High Country : A Novel (7 page)

It seemed to Ty he had horses and mules tied everywhere, but it was Cottontail’s packs that worried him. They were so water soaked he could barely lift them, and he was afraid if he got one on it would pull the saddle over before he could get the other in place. He found a high bank down the trail, wrestled one up, tied it off, and rested it there as he fought the other into place.

He lined the string out, Sugar in the rear to encourage Loco. Lightning was almost their only light now. When they left the lake and entered the woods, there was no way he could see at all. He gave Smoky her head and hoped the packs would ride, finally dozing in the saddle until a rumble too steady to be thunder told him they’d found the river. Smoky turned up against it, paralleling the noise, which lifted and faded and lifted again. At dawn he saw they were on a faint trail crossing low benches and going through stands of timber that opened into meadows. Across the meadows he could see the river, swollen and gray with silt.

The rain was starting in as they crossed a bog, the sucking sound of hooves too much for Loco. Ty was thankful Fenton had fashioned a new pigtail. It gave way as Loco fought back, his knotted lead hanging useless as he stood with Sugar, watched Ty cross with the others. Ty tied up and made his way back. He released Sugar, who hurried across to join Turkey, flinging mud on Ty in her haste. Loco wouldn’t follow. Ty stroked him, leaned against him, dozed as he talked and calmed him. But it was no good. Each time he led him to the crossing, he balked, set his weight, scrabbled back.

Ty knew Loco wasn’t crazy this time, just scared. He also knew he was too tired to fight him. He took the lead-line and slopped his way through the mud to Smoky, mounted her to ride into a country he’d never seen. He’d come back for Loco when he found out where he was, if he ever did.

Turkey and Sugar were free now—both of them unconcerned as Ty led Cottontail and tried to pick up tracks. But the trail was everywhere awash—and he was having trouble staying awake. He stopped when he saw a faint trace leading off toward the river, the animals so tired they made no protest. Turkey drifted off to graze, but Sugar nosed along the trail until she passed him, moved down the trace, and turned through timber toward the river. Ty followed, seeing what they were on hadn’t been used for years and knowing he should turn back—if his body would respond. Then Sugar, well ahead now, went belly-deep into the river, quartering upstream against the current. Smoky followed her, the rain settling in hard now but Ty too weary to think about his slicker. He looked back, thankful Turkey was following so closely, and thought he saw something along the bank. There was too much rain to be sure. And he was tired, coming alert only as they pitched steeply out of the river, climbed up and still up again to a broad bench, an opening in the timber. In the clearing was Fenton, standing under the big kitchen fly, the wall tents already up against the rain. Spec and Jasper were there too, all of them looking at him, calling out to him.

He got off Smoky, relieved his legs didn’t buckle, tied Cottontail to the log where the saddles were stacked.
“Had to leave Loco.” He looked at Fenton, standing under the ridge beam of the cook tent with his coffee. “But we made it. Sugar brought us in.”
“You ain’t the first to be rescued by a mule.” Fenton was smiling.
Ty saw the others were were smiling too. He looked down at the mud on his pants, his shirt—mud everywhere from his struggles in the creek bed and with the packing and through the muddy crossing.
“It ain’t the mud,” Jasper said. “We was wondering about the waterproofed trousers. Is that to keep you dry when you wade the river?”
Ty looked, saw that the neat’s-foot oil had stained and darkened his pants everywhere.
“Guess I oiled too much. Wanted to protect the saddle.”
“That oil’s done its work,” Fenton said. “You have too. Come in here and get you some coffee.”
“Gotta unsaddle. Then I’ll slip back for Loco.”
Spec put his slicker on and went out to help. Fenton held his cup out to Jasper, who was waiting with a steaming cup for Ty. Jasper poured it into Fenton’s cup instead.
“Jasper,” Fenton said, sipping the hot coffee. “I believe we’ve found us a packer.”

