“Promise me.”
“I promise.” She smiled at him like a little angel.
Trish wrestled down a lump in her throat and climbed into the front seat.
Her grandfather drilled his eyes into Trish’s. “And you. Don’t you fall out, no matter what. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” How could she really promise that, though? She practiced holding on to the seat and bracing her feet against the inside of the bow. It didn’t feel right, and she moved her hands and feet around until she found a more secure position.
Grandpa Joe nodded. “Good. I may need your help. Got no idea what’s ahead of us.” He pointed at the floorboard. Trish turned and saw an extra paddle behind her. “Be ready to use it.” She scooted it within reach.
The canoe rocked violently as Grandpa Joe climbed into it. “We’re off then.”
Trish wished she could just hike out and meet the rest of the family when they got back to town. She clung to her seat and clenched her jaw. Well, it didn’t look like she had a choice. It was the river. Or nothing.
Right now, she would have gladly picked nothing.
Chapter Forty-one: Sicken
South of the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Saturday, June 25, 1977, 6:00 a.m.
Patrick
As he trotted up the river, Patrick kept an eye out for people he didn’t want to encounter. Animals, too. Wherever the grizzly went the night before was a place he didn’t want to be. He glanced over his shoulder every few yards. His skin prickled like eyes were watching him. He’d stowed the canoe a quarter mile back. It had slowed him down too much. He could pick it up on the way downriver with the Hilliards.
Running uphill at this altitude, his breathing was loud and heavy. He wouldn’t be able to hear anything coming up behind him. But turning his head was risky, too. The footing was challenging, even though it was a relatively obstacle-free section of the river. It alternated between stretches of small rocks to grassy, almost boggy patches still seasonally wet, to rough boulder-strewn areas he skirted around. His ankle was unstable and it hurt like the dickens. But, still, he marveled at the beauty around him. Across the river, the entire face of one peak had been reduced to a scree-and-boulder slide. Movement in the rock caught his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks. A bighorn ram was watching him. Patrick willed time to stand still, so that he could marvel at the majestic animal. He felt the pressure of its passing and the urgency of their situation, though, so he nodded to the animal and ran on, holding a picture of it in his mind.
He wished the circumstances were different so he could have slowed down to enjoy the animal and his surroundings. Maybe his family would want to come back someday. Unlikely, he knew, after how this trip had gone. He’d probably missed his one good shot to enjoy the area. The thought made him a little melancholy, but he knew it was small potatoes compared to everything else he had to worry about.
After about five more minutes of painful running, he stopped, winded, to catch his breath. He evaluated the shore and river further up from him. It looked familiar. He was pretty sure that they had split up from the Hilliards near here. Anytime now, he should find their canoes. And then a camp with three men—sheepish about sleeping late—throwing coffee grounds in the ash from the fire, loading up their canoes, and ready to strike out with him to meet up with the rest of the Flints.
Rounding a bend in the river, he spied the canoes on the bank and sped up. His heart rate, already high from exertion, accelerated to a scary pace. He wanted to call out to the Hilliards, but he didn’t dare. Hector hadn’t been with the prospectors he and Pete had clotheslined on the river the night before. For that matter, even those guys could have hiked up the river during the night. He was making too much noise running pell-mell through rustling bushes, loose rocks, and wet, splashy areas. He slowed to a cautious walk and raised his alert from high to critical.
He scanned the area for movement, colors, and shapes that didn’t belong. Something out of place beyond a stand of trees caught his attention. A red glint in the sunlight. Definitely not a red native to the forest. He fox-walked silently toward it, taking extra care with his footing.
CAW. CAW. CAW.
A flock of crows—he couldn’t call them a murder, never had been able to use the term—startled and winged away. Their presence was unnerving. If the Hilliards had been there, the crows probably wouldn’t have.
Fishing, he decided. They’d decided to get in one last hour of fishing before they canoed the last stretch of river back to civilization. It was their vacation. They’d want to make the most of it.
The thought sounded good, but it didn’t relieve his anxiety.
