Morning light hit Miller's Ridge at a sharp angle.
Twenty-three wagons climbed the switchbacks below.
Arthur stood on an outcropping of rock and watched them crawl.
The lead wagon reached the first turn. Horses strained against the harness. Their hooves slipped on loose stone. The driver cracked his whip—not in anger, but encouragement.
The wagon slowed to walking pace.
Behind it, the second wagon slowed too. Then the third. Then the entire convoy.
By the time the lead wagon reached the second switchback, the convoy had stretched into a long, crawling line.
Zack stood beside Arthur, counting under his breath.
"Thirty seconds between wagons at the bottom. Now two minutes."
Arthur nodded.
He watched a team of horses stop completely midway up. Their flanks heaved. Steam rose from their backs in the cold air.
The driver jumped down and began unhitching them.
---
They walked down to the ridge base where a fresh team waited.
