Certainly, even now, the world ought to be able to pull itself up by its bootstraps again in no more than a couple of centuries, at most—and possibly in much less time. There was too much twentieth-century technology now in existence for the knowledge of it to be lost completely. People like Paul Sanderson would be finding ways to use it, keep it alive, and build it back toward what it was before everything fell apart.
Somehow, he felt, an understanding of the Collapse and why it happened could be tied in with the understanding he needed of Wolf and of what he was. It was an elusive connection, a ghost of a connection, but he had learned to trust such little tickles of queries in his mind.
He had also learned how to deal with them. Which was to put each of them consciously out of mind as much as possible, push ahead, and wait for the back of his head to make connections that the front had been unable to do.
This reaching out for understanding of Wolf had some tie-in to an understanding of why the human race should commit this sort of partial suicide. That was the other element in his need to understand. Forget it for now, he told himself. But it was not easy to forget it.
They were beyond the large cities now that Billings had been passed. They traveled either in open range or in foothills. It was full summer and the days were often hot. But these passed, and in between them the weather was very pleasant, particularly at night. Jeebee had fallen back into the habit of being the same sort of outdoor creature he had developed into, coming west.
Again he fell into the habit of wearing the same amount of clothing no matter what the temperature was, and being more or less indifferent to whether he needed warmth or was too hot—except that he stowed the leather jacket away. Also, the daily habit of shaving he had resumed briefly at the pass was forgotten. His beard once more was full and black. It was almost as if his clothing had become his pelt, as Wolf’s pelt was his; and there was no reason to think of making changes in it simply to adapt to small changes in temperature.
So he let his beard grow and lived in his clothes. These things were unimportant. Important, was the fact that he was now in territory where he would be more visible and more conspicuous. Consequently his concerns were with the precautions of traveling within the cover of trees, in folds of land, or along river bottoms, as much as possible.
The rivers in these parts, particularly in these midsummer months, were small and not fast flowing. But they tended to have cut their path below the level of the surrounding ground. Also, they were commonly bordered and hidden by thick clumps of willow, occasionally so close-stemmed that passage was difficult.
These willow stands, however, offered a place for him to hide, if he suspected someone else might be about. He could vanish into them, horses and all, and simply stay still until whoever it was had passed, animal or human.
Traveling as he did, any sight of other humans was unusual, even though this was an area that seemed to be almost untouched by the change that had come upon the world. Most of the buildings he saw, he passed at a distance, and many of them had lights showing at night, if it was early, or gave other evidence of being actively lived in at the present time.
But one night he did finally come across a group of ranch buildings that had been burned almost to the ground—and not too long ago, because the smell of burnt wood was still about them—and when he rubbed a finger on the remains of a burned-out window frame, his skin came away black in the moonlight with soot from the wood.
It was true that this was not the season for rain, and in fact there had been remarkably little rain in the last few weeks, so that he was accustomed to finding the cattle clustering around what water was available and grazing as close to it as possible. But still the building must have burned sometime since last winter’s snows, and possibly within the last month or so, for there was little sign of weathering of surfaces in rooms now exposed to the elements.
But the discovery of the dead building alarmed him. A place like this could attract scavengers. He moved further into the foothills, still following stream beds and willow clumps as much as possible. He came at last into an area in which there was a certain amount of tree cover, but willows still clustered by the running water.
Here, up in the hills, he began to let himself travel more into the daylight hours, because the area was so free of people. He got into the habit of going on foot, leading Brute by the reins, with Sally still patiently tethered to the saddle on Brute’s back. This was as much to spare the horses as because he had become more and more able to read the ground before him; at the same time he felt himself to be less visible than he would be sitting up on the back of a horse, even down here in the hollow of the creek bed.
The sky was lightening one morning when Brute suddenly balked—stopping, pushing hard and back with all four feet. Jeebee stiffened and looked swiftly around him. It was just before dawn, all but full day. He could see clearly, except for what was hidden from view by the willow clumps, just ahead and around him and also clustered on the far side of a stream that could be no more than twenty or thirty feet wide. There was no sign of anything to alarm the horse, but Sally was also pulling back on the rope with which she was tied to Jeebee’s saddle.
Jeebee pulled hard on the reins but Brute resisted him with all his equine muscle and did not move an inch.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Jeebee snarled—and was astonished at the sound of his own words in his ears. It was not merely that he had sworn at the horses. It was the fact that even a year ago, it would never have occurred to him to do so.
It was a shock to realize that he had changed so much. The restraint that had been second nature in him as far back as he could remember, had been scoured off by what had happened to him in the last few months. He was uncomfortably reminded of how he had been equally startled to discover in himself a readiness to kill Wolf, if necessary, to keep for himself the food he had found in that root cellar.
Then, suddenly more thoughtful, Jeebee forgot his momentary temper. He had learned to trust the awarenesses of the animals beyond his own. And if horses’ noses were not the superb instruments Wolf’s was, they were still far better than his human one. He was suddenly aware that the breeze was blowing toward them from upstream, in the direction they were going.
He turned, led the horses back until the tension began to go out of them, then tethered them in a small open spot on the riverbank. They might as well browse and drink while waiting for him. Jeebee looked around for Wolf. The other had been with them just a short while ago. Where was he now?
Jeebee cupped his hands around his mouth and howled. He waited. No answer came back. He howled again.
Still no answer. Wolf should not have been able to go beyond hearing range in the short time since Jeebee had last seen him. Jeebee had trusted the other’s natural curiosity to bring him back to investigate what was causing Jeebee to do all the calling. But when no response came to a third howl after a good three-minute wait, Jeebee gave up. He pulled the .30/06 from its scabbard at Brute’s saddle, checked to make sure it was fully loaded, and started upstream once more, by himself.
