by David Boyle
He remembered, too, who owned the forest, and he proceeded forward with utmost caution, slinking from tree to tree and stopping in between to scan his surroundings. The rapid thundered nearby. Shadowed patches of meadow began showing through the trees. And finally the river, birds already flitting to roost. Through the trees he could see the island, the stump below the landing, and smoke curling above the campsite.
Minutes passed, and still no sign of activity.
Thirsty, hungry, and utterly depressed, Mark resolved to wait until someone showed at the landing. He stepped off trail, found a tree with the proper overlook, and slid down beside it. A last strip of jerky: he took a bite, glad it tasted better than it smelled. The rapid thundered not eighty yards away, the island and companionship an additional hundred. “Almost,” he sighed. Scattered clouds drifted overhead, their shadows playing across the forest. His thoughts drifted as well, to Ron and Wheajo and how events had gone so terribly wrong.
Mark closed his eyes. How was he ever going to break the news?
His hat plopped in his lap, and he snapped upright, the visions yet lingering. Mark shook his head, blinking, the meadow beyond the trail engulfed in shadow. “Fuck! That was stupid.”
Shaking his head, still trying to clear the cobwebs, Mark was drawn to the sounds of scuffling nearby. He reached for the revolver, his thumb poised on the hammer when a dinosaur strutted from the bushes. At most three feet long and standing barely a foot tall, the animal strutted quietly among the imprints, picking through the leaf litter and twigs like a long-tailed chicken. Mark watched for a minute, the dinosaur scampering when he stretched to check on the island. Wherever Hayden and Charlie were, neither was watching.
How to get their attention?
More scuffling, Mark was ready and watching when the dinosaur stepped from the ferns, its head shifting in jerky little motions as it stared across the trail. “I don’t suppose you’d know how to get their attention.” The dinosaur crept forward, staring left, then right, the feathered forelimbs tucked beside its chest, eyes blinking. “Yeah, me neither.” Staring at the island, he remembered how hard it would be to see anything—or anyone—this far across the river. The other approach, if he was crazy enough to try it, was to trot on down to the river and follow the bank to a spot opposite the landing. Yell loud enough, and eventually someone would hear him.
Uh huh. Like Sabrefang or one of her entourage! he mused sourly. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that either Hayden or Charlie needed to make an appearance, or he was going to end up swimming. In the fastest current on the entire river. Like that’s gonna happen.
There were sprouts shooting up where plants had been trampled, the diminutive visitor busily nipping one luscious bud after another when the dinosaur jerked upright. The skinny neck twisted around, the green eyes staring for only seconds before the animal darted into the droopy undergrowth.
Mark twisted onto his knees, a chill tickling his spine when he realized how ridiculously close he was to the meadow. He searched the forest, and through breaks in the trees saw that the meadow was still in sunlight higher up. No dinosaurs nearby. And other than the ones singing from near the top of the ridge, no birds either. He spotted what seemed a pattern in the shadows and light uphill, and was trying to decide what it was he was seeing when he noticed the scent.
He sniffed, then crinkled his nose. Somebody bit the dust recently.
Sunny bits of meadow winked off and on, and long seconds later it happened again. “That’s kinda different.” Again the movement of light and shadow, and Mark froze when he realized the pattern was part of Sabrefang’s back. Even if he could get his legs to work, he knew he’d missed his chance to escape, his heart skipping a beat when he recognized the stench. She’d pass within twenty yards, though with Charlie’s camouflage and good cover, he was hoping he’d be okay. Charlie’s camo. Right. And the backpack—Damn!—each of which were now impregnated with Wheajo’s and the triceratops scent. Only rarely had he noticed the blood himself, but this close and it wouldn’t take but the tiniest of back drafts and Sabrefang sure as hell would.
The big head turned, jutting fangs silhouetted against the sky. As were most predators, Sabrefang wouldn’t be above scavenging. One whiff was all it would take.
