Faithful

by Janet Fox

July 23–26, 1904

  Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomized life as a voracious appetite . . . hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless.

  But the cub did not think in man-fashion.

  —White Fang, Jack London, 1906

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS TOM AND I CLIMBED UP AND DOWN the slopes of Mount Washburn. Tom collected rock samples, storing them in canvas bags in the back of the wagon. He showed me how he plotted the sample locations on the map. I followed him as he collected, photographing the rock outcrops and observing the intricate patterns made by layers of the rock he called rhyolite.

  I took to sitting and listening to him, his lectures about the region’s geology; but my mind wasn’t on the rocks. I watched Tom, his every gesture. It was like watching a ballet. He would get so excited about some mineral, or something he saw in a rock face. Where I saw only striations, he saw continents, universes, the infinite. I focused on his face, lit from within. I felt on fire, too.

  Papa, with Bill, traveled back along the road making notes about road conditions and improvements. I often found myself alone on a slope gazing over the view. The earth and sky seemed to expand so that I felt I could see far cities, the broad sweep of the Great Plains, distant blue-green oceans. We saw mountain goats that retreated on nimble feet to tottering rocks and then peered back at us with suspicion. I watched bald eagles sweep overhead, moving to heights where they became black dashes against the sky.

  Mama might have walked these very slopes. I suspected she’d loved what she saw just as I did. I missed her so, even more, now that I knew she was truly gone.

  Once, my eye was pulled across a deep ravine as something moved through the pine trees on the other side: a herd of elk. Some fifty or sixty snaked through the shadows beneath the pines, making their passage in total silence. I heard not a twig snap, not a snort of breath; I watched, enchanted, as the ghostly animals rounded the curve of the hill out of sight.

  Tom gave me a spare sample book and I collected flowers, pressing them in the pages and making notes. My photographs took another turn to the detail I loved so much, as I focused on the smallest of blossoms: tiny dicentras—bleeding hearts—and edelweiss on the high rugged slopes.

  I watched Tom when he didn’t know it, too. I admired his sure, deft manner on the slopes. I watched his long fingers, his unconscious habit of pushing his fingers through his hair. I felt as if I would lose something precious by losing him. I didn’t know if I’d lost him to Kula. I didn’t know if I was lost to George Graybull.

  This time with Tom and his landscape was a dream-time and I wanted it to never end. But, of course, it did.

  We broke camp after four days to head farther north. I packed the camera and the negatives, padding the cases between the canvas packs of food and lashing the tarp over the top.

  “Maggie!” Tom came running toward me. His excitement made me smile.

  “You look like you’ve found a pot of gold.”

  “I have! Scat! And tracks—big ones! And a deer kill!”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said, my smile fading. I did not consider this happy news.

  “But it is! Big bear, from the look of it. Probably a grizzly.”

  My hand tightened on the strap I held. A grizzly. “Where?” I wanted to be away from it.

  “Just ahead. What a treat! If we stop up there”—he gestured up the road—“we can observe him when he comes back.” He looked at me. “It’s perfectly safe. As long as we keep our distance.”

  “I have no interest in seeing a bear.” I pulled on the strap, tightening and tying. These were not the black bears being fed out behind the hotels. I remembered the night I was too close to a grizzly. It drew me yet it terrified me. It held an overwhelming mindless power, attractive and deadly. Mrs. Gale had said it: “You attract your talisman to you.” Well, I wanted none of that. “No, thank you.”

  “No interest?” He sounded puzzled.

  “None. I want to stay as far away as possible.” I had to pull the knot apart when I failed to do it right. My fingers fumbled and my patience was gone. It pained me that Tom didn’t understand the seductive pull that the bear had on me, its tantalizing malevolence. The fear rose in me like metal filings in my mouth. “I want nothing to do with bears!”

  “But . . .” Tom leaned against the wagon to try to meet my eyes, that were firmly fixed for the moment on my poor knot-tying. “It’s what I want to do. I thought you understood.”

  I turned to stare at him. Please, no. Just because it was important to him. He couldn’t see how I felt. My fear was that Tom was like every other man. That and my fear of the bear, my jealousy of Kula, my hateful position as Graybull’s prize suddenly were all mixed up. “It may be what you want to do, Tom Rowland, but what does that matter to me?”

