High Country : A Novel (10 page)

Fenton hated waiting, but the big river gave him no choice. He watched the water and paced and watched the water, the surging river going down much too slowly for his needs.

He’d gone to sleep thinking about Cody Jo, her lips wet on his neck, her slenderness arching into him. And with his confusion too—how much he wanted her, how troubled that made him. He’d tossed and turned with it until a deep sleep drove all thoughts away. Then in the night he’d heard it: the clear, lonely cry of a mule. He’d sat up, straining to hear more. But there was nothing—no bells, no movement in the night, no other hint of that mournful bray. The deep rush of the river was so constant he thought no cry could rise above it. But he’d heard what he’d heard. He slept little after that, thoughts of Cody Jo and the lone call tangled in his mind, pulling him back from rest whenever it crept closer.

He told Tommy Yellowtail about it as they tracked the horses, following them easily across sandy benches under water just hours before.

Fenton said. “Even if she did, we’d never hear her above the river.” “That’s right.You wouldn’t. A fuckin’ sign.”
They heard the bells on a side hill and climbed to get the horses,

Fenton shifting the feed bag to his other shoulder.
“Probably just a dream. They can get pretty real.”
“Fuckin’ sign,” Tommy said. “Telling you.”
“What in hell is a mule going to tell me, dead or alive?” Fenton

shook the feed bag to get Babe interested. “That we broke the rain record?”
“Fuck them records. Wait. Some signs ain’t all bad.”
Tommy had a way of knowing things. If Sugar had died some

grotesque death, Fenton needed to know it for himself. He hated to give up on things, but he’d given up on the little mule. With all that water washing down the canyon, the bog would be underwater; most of her would be too, if a bear hadn’t got that part already. He wondered if he should have shot her, given up at the outset. But that was wrong too. Who could predict such rain?

He took his gun belt out of his saddlebags and strapped it on. The trail would be gone. He’d have to walk. He wanted the Smith and Wesson with him, not Babe.Where there were dead mules, there were bears.

He spent the morning going down to watch the river then climbing back to watch Buck fumble around repairing the breeching on a pack saddle. Buck’s face was mostly purple, with yellow around the edges. He had to hold his head at an angle to see.

“Leastways you didn’t lose your teeth,” Fenton said. “Those loose ones’ll tighten. Takes time.”
“I might could lose this thumb if I don’t do better bangin’ at these rivets. Ever’ time you come back from that river I hit it. If you’d stay down or stay up, it might still be attached when I get done.” Buck tilted his head to bring Fenton into view. “What
is
keepin’ you so jumpy?”
“ Yo u’re a sight,” Fenton snorted. “Surprised you can see the damn saddle.... Cody Jo showed up yet?”
“Rosie and her took a walk. Let me rest up from the towels.” He cocked his head to see better. “River’s a noisy bastard, ain’t it?”
“Must of poured up at the flats. River’s hardly dropped at all.”
“Slip on down for another look. I have better luck when you ain’t leerin’ at me.” He craned his head back to see Fenton. But Fenton was gone again.

In the afternoon the river began to drop. Fenton saddled Babe and waited, resigned to getting wet as he crossed. But it went down fast, and by four it looked almost normal. He was mounted and ready to go when Cody Jo showed up, leading her gelding with Buck’s saddle on it.

“I’ve decided to help,” she said. “And I have my slicker tied on this saddle. Which is much too heavy for such a simple purpose.”
“A slicker’s sure useful on a sunny day. But it won’t keep you dry in that river, or in that bog. You’d be lot more comfortable right here in camp.”
“You men,” she smiled. “Helpless when you don’t get our help; confused when you do.”
Fenton felt the blood lift into his face. This wasn’t the same girl who’d come to him in the moonlight, left him sleepless and twisting with want. But then he didn’t know who that girl was either.
“I may even rescue you a few times before we get back,” she added.
“Let’s go then.” Fenton didn’t know what else to say. “Try to get back before supper. That’s when I Iike bein’ rescued most.”

The trail was slick but the crossing wasn’t bad, the rapids running harder but the rocks firm, the horses negotiating them with little trouble. The currents had fashioned a giant eddy in the pool where Goose went under, the water dropping gravel and small rocks onto the shelf Fenton had used to get his mules into the river. They crossed it easily, the water barely up to their stirrups.