Mark edged the hammer back on the magnum. Keep moving bitch.
*****
She stalked the tree line, studying the water trail, and stopped where the path exited the forest. A purple tongue licked the side of her face as she peered about the trees, sniffing. A tiny bob of the head, she tucked her arms and stepped onto the trail. She stood for a moment, nostrils flaring, then looked again to the growling, the long tail held immobile.
Since before the breakup of her family, she’d hunted the growling, and had learned that prey was sometimes to be found in or below the rocks after storms. The rocks that roared were a dangerous place, and could also on occasion provide an easy meal. Sabrefang panned the meadow to the forest, then nosed to the ground and padded silently toward the river.
*****
The Tripper whispered to a stop in the mud. Ron rolled his shoulders, staring ahead. If he had this right, the big deadfall would be around the next bend. Or the one after. Either way he’d be looking for a place to call it quits within the next hour. He didn’t want to be caught searching for a place to spend the night after it got dark.
He grabbed the bota and took a drink, eyeing the rifle and wondering how many more times he’d need to rinse the thing so it didn’t end up clouded over. If the critters behaved, he’d give it a good oiling before he next needed to use it. Another sip, and he slid the jug under his seat, then nosed the canoe back into the current, stroking hard and searching for the next eddy. Whatever it was about the shape of the river, there were sections where logjams were far more prevalent than others, the eddies swirling downstream often allowing him to cover considerable ground before he was forced to go around. Without the breaks, it was hug shore and hope that the current wasn’t slower on the other side. And even when it was, there were times when ferrying across simply wasn’t worth the effort.
Swirls curled along the surface, Ron, as always, tracing the eddies upstream to their source. The birds were at it again, chirping, singing, and now and again flitting across the river on what might as well have been marked flight paths. He hadn’t noticed on his previous trips, but there were some weird looking birds here that called the forests home, the latest with a skinny tail that had to be easily three feet long. Colorful distractions that filled the miles and proved that the forests weren’t occupied strictly by critters best avoided.
Ron switched sides, stroking. Birds were good. This late in the day, he really hated having to paddle to the other side just so he didn’t aggravate the neighbors. The current slowed on the inside of the upcoming turn, and he took advantage while he could. He stroked and coasted, stroked and coasted.
The next section swung into view—“Fuck”—and stretched away for damn near another mile.
*****
Fifteen minutes, if that, and already he felt like he’d been watching for hours. Mark detested even the notion of being in the same woods with her, but knew that spending the time now was preferable to finding out she was keeping an eye on the forest later. The bitch hadn’t budged since she’d bedded, and unless something yummy happened by, Mark was reasonably confident that she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. He was certain, too, that unless he found a long distance means of alerting either Hayden or Charlie, he had an excellent chance of ending the day wet.
He backtracked to the bend in the trail, then wound his way through the trees to the river. When looking from the island, the one spot everyone eventually focused on was where the river disappeared around the curve. Get situated there, and eventually he’d be spotted.
There were plenty of trees to climb, some easier than others, and not a one of them able to function as anything more than a safety valve should Sabrefang come snooping. He moved qui
etly through the cover, surprised by how open the forest became as he neared the river. Three times he’d paddled around the bend, and not once had he given the area more than a glance. At times he could see a hundred yards upstream through the forest, which was far more than expected and nearly a third the way to where Sabrefang was bedded. The river swept past, the rapids rumbling in the distance. When the sun was out, the place would no doubt be pretty. “Just what I need. Another picture postcard location.”
The forest below the falls had been repeatedly flooded, the trees nearest the river draped with the flotsam of countless storms. Fractured remnants of long dead forests were wrapped around the trunks of the living; humps in the ground, like worn graves, hinted at where trees used to grow; clumped bushes and the always ubiquitous ferns; and even a few odd sections where the forest had been scrubbed to bare ground. Yet with all the wonderfully open riverside lots, Mark found not a single location where he would be unequivocally visible from the island.
