Snaggle Tooth

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  The man disappeared into the dark without answering.

  Patrick shivered. The man hadn’t been threatening, but something about him still set off Patrick’s sensors. He glanced back at the plane, noticing a bag shoved behind Elvin’s seat. At least the moon has come up. We may be able to see where we’re going after all. He pulled the bag out and dug through its contents. Maps. Canteens of water. He could have used those earlier, although Eddie had refilled both of theirs. MREs. And a flare gun—a “Very” pistol model with a short, one-inch bore. He nodded. Useful. He tucked it into his belt loop. The MREs he stuffed in his shirt. Who knew how much longer they’d be up on the mountain? They might need the sustenance. He’d add them to the saddle bags later. The canteens he left, deciding they were too much to carry.

  “You think you could stop talking to yourself long enough to get me out of here?” Elvin said.

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Are we ready?” Eddie sauntered up, pockets heavier, hands full of bills that he was cramming down the front of his pants.

  From one odd interaction straight to another. The climber and now Eddie, who was more concerned about the money than his friend. Who expected Patrick to take up the slack—not just the emergency medicine, but all of it. Patrick didn’t normally assault people, but he was willing to make an exception to clock Eddie. Maybe when this was all over, he’d get the chance.

  “Yes, we are. Time for us to get Elvin out. Wait here.” Patrick walked around to the other side of the plane and climbed in. “Okay, Elvin. This isn’t going to be much fun.”

  Elvin said, “Like the rest of this has been a party.”

  True enough. “I’m going to lower you to the floor, with your behind toward the opening. Then I’ll go around and pull you out slowly. Your leg is going to take some abuse.”

  Elvin closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  “Eddie, can you help me with his leg?”

  Eddie didn’t look enthusiastic, but he leaned into the plane. “What do I have to do?”

  “I need you to come in here and guide the box.” Patrick gestured at the cage of timber he’d built around Elvin’s leg and lashed to him with loose wiring he’d salvaged from the plane.

  Eddie nodded. He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared beside Patrick inside the plane.

  “Bite down on this.” Patrick held up a stick.

  Elvin opened his mouth. Patrick slid the stick in, and Elvin bit down. He’d used it earlier when Patrick had slid the cage up his leg, and it had worked well.

  “Ready?”

  Elvin nodded jerkily.

  Patrick had tried the buckle on Elvin’s seatbelt earlier, and it was jammed. He slid his six-inch pocketknife from its holster at his hip. The knife had been a gift from his friend and co-worker Wes Braten, who had engraved SAWBONES in the handle, his nickname for Patrick. Patrick had discounted the need for the heavy-duty pocketknife at first, but it had come in handy more than a few times. Now he’d no sooner get dressed without strapping it on than he’d dance into town naked. He opened it and carefully sliced Elvin’s seatbelt in two.

  Elvin grimaced and his face paled, but he nodded as if to say keep going, keep going.

  Patrick stepped over him onto the outside edge of the plane. He put one arm under the man’s shoulders and the other under his thighs. To Eddie, he said, “Get his leg.”

  Elvin nodded vigorously. He said something through the stick that sounded like do it.

  “Ready, Eddie?”

  “Yeah, man. Let’s get this over with.”

  “I’m going on three. One, two, three.” Patrick lifted Elvin as smoothly and carefully as he could. As soon as he had him off the seat, he turned him. “Now, Eddie.”

  The stick muffled Elvin’s scream, but not completely. It tore into Patrick. He hated causing pain. He stepped backward out of the plane, being extra careful with his footing and balance, which were made difficult by his unwieldy load. Then he set Elvin in the place his own feet had been on the floor of the plane. It was a good thing the Shoshone man was lean, because there wasn’t much of a gap between the front and back seats in the plane.

  Elvin’s head lolled forward.

  “He’s out cold, man,” Eddie said.

  “Let’s work fast then. I’m going to lift him out. You guide the cage onto the seat, then come around and catch it on this side.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?” Patrick said.

