Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  He was still prowling around as if looking for something. His metal badge flashed in the light. A thought struck her. Was it possible he suspected Fenn? For a minute she was outraged. Then she forced herself to look at it through his eyes. Fenn was a trapper, maybe the only one in the area. Even if Mr. Radnor didn’t suspect him, any good law officer would keep those facts in mind as part of the job.

  He came back and set the cup on the table. He pulled out some photographs of disguised traps from other cases to show her, so she would recognize if she saw something similar. He talked matter-of-factly about his past successes in bringing poachers to justice. Then, realizing the time he was taking might be interpreted as slacking—or worse, socializing—when there were so many other things to do, he snapped his briefcase and took it tightly in hand, standing poised to leave. “I take it Fenn got home all right Saturday night?” he remembered to ask, as he briskly scanned his mind for any unaddressed business.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “What time did he get in?”

  “It was after midnight.”

  “I got back to Cragmont late myself, but I checked a couple of the bars for you. No one I questioned had seen him that evening. I found that somewhat surprising, since there’s not much else going on in town that time of night,” he added, watching for her reaction.

  Was he hinting at anything? Once again she had the feeling Fenn was being included, however casually, in his investigation. “He bought groceries and stopped at the locker at camp,” she said a trace defensively, even though she really had no idea where Fenn had been or in what order he’d done his errands. “Maybe he spent some time with the crew.” She thought of telling him he’d come home drunk just to prove he’d been drinking somewhere, but as that didn’t seem the wisest thing to reveal to a lawman, she kept it back. She knew she should thank him for looking for Fenn in town, but in her half-formed resentment she couldn’t get the words out. Maybe he considered it a duty anyway, the ever-vigilant lawman, and not a special favor.

  “Maybe so.” Without further formalities he took his leave.

  Sevana stepped to the door to watch him drive off with the feeling of having narrowly escaped a calamity. She could just imagine what would have happened if Mr. Radnor had found Fenn at the Whiskyjack, and informed him and everyone within hearing distance that he should go home because his sister was worried about him. She shuddered to think of the lecture she would have gotten over that. She would have to stay on guard, and think out all the possibilities before mentioning any of Fenn’s activities, however innocently, to anyone again.

  Fenn saw the forms when he came in. “That guy is like a bulldog when he thinks he’s onto something. Well—except he’s like a bulldog all the time.”

  “He seems like a pretty sharp man,” she offered.

  “Pretty sharp? He’s uncanny. The man sees all, knows all. You think God is everywhere, but He’s got nothing on Randall.”

  “Well, he hasn’t found the poacher yet,” she reminded him.

  “No, but if there is one, he will.” He stated it categorically.

  “Are you going to help him?”

  “He doesn’t need help,” said Fenn. “All you have to do is start thinking you might shoot a deer in the dead of winter because you’re low on meat, and Randall will drive up a few minutes later to say hello—because he’s read your mind. You can cast in your fishing line one more time after you’ve caught your limit and he’ll glide by on the other bank just to let you know he’s there. You’d think with all the territory he has to cover, you’d never see him. But there are rumors of him walking sixteen miles cross-country before breakfast. If you want to get the boys at camp going, all you have to do is say his name. Pete got handed a violation last fall for catching a fish one inch over size at a lake he hiked nine miles into, and Emery got one just last weekend camped up Cache Creek for having too many fish in his ice-chest, even though he caught them in two legal days’ limits.”

  Sevana was pursuing a thought, which gave her little room to consider the omniscient Mr. Radnor at the moment. “That doesn’t change the fact that if you find the trapper before he does, you’ll get the money,” she said. “He said there’s a reward for turning him in.”

  “Sure, there’s a standard payout for bagging a poacher. Why? Are you interested?”

  “Why not?” If she or Fenn could find the poacher, Fenn could use the money toward his debt.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Fenn agreed. “But nobody’s going to be poaching in broad daylight, and I’m not going to lose any sleep out looking for him.”

