High Country : A Novel (9 page)

They were up early. Rosie had a big breakfast ready at daybreak, pancakes and eggs and lots of bacon and coffee. Fenton sipped his coffee, watching Cody Jo turn pancakes and stack them on the corner of the stove while she did eggs to order in a big skillet. She moved easily about her work, a quality in her movements so graceful and sure he found it hard to start in on his day’s work.

Buck and Gus were already at work, catching up the horses they needed, pushing the rest out for more feed, saddling fast. Despite his lingering, Fenton found himself heading down the canyon before the sun reached the valley floor. Behind him came everyone he thought he could use—and some he couldn’t. There was so much talk in camp, he had little choice. Everyone wanted to help.

Fenton put Buck and Gus to work cutting away limbs and moving deadfall. He sent Tommy up on the cliffs with some of the teenagers, digging a path across the shale and cutting rough steps in the chutes. He dropped down to check where the route crossed the canyon, worried about how soft the ground might get after the first horses broke through.

Rosie organized things in camp, setting aside a lunch, taking the stove down, getting the kitchen tent ready for the packers. Cody Jo, still unsettled by the way Fenton had watched her, wasn’t much help.

“Take this and go.” Rosie handed her a sack of apples and a wedge of cheese. “Not much use to me, and you’ll be a big hit with them.”
Cody Jo brightened at the idea. She needed something to do. All the talk about cliffs and bogs worried her.
“Should I give tips on trailblazing?”
“Stick with the food. It digests,” Rosie said.
They had the way open almost to the first chute when she found them. One log, still to be moved, had poles jammed under it. She stayed back as they tried to slide it, their bodies straining, faces red.
“Do better if you got her unstuck.” Fenton’s big voice came down off the chute. Then he was there with Gus, grabbing the longest pole, finding purchase for it under the log as Gus kicked a chunk of deadfall underneath for a fulcrum. Fenton levered down; the log came up. He braced it as they got other poles under it, slid it a few feet. They did it again, everyone falling in behind Fenton’s strength and directions, moving the fulcrum, lifting and sliding the log until there was room for the mules.
“A short horse soon curried.” Fenton tossed the pole aside. “What worries me is the damn bog. Might not have any bottom at all.” Cody Jo watched him take his hat off and wipe his face, which seemed an even deeper brown against his white hair. Mud was splattered on him everywhere, drying and browning in the sun. There was a tear in his shirt. He looked big and strong and capable—yet somehow vulnerable too.
“Something to eat might help,” she said, enjoying their surprise. They were happy she was there, telling her what they’d done, blaming and congratulating each other, pleased with themselves, the day, with Fenton—who made sure everyone had food before taking some himself.
“I believe you’re our Florence Nightingale.” He cut off a chunk of cheese and snapped his knife shut. “But I got this feeling she wasn’t near so good to look at.” The words came out of him so earnestly he was surprised himself, his throat tightening around them.
“I ...” She felt her face warm. “Aren’t there others ahead?”
“There are.” Fenton cleared his throat. “Let’s go find ’em.”
Cody Jo was shocked by where he took her. She had to use her hands to get up the chute, cross the ledges and slides. They dropped and crossed the canyon to reach the others, the canyon magical to Cody Jo, sunlight filtering down to make the little meadow look rich, verdant. Tommy was on the other side, finishing up the chute they would have to climb.
“Ain’t gonna do much better.” Tommy popped a chunk of cheese into his mouth. “Test it with Babe. We’ll patch where there’s trouble.”
Fenton put Cody Jo in front of him as they went back for Babe. He was embarrassed by how mud-spattered and dirty he was. They talked little, even when she hesitated crossing a chute.
“There’s room,” he said. “And the cliffs aren’t what bother me.”
“And the mules aren’t what bother me.” Cody Jo tipped a little. He reached out, gave her balance.
Gus and Buck had the horses ready for everyone to go back to pack up. They watched Fenton ride back again into the dark canyon, leading Tommy’s pinto behind Babe.
“That Tommy, he can find a way through anything,” Gus declared.
“And Fenton can clear the damn way.” Buck was tired. “That man like to worked me into next week.” He started up the trail. “Sure was determined. And by God he won.”
Babe and Pinto handled the route with little trouble. Tommy met Fenton at the first chute and walked behind, shoring up the route, both worrying not so much about these horses as the others, especially the mules who might hit something and tip their loads off balance. Fenton grew more worried when Babe went up to her pasterns edging along the meadow.
On their way back the pinto went in still deeper, but there was nothing to be done. Jumbled deadfall forced them to skirt the meadow. All they could do was hope there was a bottom to it.

