Luke Barrington was no fool. He might not have graduated high school but he was smart. Smart enough to run Herefords on Texas soil. He had learned his lessons working alongside his father during branding time, as his father had been taught by Grandfather Barrington. Three generations had owned and managed this land since Gadsden came along.
The Pecos had always run from the north towards his place, dividing his pastures gracefully. His canyon had always brought spring rains, mountain run-offs and melting snows to irrigate the fertile soil. Grasses had grown waist high on this mesa, giving his herds plenty of graze. Now it was bare, burnt brown and dead, a dustbowl for the strong winds to play with at leisure.
Luke headed his horse for the corral and gave him his head. Old Hank knew the way better than anyone, now that the landscape had changed so much overnight. Studying the horizon for any sign of movement, any sign of his herd. He hadn’t seen them in 3 weeks and it was obvious they knew his grasses were dead, his rivers dry.
“Tomorrow, old boy, we’ll head North to the Pecos, er, well, East I guess we’d call it now. Seems confusin when I think about it all." Hank merely snorted his understanding.
Even the ever-intruding Mesquite shrubs had begun to die away, lack of interests I suppose. Why take over a pasture if nothing is there? Not a bird, not a coyote, nothing moved on this land. Death was a choking dust that continued to harass even after you succumb. Luke tucked in and spurred Hank to hurry.
Reaching the ranch just before sundown, a little after 1PM, Luke started the fire and lit the lanterns.
He noticed his fuel can leaking and realized he’d have to make another trip to town for supplies. The last trip took 3 days, 2 spent hunting for the town itself. It had moved, along with the Pecos and other landmarks. It was mid-July and he was still building fires. No electricity in 3 weeks, makes a man a bit grouchy.
Luke recalled his last visit to town. What had been a sprawling metropolis had crumbled to a pile of stone and rubble. Only Canal Street merchants had escaped the chaos of the raging fire that destroyed the town. Without electricity to operate the pumps, homes burnt to the ground while screaming people ran madly into the midnight sun. Only those with water pails and a canal nearby could stop the beast from consuming an entire town. Weeks later, it still smoldered and licked flames at unidentifiable charred material.
They said it had been an earthquake, a major 9.8 rift that tore the world apart. Not in Texas, in South America, far far away. Luke found it hard to believe that an earthquake could change his life so quickly.
They said volcanoes erupted, tsunamis slammed, tornadoes and hurricanes were born, all because of this one incident. One short moment long, one generation destroyed.
They said it caused the earth to shift on its axis, a mere 3 degrees, but a wobble that will continue for eternity. That wobble changed the seasons, the laws of nature, the directions of the winds. It was like trying to live in a Picasso painting.
About 11 PM, just before sunrise, Luke saddled Hank to the Cayuse’s complaints.
He’d head towards the Pecos and follow it back to the lost town. Maybe they have resupplied and he can get enough gear to get him through another month. Naturally, it began to snow on his journey. The flakes were huge, landing in piles stacking between Hank’s ears. He shook and shuddered trying to rid himself of the burning snow.
Arriving at the dead river bed, Luke stepped down and got on his knees. He raised his eyes skyward and began to pray, after all, Luke Barrington was no fool.