The timbered flat leading to the canyon was swept clean by the rain. It was quiet, churchlike, long aisles opening through the woods where the sun slanted down in shafts. Fenton hardly saw it, pushing ahead hard, moving Babe into a trot. When they hit the first slide he saw what he’d feared: The trace was all but gone. They tied up and walked, the route difficult, shale washed away from the gullies, exposing the bedrock. Fenton had to reach back to pull Cody Jo across the dangerous places.

The ford was not the one they had crossed either, if you could call it a ford. Deadfall had clogged the course of the stream, forming new channels everywhere. They crossed on logs and ridges of silt and twigs. In the fresh mud on the other side Fenton found the track he didn’t want to see, claw marks extended, pressed deep into the new earth. He hurried Cody Jo past it, his voice growing louder in the still woods. Cody Jo, gloomier and gloomier as she thought about Sugar, was relieved when they reached a tall fir, the ground dry and solid around its roots.

“That meadow’s just ahead,” Fenton said. “Probably as underwater as Sugar. I’ll take a look.” He clicked the safety on the big Smith and Wesson and started to walk away, then stopped almost immediately, studying the ground ahead.

“What is it?”
“Mule track.” Fenton looked off into the woods. Then he called, lifting his voice in a long “Come-on,” the lingering call he used when he brought feed to his animals. It broke clear through the quiet woods. Then a deeper quiet. Not even a whisper of wind. Silence.
“Maybe he scared her out of that bog when we couldn’t.” His meaning was lost on Cody Jo. All she could think of was that the mule could be alive. He lifted his voice again, the call haunting in the hushed woods. Again he listened, as much now for something moving off as for a mule coming near.
“We’ll track her,” he said. “She’ll be downright relieved to see us.”
They followed the tracks for almost an hour, looping and backtracking and angling under logs no mule should be able to get under, the tracks leading them closer and closer to the big river but never crossing the log-jammed drainage of Lost Bird Creek. Fenton was worried. The river was still more than a mile away, and darkness would be on them soon. He stopped, resting against a big deadfall, pleased that Cody Jo had kept up. He was about to say so when Sugar’s bray lifted so close to them it made them jump. She was not twenty feet away, blending into the willows. They watched her lift her head again, offering an even more anguished cry.
Cody Jo began to laugh. Fenton had to as well, a pressure lifting from them both as they went to the mule, calmed her as she quivered and whimpered and paced in place, liking it as their searching hands moved over her, brushed at the mud, smoothed and cleaned her.
“You are a sneaky one,” Fenton said. “Scared too.” He got her free of the willows and let her nuzzle him. “And lucky.” He pulled the belt of his trousers free, the heavy gun belt still in place. He threaded his belt through her halter and turned to lead her, weaving his way back toward the crossing.
They moved quickly. The long day was ending and Fenton knew he’d pushed Cody Jo hard, would have to push her still harder to clear the canyon by dark. He put her in front and when they came to the big fir she stopped, breathless, leaning against the tree and watching Fenton lead Sugar toward the crossing, which was dark and murky looking. It stopped Sugar as suddenly as she’d cried out minutes before. Her haunches dropped; she scrambled back, almost pulling the belt from Fenton’s hand.
Fenton saw it right away. “Mud.” He spoke as much to the erupted streambed as to Cody Jo. “Gotta get Babe.”
“Hold her.” He handed Cody Jo the makeshift lead and crossed the streambed in big, loping strides. Just as quickly he was back, looking down at her, taking her by the arm.
“Take it.” He unholstered the big Smith and Wesson. “She’s cocked, so leave that trigger alone. Unless you get downright serious. Then just shoot it in the air and hang onto Sugar. I’ll be back before she drags you anywhere spooky.” He was across the stream and gone.
“Why spooky?” she called after him. “We have Sugar.”
“Never know,” his voice called back. She heard rocks tumbling as he went up the washed-out chute. Then nothing.
Quiet came in again. Cody Jo put the heavy revolver on a log, rubbed her hand along Sugar’s neck, talked to her, calmed her— pleased to have some time with the little mule. Sugar shivered, pulled away. Cody Jo stepped after her, across the heavy roots of the tree. They were well away from the mud, but still the mule shook. Cody Jo eased after her, soothing away the tension with gentle strokes along her neck, her flanks.