  He looked at me as if seeing me anew. “I thought . . . I thought you cared. About what I did. About what I want to do.”

  “You presume too much,” I said, yanking the new knot tight. My mind’s eye focused on one thing, Tom with Kula, and I forgot entirely our last four days together. Some stupid irrational feeling rose in me and I spoke without thinking. “You and Kula,” I said, not knowing how to finish it.

  The air was thick with tension. Then he broke the silence. “I was right. From the minute I met you, I knew it. You’re a snob.” I whirled to face him. But he mocked me. “You have a fancy fiancé now, and you’re taken with yourself.” There was something else in what he was saying. His eyes were on fire. Tom was jealous of Graybull. “And don’t think I don’t know how you treated Kula.”

  “How I treated . . . !” I stuttered, reeling from one emotion to the next.

  “Accusing her of stealing! Treating her like a slave!”

  “But she was . . .” I began, then stopped. It was no use. There was no point.

  “I thought, maybe, there was a chance for us. Maybe you’d tell me something that would make me believe in you. I wanted to, Maggie. I wanted to believe in you. To believe that maybe we could have something, together. But no. You treated Kula like dirt. You don’t care about anyone else in the end. You’ll marry this Graybull fellow because he can give you what you want, and I can’t. Fine, Miss Margaret Bennet. You’re shallow and snobbish. Yellowstone is no place for you. It’s way too big for your small heart.”

  His words were cruel, cutting me to the core. He strode away, leaving me hanging on to the wagon, my small heart so swollen it would have filled an ocean.

  Papa came up the slope from camp with Bill, equipment in hand. “Ready?” Papa asked, oblivious, as usual, to my emotional state.

  I nodded, swallowing tears.

  The day had dawned cloudy and now the wind was kicking up, spattering big drops of rain as clouds scudded overhead.

  “Good thing we’re gettin’ off the top,” said Bill. “Blowin’ bad, now.”

  “There’s bear sign up ahead,” Tom said. He sat next to me, but he acted like I didn’t exist. I felt the ache deep in my heart.

  “Never mind,” said Bill. “We got to get down. Bear’ll move off. But this wind won’t, and it’ll make the horses spook.” Still, the wagon swayed each time a gust of wind smacked the side, and Bill drove the horses with care as they picked their way down the steep and rutted track. I gripped the wagon rails, trying not to look as we rode past a steep slope that fell away to the river far below. It was close to midday.

  “Wha’ the . . .” Bill pulled hard on the horses’ reins. “Griz!” he yelled.

  I half stood, looking between the shoulders of Bill and Papa. I heard Tom’s voice, low, “There it is.”

  Only twenty yards ahead, in the middle of the track, stood a bear. It was tawny yellow with shoulders sprouting a massive hump, and it rotated its great head in our direction. The horses snorted and neighed, drawing back in fear.

  “Whoa!” yelled B
ill. “Ho, there!”

  The grizzly faced us, raising its nose into the wind to catch our scent. Its eyes were small pins of malice. One of the horses began to dance in the harness, and Tom leaned over to help Bill hold the reins.

  “My God!”

  The grizzly lifted its massive body off the ground, standing upright, its head more than ten feet in the air.

  “We have to pull back!” Tom yelled. “Get out of its way!” He and Bill wrestled with the horses, trying to pull them back or at least turn them, but the wagon was cumbersome.

  Then the bear opened its mouth and gave a roar, shaking its head from side to side. Drops of saliva sprayed the air around its terrifying mouth. The horses could stand it no longer. Both reared and bucked, and the wagon swayed wildly. Bill and Tom shouted, and I heard myself screaming as the wagon tilted, almost dreamlike, over to the right. The horses leapt in their traces, and I saw the slope below rise up toward me.

  Out of instinct, I jumped, as if the ground were a pool of water. I cleared the wagon as it rolled over, and landed hard in the grass, rolling to break my fall. The back wheels of the wagon careened past my face by inches. The wheels were upside down.

