The River Wild

by Denis O'Neill

  Tom heard her voice and was driven to run even faster, branches slapping against his face. A branch scratched his eye, drawing tears. Momentarily disoriented, he caught his toe on a root and he went flying—wunk— landing facedown among the ground cover. The impact knocked his knife free. He fumbled in the dark to find it, on his knees, patting the earth here and there. His hand felt the steel blade. He grabbed the knife, snapped the blade shut, and jammed it in his pocket. Then he took off for the water’s edge.

  Terry raced to the perimeter of the campsite then stopped at the darkness, like a dog with an electronic collar remembering the pain zone beyond an invisible boundary. He squinted after Tom but could see nothing now; all he heard was a crashing in the thicket. Deke popped out of their tent and rushed up to him. “What happened?”

  “He had a knife,” Terry said. “Almost killed me. Son of a bitch.”

  “Why didn’t you go after him?”

  Terry stared at the darkness. “Out there? At night?”

  “Where’s your flashlight?” Deke asked.

  “Lost it in the fight. I mighta hit him, Deke. I think I did. He yelled like I did.”

  “Chrissakes, gimme the gun. Keep an eye on the others.” He ran back to their tent.

  Gail and Roarke were cocooned in their sleeping bags in their tent. Gail eyed the cut lengths of rope around Tom’s bag. “I snuck Dad my knife at the campfire,” Roarke told her, proudly, eyes agleam. “He’s going for help.” Gail gave that some thought. The nighttime conditions, the enclosed canyon, Tom’s urban instincts, the armed killers, the ingredients flashed through her mind in a blur of long odds and bad news. Gail smiled at her son. “I know he is.”

  ** ** **

  Deke scrambled out of the tent with a flashlight. He stopped beside Terry, who was still peering into the woods, trying to detect movement or sound. Terry pointed to a spot where spring runoff had thinned the new growth between the river’s edge and the foot of the hills. “He headed down there. Unless he wants to go swimming, he ought to be pinned in by the canyon walls.”

  “It’s time we had one less traveler,” Deke said, clearly agitated to be dealing with a circumstance he thought was under control. He walked toward the water’s edge, where he could follow the beach downstream, unimpeded until it gave way to new growth at the bottom of the run where canyon walls on both sides forced the River Wild through a kind of funnel.

  Tom pushed through the cottonwood saplings that grew back from the river and were boxed in by the encroaching canyon. He paused to catch his breath, listen, and get his bearings. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He could make out the looming form of the canyon wall that pinched in on him from river right. He could hear the roar of rapids he knew lay downstream of the tail-out. The glow of the campfire was faintly visible fifty yards upriver, like a lone firefly on a summer’s night. He looked down to find himself standing in the soft mud of a spring whose flow originated somewhere back from the river in the run-up to the cliff. He followed the spring for a few yards until there was a clear pool to drink from. He knelt and cupped several handfuls of water. Then he made his way to the foot of the canyon wall and followed it to the river.

  At the water’s edge Tom paused to take stock. The far side of the river was bound by a towering sheer wall that matched the one on his side. Together, they forced the river into the mouth of a gorge between them, like the trickle point of an hourglass. Because of the narrowed width, the water ran swift, deep, and treacherous before giving way to a major rapids around the bend, where the canyon wall on Tom’s side receded once more. Tom stepped into the river and peered downstream. He remembered Gail’s description of the rapids being the roughest on the river outside of the Gauntlet. Survival seemed unlikely. The water dropped off quickly, the current was strong. With one more step, Tom found himself suddenly underwater—being swept toward the treacherous gorge. He bobbed to the surface and swam desperately toward shore. It took all his effort to get a toehold on the bottom. Just as quickly as he had lost his footing, he regained it and scrambled the short distance to shallow water, out of the current. He lay in the shallows until he caught his breath. The power of the river spooked him. He climbed back onto the shore.

