "And you." "West. On my belly if I have to." Amanda stood and shuffled out of the pines, coughing. The tall man swore. Both sets of boots turned after her. Ben waited until the sound thinned. Then he crawled through the pine needles, off the track, and cut west through the brush. The road behind him was empty. The hearth was a mile and a half ahead. No one was following him now.