  “Go.”

  Patrick lifted Elvin’s torso and Eddie balanced the injured leg across the seat. Then Eddie backed out of the plane and came around to stand beside Patrick. The two men nodded at each other. Patrick lifted again, dragging Elvin’s uninjured leg out, while Eddie supported the caged leg down to the earth. Together they turned Elvin and propped him against the remaining intact siding of the tail.

  Eddie stood with his hand on his hip. “Thank God he passed out.”

  “He might come to at any moment. Let’s get him on the travois before that happens.” Patrick positioned the contraption on the ground. It was his first travois, other than ones he’d made for fun as a kid, and he was satisfied with his work. He’d used a section of his tent as the bed and tied it by its straps to some good young trees like he’d used for the pry bars. He’d lashed the timber in place with the rope he always carried in his saddle bags. The travois was fairly long—as long as he could make it with his available materials—with the goal being to keep Elvin’s caged leg off the ground, resting on the cross piece at the foot of the travois.

  Eddie stared at it. Doubt was etched across his face. “How are we getting him over the boulders?”

  “We’ll use it like a stretcher. Boulder to boulder. Slow and easy. When we get him down to the trail, we’ll drag him behind Reno. But we won’t have to do much bouldering. That climber who was here a minute ago showed me an easier route.”

  “What climber?”

  “Never mind.”

  Eddie grunted. “I’ll bet Elvin’s going to be passed out most of the way down.”

  Patrick hoped Eddie was right. “I’ll get his shoulders, you take his legs.”

  They lifted and positioned Elvin over the travois, then lowered him onto it. The length seemed ample, to Patrick’s relief. He tied Elvin in place with a long section of cable he’d liberated from the plane. As he did, he realized that visibility was getting better and better. After a day of horrible weather, God was finally showing signs of being on their side. A full moon was rising, nice and bright.

  He nodded. “All right. Let’s grab our things and get out of here.” He opened the saddle bag, which tumbled over. Horseman, Pass By fell out, and he remembered Henry telling him how grim the book was. Perfect for this trip, after all. He stuffed the book and the MREs into the bag and closed it.

  “Aren’t we going to rest?” Eddie said.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll eat on the trail.”

  Eddie made an unhappy noise, close to a snarl. He took a last hard look at the money sticking out of the edges of the plane’s false skin. He stalked over and pulled out a few more handfuls, then shoved them under Elvin’s back.

  Patrick wondered at what point Eddie would decide he didn’t need Patrick’s help anymore. He had to stay ready, because he knew they’d get there, sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Thirty-nine: Miss

  Dayton, Wyoming

  Friday August 12, 1977, 10:00 p.m.

  Trish

  Trish picked at her cuticles, pulling and tearing at them until blood seeped from the edges. Today had been horrible, and it seemed like it would never end. The sun had set nearly two hours before. Now, after a long, curvy, carsick ride, the little town of Dayton was only a mile or two away. Finally.

  They would have made better time, but the game warden had slowed them down, a lot.

  At first, she’d thought that because of Warden Turner, things might move faster and get better. He was a state law enfo
rcement officer. John had been murdered. Her dad was somewhere up the mountain trying to rescue people from a plane crash—and so were Ben and Henry. Perry was hurt. If ever there was a time for help, this had seemed like the one.

  She’d been hopeful when George had told their story. But the warden had interrupted him with so many questions that George’s face had turned the color of the persimmons from Grandma Lana’s tree back in Texas. Then Warden Turner had asked Trish to tell the story from her perspective. The peppering had started as soon as she opened her mouth. She was sure her cheeks had turned red, too. She’d put her hands to them, just to cool her face. All in all, it took them almost thirty minutes to get the story out. Perry was weaving back and forth, almost asleep on his feet.