They were underway by early afternoon. Fenton noticed clouds but didn’t make much of them. There could be buildups for days before a storm. He saw no sense in worrying about tomorrow with so much trouble ahead today, which came where he feared it would. Sugar, a little Tennessee mule Fenton favored, tried to climb above the mud, ramming her pack into a log that forced her back out into the meadow. She went down, tried to lunge up, went down again, rolling out over her packs, which kept her from sinking but now held her there, her struggles only miring her more deeply. She struggled a final time before giving up—her packs, off balance now, holding her fast.

Gus had already taken the guests through, each walking to lighten the horses. Tommy had followed, leading Babe, the mare the mules followed without fail. Fenton and Buck, alert for trouble, came last. Fenton was already pushing the other mules toward the stream when Sugar went down. He hurried the rest across, turning back just as Sugar lifted a mournful bray, which encouraged Fenton. If I can calm her, he thought, get her saddle off, she might fight free to catch up with the others.

When he got back to the meadow, he saw that Sugar’s bray might have come from confusion as much as loneliness. Buck had worked some deadfall out onto the bog so he could stay on top of the mud. He was out there on the logs himself now. Fenton watched him reach across the mule and down into the mud, searching for the lash cinch.

Fenton saw Buck was off balance, but before he could call a warning Buck was catching himself on the pack, sinking Sugar still deeper. Buck’s body lurched forward just as Sugar jerked her head up, hitting Buck’s head like a maul on a wedge. He saw Buck go backward onto the muddy green, his face crooked, the blood coming so quickly he thought Buck’s head had been split entirely.

He took off his boots, tied a lead-line to a tree, and started out through the mud. When he looked up, he saw that Buck was upright, blood streaming from his face as he balanced himself with one hand on a log, fishing around under the muck with the other.

And I believe I’ve lost a boot in this murk.”
“You ain’t thinkin’ straight.” Fenton could barely see Buck’s face
through all the blood. “Let’s get you unstuck. Worry about the damn
boot later.”
Fenton held the line as he went out but found the mud had a
bottom after all. He used the rope anyway, hauling Buck out as Buck
clutched at the boot he’d somehow found.
“Leggo that boot and I’ll look at your nose.” Fenton splashed
muddy water on Buck’s face. “It’s moved some.”
Buck felt Fenton’s big hands on either side of his head and thought
he felt something move, though he couldn’t be sure.
“It’s back near the middle.” Fenton wiped his hands on his pants.
“I’ll cut them ropes now. Get the packs off our mule.”
“If I knowed you was gonna cut rope, I wouldn’t be in such a bad
state.” Buck scooped mud and water out of his boot, tilting his head
and trying to clear his vision. “You told me never to cut rope.” “And I meant it. Unless you were gonna lose a whole mule. I was
figurin’ on you usin’ some initiative when an entire mule come up.” “Initiative is what got me out there.” Buck was struggling to pull his
boot on. “I believe.”
“Gotta study up on your brand,” Fenton said, starting back toward
Sugar.

Cody Jo led her gelding until they crossed the last of the shale. Then she sent him on behind the others, turning and seeing Tommy leading Babe, Gus and the mules following. She saw no sign of Buck or Fenton.

