Bridge
Cold mist obscured the other end of the swaying bridge. Mountain winds blew against the creaking wood, shivering the bridge. The stone was slick with water. A small group of men stood on the outcropping, looking into the mist. The crouched against the boulders to hide from the wind, and from what was coming up the track behind them. They held fast to the stones, fearing a slip. Hungry, desperate, but not brave enough to walk out over the creaking bridge first.
With them were five mules, each loaded with gold and silver, wrought and unwrought. The animals hadn’t complained at the load they carried high into the mountains. They had marched on with their surly looks, led on by the muleteer, Pancho. The affable man stood wrapped in his coat, his wide brimmed hat dewing from the mist.
The leader of the men snarled as he looked across. “An extra share to the first man across.” He was a large man, tall and well-muscled. Men of this sort were always leading something; it was their nature.
His men balked. They had already been promised many extra shares, and a simple calculation suggested that a further extra share amounted to two coins. One silver and one gold. Those men of a suspicious temperament were beginning to suspect that the shares would never be dolled out. That they would be killed so that the shares returned to the pot. These men kept their knives close.
“Come on then. Who’s going to prove themselves a man and go? Come on!” Their leader raised his horsewhip. The men cowered.
Pancho didn’t. He spat out his sunflower seeds. The shells were picked up and lost in the wind. That drew the ire of the leader.
“Alright. You, man. Get your mules across.”
Pancho shrugged. “I can’t.” He reached into his pocket and drew the last few seeds he had. He ate them. “A mule is as smart as a man. Look in their eyes. If you can’t get a man over, how are you going to get a mule over?” He spoke through the seeds, spitting them out as he finished.
The leader walked right up to Pancho, horsewhip raised. “You’re either getting the mules across, or you are falling down this mountain.”
Pancho blinked. This leader was a good foot taller than him, and Pancho was not as gifted with muscles. He spat out the last of the seeds, then shrugged. “Alright, boss.”
A couple seeds landed in the leader’s mustache. Pancho decided it was better to get moving than getting whipped to death. He grabbed the lead mule’s reins. The animal dug its feet into the stones.
“Lala, don’t play games with me,” Pancho said gently, aware that a large and muscled shadow hovered right behind him. “Let’s go across, you and all the girls. I’ll be with you. We cross the bridge and it will be oats for you.”
The mule blinked, doubtful. But when Pancho tugged again, she took a step. The other mules followed, tied together. Their gold and silver jingled.
Pancho tried a tepid step onto the bridge. The wet wood held. Taking a deep breath, he muttered a prayer and started across. The mules followed. Their weight steadied the swaying bridge, and though it creaked and shivered, it held.
They reached the other side after what proved to be a short walk. Back on ground again, Pancho let out a cry of victory. His mules, likewise, brayed. The sound echoed across the mountains.
Victorious, Pancho gave oats to his mules, then went to the bridge to see his fellows cross. Standing at the edge, he saw that one of the ropes holding the whole thing together was fraying, holding on by a prayer.
“Lucky,” Pancho said. “This whole thing is ready to fall apart.
“Pancho?” came a shout through the mists.
“Yes!” he shouted back. “I am across. The bridge is in back condition. Maybe you shouldn’t cross until I fix it.” He had some spare rope, and if he worked gingerly enough, it could secure the passage.
“Like hell!” the leader shouted. “He’s trying to get away with our gold. After him.”
There was a great shout. The bridge trembled with the weight of feet. The men yelled as they charged. The rope snapped with a twang.
At once, one the left half of the bridge collapsed and the bridge flipped over. The yells turned to screams. Several wet thumps echoed up the mountainside.
Pancho peered into the grey mist. All the world was hidden from him. All but his five mules and the right side of the bridge holding on. The great weight of treasure jingled as the mules ate.
“Boss?” Pancho called. “I have the gold over here. Boss?”
There was no answer. The wind whispered mournfully.
Michael Frutig 