  What he saw next spooked him more: a flashlight beam piercing the darkness, moving toward him from the campsite. He glanced at the cliff wall across the river once more—no way out, even if he could get there. He walked to the base of the cliff on his side of the river and looked up: its granite surface gleamed in the light of a half-exposed moon. Up, up, up, it soared, its mostly smooth surface broken here and there by crevasses, ledges, and dwarf pine trees whose slender, twisted trunks angled out of cracks where windblown seeds had landed, taken root, and somehow survived. He stepped back far enough to glimpse the canyon rim a couple of hundred feet above, marked by a line of towering, dark pines. “Oh, Tommmmm?” Deke’s voice, laced with a cat-and-mouse confidence, ended his deliberation.

  Tom glimpsed the flashlight beam only thirty yards away now, lasering left and right through the scrub. For the first time, he could hear the rustle of the thicket above the whoosh of the river. Tom stared at the cliff once more; up was his only way out. He leaped for the root of a cliff-dwelling pine and grabbed it, adding a second hand to the first. His feet scrambled for a purchase on the cliff wall. He got enough leverage with his boots to pull himself up and reach one-handed for a second pine sapling a couple feet above the first. They all grew out of a vertical crevasse that offered a kind of wilderness ladder up to a ledge forty feet above the ground. The rough bark of the pines cut into Tom’s hands, and his shoulders ached with the weight they were asked to support. But once he had navigated the first three or four limbs, he was able to stand on the lower saplings, taking the weight off his arms. It was faster going after that.

  Deke, meantime, splashed into the muddy spring Tom had discovered. He held the flashlight in his left hand, the .22 in his right. He swung the light in a series of expanding arcs out from where he stood, training the gun wherever the beam alighted. Nothing. He aimed the flashlight on the muddy ground where he stood. He saw footprints, filling with water but still discernable. Deke stepped back to dry ground to better survey the mud. He knelt to inspect one of the prints. It was fresh, still holding its shape even filled with spring water. Deke traced them with the flashlight as they angled toward the river. Sensing he was closing in, he advanced in a stalking crouch, swinging the .22 one way then the other … pausing every few steps to listen. The sound of the river and the rapids below the gorge grew louder and louder.

  Tom paused twenty feet above the ground to catch his breath. From his vantage he could see Deke’s flashlight beam and even make out his form, edging toward the river. Tom looked around and knew he was a sitting duck if Deke saw him … at least until he made it to the ledge. His adrenaline surged. He reached for another pine and scrambled upward.

  Deke emerged from the woods at the base of the cliff. He knelt to inspect the boot prints once more. They led to the water’s edge. Deke stepped cautiously into shallow water and aimed his flashlight at the facing cliff on the far side. He took another step deeper in and aimed the light downstream. The beam danced off the tops of white water churned by the beginning of the rapids. He took another step for a better angle and suddenly sank in waist deep. The current sucked at him. He found himself in that place fly fishermen have all encountered and forever wish to avoid: standing on the downslope of a gravel bed with diminishing traction and a fast current pushing at your back. He grunted in fear, desperate to avoid a second, likely fatal, trip through a River Wild rapids. He back-paddled with his arms and feet and slowly made his way to safer ground.

  He splashed out of the water and stood at the base of the cliff, calculating his next move. A pebble bounced off his head. He stepped back and aimed his flashlight at the cliff wall, moving from one pine tree to another. The beam’s brightness dissipated over distance, but was still able to illuminate Tom’s boots forty fe
et up and the dark form of his body beyond.

  Tom froze when the light hit him, but he quickly realized staying put was not an option. His fingers scratched at the granite and scrub growth in the crevasse above his head. He could see the ledge within reach, it was split by the vertical crevasse, making it easy to climb onto if he could get that far. Ironically, the flashlight beam revealed the nub of an old pine tree he hadn’t seen. He pulled himself one-handed on the branch and inched his free hand upward toward the nub.

  Below him, Deke smiled and shook his head. “I’ll be goddamned.” He tried to get a bead on Tom’s body, but the steep angle made a good shot difficult. Deke backed up for a better perspective. When he reached the river’s edge, he aimed his flashlight at the water’s surface. He had a yard or two before the place where the current had gouged a dangerous drop-off.