Fenton Pardee and Cody Jo Taylor were married in 1927. Fenton was fifty-five years old, Cody Jo twenty-six. But their union aroused people’s interest for larger reasons. Fenton had enjoyed being single for so many years it was hard to predict what would happen when he wasn’t. The mountains always seemed to answer his spiritual needs, The Bar of Justice his physical ones. Though it was clear the tall schoolteacher with the wonderful smile could make even Fenton change his priorities, none predicted she would be the one who did the convincing, not the other way around. Half the bachelors in the valley had vied for her hand. It shocked them to see Fenton wind up with it, looking a little shocked himself.

But it wasn’t such a shock to the others. They’d enjoyed watching Cody Jo find such humor in Fenton’s doubts, find humor in her efforts to dispel them too. She seemed to take pleasure in his apprehension. They would shake their heads, puzzled over why a man like Fenton Pardee would be skeptical about such a sparkling woman. Some thought it his age, some his general contrariness, others his deep wariness. None saw it had less to do with what they could see than with what they couldn’t: Fenton’s love of his mountains, his fear that this wonderful girl would keep him from them.

What was clear to all of them from the day Cody Jo arrived was that she made things better, bringing more life to the Swan Valley schoolhouse than it had ever known. Children liked her, mothers believed in her, cowboys and lumberjacks lined up to dance with her at the schoolhouse socials. There wasn’t a man not pleased to tip his hat to her, a woman who didn’t like to visit with her: the women liking her because she got things done with so little fuss, the men because she kept them so off-balance they couldn’t tell whether she was laughing at them or with them. All they knew was that when she was happy, things were livelier. They were thankful for whatever triggered it.

And Fenton made her happy. It was a mystery that only added to one already alive in the Swan: how Fenton Pardee could be the shrewdest, most relentless trader in the country when he was out of the mountains; the most selfless and charitable packer in the range when in them.

But all talk of how frugal Fenton could be, how unconventional the courtship, was put aside for the important day. No banter was exchanged, no jokes delivered by forsaken suitors. And if someone smiled because for once they were seeing Fenton manipulated, no one minded. What interested them most as they drank and laughed at the big wedding on the edge of Fenton’s pasture was that they had never seen Fenton Pardee as happy—or as grateful. At least not when he was out of his mountains.

They all knew about Fenton, but only Fenton knew about Cody Jo. She had told him everything, looking at him steadily, going through it carefully—as though their future depended on his seeing all of it. As she talked he became so full of admiration for her she could have told him anything. Her candor left him queasy and dry-mouthed, every doubt he had vanishing. It was like jumping off a cliff into a South Fork pool. After you stepped off, you left behind everything that had held you back.

He had met Cody Jo at the fall dance in the schoolhouse. “The tall one,” she’d said. “White on top, like your mountains.” Then she was off with one of the Wilson brothers, swinging out among the couples on the dance floor. He could see she was a marvelous dancer, liked it that she gave him a wave or a smile as she went by.

He enjoyed watching the young men circling her for their chance, watching them drift outside to drink and talk about everything but the schoolteacher before they came back in to try again. He watched her encourage them too, laugh with them, help even the clumsiest come more alive when they moved around the floor.

“That bell mare the new teacher?” Jasper was beside him, not yet too full of drink to watch the dancers.
“She is,” Fenton said.
“She does have them eatin’ from her hand.” Jasper looked at Fenton as though an idea had just hit him. “Let’s get us a drink.”
Jasper had some liquor out in his truck, which surprised Fenton. Usually he spent his time angling for someone else’s. Out in the lot they found Buck Conner arguing with a cowboy who had danced too long with Angie, the Murphys’ new hired girl. Buck’s face was getting red, but Fenton stepped in with his big voice and his big body and got them laughing. It was as easy for him as separating two nipping horses. Jasper watched Buck and the cowboy head off together to find Angie and got out his bottle. They warmed there, drinking and talking about Fenton’s mountains.
Fenton thought of the schoolteacher off and on during that winter but didn’t see her again until spring, when he stopped for coffee at Murphy’s all-purpose store, his truck so loaded with gear he wasn’t sure he’d unload by dark. Angie got him coffee, and when he turned to leave he almost knocked Cody Jo over. She clutched at her groceries as if to protect them.
“The big one,” she laughed, her face coloring. “I remember you because you’re the only one I haven’t seen at the recitals.”
Fenton waited, not knowing how to answer.
“Come now.” She enjoyed his confusion. “Culture won’t hurt this valley. They even claim you,” she tapped him with a long finger, “are a very cultured man.” She seemed to like how uncomfortable she made him.
“But you’re in luck. There’s one more.” She shifted her bag to the other arm. “I’ll save a seat. Seven tonight. Cookies. Entertainment.” She turned and left but poked her head right back in. “I’ll hold your ticket.”
Fenton, who hadn’t been able to think of anything to say while she stood there making fun of him, still couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Better go,” Dan Murphy advised. “She’s got that ticket for you.”
“I got gear to unload....You goin’?”
“Yep. Better than hearin’ her tell me why I should of.” Murphy wiped at his counter. “She arranged a season ticket for me.”