The shafts of light slanted in almost flat now, the greens of the forest deepened before Cody Jo saw it: the fresh scar on the fir—claw marks higher than Fenton could reach, gouges deep and even and repeated, sap oozing up like blood lifting from a fresh wound.
Cody Jo squatted, a sickness washing through her as it all came to her: Fenton’s voice, big and constant. The pistol. Sugar’s fear. The deep quiet. She gathered strength to lift herself, ease forward so she could get the revolver.
And there was the track. If she rocked forward, her knee would be in it. It was just as they’d said it would be but bigger, toed inward, the pad wide as it was long, claws reaching far beyond the thick toes. She watched water trickle into it, felt vomit come into her throat.
She swallowed it back, shivering, the fear in her mouth acrid. She stood up, leaned against the quivering mule, saw willow branches moving. She tried to fix on them, but the light was low. Her mind was wild. She’d even forgotten the revolver, only feet away.
Then there was Fenton’s big voice urging Babe along. She heard the rumble of rocks dropping from the ledges. There was a crashing in the willows. “There he goes,” Fenton called. “Scared by our big pistol, no doubt.” And then he was with her, taking in her fear, talking to Sugar and Babe at once as he snapped a lead on Sugar, tied the stirrups across Babe’s saddle, ran the lead through the stirrup strap to keep it up.
“Mr. Bear’s on his way. And we are too,” he said to Cody Jo. “I believe,” he holstered the revolver, “we’ll scramble out with no trouble. Babe’s our leader.You follow. Sugar might need encouragement.”
“I ...I want to go with you.”
“And you will.” Fenton started across the streambed in the fading light. “Just two animals back.” He let Babe pick her way. Sugar followed like a colt, trusting Babe to find firm ground, stepping where Babe stepped, anxious to be free of that place at last.
They wove their way across the stream in minutes, Cody Jo’s legs shaking as she passed the willows. Sugar went up the chute, more goat than mule, charging into Babe’s rump and leaving Cody Jo scrambling to keep up. When they came to the steep gullies, Fenton unsnapped the lead-line and let Sugar make her own way.
The steady pace drove Cody Jo’s fear away. She pushed herself to keep up, Fenton’s big voice soothing her as they moved into the timber. The gelding nickered as they grew close, rubbed his nose on Fenton as he tightened cinches.
“Them grizzlies! Won’t take a grown elk or a horse or anything big unless he’s hurt, out of commission some way.” He looked at Cody Jo in the last light. “Or if one’s dead and got ripe. They like that.”
“Did you see him?” Cody Jo asked. “Was he there?”
“He was.”
“Was he huge? On the tree . . . he clawed it . . .”
“Bigger’n average. Red-coated. Maybe young. Curious, I guess.”
She looked at Fenton, his face in shadow but the shape of him, the size, and his ease with his horses and his own place in these woods offering safety, even comfort.
“Fenton Pardee,” her voice was low as she turned to him, grasped his open Levi jacket, her face barely visible in the shadowy light. “We are going to make love....” It was as though the words came with her breath. “I know....You know.”
She climbed up on the gelding, looked down at him, her voice level now, conclusive. “We will....”

They rode back along the new routes made by the rain, Babe sure of her way. The moon, just clear of the horizon, leaving swatches of light dancing on the river.

Babe didn’t hesitate, plunging directly in, Sugar and the gelding happy to follow. The crossing was deep but easy, the horses turning the water into new moonlight as they splashed through.

“Tole you some signs is good,” Tommy said, looking solemnly and without surprise at Sugar. He took the lead-line and started away. Then he turned back. “All I know is you didn’t hear
this
mule last night.”

Rosie gave them food and they sat by the fire, answering questions, everyone astonished that Sugar had made it through the storm. They laughed, inventing stories about how Sugar had outsmarted the redcoated bear, extolling Fenton’s skill as a tracker, making the bear bigger and redder—more dangerous. And they asked questions. It seemed to Fenton he was answering the same questions over and over again.

But they kept coming. After awhile Cody Jo took his plate away, smiling and whispering, “Afraid to tell them about us?”
She came back with a steaming cup of coffee, and Fenton watched as one of the men laced it with brandy. “Maybe,” she whispered, passing it to Fenton, smiling and looking as though she were talking about the weather, “this will give you courage.”
She watched the fire then turned back again, poured more brandy into his cup. Amused.
“I like courage,” she said.