  Tom’s boot toes scratched at the granite wall in an attempt to buy him another inch or two. His fingers hit the nub. He gripped it fully, and pulled with all his might, hoping to take advantage of the unexpected blackout. He reached his free hand above the nub and found another scrub pine. He tugged himself higher up the cliff, closer to the ledge.

  Deke stepped as far into the river as he dared. He aimed the light once more at the darker, deeper water a foot behind him to get his bearings and know his limitations. He wiggled his feet into the river bottom for a more secure stance. He swung the flashlight beam onto the cliff. This time the light illuminated most of Tom’s body, a dark form pressed to the lighter face of the granite wall.

  Tom’s head popped into view between the split halves of the ledge. It was a narrow passage. He was able to wiggle one elbow onto the ledge for leverage. He tried to pry himself through, but his shoulders and hips were too wide. He sunk back down and twisted his torso sideways.

  Deke held his hands side by side, extended directly out from his body. One held the flashlight, the other the .22. He had shot enough to know a one-handed shot with a revolver at a sizable distance was a long shot at best. His trigger finger tightened; he was about to try a head shot, when Tom sank down. Deke decided a body shot was a better option. He squinted down the barrel and aimed for the crack in the ledge where Tom’s body was now wedged. He pulled the trigger. The shot hit loose rock just below the ledge, inches from his target.

  Tom kicked and pushed with his legs, finally twisting his body so that he fully faced one side of the ledge. He pressed his palms to the surface and pushed with all his might. He wiggled the top of his torso higher through the opening, but his hips got stuck. Tom’s face contorted as he struggled to force his body through. “C’mon … c’mon!” A second shot ricocheted off the granite wall inches from his head, throwing chips against his face. “C’mon … fuck!” He realized he would have to somehow slide his body out of the crevasse to get it on the ledge. He pushed back from the wall with one hand as he kept an elbow crooked on the ledge. He inched his way free of the crevasse, and was half-on, half-off the ledge, both elbows on the rock, his legs dangling in space. He tried to surge forward on his elbows, but the depth of the ledge prevented his boots from getting a purchase on the wall. He needed one more handhold. A dwarf pine angled out of the cliff a yard away, just a foot above the ledge. Tom inched his way sideways.

  Deke sidestepped slightly downstream for a better angle. His flashlight beam caught Tom half dangling from the ledge. Deke felt confident he had the shot. He transferred the butt of the flashlight to his mouth so he could hold the .22 two-handed. He wedged his feet against the river rocks to stabilize himself and trained the weapon on Tom, whose white, bloodless hands the light caught gripping the ledge.

  With his downstream hand, Tom reached out in a quick motion and got a hold of the pine, giving him enough leverage to pull himself up and over the ledge just as Deke fired. The shot hit the wall below the ledge, where Tom’s legs had dangled a split second earlier. Tom screamed as he rolled his body against the face of the cliff on the yard-wide ledge. The shot dislodged a small rock, which freed a bigger one above it. The rocks sailed into space—their sudden absence loosening an even bigger boulder from the wall. The boulder—the size of a beer keg—sailed through the night air.

  Deke stood twenty feet upstream of where the boulder ker plunked into the river. He swung his flashlight to the tail end of the dark, deep water that gave way to the top of the rapids. The light danced over the white froth of churned water. He thought he saw a dark form rise up once atop the surge, then sink from sight. Training the light once more at the ledge, he saw no movement and no sign of Tom. He raised the beam slightly, to see if Tom could have climbed upward. There was nothing but sheer wall.

  Tom, on his back and pressed against the cliff, could see the beam of light angle above the ledge and illuminate the granite two yards above his head. If he had wanted to, he could have stuck his fingers in the light and made shadow puppets on the wall.

  ** ** **

  Deke waded ashore, glanced once more at the cliff, and headed back to camp. Tom heard him in the thicket below. He flipped onto his stomach so he could peer over the ledge. He saw Deke’s flashlight bouncing along the river’s edge, where the walking was easier. Further off, the glow of the campfire made a yellow smudge in the blackness. Tom turned onto his back once more to survey the journey remaining: the massive slab of granite glistened in the moonlight, its surface pocked here and there by crevasses, stunted pines, and chutes. Way, way up—but closer now—the canopy of the canyon rim pines formed a green hedge as far as he could see up and downriver.