She hurried back, sliding down the chute and crossing the stream on a log. She saw them then, watched Fenton peer down at Buck as though after something in his eye, saw Fenton’s boots thrown aside. Only then did she see the blood covering Buck’s shirt and running down onto his pants. And not until Fenton started back through the mud did she see Sugar, realize how ripped and broken the meadow was around her.

“He’s gonna cut them ropes,” Buck said to her. “He told me never to do that.” He wiped his eyes. “He may get them packs, but I doubt he’ll get Sugar. Pure sog out there.”

Fenton waved a hand at Cody Jo. “Glad you showed up.” He heaved a pack free and up onto the logs. “Buck got chunked.” Somehow he got the pack saddle free as well, got all the gear to the edge of the meadow, stacking it there where it could dry.

“Wash his face up in the creek.” He started back out toward the mule. “Just go easy around that nose. Pretty mushy.”
Cody Jo saw Fenton pull Sugar’s head this way and that. No matter which way he pulled, the little mule stayed put, her neck stretching out but the rest of her fixed deep in the mud of the disrupted meadow.
It grew darker, the mosquitoes thicker as they made their way to the ford. When they reached it Buck waded straight in, splashing water on his face before suddenly going down, his blood clouding the water. Cody Jo waded in after him, helped him back to the bank and cleaned his face with her kerchief. His nose was already purple across the bridge, a puffiness setting in around his eyes.
Fenton came and put Cody Jo in front, leading Buck across the stream and along the trail until they met Tommy. He was riding toward them on Pinto and leading Goose, the gentlest horse in Fenton’s string.
“I wouldn’t have hurried so if I’d knowed Buck was gonna wash up—in his clothes too,” Tommy said, looking up at the dark sky. “Maybe this shower bath’ll clean that blood off.” Fenton was startled by how black the sky was getting.
“Buck here got banged up.” Cody Jo was surprised by the urgency in Fenton’s voice. “Slip him up on Pinto and get him back to the others. I’ll take Goose back for them packs.”
Tommy said not a word, boosting Buck onto Pinto and starting back before Cody Jo could collect herself.
“Go.” Fenton pushed Cody Jo along behind Tommy. “When the lightning starts, them folks’ll need some Cody Jo talk.” Lightning ripped through the sky, thunder following so closely the pinto jumped.
“Maybe that’ll scare our mule out of the sog.” Buck was having a hard time staying in the saddle. “It sure got Pinto’s attention.”
“Maybe,” Fenton called back. “And maybe there’s gonna be so damn much water we’ll lose her altogether.”

Tommy put Cody Jo behind Buck to keep him in the saddle. They moved quickly after that, finding the others huddled under trees, eyes on the black sky, rain gear on. That morning Cody Jo, not wanting to tie her slicker on anyone’s saddle, had stuffed hers into her duffle. Now Gus would either have to unpack the mules to find it or give her his, getting soaked for the kindness. Big drops were already starting to fall.

“I’ll take Babe back.” She climbed onto her gelding, not wanting anyone to see how miserable she looked. “We need Fenton.”
Gus started to protest, but Tommy, ignoring a clap of thunder, handed her Babe’s lead. “Gotta get him back before we cross.” The rain was settling in now. “River could rise.”

Cody Jo pushed them hard, sliding them off the trail once and clamboring back. The rain was steady, the trail soft. They slid down the chute into the canyon to find Fenton, all Sugar’s gear tied onto Goose.

“Where’s Sugar? We can’t leave her.”
“No choice. If this don’t drive her out, nothin’ will.”
“But . . . “ Suddenly Cody Jo found herself crying.
“Where’s your slicker? You’ll be soaked.” Fenton pulled his own

slicker from behind Babe’s saddle and put it on her. She was shaking so hard her hands couldn’t fasten the snaps. Fenton reached up and did it for her.

“Bet you gave yours to one of the kids,” he shouted through the downpour. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a scrunchedup child’s poncho. “Got this for an emergency.” He put it on and mounted Babe, the poncho barely reaching his saddle. Cody Jo opened her mouth, but nothing came. Fenton pulled his hat down, water running off it like a waterfall. “Stick close behind old Goose,” he shouted.

