Shotgun Charlie (16 page)

When Charlie's head began to turn, followed by his big body—like a huge log slowly rolling over in the current, pinwheeling downstream—he felt the cold air on his face, spewed a gout of water from his mouth, alternately gagging and coughing as he sucked in air.

Charlie lay on his back, spinning in the middle of the river, a wide stretch of unruffled current. His arms floated outward by his sides as if he were a bird testing his wings. His legs hung limply. Too soon the currents conspired to upend him once again and he thrashed to gain his footing, but could not.

The river was too deep. His long, bulky legs churned beneath the roiling brown surface, groping for purchase on the bottom. But it was no use. And then all too soon he was sucked back into the rapids. They boiled all about him as if he were in the midst of a witch's mighty cauldron.

He spun, thrashing wildly, saw something dark approaching fast. Then that something slammed him in the head, as if it were a giant's fist landing a solid punch to his eye socket. He thought he heard himself groan, couldn't be sure as the river's anger rose to a roar all about him. He fought to pull in breaths of air, but his lips found only water.

He fought to keep the light of the sky—now water, now sky, over and over again—above him, the water below, but there was no one here like Pap to tell him how it should be done, no one to share the secrets gained from experience. No one. . . .

And soon the great river flipped Charlie Chilton over once more, his great bulk of a body rising from the water before slamming, facedown, striking rock after rock, caroming from one to the next until he was rendered motionless, save for the push and pull of the river's unending, ageless forces.

Marshal Dodd Wickham thought for sure he'd have caught up with the overgrown galoot before now. Stood to reason he would have—the big young man, though he hadn't dallied terribly, was far from speedy. Whereas Wickham had doubled his pace, much to his Missy's consternation. She kicked up a fuss now and again as he'd urged her to move along faster than she liked.

Maybe he'd lost track of him? Not likely. The big man's sign was easy to read, boot prints deep and wide. His horse had looked to Wickham to be some sort of Percheron cross, big-hoofed and weighty. Just the mount for a man such as Charlie Chilton. It also meant together they left enough of a sizable imprint on the trail's dusty, packed surface that Wickham could follow quite easily compared with a number of rascals from the old days who'd decided to head on out on the trail in hopes of escape.

A couple, as he recalled, did make good on their escapes. But most, he'd caught. He smiled, remembering the good old days, the glory days for one such as he. He'd been the toast of many towns along the way. And as a result had been able to slide his boots under many a fine woman's springy bed.

A noise like a far-off roll of steady thunder broke his reverie. What was that? A storm? No, the snow clouds would open on them soon enough, but they would be silent. This was something different, a sound he'd heard much in his past. But what? He scanned the valley below and spied the rolling gray course between trees—a river.

He was not certain which one, but it didn't matter. He'd been told a long time ago that they all ended up in the same place. Something about the oceans. How the rivers stayed full was another matter. Something about snowmelt and being on top of the world. Again, it really did not matter to him.

His old dear and long-passed daddy had once told him, “Worry about the things you can do something about, boy. Else you'll wind up with bloody insides and a head full of worms and mush and not be of use to anyone.” Wickham recalled too how the old man had come to tell him that.

Young Dodd had experienced his first true love, and as he'd come to learn, in true love's fashion, that also meant he was due sooner or later for a true-love heartache. And that was what he got from Henrietta Bulgins. Now that he recalled, her face, and even her demeanor, sort of matched her name—all lumpy and unpleasant.

He came to learn months later, once he'd stopped mooning over her, that his faithless chum, Clarence Wiggins, had done him a mighty favor in taking her off his hands. Last he heard Clarence was a haggard whip of a man and Henrietta had become as big as a stable and had birthed a baker's dozen young Wigginses. No doubt they'd all gone on to do the same.

All those years later, Wickham shook his head and smiled as a stray gust whistled through his mustaches and chilled his teeth. His horse had picked her way down the scree slope toward the river, and from the looks of it, it was the same spot Charlie had chosen.

“Good lad,” said Wickham, on seeing Charlie's tracks. He looked ahead, but the path wound to the right. He heard the river, though, and knew they were very close. The trail leveled off, then curved around the rocky corner and there was the river before them, in all its roiling, brash, rock-thumping glory. “That looks colder'n a grave digger's heart.” The horse nodded once, as if in agreement.

