Robert Strode's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Robert Strode had chased the drifter for two days, and now the road split into three, with no sign to tell him which fork the thief had taken. He sat heavy in the saddle, glasses fogged, his reddish arms aching from the reins. Ten years of savings gone. The man had smiled, shaken Robert's hand, and ridden off with every coin. Robert had sworn to get all of it back, but a wrong turn here would end the chase for good. He climbed down and studied the ground. His pony waited, patient, the golden mane bright against its brown coat. The animal was sturdy and calm, the only reason Robert had gained any ground at all. He rubbed its neck and whispered, "Help me read this, will you?" The left fork was dry and stony. The middle sank into mud. The right ran flat and dusty. Robert crouched over each. The mud held no tracks. The stone showed nothing. But the dusty road carried a single fresh hoofprint, then another, spaced fast and long. The drifter had ridden hard down the right fork. Robert stood too quickly and his knees complained. He looked back the way he had come. Every mile past this point would be new country. If the trail died ahead, he would have no way home and no way forward. He dug into his saddlebag and pulled out a handful of smooth, colored stones he had gathered from a creek days ago. He set three of them at the mouth of the right fork, stacked plain against the dust. A marker. If he had to turn back, the stones would show him where the roads met. He would not wander lost while the thief slept easy. Then his fingers found the little matchbook in the bag. Hotel Central, Old Town, the cover read. He had taken it from the room where the drifter first spun his lie. Robert had kept it without knowing why. Now he understood. The man came from somewhere. A hotel was a name, a town, a place a coward returned to. If the tracks failed, the matchbook would not. He pushed it deep into his coat pocket, safe against his chest. Robert mounted again. The pony turned onto the dusty road without complaint. Ahead the land dropped into low hills he had never crossed, empty and pale under the sun. "Come on," he said. "He's close." The pony broke into a trot. Behind them the colored stones marked the crossing, small and bright. Robert did not look back. He had chosen the fork, and the trail was fresh, and for the first time in two days the distance between him and his money was shrinking. By dusk the hills opened, and below sat a town Robert had never seen, its rooftops crowded around a single tall building. He drew rein and squinted through his fogged glasses. The building matched the drawing on the matchbook.