by C. J. Box
When their bags arrived and the rest of the passengers cleared out, Gracie waited near the outside doors. She knew there was a problem by Danielle’s worried face as she came back from the Northwest counter.
“The plane arrived on time but he wasn’t on it, they said.”
Gracie fought panic. She looked up at the mounted animal heads and stuffed trout on the walls and out at the cold blue mountains to the south. She thought of how miserable it would be to be stuck in Bozeman, Montana, with her sister until they could figure out a way to get back home. And she was worried about what might have happened to their dad. Was he sick? Did he get in a car crash on the way to the airport? She flipped open her phone and powered it up, hoping there would be a message.
“I’m calling Mom,” Danielle said, having already opened her cell phone.
That’s when their dad bounded into the airport. Not from the area where the planes landed, but from outside on the street.
“Girls!” he shouted. His grin and his open arms made Gracie’s black dread melt away as if he had touched a flame to a spider’s web. He seemed almost too exuberant, she thought. As if he was happy but with a bit of desperation thrown in.
“Come on, the car’s out front,” he’d said. “Let me help you with your stuff.”
Danielle told him they were starting to worry, and what the people at the airline counter had said.
He waved it off, saying, “That’s ridiculous. Obviously, I was on the plane. I’m here, aren’t I?”
* * *
They turned onto a dirt road by a brown National Park Service sign indicating the campsite and trailhead. Her father once again closed his window to prevent the roll of dust from filling the car. Gracie turned off her phone and put it in a side pocket of the door and made a mental note not to forget it when they returned. She watched as Danielle seethed—no signal at all—and finally snapped her phone shut.
“Great,” her sister said, “I’m completely alone in the world.”
“Except for your sister and your father,” her dad said with caution.
“Alone in Hell-o-stone,” Gracie mocked gently, “Hell-o-stone alone…”
Danielle mouthed Shut the fuck up, Gracie.
“That’s your second offense,” Gracie said, deadpan. “We may need to turn you in to the rangers.”
“We’re here,” her dad said with an epic flourish.
Gracie once again bounded forward and hung her arms over the front seat. They’d rounded a corner and could now see that at the end of the road was a very long horse trailer in a parking lot. People stood around the trailer in the sun; a couple were already on horseback. Gracie counted ten or eleven milling about. When she saw the horses her heart seemed to swell to twice its size.
“We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” she said, reaching up and putting her hand on her dad’s shoulder. He reached across his body and put his hand on hers.
“It’ll be the greatest adventure of our lives,” he said.
“I’m taking my phone,” Danielle said as if talking to herself. “Maybe we’ll find a place with a signal somewhere.” Then: “Oh my God. Look at all the people! We’re going to be stuck for a week with them?”
9
Outfitter Jed McCarthy pulled back and tightened the cinch on a mare named Strawberry—she was a strawberry roan—and squinted over the top of a saddle at the car that had just rounded the corner on the side of the hill. It was a blue American-made four-door sedan. Nobody normal drove those, he thought, meaning it must be a rental and therefore the last of his clients to arrive.
“That better be the Sullivans,” he said under his breath to Dakota Hill, his wrangler. She was in the process of saddling a stout sorrel a few feet away.
“Is that the party of three?” she asked. “The father and two teenage daughters?”
“Yup.”
Dakota blew a strand of hair out of her face. “You know what I think about teenage girls on these trips.”
“I know.”
“I may have to kill one someday. Push her off a cliff. Damn prima donnas, anyhow.”
“I know.”
“Or feed her to some bears.”
“Keep your voice down,” McCarthy said. “Their money’s as good as anyone’s. And we’ve got a full boat of paying customers for this one. This keeps up, I can get that new truck. Life is good.”
“For you,” she said, tight-lipped. “Me, I get the same damned wages no matter what.”
“At least you did before you started getting under my skin,” he said, smiling his smile that he knew could be interpreted as cruel. “Besides, you got perks. You get to sleep with the boss.” He waggled his eyebrows when he said it.
“Some perk,” she grumbled.
“I ain’t heard any complaints.”
“You ain’t listening.”
Almost twenty-five, she’d grown up on ranches in Montana and drove her father’s pickup at eight years old and was breaking horses by the time she was twelve. She had a round open face, thick lips that curved quickly into an unabashed and purely authentic smile, naturally blushed cheeks, and dancing brown eyes. She’d attended a couple of years at MSU, but quit to barrel race and never went back. He’d met her when she delivered some horses to him two summers before. Her barrel horse had come up seriously lame just that day at the local rodeo. The horse would never run again and never earn any more money. She needed a job. He needed a wrangler.