The marshal dismounted, bent to examine the tracks. “Looks like he cut upstream.” He low-walked forward, eyeballing the spongy, sandy riverbank. “Then came back—couldn't find a spot to cross, eh, Charlie?”

Wickham's mare, Missy, nickered. The marshal glanced up, saw her staring downstream across the river. A large, riderless horse was thundering up the far bank, nursing a hind leg, water sluicing from the saddle and dragging gear. He knew that big beast!

Wickham gained his feet, already wrapping a gloved hand around his pommel. “Charlie!” he shouted, cutting his eyes to the river. Downstream from the horse by a dozen yards, he saw what looked like a big ol' log flopping over in the current. But this log had arms, a big shaggy head, and wore a sopping wool overcoat.

Wickham quickly read the water, yanked the reins hard to the right, and sank spur. The mare responded with renewed vigor to match the old lawman's barking commands and raking rowels. Water sprayed and hooves clomped as the pair followed the river's near edge. If he could reach the slowly spinning man, who looked to Wickham as if he was unconscious or worse, Lord help him, then maybe he could cut left across the river at that point ahead where the rapids rose and the water was shallower. He had to try.

“Hang on, Charlie!” growled Marshal Wickham through clenched teeth. The river spray soaked him, lashed across his face, stinging with its coldness. He barely heard his horse's breathing over the roar of the river and stabbing, splashing hooves.

It was going to be close . . . and he yanked hard again on the reins, cutting the horse to the left. The beast was undaunted by the quickly deepening river. “Charlie!” shouted the old man, fighting with one hand and his teeth with the rawhide thong he'd cinched down too tight around his lariat. When it seemed the water-swollen strip of hide would not give in, Wickham, with a final gnash of his teeth, was able to break the back of the tiny knot and work it apart. He shook out the loop as they reached Charlie, angling downstream with each second that passed.

The big body had hit the faster current sooner than Wickham expected and he had to thunder into deeper water, slowing the horse. Soon it was up to the horse's chest and then he felt the horse bob and go buoyant, and he knew they were no longer in contact with the streambed. He gripped the horse's barrel tight with his legs and focused on getting that loop around Charlie.

It wasn't looking good. The big man was facedown in the drink, but there was little Wickham could do at the moment about that. He stuffed the wet leather reins between his teeth and teased out the loop. Angling his horse with his knees and head, as much as reining with his mouth was effective, Wickham managed to work the horse, slower and more reluctant by the second, to their left and into deeper water.

The loop hit the water, slapped against Charlie's legs, and Wickham jerked it . . . too quick. It slapped over Charlie, whose massive shoulders and head bobbed out of reach, turning all the while like a leaf thrown on stormy water.

One more retrieve back and a fresh toss, the last Wickham knew he could make before he'd have to thunder farther downstream to catch up with the big, floating body.

But this time the loop snagged Charlie's torso, and Wickham wasted no time in snugging it as tight as he could. He wanted to flip the big kid over, but there was no time. He had to get his own horse back to shallower water before they foundered much more.

As if sensing the best direction, his trusty mare beelined upstream at an angle. This took them through the rest of the deep, swift current, and for one moment he felt sure they were about to go belly up, but he trusted his Missy.

He felt more than heard the horse's hooves strike something below—no doubt a mammoth boulder lurking in the gray-green depths. But she righted herself and pressed on. Wickham tugged on the rope, tried to flip the bobbing Charlie over, but had no luck. He spurred his horse to move faster, to give it all she had, and the old girl did just that. In seconds he felt her frantic lashing legs strike something once more, but this time it wasn't something momentary, but the river bottom.

He worked his frozen legs as best he could, trying to spur her to gain that bank a dozen yards ahead. Now ten, seven, five . . . he tried to spur her again, but his legs were useless. Might as well have been lengths of wet stove wood for all the good they did. But the old girl gained the bank and kept scrabbling upward, wanting that high ground, wanting to leave the cold, strange river behind.

Once at the top of the ice-rimed bank, the horse staggered. Wickham smacked at her neck feebly. And she gave another lurch upward. It was enough to get Charlie up out of the water.