  Sevana saw Fenn off to Trail at dawn, then went down to the river with renewed interest to look over the area where she’d seen the unexplained light, envisioning a trap sitting tidily on the bank like the ones in Mr. Radnor’s photographs. Breaking out of the forest into the open channel, she was surprised to see how much the river had changed. The water had settled back into its banks, no longer in a hurry, the golden shallows revealing a blurry mosaic of the round, colorful stones of its bed. And along the edges, the grass had recovered from the shock of being drowned and was beginning to grow thick and tall. She walked along the bank until she encountered a robust alder thicket taking up all the space between the water and the trees. By then, having found nothing of note, she went home to get Trapper, for she was planning to finish her picture that day.

  Joel was at the corral coating the sheeps’ muzzles with a protective oil when she rode up. When she laughed at their greasy noses, he explained it was to safeguard them from the biting flies that were becoming a nuisance. Not his favorite job, and the sheep didn’t think much of it either—but without it, they were driven to such distraction they couldn’t graze properly.

  He said he’d join her later, and did so within the hour, coming up with his freshly anointed flock. He was at her side sanding a fiddleneck when she put in the final strokes on the canvasboard and laid down her brush. “There,” she said in relief, “I’ve done it, the best I could.” It was not a very big picture, but the detail was so meticulous that it looked starkly real—from the faceted rocks with their gleaming snowfields, to the many varieties of meadowgrass.

  Joel took it by the edges to study it, then looked up with a mixture of merriment and perplexity in his face. “I don’t think you need to go to art school to learn how to paint, Sevana.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she insisted. “There are so many things I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve painted them as they stand.” He said it with such conviction that she was flattered. “There’s not a view anywhere quite like the faces of Graystone and Old Stormy and Bearclaw—like the faces of old friends.”

  “I had to,” she said, trying to explain. “I couldn’t do them the disfavor of making them less than they are.”

  She wrapped the picture in paper when it was dry and put it in her pack. And just that suddenly, she needed a new subject. “What else is on this mountain?” she asked, turning to survey the reaches behind her.

  “Well, there are several smaller meadows just up the trail, and a good-size waterfall in the upper cliffs, and some interesting rock formations,” Joel detailed. “But the country is steep and dangerous, and I wouldn’t recommend exploring it alone.”

  “I’ll be careful, Joel,” she assured him. “I’ll stick to the trail, and avoid anything that looks risky. I just want to have a look around.”

  “The trail is brushy in spots and may be hard to find,” he listed as further objection.

  “I’ll turn back if it gets hard to follow,” she promised. “I just want to do some exploring with my free time while Fenn’s gone to Trail.”

  “If you wait until I take the sheep home this afternoon, I could go with you,” he offered, still in hope of deflecting her plan.

  “I’d rather go now, while I’ve got more time. But I’ll be back well before dark.”

  A hawk flew overhead with a high-pitched screech, its winged shadow crossing them. Despite his dis
avowal of Indian legends, Joel eyed it uneasily. “But Sevana—”

  She was already on her feet, shouldering her pack, her eyes on the trees above her. “Where does the trail take up from here?”

  CHAPTER 12

  After Joel pointed out the trail, Sevana untethered Trapper and rode boldly into the wood. She came to the smaller glades Joel had mentioned, and eventually gained the ridgeline—which would have been a wonderful place to see out if there hadn’t been so many trees. But at least the trail was plain and easy to follow, and she rode freely along the backbone of the ridge, catching what snatches she could of the view.

  When she came to a spring seeping across the trail, she stopped to let Trapper have a drink. The sun felt warm on her head, and she rolled up her sleeves. Then, full of adventure, she urged the horse onward. She was used to the lonely feeling of the mountain by now, and had nothing on her mind but the new scenes she imagined awaiting her discovery as she went along.