There were dark clouds over the Missions by the time Fenton unloaded. He washed up and before he’d thought much about it was back on the road headed for the schoolhouse. The sky was black. He knew a wind would kick up soon, the rain not far behind.

It was blowing hard when he pulled into the lot, the sky so dark he wasn’t surprised to see only a few cars. When he was given the little program he saw the reason wasn’t just the weather. Four performances were scheduled: a reading of “Invictus,” the singing of “My Buddy” accompanied by violin, a recitation of “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” and a piano recital of “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers.”

Bump Conner was scheduled to sing “My Buddy,” which explained why all the Conners were there, Buck and the Murphys with them. Other parents were there too, but not many. Fenton thought the idea of a ticket must have been one of Cody Jo’s amusements.

He found a chair by a screen they’d set up and was listening to people move around behind it, when a clap of thunder rifled through and made everyone jump. The lights blinked, held, blinked again, stayed on.

Fenton decided to get his slicker. By the time he got to his truck the rain had started. He put the slicker on and got out a lantern. When he got back to the porch, the rain settled in to stay. He took the slicker off and went back inside, putting it by the wall with his lantern. He heard the rain ease for a minute before starting in even harder.

When the lights began to blink, Cody Jo came from behind the screen, not nearly as cheerful as she’d been that afternoon.
“Might rain,” Fenton said.
“You found your seat.” Her eyes were wide. “We saved it.”
“Have to fight off many people?” Sheets of rain were hitting the windows.
“I have cookies.”
“Could sog up in this weather.”
The lights blinked and went. Fenton scratched matches and got his lantern going. He held it up, peered around for Buck.
“Should I get them?” Cody Jo’s eyes were round in the uncertain light.
“Hard to pass ’em in this dark.” Buck appeared in the circle of light.
“Who told me this place has a generator?” Fenton asked him.
“I told you this place has a generator. If someone hasn’t thought they knew better, it’s right where I set it up in the first place.”
“Hope you remember. Not much help out there in that dark.”
They went out into the rain, leaving the room in darkness. Cody Jo knew she should do something, but the rain made it hard to think.
Rosie Murphy began to sing “Ten Thousand Goddamned Cattle,” about a cowboy whose sweetheart leaves him for “a son-of-a-bitch from Ioway.” It was the song Buck’s mother sang when she was putting her children to sleep, so all the Conners joined right in. When it ended someone started another. They were on “The Zebra Dun” when the generator kicked in and they had light. They finished the last verse anyway, liking the singing and wishing someone had a bottle so they could keep going.
Fenton and Buck stomped and shook off water on the porch. “Where’s your slicker?” Fenton asked. “You could get wet.”
“I am wet.” Buck looked out at the rain. “I don’t see the sense of puttin’ a slicker on now so I can keep all this water inside it.”
“Which means you didn’t bring one in the first place. Trainin’ you is like relearnin’ a mule.” Fenton took Buck’s hat and poured the water from the brim. “Let’s go listen to that music. I hear they got cookies.”
As they left the porch the rain became hail.
Cody Jo had to play chords on the piano to let people know Sue Jamison was going to recite. The hail sounded like hammers across the roof. It was easy to see Sue was scared. Fenton wasn’t sure whether she was scared of the hail or of having to stand up and speak.
“Out of the night that covers me.” She tried to lift her voice above the sound. Hailstones were hitting the window so hard Fenton was afraid it would break. He stood and flattened his back against the glass to keep it from shattering. The girl smiled as though she finally understood the meaning of the words. “Black as the Pit from pole to pole.” Fenton still had his slicker on, which might have kept him from getting cut up when a big hailstone shattered the pane and splashed glass across the room.