He stepped closer to Strawberry so none of his clients could see him draw a laminated three-by-five index card out of his breast pocket. On it were the names of each of his customers for the trip as well as vital information they’d sent him regarding weight (to match them with a horse), age, riding experience, food allergies, dietary needs, and what they most wanted out of the trip, from fly-fishing opportunities to horseback riding to wildlife viewing to “being one with nature.” He made it a point of pride to know the names of everyone on his excursions from the initial introduction, and to constantly surprise his clients with probing questions about their personal needs and to ask them about their lives based on a short questionnaire he’d required them all to fill out and send along with their booking form. People liked that kind of personal attention, he’d found, and he was rewarded for it at the end of the week by the size of the tip. Sometimes they’d rebook a trip because of it. And despite Dakota’s grumbling, he knew it was vital to hook the teenage girls early. Usually, it was to match them up with a horse they’d fall in love with. He’d feed the girl some kind of backstory on the horse they were riding—sometimes it was even true—about how the animal was particular and only responded to people who were gentle and special. Then, a few miles up the trail, he’d remark how well-behaved the horse was and compliment the teenage rider for her prowess. Generally, that would do it: the girl would fall in love and never even consider how many other girls before her—and after—would have the same passionate relationship with the same horse.
He’d make sure to send a Christmas card to the girl from the horse, telling her how much her horse missed her and that she was the animal’s favorite human. Often, it resulted in a customer for life, because he’d found today’s parents did not deny their children anything. At two thousand dollars a client, it was important to know that.
* * *
This particular trip was full. There’d been no cancelations and everybody showed up at the appointed place at the agreed-upon time. With the arrival of the Sullivans, he had everybody.
Before gathering them together for an orientation, he walked along the length of his long horse trailer and looked at a reflection of himself in the passenger window of his pickup. He liked what he saw.
Jed McCarthy was a short, solid fireplug of a man with a gunfighter mustache, trimmed short beard, and blue eyes so pale they were practically opaque. He was a year shy of forty and he’d been running horse pack trips into the Yellowstone wilderness for eight years, one of only two licensed outfitters deemed worthy and compl
iant by the authorities at the National Park Service. He wore snug Wranglers and lace-up outfitter boots with heels for riding, a sterling silver rancher set for a buckle, and a leather vest with plenty of pockets to hold all the tools and small gear he needed. Around his neck was a red silk kerchief folded over and knotted in the cowboy style. His hair was thinning on top so he rarely took off his droopy brown Resistol hat. He knew from experience his clients spent a lot of time studying him. The women did it because he was interesting and exotic and a damned good-looking cowboy who was also sensitive, manly, humble, and mysterious. They’d likely read on his Web site he was a poet and painter as well as an experienced horseman and man of nature: a wilderness Renaissance man! The men studied him not only as a leader but as a rival. Some of them sucked up to him, trying to get his approval. Others shut up and conceded Jed was the boss because he was a man’s man and he was in charge of the outfit.
And he was in charge. It didn’t matter if his clients were CEOs or actors or millionaire lawyers or doctors or whatever. Once they mounted up and fell in behind his black gelding and his string of three pack mules (Dakota followed up on her horse with a string as well) he was the trail boss. He was the boss of everything. And with the exception of Dakota, he was the only one on the trip who knew where they were going, what to expect, what to watch out for, where they’d camp, what they’d eat, where they’d sleep and relieve themselves. This was his company, his stock, his equipment, his plan, and his permit.
Behind him in the reflection, he saw Dakota slump by. He wished her posture was better as well as her attitude. But she was a hell of a hand, and she was unabashed and enthusiastic in a way that only country girls could be when they zipped their sleeping bags together. Country girls who’d grown up around life and death and sex and birth on the farm or ranch had few inhibitions, he’d found. Plus, she was a quick learner and eager to please. He liked horses and women with that quality. What he didn’t like was the way she kept her own counsel at times and the way she vanished for a week here and a week there without telling him where she was going or when she’d be back. He’d have fired her long ago if he could have found a replacement. But it wasn’t easy to locate a nice-looking girl twenty years his junior who was not only an experienced wrangler with horses and mules but good in the sack as well. But he never told her that. Sometimes, he hinted there was a long line of eager replacements out there ready to step in if she left. As long as she believed that, he thought, he’d have the advantage.
* * *
He pocketed the index card and closed his eyes and repeated their names over and over like a mantra before he turned around, put on his kind but competent expression, and said to the clients milling around near their piles of clothing and gear, “Let’s gather here for a few minutes, folks, so we can get to know each other.”
He took a few steps into the clearing and stopped. He stuck his thumbs into his jeans pockets and rocked back a little on his boot heels. He’d not go to them. He’d make them come to him. This was the all-important first impression, perhaps the single most important half hour of the entire week. He’d learned it could sometimes take days to undo a bad first meeting if he came across as soft, confusing, or incoherent. It was imperative everyone understood the rules, the procedures, and who was who. It started with them all coming to him.
And dutifully, in singles and loose groups, they did. Dakota took her place to his right about ten feet away. She led a saddled horse over to use for demonstration purposes.
He waited for the Sullivans to join them. The father looked pale and nervous and had a weak chin and darting eyes. Obviously a desk jockey of some sort, Jed thought. Those types tended to remind him of mice, like this guy did. Whatever Sullivan did for a living—he’d need to check his records but he knew “automation” and “digital” were in the title and he was vice president of development of something—it paid well. Treating his daughters to a trip like this, plus the transportation, was pricey.
The taller girl was striking, Jed thought. Jet-black hair, bangs, blue eyes, nice mouth and figure. Plus, she was looking right at him. That showed attitude and confidence. When he looked back she didn’t drop her eyes. He thought: Arrogant, too. Then: Dakota’s going to love this one.