  I watched the wagon roll over and over down the slope, carrying the screaming horses and the shouting men, as bags of rocks littered the hill in its wake, and it left large gouges in the earth like a trail. The wagon crashed and splintered, the noises echoing in the woods, until it reached the bottom of the slope far below. Then all was silent. I lay stunned and still faceup in the grass, and heard the angry chittering of a squirrel, as a drop of wind-borne rain hit me square on the cheek.

  Chapter THIRTY - EIGHT

  July 26, 1904

  “What does this mean?” I whispered in my dream . . . “Listen, Plenty-Coups”, said a voice . . . “Develop your body, but do not neglect your mind, Plenty-Coups. It is the mind that leads a man to power, not strength of body”.

  —“Vision in the Crazy Mountains,” from Plenty-Coups, Chief of the Crows (1848–1932), 1957

  I SAW SCUDDING CLOUDS THROUGH A BLUE SKY, AND FELT the prickle of grass beneath my back. I gripped a tuft of grass, holding on tight, afraid to let go, my head spinning and my body a mass of pain. I heard a noise and forced myself to sit up, to look at the wreckage below.

  Things were scattered across the slope—bits of clothing, paper, tins of food. The camera box had sprung open and negatives floated across the grass, dark squares that reflected the sky. I pulled myself to my feet, turning to look back at the road above; the bear was gone.

  Papa. Tom. Bill.

  “Papa?” I stumbled down the long slope, tripping and falling more than once, painfully aware of the bruises on my hip and back. Halfway down to the wagon I heard a noise, a moan. Tom lay on his stomach in the tall grass. I knelt by him. Oh, heavens. I could not lose him.

  I touched his arm. “Tom?”

  He turned, wincing with pain, his face pale. “You all right?” he asked, hoarse.

  I took a breath, thankful to hear him speak. “I’m okay. You?”

  “I think my arm is broken. Can you help me up?” I took his left arm and steadied him while he got to his feet. He clutched his right arm to his chest, breathing hard. Gingerly he pushed the sleeve up to his elbow. The arm was swelling fast. “I think it’s a simple break,” Tom said.

  I saw that he was gasping, and knew that the pain must be intense. “We need to tie it up.”

  We took in the scene—the wagon at the bottom of the slope; our scattered belongings, drifting across the meadow; the prone horses, one of which tried to lift its head, its body. No sign of Bill or Papa. “My God,” he said, and clutching his arm, stumbled down to the wreckage.

  I was right behind him. “Papa?” I called. “Papa?”

  Halfway down, the body of one of the horses lay on the grass, its head pulled back at an unnatural angle, the harnesses in a tangle.

  “Dead,” said Tom, kneeling by the horse.

  I scrambled to the wagon, nestled next to a thin pine tree. The front wheels were in the air, still turning in slow drifts; the rear axle and wheels were shattered. “Papa?” I climbed onto what had been the wagon’s floor. The wagon swayed, and I saw that it sat, perched, on the edge of a steep drop of about sixty feet, to sharp rocks and the river below. I shut my eyes, freezing stone still. The void yawned, and I floated in darkness.

  Mrs. Gale on the edge of the canyon; Mama on the cliff; I’d left them both because I could not master my fear. Now Papa, too, hung in that balance and I could once again choose to let it tip. I could feel my body start to go slack. I had a choice.

  I dragged every ounce of courage in me into one tight bundle, the steely core of me. I held my focus there.

  “Maggie?” Tom was standing by the wagon on the uphill side. I turned my head slowly, careful not to lose my balance. A leg protruded along the side of the wreckage, and I knew by the clothing that it was Bill. Tom was bent over him. “He’s dead,” Tom said in a flat voice.

  “It’s on the edge,” I whispered as I thought the very sound of my voice would cause it to tip. “The wagon.” I looked inside, trying to steady myself. Rock samples, clothing, cans of food, maps, cooking equipment—everything was a mess. There was no sign of Papa. “He’s underneath it all. He must be.” I thought I would be sick.

  The other horse, the mare, lying on her side heaving and breathing heavily, let out a pained cry. Tom scrambled to her, soothing her with soft words. The mare heaved her head off the ground, then, with Tom’s encouragement, stumbled to stand. Blood poured from a gash that ran across her flank, and Tom took an empty canvas bag to staunch the flow.