“Shit goddamn,” Buck said as people and chairs moved this way and that to avoid the glass. Fenton spread his slicker wide and backed into the opening, nodding to the girl to continue.
The hailstones were as big as golf balls now, seeming even bigger to Fenton, who thought some might be giving him bruises. “Under the bludgeoning of chance . . .” The girl smiled at Fenton, her face going blank as she searched for the words.
“My head is bloody . . .” They heard Cody Jo’s prompting even above the hail, and everyone laughed. Sue finished with no more trouble, though Fenton had to take that on faith. The hail was hitting his slicker so hard he could only hear a word here and there until “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.”
“I sure as hell ain’t the captain of
my
fate.” Dan Murphy was beside him even before the little round of applause ended.
“You mean you didn’t arrange this hail?” Fenton was thinking of a way to get free of the window.
“ Yo u’ll have to bring Cody Jo back. I gotta make tracks. This could wreck my store.” Others were getting up now, Buck protesting, saying he wanted to hear Bump sing “My Buddy.” Fenton called him over.
“ Yo u’re still damp.” He patted Buck on his soggy shoulder. “Won’t hurt to stand here. I gotta fix somethin’.”
He had Buck in the window before Buck could think up an argument. Fenton took an old bulletin board, held a geography book over his head and went out through the hail to get a hammer and some nails from his truck. Pushing Buck inside enough to get the board flat, he tacked it over the broken window, then went back inside with the hammer and nails, sure something else would break any minute.
“Them hailstones smart.” Buck was dripping water again.
“Which is why you need your slicker.” Fenton got him into Bump’s, and they found a sheet of plywood, lifted it high over their heads to ferry the Jamisons out to their car. They got others out too, then began covering the most exposed windows, working until the hail began to let up.
Buck went out to check his truck for broken windows, finding some dents but no serious damage. He came back across a yard white with hailstones. Only Fenton and Cody Jo and Bump were left.
“You best get in this,” Buck said to his brother, taking off the slicker. “Don’t want to ruin your fine tenor voice.”
“I’m glad for the hail.” Bump took the coat. “Singin’ that song wasn’t my idea.”
“Don’t worry.” Cody Jo put her hand on Buck’s arm, startled by how soaked he was. “You can hear him next time.”
“With the violin?” Buck asked. “That violin’s important.”
“If she can get him to sing,” Fenton said, “she’ll get the violin to squeak along too.”
“I have cookies,” Cody Jo said to Buck. “You and Bump must be hungry.... And you need dry clothes.”
“Don’t you worry.” Fenton saw that Cody Jo was worn out. “Buck’s like a duck. I doubt he knows he’s wet.”
“I’m bruised some.” Buck rubbed at his back.
“Let’s shut things down.” Fenton looked around. “Won’t be all that easy gettin’ home through this hail.”
Buck and Bump went out and moved their truck so its headlights were on the generator. Fenton got Cody Jo into his truck before crunching across the hail, shutting the generator off. Cody Jo saw his shadow on the schoolhouse growing bigger and more crooked and then he was in the truck beside her, Buck’s headlights still on the hail, which looked ghostly in the last misty rain.
“Bring your slicker next time,” Fenton called to Buck. “Keep you from gettin’ crippled up.”
“I ain’t crippled. Just stung some.” Buck waited until Fenton got his engine started. “I’d repair quicker if Angie could rub me.” He wound up his window and headed north toward the Conners.
Fenton eased his truck south toward Murphy’s store, the road a strip of white, his headlights making a tunnel of the trees. He drove slowly, hunched forward in his slicker, careful not to get into a slide.
“Glad you brought us some culture.” He looked over at Cody Jo. “Don’t know how we got by so long without it.”
“That wasn’t at all what you expected, was it? That poem . . .”