“Murphy, you son-of-a-bitch, go away already!” he grumped, struggling to contain his frustration. He banged his palm against his forehead. “Think of something, damn it!”
Start a fire? Yeah, smoke would get them wondering.
He checked nearby, and spotted trees he could climb. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, though he had to be ready. Get the fire going and, chances were, there’d be no going back. The guys on the island would spot the smoke, eventually, and so would Sabrefang, the issue then being how she’d react. Even so, it was either make a fire or go swimming.
Mark went through his pockets. Nothing. Then through the bloodied backpack and all its little pockets, and in one found a soaked-through pack of matches. Ever since he’d started doing whitewater he’d strapped on his fanny pack before he’d put a foot in the boat. Every time except this morning!
He paced in a circle, kicking whatever was nearby, angry and aggravated and wishing it would all be over. The side of a log splintered at the point of his boot. The thing was mostly rotted, and inside Mark found the meticulously woven nest of what had to be a mouse. “How about that? It’s great, great, great Uncle Joe’s riverside home.” Wonderfully soft, perfectly dry, the nest was ideal tinder for a fire. Except that he had nothing to start it with!
Seventy plus million years and good ole Murphy was still with him….
Mark crept to the river and tried spotting the clearing they’d opened on the end of the island. The memory banks had nothing to give, including ideas. He picked up a branch and flung it into the river, watching as the current carried it around the bend. Not quite as fast as below the rapids, but fast enough to make him wonder how far downriver he’d end up before he made it to the opposite shore. He’d load the pack with twigs and branches for flotation. Lots actually, which wasn’t going to be easy once he got the holster bunched up inside. All by itself the handgun had to weigh….
He thought for a second—The magnum?—then reached back and pinched a cartridge from the gun belt. Pry the slug out….
“Do this right, and maybe I can stay dry after all.”
Mark scrounged the forest for branches, little ones for starters, bigger ones for later, all of which he wrapped with his shirt before breaking to length. Making noise was the last thing he wanted, and he did so with exquisite care. The twigs were still damp from the recent rain, and to be absolutely certain they’d catch quickly, he stripped each and every one of them to bare wood. Branches were stacked, dry ones to start, green for smoke, and pieces the right length stuffed alongside the holster in the backpack, which he lastly ensured he could properly close.
The nest was placed back in the log. Twigs were stacked on top. And after prying the slug from the cartridge, Mark sprinkled the gunpowder over his predecessor’s grassy homestead. From the revolver he removed three live rounds, the center one reloaded with the emptied cartridge. He rotated an empty chamber into position. Removing three rounds was overkill, of course, but with the luck he was having, Mark was taking no chances of firing a shot that would awaken his peacefully sleeping nemesis.
Hammer set, Mark held the barrel an inch from the nest, and when a gust rustled the nearby forest, he pulled the trigger. The primer snapped; sparks flew from the barrel.
And a second later uncle Joe’s riverside cottage burst into flames.
47
Charlie threw another log in the fire, Mike still curled at his feet when Hayden came rushing through the woods. “That was quick. Good news, I hope.”
“I don’t think so,” Hayden said, glancing at the river on his way past the landing. “No signs of boats, but there’s smoke coming from the trees near the bend.”
Charlie raked his hair back. “That don’t make any sense,” he said, frowning. “Why would they do that?”
Hayden went to the Discovery and rolled it onto its belly. “Haven’t a clue. But it can’t be good.
“Paddles, lifejackets, painters. What else do I need?”
“The first aid stuff?”
“Tell you what,” Hayden said, and started dragging. “Have the kit ready when I get back.” Charlie pushed as much as he could, but had trouble keeping up.
“You’re sure you don’t want me along? I can paddle you know.”
Hayden slid the Discovery under the first of the reconstructed barriers. “We’ll be four in a boat already, Bull. Thanks, but no.”
“There’s got to be something I can do.” His pet trotted over, curious.