  Tears ran down my cheeks. I could not lose Papa. Would not. I’d lost Mama, twice. No more. “Papa?” A low moan issued from beneath me. I pulled away from the swaying wagon, away from the cliff, crawling backward on hands and knees, inching back to where I could look through a gap in the broken planking. There, lying on his back at the very bottom of the pile, partially buried by the wagon, yet crushed under the wreckage, was Papa. “Papa?” I said, reaching down through the boards to touch his cheek.

  He opened his eyes, and then shut them. “Mags.” I could see blood on his lips, on the ground beneath him. He closed his eyes and coughed. “Help me.”

  “You’re at the edge of a cliff, Papa.” I removed my hand and backed farther away from the wagon. It swayed again, and I caught my breath. I didn’t know what to do. “It’s too steep.”

  “I’m trapped. Can’t feel my legs.”

  “We’ve got to get him out of there,” Tom said, coming up behind me, clutching his arm to his chest. Then he saw how the wagon was perched, wedged against the leaning pine tree and some loose boulders. “Good God.”

  I stood and took two steps, backing away from the wagon. Tom looked at me, sharp.

  “I can’t use my arm,” he said.

  I touched the wagon, felt it sway again, felt my soul fall away into the void, saw the depths of the sea rise up around me, felt my arms and legs go numb with cold fear.

  “Look.” Tom swung around and grabbed my shoulder with his good arm, snapping me out of my nightmare. “We can tie it off to the trees. We’ve got to stabilize it.”

  “Yes.” I focused on that core in me, that steel. “Yes.” Crawling back up the slope, I found a stocking, and, returning, bound Tom’s arm in a sling, trying to touch his arm as little as possible. Still, he sat down hard, clearly in pain and shock from even the slightest movement. I went back up the slope and cut away the traces from the dead horse, careful to leave enough leather intact to use as a harness later. I tied the long rein to the front axle, then to a stout pine, my knots good solid slipknots. I went back to loop the leather around the still-intact footboard, when the wagon began to shift.

  It happened so slowly, like a dream. My stomach heaved, and then I forgot to think and moved entirely out of instinct.

  There was a cry of pain from Papa and a shout of fear from Tom. The wagon slipped, inchin
g over the edge, gaining momentum as it tilted.

  I knotted the reins around the footboard, pulling the knot tight with a jerk. For one dizzying second I could look down, past Papa’s crumpled form, through the splintered seat, and into the abyss below, to the rocks that stuck up like fangs, bare and monstrous. I stared right into the void and denied its power; and then it was as though I had acquired astonishing strength, even as fear tried to close in on me and its weight pushed on my limbs. I looped the reins and ran back to the tree, threw the end of the leather around, then around again, then leaned with all my weight. The wagon heaved and pulled toward the edge, then groaned to a stop, Papa’s moans weakening beneath it.

  Everything was still for a moment as I held my ground, my feet dancing back, then catching, the leather biting into the tree and into my raw and bleeding palms until the reins grabbed the bark, and the yawning, stretching sound of the leather snapped into place.

  I tied off the reins, and then turned. Papa’s legs were still pinned beneath the wood and iron. But he was more exposed now, his arms free; I could reach his face, which was twisted with pain. I knelt and touched a hand to him and brushed the blood from his lips.

  “We’ll get you out,” I said. The blood from the gash on his arm was flowing freely, and I reached under my skirt to my petticoat, tearing a strip of cloth. I bound his arm, but it needed fastening. My hand went to my throat. The cameo was still there. I pinned the cameo to the bandage, making it fast. “I’ll get you some water.” His face was pale, and he could only nod. I carried one of the pots to the stream. Tom was on his feet again, leaning against the mare—she was trembling but alert. She’d been hurt, but not so badly as I’d thought.

  “Think she’s going to be all right,” Tom said. “Don’t think she broke anything. Not lame either. Miracle, really.”

  Given that the gelding was dead. That Bill was dead. That Papa was gravely wounded. That Tom was badly hurt. Miracle.

  I took the water to Papa, who sipped what he could, his eyes closed. With the remaining traces, I harnessed the mare to the wagon. “I’m going to try using the horse to pull the wagon off you. Okay? Are you ready?”