Wickham couldn't feel his legs, could barely dismount, but forced himself to move. He grabbed at his leg and with a handful of sopping trouser cloth, managed to yank his unfeeling leg out of the stirrup. Then he pushed against the saddle and dropped, sliding, belly in, to the ground. He landed with a thud on top of Charlie, and immediately worked to drag the boy so that his head faced down the bank, with his feet higher than his head.

It proved a big task, but Wickham managed it in a few seconds of wordless shouts and straining. Then he dropped to his knees and flipped the big brute onto his side. The man's face was the color of lilac flowers with a blackness creeping in beneath it all.

Charlie's eyes were closed, his lips pursed, and his face looked puffed, as if he were holding his breath. All this Wickham took in as he kept rolling the big brute, trying to balance him up onto his side. It took all the strength Wickham could muster, and then holding him there proved a whole other task.

But he did it, and managed to angle Charlie so that he was almost, but not quite, facedown again. He held him like that, propped against his own shoulder, while with his left arm he whomped on the young man's back. Then he reached to the front and pushed hard, punching as if he were pounding a big wad of dough, hoping that this effort might expel some of the river water the man had likely taken in.

“Charlie!” He slapped quickly at the big face. “Charlie! Curse you, boy, don't you die on me! I'll not be responsible for hauling your carcass back to town! Ain't got the strength for such a Herculean task! Charlie!” He slapped again.

Next he muckled on to Charlie's face, pinched either side of his mouth, in an effort to force Charlie's mouth open. It worked and stayed that way as he released and recommenced his pummeling of Charlie's gut, then whomping on his back.

He'd about run out of breath himself, and felt Charlie's big girth slowly slumping down toward him, threatening to crush his old bony frame, when he heard a cough. He held his breath, not sure if it had come from himself or . . . there it was again!

Wickham commenced to whomping and punching with renewed vigor and Charlie's coughs increased, terrible, deep-body retching sounds. Soon, with a great heave, Charlie vomited a great quantity of brown, brackish bile, half spraying it on the old lawman's face. Wickham lost his grip on Charlie, managed to roll backward in time, and Charlie flopped facedown once more on the riverbank mud, his great shaggy head a foot or so from the slopping, ice-and-mud-churned riverbank.

Dodd Wickham glanced at Charlie. With relief he saw the big man's back rising, falling, rising slowly, saw one big hand twitch, the fingers begin to flex and curl, raking mud and twigs.

Wickham raised himself up on his elbows, dragging a sopping cuff across his face with a grimace, his breath coming in ragged pulls. It had been a long time since he'd had to exert himself in such a manner. He saw movement to his left, up on the bank. It was Missy, his horse. It appeared she didn't know which leg to favor, so cold was she.

Her withers flinched uncontrollably. He felt bad for the old girl, but she was a trooper. He had faith she'd shake it off, though he'd tend to her once he got his wind back. She'd be okay if left alone, as long as she kept walking, stumbling and shambling as she was. He barely heard the other horse, Charlie's big mount, make its way to them, but saw it out of the corner of his eye as he kept a watch on Charlie.

The big horse looked shaky on his pins too, but was still upright. And though trembling and with gear trailing from him, Wickham suspected he'd make it through too. The exhausted lawman watched Charlie try weakly to get his arms up under himself, to push himself up like a dazed grizzly who'd taken a mighty knock to the bean.

“Take her easy, boy. You been through the worst of it. Take her easy and don't flop forward into that dang river or I've a mind to let you go this time.”

The only acknowledgment he got from Charlie that the young man had heard him was a low guttural grumble as he slowly pushed himself up onto his knees, his big hands planted firmly in the oozing, freezing mud. He swayed like that, a figure more grizzly than man, huffing and chuffing and nearly growling, shaking his big head slowly side to side.

“You don't sound so good,” said Wickham, unscrewing the top of his flask. Though possibly now more dented than he remembered, it appeared not to have lost any of its precious cargo. He took a pull, smacked his lips, and lay back on the bank, his eyes closed, his breathing leveling off. “You had me worried there, Charlie. My word, don't do that to an old man, eh?”

Dodd Wickham flicked his eyes open and saw a shadow fall over him. He squinted up and shouted, “No! Charlie, no!” as a big fist drove downward at his face.