  But as so often happens, Sevana soon began to encounter material obstacles to her visionary aims. Brush closed in the pathway, causing Trapper to slacken his pace as he shouldered through it. And ahead there loomed another impediment to progress: a snarl of several uprooted trees lying directly across the trail.

  She halted Trapper and was considering the best way around the downfall, when right at her elbow a big bird flew up in a sudden flurry from the ground with a violent beating of wings. Sevana was startled by the unexpected noise but Trapper more so, taking a panicked sideways leap that left his mount toppling into the leafy brush.

  Sevana struggled to her feet—only vaguely mindful of a jabbing pain where a broken branch had gouged her arm—and fought through the bushes just in time to see Trapper disappearing through the trees in a direction all his own. Headlong after him she ran, shouting his name. All she could think of was that she must not, must not, lose Fenn’s horse. She pushed through the tangled woods long after he was gone from sight; and when she finally stopped in a lodgepole stand, tired and out of breath, she had no idea where she was. She listened for something that would give a clue what way Trapper had gone, but all she could hear was her heart thudding in her ears. She glanced down at the bleeding gash on her forearm for the first time and was shocked at how deep it looked. She pushed her sleeve over it to protect it, and took off in the same direction she’d been going.

  Poor Sevana, how she stumbled wearily on, calling Trapper’s name more and more spiritlessly, until she finally admitted she must get home even if the horse did not. Her only hope was that she might yet come across him on the way back. As to that way, she didn’t know where the trail was—but since she was still on the same ridge, she reasoned she would have to intersect it at some point. She set out to retrace her steps, and still her only thought was Trapper. “Oh God,” she said out loud to make sure He heard her, “please, oh please, help me find Fenn’s horse.”

  When she had walked a long distance and had yet to see anything she recognized, an uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach. What if she missed the trail and the seeping spring and any other landmarks, and kept going into unknown country? She climbed up to the ridgeline for a better look, trying to keep her alarm in check. “Trapper! Trapper!” she called.

  The view from the top revealed mountain ranges in all directions, but none of them looked familiar. She was at the head of a side draw so choked with trees and brush she couldn’t see the stream she heard running in it. Where was she? She sat on a rock amid short tufts of grass and tried to think things out. If she kept going, she might yet encounter the trail—but what if she did not?

  She felt light-headed; the ground seemed tilting beneath her. She closed her eyes. Alone, amid all those unidentifiable ranges, in all that awful, unending silence! Fear took hold of her as with an iron hand. But because that fear was so strong, something made her turn and fight it in self-defense. It was too powerful, it wanted to possess her. She took an uneven breath and forced herself to think. If she was lost, she was lost; but she must stay calm and keep her head. Still, terror was close at hand, held back only by her steeled force of will. After all, she might never get home.

  “I know what I’ll do,” she said aloud, startling herself by the sound of her own voice. “I’ll follow this creek down the mountain, and sometime it’ll have to come to the river.”

  Even as she said it, she knew she would be all right. Relief washed over her. There was even the chance that this very creek was the beginnings of Avalanche Creek. She jumped up to carry out her plan, and was surprised to find her legs so weak from fright they could barely hold her up.

  She bushwhacked down to the edge of the little stream. She wasn’t going to let that water out of her sight! It was like a path carved into the wilds to lead her home.

  But following that path proved no casual endeavor. For the rest of the afternoon Sevana fought through brush higher than her head and log mazes lying crazily in all directions. Sometimes her pack got held up so she experienced the cartoonish effect of running in place. She fell, she tore the knee of her jeans, she scratched her face, and got her feet thoroughly soaked from crossing the creek time and again to find a better route to take—sometimes even walking in the water because there was no other way to go. She scrambled over fallen trees until she thought she couldn’t climb over one more…and then she would scramble over the next one.

  The sun disappeared. She didn’t know if it had set, or if she was just so far down in the depths of hell it couldn’t reach her there. But she hurried all the faster at the thought of spending a night in that ravine alone with the wolves and bears and cougars—so tired and distraught she felt like crying.

