Page 72 of Caroline’s Compass

They rode west-northwest across ground that changed from sodden prairie to shallow moving water. Hall led them to the fork, where one line of stakes continued toward a low creek bed, and another stopped at a stand of cottonwoods.

“The creek path is shorter,” Coleman said. “If Reed was trying to return—”

“Wait.” Caroline opened Thomas’s notes. His neat figures had survived beneath the oilskin. He had recorded the creek’s fall and the height of debris caught in the brush. She compared the marks with the water now pressing through the grass.

Rebecca looked down the easy path. “It’s rising behind those trees.”

Caroline set the compass flat against the field book. The cracked glass made the north mark appear divided, but the needle swung freely. “The creek turns south beyond the bend. If we follow it, the water will be between us and the ridge before noon.”

Hall frowned. “Thomas might have taken it.”

“He measured it yesterday. He would know better.”

The certainty in her own voice frightened her less than doubt would have. She pointed toward the cottonwoods. “We follow his original bearing.”

The tempting creek path followed the easiest ground. That was what made it dangerous. Caroline led the search party along the higher bearing while water gathered in every low place. Hall questioned the direction twice, not in defiance but out of fear that Thomas might have tried the shorter return.

Caroline stopped and showed him the field note where Thomas had recorded debris height. “Yesterday the water reached this mark. Today it is above it. He would not choose a path he knew could close behind him.”

“He went alone to the ridge,” Hall said.

“Because the ridge was higher.”

Rebecca studied the clouds. “Caroline is right. The creek line will be underwater before we return.”

They continued on the compass bearing. Coleman marked each turn with cloth strips and shallow cuts high on tree trunks where floodwater would not erase them. Caroline required everyone to repeat the return direction. She had learned from Thomas that a route known by only one person was not a route; it was a vulnerability.

When the horse appeared among the willows, Caroline's first relief—that Thomas had reached this far—gave way to alarm at the torn stirrup. Rebecca read the animal's scrapes while Hall searched for tracks. Caroline forced herself to listen to both before moving. Leadership meant taking in facts even when every part of her wanted to run.

Caroline examined each mark around the horse before allowing the search to widen. One boot print faced north. A second had slid toward the flooded channel. Thomas's survey stake lay flat, but its sharpened end pointed deliberately toward higher ground.

Hall wanted to call from the bank. Caroline let him shout once, then stopped him from wasting strength against the wind. Coleman proposed firing a signal. They saved the shot until they reached the rise, where sound might carry above the water.

Rebecca found blood on the torn stirrup, only a small smear. Caroline's fear tried to turn it into catastrophe. She made herself ask whether it could have come from the horse. Rebecca showed her the scraped flank and said yes.

Facts first. Direction second. Fear could travel with them, but it would not choose the route. Caroline set the limestone bearing, and the four searchers moved upstream looking for a safe approach.

“Thomas!” she called.

Only water answered.

They spread out within sight of one another. Mr. Coleman found a second stake. Hall found Thomas’s measuring chain caught on a thorn. Caroline found a deliberate cut on a cottonwood trunk: two slanting lines above a short horizontal stroke.

She had watched Thomas use the same mark beside uncertain ground. It meant change from the recorded route.

Below it, almost hidden by wet bark, an arrow pointed north.

“The limestone rise,” Hall said. “He must have crossed toward it before the channel opened.”

Caroline looked through the trees. A pale ridge showed beyond a widening course of brown water. The direct crossing was already too deep for a horse.

Coleman swore softly. “We will need to go upstream.”

“Then we go upstream,” Caroline said.

They led the horses along the bank until dusk made the water and land equally gray. Rebecca found a shelf above the flood where they could tie the animals. Caroline hated stopping, but darkness would turn rescue into five people lost instead of one.

Mr. Hall built a shielded fire. Coleman checked the ropes. Rebecca handed Caroline half the dried meat and watched until she ate it.