The younger girl was skinny, flat chested, freckle faced, and looked serious and bookish. Freckles and braces. His eyes slid right over her and his brain said, Nothing to see here folks, move along.
But he’d have to get to know that tall one.…
* * *
“Folks, I’m Jed McCarthy and this is Dakota Hill. We’re your guides, and we’re about to embark on the longest, most scenic, and most remote horse packing expedition into the Yellowstone backcountry wilderness available. It’s the best trip we do all summer and it’s the one we enjoy the most. This is the first and only time we’ll do this trip this season, and because the snows last winter were so heavy and have just recently melted away, we’re likely to be the only people going where we’re going. For you, all I can say is I envy you for what you’re going to see and experience for the first time. It truly is the trip of a lifetime into the farthest reaches of America’s first and best national park.
“I know you all got the materials I sent you and read up on our itinerary and the other info on the Web site, but in a nutshell, we’re going to match you up with a horse that will be your horse for the next six days and ninety miles,” he said, letting that sink in amidst titters.
Jed continued, “We’ll be leaving from here within the hour, so I’d urge you to make sure you’ve got all your gear out and piled up so we can load it on the mules. This is a progressive trip, meaning we’ll be at a new camp every night. Camp One is fifteen miles away along the shore of Yellowstone Lake. Tomorrow, we go into the Thorofare along the river and we follow it upstream to Camp Two. Camp Three is a hell of a climb from the river valley toward the top of the Continental Divide and Two Ocean Pass. We’ll ride a few thousand feet up into the mountains, and some of you may experience shortness of breath or maybe a touch of altitude sickness. The best way to ward that off is to keep hydrated. Keep drinking water, folks—it’s magic. If you’re doing it right, you’ll drink two or three times the water you usually drink. That’s what we want.
“It’s called Two Ocean Pass because the water on the east side of the mountains begins its flow to the Atlantic, and on the west side it’s headed for the Pacific. It’s high mountain country, and the most remote location in the lower forty-eight in terms of its distance from any road or structure. It is true primitive wilderness, but that’s what you signed up for, isn’t it?
“Keep this in mind, folks: only two percent of Yellowstone’s 3,468 square miles is developed in any way. It’s the largest remaining nearly intact ecosystem in the Earth’s northern temperate zone. What you see around you right now—a road, cars, a parking lot—are the last items of modern civilization you’ll see for the next week.”
He scanned his clients as he spoke, already putting them into categories. Rarely anymore did anyone truly surprise him. Everyone was a type, and he’d been with all types on his trips. As he looked his clients over he fitted them into slots.
Jed said, “We’ve all heard the term ‘beyond civilization’ without really thinking much about it because for most of you, being out of range of cell-phone towers or Wi-Fi isn’t something you’ve thought real hard about. But that’s where we’re going: the most remote wilderness left in our country. We like to call it Back of Beyond.”
As always, the phrase produced a nice murmur of trepidation.
* * *
He’d briefly talked to the lone married couple on the trip, Tristan and Donna Glode. Although in their sixties, they were fit and vigorous. He was a CEO of a manufacturing company in St. Louis and he spoke as if used to being listened to. Tristan seemed clear-eyed if hard-assed—even with that unfortunate name—Jed thought. A guy he could depend on if he didn’t cross him or fill him full of bullshit—which he wouldn’t. His wife, Donn
a, was arch and cold. She was one of those fine-boned skeleton women who no doubt did Pilates and had her plastic surgeon’s number on her speed dial. She was a horsewoman of a type—the type who stabled her expensive horses and rarely rode them but enjoyed long lunches with the girls and society functions. Jed guessed the two didn’t get along all that well with each other anymore. They wouldn’t be the first longtime married couple to come on one of his trips with the purpose—either stated or most likely implied—of trying to rekindle a failing or already dead marriage. But when he looked at them, the way they stood apart from each other, he guessed the rekindling would turn out to be unsuccessful. He just hoped neither of them drew any of his other clients into the dispute.
As individuals, these types always wanted to gain sympathetic ears, and gather allies to be on their side. The women were worse than the men in that regard. Already, Jed had noted Donna shooting brief sidelong glances toward the only single woman on the trip, Rachel Mina. She’d already no doubt targeted her as her first and most likely coconspirator.
Jed said to everyone, “We have a method to our madness on the trail, and we’d appreciate your cooperation. First, nobody brought any bear spray, did they?”
No one said yes.
“Good. I know the Park Service advises everyone to have bear spray because we will absolutely see bears, both black and grizzly. But bear spray does the same thing to horses as it does to bears. If there was an accidental discharge while we were riding along, it could set off a panic and a stampede. So I always ask my clients not to bring bear spray. Of course, I won’t even ask about firearms because it’s illegal to have a gun in a national park. Everybody knows that, right?”
There was general assent.
“Nobody has a gun with them, right?”
Vigorous “Oh, no’s” and head shakes all around, except for one man. The single, Wilson. Jed noted it and tucked the impression into his mental “To Do” basket.