He slowed down even further as he reached the stand of trees. Using both hands, he pushed aside branches and made his way through.
GRUNT.
He froze. The noise didn’t sound human. It sounded like it came from an animal, and a big one. He separated two branches and peered through.
What he expected to see in the clearing was a tent. A fire ring. Gear bags. Fishing poles and tackle boxes.
What he hoped to see was a father and sons bonding over their annual wilderness adventure. Maybe one of them would be laughing and making the weird noises he’d just heard.
What he actually saw was the stuff of nightmares. Three bodies in unnatural positions on the ground, completely still.
And one grizzly bear, feeding on them.
Chapter Forty-two: Stick
The Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Saturday, June 25, 1977, 6:00 a.m.
Trish
Trish braced herself as they approached another set of rapids. Her arms and legs were shaking. The first stretch of whitewater hadn’t been that bad. Bunny had squealed the whole way, happy squeals. Trish thought it was kind of exciting, actually, but she was tired from holding herself wedged in the bucking canoe. She would have rather been with her dad, but she felt okay with Grandpa Joe. He was good at the whole canoeing thing, especially for an old man.
The river narrowed, and the canoe picked up speed. Tall, gray rock walls rose on either side of them. All of a sudden, the boulders in the water were bigger. And then . . . the riverbed just fell away. From her position at the bow, she had the first glimpse of what was in front of them, and below them. It wasn’t exactly a waterfall. More like a nightmare version of the Log Ride at Six Flags over Texas. She’d never liked that ride, either.
Trish gulped, then screamed.
“Hold on, Bunny.” Grandpa Joe’s voice sounded funny.
Bunny didn’t squeal this time. She let out a blood-curdling wail.
Down, down, down the canoe went. Trish gripped the seat and braced her feet in the V of the canoe’s nose. And none too soon. As the canoe plunged, her bottom separated from the seat. Icy water rushed over her, drenching her entire body. She screamed again from the shock of it, but she held on as the bow landed in flatter water, dipped, then rose. Her tush slammed back into the seat.
She was still in the canoe.
SMASH.
The canoe careened off a boulder beside her.
Bunny’s wails escalated like a siren. There was nothing Trish could do for her. She couldn’t even turn to see if she was all right.
“Don’t let go, Buns!” Trish shouted. She got a mouthful of water for her efforts.
The canoe crashed into something below the waterline. The impact jarred Trish so hard that her front teeth snapped shut, and she was afraid she’d broken them. The canoe strained forward over the obstacle. The scraping noise was terrible, like a shriek. Is the bottom of the canoe ripped out?
WHAM.
The canoe broke free only to slam into another boulder, this one on its opposite side. All around Trish, the water boiled, pummeling and drenching her relentlessly. She could barely get air without choking, and she couldn’t see in front of her to time her breaths with what was coming next. Her hands ached from the cold, and it was getting hard
er to hold on to the seat. The noise of the water shooting through the canyon drowned out Bunny’s wails now.
Without warning, the canoe dropped, and with it, Trish’s stomach. Her bottom floated off the seat. It felt like the time she’d been bucked off her first pony, a bad-tempered, furry little beast who bit and kicked. And those were his good qualities. Not like Goldie, her beautiful, perfect girl, her current horse, the one of her dreams. The pony’s name had been Cotton. Something had spooked him—something was always spooking him—and he’d ducked his head and kicked his back legs up and out. She hadn’t been ready for it. The next thing she knew, she had the sensation of air between her and the saddle. Of her thighs losing their grip and her knees and feet coming up, limp and loose like the limbs of a rag doll.
WHAM.
Of her hands on the reins and the saddle horn her only tether to the crazed animal.
WHAM.
Of the pull on her fingers as they slowly lost their grip.
WHAM.
And then the feeling of . . . flying . . . time slowing . . . wondering if it would hurt when she landed . . . would she be on her back? Her head? Her butt? Her stomach?
That was how she felt now, too, as she was catapulted up and out of the canoe.