“Didn’t know what to expect. I sure didn’t think we’d get a storm like this. I believe we’d have done better in my tents.”
“You seemed to know just what to do.”
“Not that many choices. . . . How many people you roped into these ‘cultural’ events?” He enjoyed the way she sat so straight on the seat.
She felt his big presence waiting for her to answer.
“Have a cookie,” she said, holding out the plate. Somehow she’d gotten the cookies out to the truck without getting them wet or crumbled or even very broken. She handed him one.
“You do beat all.” He took a bite. “And they hold right up. Unless I’m so hungry I can’t tell. I slid right past dinner tonight.”
“No wonder you looked so anxious in that window. Can’t be captain of your fate on an empty stomach.” She smiled and held up the plate of cookies again. “You were good with little Sue.”
“Not a cheerful poem.” He took two more. “She needed a little encouragement. Suppose you could make some of these up in the mountains?”
Fenton was always on the lookout for cooks for his pack trips. He couldn’t help playing with the idea now, even though he was pretty sure that was the wrong thing for Cody Jo.
“Oh yes. The big packer. That can’t be too hard. Put everything on those poor mules and loaf around all summer in the mountains.”
“It gets more complicated.” He looked at her. She realized again how much there was of him, how focused and uncluttered he was. He was about to say something when Dan Murphy appeared in their headlights. He was waving at them with a shovel, his little Ford tilted almost on its side in the ditch behind him. Rosie Murphy tried to climb out, but the pitch was too steep and she dropped back in.
“See you been practicin’ your trick drivin’,” Fenton said.
“This stuff is slick.” Dan opened Fenton’s door. “We was all right until Rosie got edgy. I overcorrected.”
Fenton got the lantern going again. “You done fine, Daniel. Hardly anyone else could of tilted her so tidy.”
“Buck put them store windows in. Had his eyes on Angie so much I believe he only partly did his work. Bet we’re knee deep in hail balls.”
The Murphys had hired Angie off a ranch outside of Whitefish. She was the hardest worker they’d ever had, and the spunkiest. Everyone knew Buck was courting her. And everyone knew he wasn’t doing very well—not since he’d made a scene at the schoolhouse dance. She’d even refused to come to the recital because she’d heard Buck would be there.
“Buck ain’t my problem right now,” Fenton said. “You are.” He hauled Rosie up out of the Ford and she gave him a little hug.
Fenton rummaged around in the bed of his truck for a lash rope. “Pull you free, maybe you won’t charge so much for what you call coffee.” Cody Jo was holding the lantern and trying to calm Rosie. Fenton tied the lash rope onto the bumper so fast Dan Murphy didn’t realize it was done. He pulled his truck ahead, getting the rope taut.
“Buck just needs to get Angie off his mind when he wants to hit a nail. Pop her into gear, Daniel. Help me snake you out.”
The moon came out, reflecting off the white road. Fenton’s truck pulled the Ford along in the ditch for a way, the Ford’s wheels spinning as it tried for a purchase. Finally the front wheels came up, the car sliding along almost sideways before the rest of it bounced up onto the road. Rosie trotted alongside it the whole way, shouting encouragement as though she were driving a team.
“Damned if them lash ropes don’t come in handy,” Dan Murphy said. “I been doubtin’ you on that.”
“Just don’t drive so fast we got to tie onto you again. Wet is tough on knots. And we might twang Rosie into next week.” Fenton looked at her. “Never told me you was a mule skinner, Rosie.”
They decided Cody Jo would go on with the Murphys so Fenton wouldn’t have to drive to the store and back out again. Cody Jo got her things and came over to say good-bye, saying that maybe packing was useful, if packers could tie knots like that. She said she was leaving the cookies for him so he could be “captain of his fate.”
Fenton drove home and started the fire, doing some chores before eating a cold supper. Then he started in on the cookies, wondering what it was in the schoolteacher’s voice that touched him so.