It seemed impossible, but the rain came harder. Fenton shouted something she couldn’t hear and forced Babe up the chute, the shale blue-black and slick now, Babe struggling as she hauled Goose onto the thin trail above. The gelding, afraid of being left, scrambled behind, going onto his haunches once, Cody Jo clinging to his mane with eyes closed—leaving everything to her horse, to Fenton.

She couldn’t believe how calm he was, how careful. She watched him ease past the slick places, riding slowly along ledges high above the canyon floor, the rain blowing so she thought the little poncho would be ripped from him—or he would be torn away himself. The shakes abated as she fought to stay in the saddle, but when they left the ledges and met the others, they came again, harder.

No one noticed, huddled as they were at the base of the ponderosas. Fenton was shouting directions before they knew he was there. In minutes he had them moving, checking cinches, mounting up. He tied his mules in strings of three, making sure a steady one was first.

Cody Jo did what she could to help, the shaking not as bad when she was in motion. Before she knew it they were following Fenton toward the river, riders with mules first. Even Buck led a string. Gus, leading Goose, rode behind him, the boy who’d been riding Goose clinging to his waist.

They wound through open timber, pushing against the rain until they heard the river and suddenly saw it: swift, brown with silt, the opposite bank lost behind sheets of rain. By the time Cody Jo got to the bank Fenton was half way across, water above his stirrups, Babe quartering upstream to take advantage of some hidden bar, the mules lurching under packs as they followed, crossing deeper water near the bank to reach the bar Fenton followed. He was turned in his saddle, watching not the mules he was leading but the ones behind, free now and floundering into the river as Gus set them loose to trail after him, the saddle horses waiting until the mules found the safest route.

Fenton hadn’t had time to get anyone stationed in the river to steer them clear of the deep holes, keep them from turning back. All he could do was hope the storm would make them afraid to try anything on their own. It was a chance he had to take—the water rising, the downfall torrential.

Everything in him was concentrating on getting into camp, getting people dry—which is why he was startled to see Gus release Goose, shoo him into the river behind the mules. As faithful as Goose was, there was nothing to convince Fenton he would follow a string of mules through this river, not with every horse but Babe behind him, waiting on the bank—or still winding through the timber toward the river.

Goose reached the rocky bar and was pushing his way against the current when he saw no horses ahead. He looked back, turned toward the horses and slipped off into deeper water, the full force of the river rising to his packs, taking him deeper into the ominously smooth water that cut under the bank, exposing roots and boulders. His packs went under first, then he was gone, slipping beneath the water as if pulled. Fenton cursed himself for how tightly he’d tied on the packs as Babe turned toward the shore, made her way through the last wide rapids and up the steep banks toward the White River benches.

Tommy was checking the crossing for the others when he saw Goose slide under. He motioned the rest to cross, shouting through the downpour for Gus and Cody Jo to lead, hurrying others in behind, all of them too numb with wet and cold to fear the crossing as their horses stumbled, caught themselves, pushed their way through the swollen river.

Behind them Tommy saw what he’d wanted to see. Goose’s nose came up first, the current pushing him against the shelf Fenton had used to reach the rocky bar. Tommy watched the force of the water lift Goose until his feet were under him, watched him scramble onto the shelf, staggering under the packs. Goose blew streams of water from his nostrils and stumbled as Tommy forced Pinto into him, Tommy cursing so fiercely it startled Goose upright. The other horses were fading through the rain, but Tommy was counting on them to pull Goose along. Goose lurched forward, water pouring from his packs as Tommy cursed him again, watched him go down only to fight his way upright, desperate to reach the others, the safety of the shore.