  At last, trembling from exertion, she dropped onto the buckskin log she was currently crawling over and buried her face in her hands. There was no end to that everlasting draw. She was still far up on the mountain, still didn’t know where she was—nor had she seen any sign of Fenn’s horse.

  In the quiet wood there was a noise, the snapping of a branch. She sprang wildly to her feet to face the savage beast coming to claim its prey. But it was Joel who emerged from the undergrowth.

  “There you are!” he said, negotiating the brush far more adeptly than she was able. “You’re just the person I was looking for.” His look of gladness was undisguised.

  She could scarcely believe it was he and not some wild animal come to get her. “Joel, how did you know where I was?” she exclaimed, in a voice that sounded shakier than she intended it.

  “I didn’t,” he retorted. “I’ve been combing the mountain ever since Trapper came back alone. Thank God you’re all right, Sevana. You gave me the scare of my life.”

  Sevana’s eyes were fixed on his face. “You—found Trapper?” she whispered wonderingly.

  “He came through the meadow a few hours ago, and he’s safe in my barn,” he affirmed. “But I’ve been plenty worried about you.”

  Joy replaced the exhaustion in her expression, and she clapped her hands exuberantly at the news. “Oh, Joel, thank you! I was so afraid I’d never find him, and I didn’t know how I was going to tell Fenn.”

  “I didn’t know how I was going to tell Fenn his sister was lost on the mountain,” Joel reminded her of the weightier issue. “What happened, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything dangerous,” she justified herself. “I just stopped at some fallen trees, and a big bird whooshed up right beside us and scared Trapper silly.”

  “A grouse,” Joel guessed at once. “They make an awful racket when you flush them out. They’ve even spooked Flint, and there’s not much that bothers him.” His glance had taken in her muddy, bloodstained sleeve. “Horse throw you?”

  Eyes on his face, she could only nod.

  He took her wrist and pushed the sleeve back to examine the gash. “That’s bad,” he said, frowning. “It’s deep, and it’s got dirt and bark drying into it. I’ll clean it out for you when we get back to the house. Come on, let’s go. It’s a good thing you were so close to the r
oad, or I’d be out looking for you yet.” He led the way back down the draw.

  Sevana placed her feet exactly where he did, to save the energy of choosing her own steps. “Joel, this is awfully steep country, isn’t it?” she said, expressing the thought that had been impressed on her so vividly over the past few hours.

  “Steep?” He looked back at her. “Yes. You can pit yourself against these mountains as much as you have the strength and skill for, but they always have the final say.” Instead of being mad at her carelessness he acted worried, as if he wanted to protect her from what could happen when he wasn’t there.

  To Sevana’s amazement, they soon came out on some old forgotten track, and Flint was there, waiting patiently for them like the good horse he was. “Where are we?” she asked, blinking as they emerged from deep shadow into daylight.

  “Old fireline that runs backside the ridge.” Joel wasted no time in boosting her onto the horse.

  “Backside—” She was stunned. “How—” She broke off, too tired to think it out just then.

  Joel swung up in front of her, and with a word to Flint they were off. Wearily she clung to him, and let him take her around the mountain.

  After stopping at the barn to let her see for herself that Trapper was none the worse for his adventure, Joel took her down to his cabin. It was dark and cool as they entered, and smelled of pitchy wood and oil-treated logs. Turning the desk chair to face the woodstove, he invited her to sit down. She did so, every inch of her body feeling strained and sore, and gratefully drank the water he brought her.

  “You say Fenn’s in Trail, so he won’t be worried about you?” Joel wanted to confirm what he’d understood.

  She nodded mutely.

  “In that case, I’m going to make us some soup. You haven’t eaten in a while, I’d daresay, and neither have I. Why don’t you take off your boots and let them dry out a little?” He was already taking cedar kindling out of a pail.