  Deke walked out of darkness and found Gail and Roarke sitting around the fire, guarded by Terry. The fire blazed yellow, illuminating much of the campsite, fueled by a half dozen new logs.

  “You get him?” Terry asked.

  “I got him first, the fishies get him next,” he said.

  Gail gasped and pulled Roarke close against her.

  Deke handed Terry the gun. “I’m going to get some dry clothes.”

  “Dad’s dead, Mom?” Roarke looked at his mother with pleading eyes that suddenly burst into tears. “Did Deke kill him?”

  “I don’t know, honey.” She hugged him fiercely. “I hope not.”

  Gail wrestled with the possibility that Deke was lying. She fought off an instinct to burst into tears, but she couldn’t help a tear sliding from one eye. She felt queasy, churned by conflicting emotions. The lawyer in her cried out to wait for evidence. The layman in her clung to the last thing in her arsenal, hope. Her Ma Morgan membership hurried her momentarily past grief—there’d be time enough for that—to the more immediate prospect of revenge. But first she had to stay alive. The animal in her retreated to the most basic instinct: survival.

  21

  Mary K.’s gas station and convenience store sat on the banks of the Missouri River, upstream from the five consecutive waterfalls that gave Lewis and Clark a nineteen-day, nineteenth-century headache to portage around and the city of Great Falls its name. It occupied the no-man’s-land just outside city limits en route to the checkerboard of ranches that filled most of Cascade County, including the abandoned ranch where Mary Walsh’s red Ford sedan was found.

  There was a pay phone by the front door, next to the ice cooler. Unlike old-fashioned pay phones elsewhere, it still got used. Among a clutter of signs and neon beer advertising in the window, one said: MINNOWS AND CRAWLERS FOR SALE. It was into this gas and food and beer lifeline that a Montana Fish and Game jeep pulled, canoe lashed on top. The ranger who got out was the one who had run into Gail and Tom on the river. His name was Thompson Littlebuck, and he was half Crow Indian, with jet-black hair and olive skin to prove it. He was twenty-nine. His cabin was two and a half miles upriver, making Mary K.’s oasis a kind of prime lie.

  He stepped inside, through the screen door, past the fly strips dotted with the dried-out corpses of flies and the community bulletin board just inside the door. Country music played on an old plug-in radio. In the middle of a bunch of work-for-hire and wanted signs, there were mu
g shots of Deke and Terry. Mary K., the proprietor, greeted Thompson, a regular customer. True to her provocative nature, she wore a T-shirt that said “Free the Unabomber” and a black baseball cap with the white letters: FBI. She liked to explain the pairing was meant to indicate—in a humorous fashion—that one person’s money was as good as another’s at her establishment. “Evening, Thompson. The usual?”

  “Better make it two quarts, Mary K. Been on the river too long.” He glanced absently around the store as she collected the beer.

  “Terrible thing about that Deer Lodge woman,” she said, placing the beer in a brown bag.

  “What happened?”

  “The woman who was murdered. They found her car just up the road from Belt.”

  “I have been on the river too long. I figure I’ll catch up with the news when I get home.”

  “Terrible thing,” Mary K. said. “She seemed like such a nice person.”

  Thompson paid Mary Kent and gathered the cold beer under his arm. The chill felt good against his body. “Doesn’t get any better than this. See you when I see you.”

  “You know where I’ll be,” Mary K. said.

  Thompson walked past the bulletin board with barely a glance. The screen door slammed behind him. Mary K. heard him climb into his jeep and close the door. She heard him turn on the ignition, then turn off the ignition. Next thing, Thompson Littlebuck practically burst through the screen door and fixed his eyes on Deke and Terry. “Holy shit.”

  22

  Tom stood on a second narrow ledge, higher than the first that had saved his life. The clouds had parted, giving the full moon a chance to illuminate the task remaining. He stared up at a yard-wide chute that split the otherwise smooth granite wall and ran almost to the canyon rim. For an experienced free climber, it was an elevator to the top. For an architect from Brookline Village, it was a nightmare, albeit the best of the nightmares he had to choose from.