  The warden went to his truck to radio for help, only to discover the unit wasn’t working. Another half hour passed as he attempted to fix it. After he finally gave up, he drove Trish and Perry to George’s trailer, but so slowly that they’d only beaten George and the horses by a few minutes. There, Perry had laid down on the seat of George’s truck while the men loaded John into the warden’s truck bed. Trish took care of Yeti and the other horse, picking debris from their hooves with a stick, checking them for any ill effects of the day, and grazing them.

  Yeti. She was pretty much in love with the Shire. He was the only horse that had come back to them. He’d been the perfect horse to carry John—kind, gentle, and strong. The other horse was a nice one, but Yeti was special.

  She patted both horses, then said to Yeti, “Good job with John, big boy. Now, where’s my horse? Where’s Goldie?”

  The horses ignored her, busy eating.

  “I’m worried about Ben.”

  Yeti looked over his shoulder at her. His wise eyes and solemn expression made her feel squirmy inside.

  “I know I should be worried about Dad. I am scared for him. But he’s a grown man. Goldie is a silly mare and Ben, well, I just can’t help it.”

  She closed her eyes. The thought of Ben riding toward that awful machine pistol . . . it was too much. She re-lived its awful noise again and again. Smelled the gun powder. Saw the bloody hole in John’s head.

  “Time to load them up.” George opened the trailer gate.

  Trish kept Yeti and handed the lead for the other horse to George. She walked the draft around the trailer. His strides were long and his turnover slow—so different from her little mare. Walking beside him made her feel small. He was even taller than Reno, and thicker, too.

  George loaded his horse then turned to her. He patted Yeti on the rump. “He self-loads if you just take him up close and get out of his way.”

  But as Trish lined Yeti up, he stopped and threw his head in the air. His long, heavy mane whipped against Trish’s face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He released a whinny from deep in his belly that shook his entire body. The horse in the trailer joined in. And they were answered. By more than one horse.

  Trish wheeled around. A golden Palomino was prancing across Hazel Park, white tail fanned behind her. Goldie, beautiful and perfect. Squatty little Duke was fast trotting to keep up with her, Plug on his heels. Junior was bucking and running beside them.

  “They’re here!” Trish stroked Yeti’s neck. The Shire was dancing in place and tossing his head. “Henry was right.”

  “Thank goodness,” George said. “Junior’s not mine. He belongs to the ranch I live on.” He shook his head. “As do the horses Orion and Juice have. And your Dad. Man, I’m going to be in so much trouble.” His eyes cut to the bed of the game warden’s pickup. “Sorry. I know there are worse troubles than a few horses.”

  There was no loading the excited Yeti so quickly after the arrival of the other horses. Trish tied him off to the side of the trailer and went to catch the others. The horses were flighty, but Goldie was a sucker for a cookie. Trish soon had her tied up on the other side of the trailer from Yeti. With Goldie in hand, Duke, Plug, and Junior were easy to round up.

  After they loaded the horses, George found a flat on his truck. Trish paced, rubbed her arms to stay warm, and watched the trail while the men changed the tire. It was eight-thirty when George finally rolled out behind the warden’s truck. She’d expected they’d head down Red Grade. It was a major short cut. But they turned left.

  “Why are we going this way?” Trish’s stomach had been growling, and she was melting with tiredness.

  “The trailer is too heavy, and the road is too steep. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back up to the highway through the mountains. We’ll pass through Burgess Junction, Dayton, Ranchester, and Sheridan.”

  “And then we’ll go home?”

  George shook his head. “Warden Turner needs us to all stay together until we meet with Sheridan County law enforcement.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Dunno. Maybe an hour?”

  “And how far is it to Sheridan?”

  “About two and a half hours.”

  She had groaned. A two and a half hour drive to Sheridan. An hour in Sheridan. Another hour back to Buffalo. So, it would be one in the morning, maybe, when they got home. Much later when they’d get to go to bed. And she and Perry had been up since four. She stared ahead through the windshield, dazed but unable to sleep, watching the taillights on the warden’s truck for a long, long time.