Fenton rode through sheets of water into the big opening where White River slowed before sliding over a slab and dropping down into the South Fork. He tied Babe, his mules finding their own shelter under trees, then dropped the packs with the big canvas flies, rolled out the tarps as Gus found the lodgepoles they’d stashed there. Buck tried to help, but he was too confused and weakened. When Goose trotted into camp, Buck was so startled he backed away and fell. “The drowned horse,” he said. “He’s come back.”
Fenton paid no attention. “Get them candles and help Gus start a

Then Tommy was there himself, lashing the poles into two big A- frames. Together they heaved the tarp over a center beam, raised it and tightened lines to form a high, open shelter. Fenton got everyone under it as Gus and Tommy snapped twigs from the base of trees, hacked chunks of pitch from their trunks. They sheltered a candle until Tommy got a flame then covered it with the twigs and pitch, a fire finally lifting up against the rain.

Buck fed it until it had a life of its own as Gus caught up the mules, leading one after the other under a second high tarp where Tommy and Fenton unpacked. They worked fast, storing duffle and bedrolls, stacking saddles under manties.

When the rain slacked, people drifted out from under the tarps to warm themselves, clothes steaming from the sudden heat, saying little as they watched the men work, the camp growing out of nothing.

Before dark everything was established: stock belled and turned out, tents up, wet gear and clothing hung on lines around the fire and along the walls of the cook tent. People were eating by the fire or huddled in the cook tent with Rosie and Cody Jo.

Buck’s face was swelling fast, the puffy skin turning purple. But he had worked hard, all of them had, not warming themselves at the fire, not asking for coffee, accepting only a swallow of the soup Rosie produced. Now they took spoonfuls of hot stew, eating as they worked—tightening lines, bringing in wood, covering saddles, digging drainages.

“Best I don’t go in by that fire,” Fenton said, thanking one of the men who showed concern. “Might warm too much from the outside. Then these hands wouldn’t be worth a damn.” He snapped a rope taut and tied it off. “Warming from the inside. A body tolerates that.”

Cody Jo kept returning to the door of the cook tent to watch. Each time she looked, more had been done. Fenton never stopped: shaking out gear, stacking rope, giving directions. But the camp was subdued. And it went beyond losing Sugar. The bench they were on was not so high above the big river that they couldn’t hear its steady rumble, boulders lifted from the river bottom and cracking into one another. The rain had diminished to a mist, but it had come with such power that Gus thought a foot had fallen. No one argued. Wherever they stepped there was water. They hardly needed the sound of the runaway waters to be reminded of what they had crossed—it seemed everywhere around them.

“ Yo u’d think I’d sleep tonight.” Fenton took a plate from Cody Jo. “And I might, if this ground would drain and the river went down and Sugar’d come alive.” He looked at her. “And Buck would heal.”

“He turned to the man who’d wanted him to come in to the fire. “If you offered me some of that brandy, I just might accept.”
The man was happy to dig out his brandy for the big packer. Cody Jo watched as Fenton poured some into his cup and passed the bottle on. It went around the fire, the teenagers getting approval to have some, the boy who’d ridden behind Gus tasting it and making a face, the others taking healthy portions, sipping, looking at the sky, pointing to a patch of blue opening to the west.
Tommy went into the woods and came back dragging part of a big stump. Fenton helped him lift it onto the fire, the pitch sending flames high into the air, startling everyone with its sudden heat. Cody Jo listened to the talk picking up, the laughter. She watched the patch of blue grow bigger, darker, the long day folding into night.
When she looked around, Fenton was gone, his plate clean, his brandy untouched. She found him with Rosie over near the saddles. They were putting out Buck’s bedroll, covering it with a dried tarp. She took off Fenton’s slicker and went over to them in the fading light.
Fenton held a bucket of water. Rosie was wetting a towel in it, holding it to Buck’s face. “That’ll help,” Fenton said. “If we had snow, I’d use that. Can’t be cold enough for what you need.”
“How’s a man supposed to sleep? Get up ever’ hour and freeze my face. Don’t warm before you ice me again.”
“If we don’t slow the swelling,” Rosie said, “you won’t find your bed anyway. Lose sleep now so you can see to find it later.”
“Couldn’t have found it now if Fenton hadn’t rolled it out. I been trippin’ all evenin’ long.”
“Gettin’ dark,” Fenton said. “I’ll slip off and do things. Keep that cold on, Rosie. He’s like a bronc mule. Gotta trick him into good sense.”
Cody Jo held out his slicker, but he just smiled and waved it off.
“He is one crazy bastard,” Buck said from under his cold towel. “I doubt he knows he’s tired.”
Cody Jo knelt down, wringing out another towel, handing it to Rosie. “Will his eyes swell closed?”
“Close to,” Rosie said. “He’s gonna look like a rainbow trout.”
“A froze one,” Buck complained as she spread the towel over his face. “Wish Angie was here to warm me.”