She was pretty sure she landed hands and face first in the river, but it hurt everywhere. Everywhere. She’d only thought the water was cold before. When she went under it, she felt like she’d been electrocuted. The current didn’t give her any time to get her bearings either. She hurtled down the river, unsure which way was up. Unable to see anything. Air. I need air. She scrambled and flailed her arms. They found nothing to grab onto. Her lungs were burning. She couldn’t keep her mouth closed much longer. Her legs smashed into a rock. The pain was intense, but she managed to kick off from it. When she did, her face broke the surface of the water. Her eyes and mouth flew open at the same time. The breath she drew in was wonderful for a fraction of a second, until water poured in after it. She gagged. But as she gagged, she kicked her legs in front of her, threw her arms out to the side, and tilted her head up. Her dad had told her what to do. She wasn’t going to drown out here. She was only sixteen. She had friends. Her best friend Marcy. Goldie. Her silly dog Ferdie. Her family. And she had her—her Ben. How odd that I think of him now when I’m about to die. She wanted to see Ben. Her parents wouldn’t like it. But she wanted him to be her boyfriend.
She gasped for another breath.
She wanted a driver’s license. She wanted to be on the cross-country team. She wanted to buy a car. She wanted to go to her senior prom. To the University of Wyoming. Become a wildlife biologist. Get married. Have kids. Again, Ben’s face flashed in her mind.
Another breath, less water this time.
Was it her imagination, or was the river slowing down? Her eyes were on the blue, blue sky, so she couldn’t judge distance. But in her peripheral vision, she thought the rock walls had disappeared. That trees had replaced them. Yes. Trees, and they were growing further apart. In the water, there were less obstacles. Just a few rocks she hit with her feet.
Another breath, no water.
“Grandpa Joe!” she screamed, then coughed and gagged again when she slurped in more water. She choked it back out. “Help! Help me!”
“I’m coming.” It was her grandfather’s voice.
She heard the fast, rhythmic splash of his paddle. Her teeth were chattering. Her right calf was cramping with a Charley horse. “Hurry. P-p-p-please.”
Then the nose of the canoe passed her, and there was Bunny, crying. Something hard hit Trish’s hand. The paddle. She tried to grab it, but her fingers wouldn’t bend. She shouted. “Argh!” She tried again, and this time she got hold of it. She rolled over and hugged it to her.
Grandpa Joe pulled her toward the canoe. “I’m going to lever you up, and you’re going to have to climb in.”
“I’m c-c-c-cold.”
His voice was hard. “I don’t care, Trish. You need to get in this canoe, without flipping us, on your first try, or we’ll all go in. I can’t help you and Bunny at the same time. Do you understand?”
Grandpa Joe was right. He didn’t make her feel good, but he was right. She loved Bunny. She’d worked really hard to keep her safe. She couldn’t be the reason Bunny drowned with no life jacket. No life jacket. She’d just survived getting dumped in freezing whitewater with no life jacket. She nearly laughed aloud.
Of course I can do this. This was nothing compared to what she’d already done.
She kept her eyes on Grandpa Joe as he muscled her upwards by the other end of the paddle. His teeth were gritted and the veins in his neck bulged. His shoulders were shaking. But she rose a few inches out of the river. She hadn’t realized how strong he was. She’d always thought of him as old and weak, but he wasn’t. He was as strong as her dad. She wished she could make this easier for him, but all she could do was hold still.
When he had her high enough, he braced the paddle on the far side of the canoe. “Now. Climb in now.”
Trish reached her arms across the canoe, between Grandpa Joe and Bunny. She let her weight flop onto the canoe’s edge.
“Lean, Bunny. And scoot to the edge of your seat, away from Trish,” Grandpa Joe ordered.
The little girl whimpered, but Trish heard a rustling sound as she did what she was told.