  An hour and a half later—had she slept or just zoned out?—the road leveled. She rubbed her face where it had been pressed against the door frame and came away with damp fingers. Drool. She’d been asleep. The lights of a town blinked in the distance. She shifted in her seat, worked her jaw to stretch her face, and started picking at her fingers. A sign announced the Dayton city limits. Warden Turner put on his blinker. George took his foot off the gas and set his right blinker, too. They pulled to a stop at a filling station.

  Trish was dying to go to the bathroom. “George, I—”

  The warden rapped on George’s window. George rolled it down.

  “I’m going to call in the incident from here,” the warden said.

  “Shouldn’t we contact the boy’s parents?” George asked.

  Trish felt a sting as she pulled away cuticle. She looked down at her finger and saw blood. She stuck it in her mouth. It helped, a little.

  “Let’s wait and let someone with the county do that when we get to Sheridan.”

  George rubbed his forehead. It was a gesture her dad made all the time. George looked older all of a sudden—like her dad’s age, even though he wasn’t—with big dark circles around his eyes. She’d barely noticed him before, since he was a grown-up. But he was probably only a few years older than Ben. He was handsome, Trish realized. And nice. Like someone you’d want for a big brother.

  She put her hand down and leaned forward so the warden could see her. “I need to call my mom.” And go to the bathroom.

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Trish felt her throat tighten and eyes prickle. Her mom would pick them up in Sheridan, take them home, and make everything better. Maybe not completely better, but at least a lot less bad. She’d be worried that Trish’s dad was still in the mountains, especially after she heard what he was up to, but she’d know what to do. And they could call Vangie together and tell her where Henry and Ben were. Trish’s heart ached at the thought of Ben.

  “You can have her meet us in Sheridan at the Sheriff’s Department.”

  Trish nodded. It’s what she’d expected.

  “Why don’t you go first?” He pointed. “There’s a pay phone over there. My call may take a little while.”

  Trish got out of the truck. The August air was warm, even with the sun down, especially after the cold of the mountain storm. Crickets were sawing and chirping, but otherwise it was quiet in the little town. Dayton was on the Tongue River, and it smelled a little like fish.

  “I have to go to the ladies room.” It was embarrassing to have to say it to the warden.


  He nodded. “Sure. Meet me back at the phone.” He pointed at it up against the building.

  She hurried inside to get the key, then back out to the rest rooms. The ladies room was dark and smelled sour. When she sat, the toilet seat was so cold that she shot back up off of it. Hovering was smarter in a dirty place like this anyway. After she was done, she tried to wash her hands, but all she got when she turned on the taps was groaning pipes. She sighed and returned to the pay phone.

  The warden was still on his call. She sat down on the curb to the building’s sidewalk and hugged her arms around herself. Warden Turner’s voice droned on and on. Sleepiness finally seeped over her.

  “Your turn.” The warden’s voice startled her.

  She jerked. “Okay.” She stood and took the receiver from him, then touched each pocket in her jacket and jeans. They were all empty. She chewed her lip. “I don’t have a quarter.”

  He dug in his pocket and came out with a handful of change. He selected a quarter and handed it to her pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” Trish dropped the coin into the phone and dialed.

  The warden leaned against the wall to the filling station. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The phone started to ring.

  After four rings, Trish decided she must have dialed the wrong number and hung up. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

  The warden opened his eyes. “I’m not leaving you here in the dark by yourself. Is no one home?”

  “I’m trying again.” The pay phone spit her quarter out. She fished it from the change return and slid it into the coin slot once again, then dialed. It rang. This time she let it continue ringing. Where is she? Her mom never went anywhere on the weekends unless it was with her dad, and then it was usually to one of Trish or Perry’s games.

  On the eleventh ring, just as true panic was setting in, someone picked up on the other end. An eighteen-wheeler rolled by the filling station, downshifting loudly. “Hello?” a woman said.