Hayden crawled under the barbs, got to his feet. “There is one thing.”
“Name it,” Charlie said, stroking Mike’s neck.
“Hike to the point and watch for Sabrefang. That way I won’t have to spend time searching before I head down.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be waiting when you get there.”
*****
The canopy parted where the channel met the river, the rumble deepening as Hayden maneuvered the Discovery around the last of the deadfalls. The river was still dropping, and more rocks were showing than just this morning, the routes through the rapid down to a bony few. Hayden threw a leg out, Mike already prowling the bank. “Anything?” he yelled above the roar.
Charlie leaned out. “Nothin’ I can see. Could be we got lucky.”
“I’d like to think so,” Hayden said, setting up to run the rock garden. “And Bull? If she does make an appearance, make sure she doesn’t see you. The last thing we need is to get her thinking about the island again.”
“Guess I should have brought the binoculars. But yeah, I’ll keep an eye open.” Charlie looked to the smoke near the curve. “This whole thing is scarin’ the shit outta me. I just checked, and the compass is pointin’ same as it was. They’re gone all day, and now this smoke? What the hell’s goin’ on?” Hayden shoved the Discovery into the current. “Ain’tcha gonna say anything?”
Hayden goosed the canoe forward. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
The shoal was reemerging, the current deflecting along the mostly submerged mound of rocks where the channel’s output joined the river. Hayden horsed the canoe across the current, and from there steered the Discovery through the curve, rocks and boulders jostling the boat before the river deepened. He skimmed the debris piled alongshore, branches scraping the hull as he searched the shoreline near the smoke and all the way back to the meadow. The last of the sun was grazing the hilltop, and he was peering at an unusual splash of color near the meadow when a movement downriver caught his eye.
Someone was waving on shore near the smoke. Hayden let the Discovery drift, squinting, and noticed the hat.
*****
She gazed intently, searching every gap in the trees for the source of the thumps. She yawned, twisting, and spotted movement. Long, red, and moving silently on the water trail, the creature seemed strangely familiar. A skinny paw dipped now and again into the water, the recollection dawning that she had seen it before.
Sabrefang rose to her feet, the long tail swaying as she padded to shore.
*****
“Finally,” Mark sighed, glancing into the forest before hurrying to the stump jutting from the bank. The oncoming Discovery was angled across the current, Hayden already watching when Mark pointed at the eddy, then drew a loop in the air. “Eddy here. Got it?” After the rivers they’d run and the rapids they’d scouted, he wasn’t surprised that Hayden remembered the drill. “Great, now get over here already!” Hayden dug in, the long arms stroking, and Mark knew immediately what had gotten his attention when his partner suddenly looked to shore.
Mark peered through the trees bordering the river, his fears confirmed when he spotted shifting bits of orange in the distance. Hayden had her by a good sixty yards. “Come on, come on,” he said, dearly wishing it was more. The distance was shrinking, the pieces fast coming together, the massive body swaying as Sabrefang veered between the trees, her gaze locked on the Discovery. She’d spot him eventually, and whether now or later, swimming was no longer an option.
The predator vaulted a deadfall, shattered limbs clattering about the forest. Mark glanced at Hayden, then at Sabrefang and back again, his lifetime on the mainland fast evaporating when he spun his hand in circles, urging Hayden to hurry. Her eyes met his when next he turned, the killer's gaze now focused on him! “Come on! Come on!” At twenty yards and closing, Hayden started the Discovery turning. Head low, snarling, Sabrefang was closing as well. “Hurry man! Faster!”
Ten yards, and Hayden switched sides.
The bow nicked the stump, the canoe kissing the bank and turning when Mark hopped in with the pack—“Go go go!” he hollered—Hayden angling the canoe into the current, Sabrefang looming as Mark scrambled for the paddle. The canoe heeled on its side, the two pumping in a frenzy as the starkly patterned predator charged off the bank, the splash of her entry pelting Hayden's back.