Trish’s legs felt like they were anchored to the bottom of the river. She had to get them out of the water. There were no good handholds. She wriggled and scrambled to get her hips over the side, dragging her legs after her. So heavy. Finally, her upper body was far enough in that it tipped the scales. She flopped onto the bottom of the canoe and rolled into an inch of standing water. She stared upward, blinded by the sun, and panted. Air, with no water. It felt wonderful.
“Good job.” Grandpa Joe patted her shoulder.
His hand was warm. So was his voice.
She tried to smile.
“Trish!” Bunny cried.
“I’m okay, Buns.”
“Back in your seat, Trish. Now.” Grandpa Joe’s voice was hard again.
“Okay.” The canoe rocked as Trish slithered over the middle seat, pausing to kiss Bunny’s warm hair. Then she was on her knees and crawling on to the bow seat. She adjusted herself in the seat to take full advantage of the sun’s warmth. She closed her eyes. Time slipped away from her. She wasn’t sleeping. Not really. Just recovering.
Grandpa Joe’s voice jolted her to alertness. “Time to hold on again, girls.”
Trish wasn’t ready for more rapids. She looked ahead of them. “No,” she whispered.
She braced and gripped. She had to stay in the canoe this time. She thought about climbing back on Cotton after he’d bucked her off. She’d landed on her butt on the ground. It had hurt, but her dad hadn’t let her quit.
“Trish, that pony needs to know you’ll always get back on. Otherwise, he’ll buck any time he wants to be done for the day, from here on out. Is that what you want?”
Tears had been streaming down her face. She’d shaken her head. Her dad had tossed her into the saddle. Cotton had started to get shifty immediately.
“He’s going to buck, Daddy.”
“What will you do this time?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to put weight in your feet like you’re standing on them. Then you’re going to make your bottom the heaviest part of your body. You’re going to glue it to that saddle. Show me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Show me what it looks like. Use your imagination, then do it.”
Trish had pushed down in her stirrups, thought about it, then slumped down a little in the saddle. It did make her bottom feel heavier. She imagined it glued to the leather.
“Good.” Her dad had let go of Cotton’s bridle.
Trish had walked the pony away, and, sure enough, he’d bucked. But this time was different. She was ready, and she’d stayed glued to the saddle.
“Did
you see me, Daddy?” she’d crowed.
Suddenly, she wasn’t a little girl on a white pony anymore. She was a shivering young woman in a canoe hurtling toward whitewater on the Tukudika River. The nose of the canoe fell and along with it her stomach. Here we go again. Feet like you’re standing. Glue your bottom to the seat.
With all the strength in her mind and body, Trish willed herself to stay molded to the canoe seat. Water cascaded over her. She spluttered, but she stayed put. The canoe bucked. It rocked, and it shuddered, but she stayed put. It careened off boulders, jolted against others, and slammed into more. But Trish stayed glued to her seat.
And, then, as quickly as they had started, the rapids ended. Trish wiped water from her face and tried to slow her breathing. Was it really over?
“Nice of you not to go swimming that time,” Grandpa Joe called out to her.
Trish threw her head back. She laughed and laughed and laughed, until Bunny and Grandpa Joe were laughing along with her.
“Hello! Over here! Hello!” a man shouted.
Trish looked to the left, toward the riverbank. A man was walking and waving. “Is that Dad?” She squinted. “Dad!” She started waving back so hard it rocked the canoe, although nothing like the rapids had.
“Where’s my daddy?” Bunny said. “And my mommy?”
“I don’t know, Buns. We’ll ask Uncle Patrick, okay?”
Bunny didn’t answer.
Grandpa Joe turned the canoe and it shot toward her dad. In mere seconds, he was pulling the nose of their canoe onto the shore. Two other canoes were stashed side by side a few feet further into the trees.
Trish stood. The canoe lurched, but she didn’t care. Her dad threw his arms around her. It was the best hug of her life.
“I’m so glad to see you, Trish. You have no idea how worried we’ve been.” Was his voice quivering?
She wiped her face on his shirt. The flannel was soft and smelled like him. “Oh, Daddy. Grandpa Joe saved us.”
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 23