A moon—just past full—lifted above trees and scattered clouds. Cody Jo went to her duffle for her jacket, pulling her slicker free as she did. She put on her jacket, took the water bucket and walked out to the big rock that slanted down into the currents of White River.

The water shimmered with moonlight as it slid over the rock. She filled the bucket, suddenly startled by Fenton’s voice. He was high up on the rock, his hat off, his white hair combed.

“Tried for a bath before dark. Missed though. Not sure I’m made for this moonlight bathing.”
Cody Jo walked up the slanting rock and sat. Fenton had on dry clothes, his wet ones wrapped in the torn poncho.
“I don’t think anyone in the world could have done what you did today. And I had your slicker. You were soaking. I . . . mine was in my duffle.”
“Don’t things like that make you want to throw a fit?” Fenton smiled at her. “There was one time . . .” He watched her, his voice quieting. “But hell, that’s another story . . . for another place.”
“You got us here. Alive, except for poor Sugar. For a while I didn’t think there was any way you could do that.”
“Lot of guys could of done that. You see what’s got to be done and you do it. There ain’t a lot of choices.”
“The choice was not to come down that canyon. Not to listen to us . . . Not to come into this country at all. It has so many ways to get you.”
“People might get you,” Fenton said. “But not these mountains. They don’t want to get you or anybody else.” They watched the water slide across the big rock, spilling down toward the rapids. “This high country, it’s too big to care.” He stood. “That’s why I like it. You make do with what it offers. It took Sugar, but it let us cross the river. Make this camp. Things balance out.”
Cody Jo was standing too. She took her hands out of her pockets and gave him a hug, a thanks for what he’d done, support for what was ahead. He found himself giving her a hug too. Then everything changed. He felt her breath on his neck, the curve of her stomach, the long warmth of her body, felt her words coming up through them.
“...I could be good to you,” she breathed into his ear, her body rocking just perceptively into his. “Do you . . .” She looked up at him. “Do you want me?”
Fenton’s voice went thick. “What man wouldn’t?” The words were scratchy, telling.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed herself to him, her mouth wet and alive on his neck. Then she was backing away, looking up at him, her face torn. She left, almost running, scooping up the bucket and disappearing into the shadows toward camp.
Fenton was stopped there in the moonlight, which seemed more alive to him than the river moving beneath it. Finally the chill of the long day moved in and he shivered, made his way back to camp.

The root had burned low. Tommy was watching it, his world deep in the flames. Fenton found his brandy and sat.
“I have a need of this now. A bath out there gets brisk.”
“I ain’t dirty enough yet,” Tommy said. “To freeze in that river or to drink that shit. Plays hell with my people.”
“Pretty good to me when my day’s work is done. Except for a mule Mother Nature buried for me,” Fenton savored the brandy, “this day’s is.”
“Might surprise you.” Tommy threw some pinecones on the fire, watched them flare. “Mules is tough.”
“A duck couldn’t swim out of there now. Likely sunk out of sight.” Fenton warmed himself. “Just tell me,” he sipped at his brandy, watching Tommy, “how in hell you got Goose off the bottom of that river.”
Tommy watched the fire.
“Waited,” he said finally. “Your people never understand. Wait. Good things can happen.”