He went cautiously, on principle. The willow clumps here were thick enough to hide anything as large as a steer or a range bull.
He was carrying the rifle balanced in his right hand, his forefinger on the trigger guard so that the knuckle of that forefinger controlled the grip. His left hand was free to push willow branches out of his way—but quietly, as quietly as possible. A large animal alerted to the point of having already begun an attack on him might not even be slowed by a bullet from a rifle of this caliber.
A willow clump barred his path, followed by a little open space, then another clump and another open spot, more earth than grass. He was down on what was called the false levee. Now, at July, the river had shrunk from its spring volume of water, which would have filled this ground to over his head, inundating the lower halves of the willow stems with rushing, brown, foamy water, clear up to the top of the true banks on either si
de.
He went a little further and passed a gap in the willows on his left, so that for a moment, out of a corner of his eye, he saw clear to the bank top. In that moment he thought he glimpsed the gray, now lean-looking body of Wolf slipping past, moving parallel to him. But when he turned his head to look squarely, the gap was empty.
Wishful thinking, he told himself. Not that he had any great hope of Wolf coming to his assistance in case of trouble. The other was not one to come rushing to the defense of a human companion, movie-dog style. Wolf’s actions were governed by the practical self-interest of his wild instincts.
But if Wolf had indeed been with him, the lupine sense of smell might have been able to tell him more of whatever had alarmed the horses, and from Wolf’s actions Jeebee might have been able to read a fuller warning of any animal danger ahead.
Jeebee pushed through the last of a clump of willows and stepped into one more clearing. This was the largest so far. It narrowed toward the true bank, but stayed open enough so that at the very top of it he now saw Wolf plainly, after all, looking down at him with interest—but only looking.
Jeebee turned to go forward again. With no sound by way of warning, what seemed to be a couple of black dogs—one as large or larger than Wolf, and one looking very much like a half-grown pup—erupted from the willows ahead and came rushing toward him, the smaller one trailing behind.
He had time to think, Oh no! Some rancher’s dogs! and that, whether they were friendly or not, he must not shoot. Because if they were, their owner might be riding just a little distance off, perfectly able to hear the sound of a rifle.
He poked out with the hand that held the rifle, as anyone might use a stick to hold off an animal that was either threatening, or trying to be too friendly by jumping up on him. Suddenly the larger black creature stood up on its hind legs, and things began to move very swiftly, though he saw everything quite clearly and his mind was quite calm and alert. Only his body seemed to move slowly in obedience to his wishes.
Upright, what he had thought to be a dog had become a night-dark monster with shaggy head and unbelievably toothed jaws. It was as tall as he was. He had a glimpse of deep-set eyes and felt a puff of hot breath on his face.
Now, at the last possible moment, he recognized it as a female black bear, although he would never have imagined an adult bear so lean, and the smaller animal as its cub.
A powerful blow on the rifle sent it spinning out of his hand toward the stream. He had no time to see where it fell, because another heavy blow glanced off the right side of his head and yet one more struck his upper arm on the left side.
Time had suddenly slowed. Jeebee was abruptly aware of Wolf, appearing as if by a magician’s trick, and joining them with impossible swiftness. He registered first, not with the high, bounding leaps with which he had attacked the collie at the station, but as a gray blur, running close to the ground. In the second in which he reached Jeebee and the bear, Jeebee’s memory also registered a momentary still snapshot of Wolf’s tail low behind him, his ears down and jaws slightly open, as he came up behind the bear. Jeebee caught a glimpse of those powerful jaws, closing for a split second on the bear’s left leg, the canine teeth sinking deeply in toward the bone, before Wolf almost immediately let go and leaped backward.
The bear turned, swiftly, but too late to catch Wolf.
Jeebee’s mind, working in what seemed no time at all, but with unusual clarity and calmness, drove him like an impersonal engine. He bent down, reaching for the pistol in his boot. Even as his hands stretched out he realized how useless its light slugs would be in stopping such an enemy. His fingers closed instead on the oversized knife in its sheath on the outside of his right boot.
He gripped the handle and pulled the knife loose, snapping the leather cord holding it from falling out, as if that cord had been thread. As he did so he felt the breath of air above his head from another blow of the bear’s paw that had missed him as he stooped. Coming upright, he was nearly felled by another solid blow, this time on his upper left thigh.
Straightening, he instinctively drove the point of the knife forward as he had been taught by Nick, toward the crotch of the bear; and felt the blade go in and up. Another blow just grazed his left shoulder lightly. Then the black body fell backward away from him. He stared down at it, unbelieving. As Nick had warned, his blade point had gone high. It had entered near the top of the soft stomach area. Somehow, he must have been lucky enough to hit a vital spot—maybe the heart was reachable, up in there behind the breastbone…
The cub had disappeared. Jeebee’s left leg suddenly gave under him and he sat down. Something was obscuring his left eye. He put his hand up and brought it away wet with redness. Reaching higher, he found something ragged hanging down, which turned out to be part of his scalp.
He pushed it back up. Wolf, having attacked again, had just leaped clear when the bear fell, then watchfully circled around toward its hindquarters. Now, with the bear down, he was making cautious approaches, pausing every step or two as he drew closer, and as Jeebee pushed his scalp back in place, Wolf took one last step and stretched his neck until his nose almost touched the black furred hind leg. His ears flagged up and down as he sniffed. Finally, he gave the leg a sharp prod with the top of his nose and leaped back. Then he stood watching, his ears now pricked, his eyes bright.
There was no reaction from the dead bear. Wolf moved forward confidently and began a more thorough inspection of the carcass.
Jeebee forgot about Wolf. His knife was still standing upright in the upper belly of the now plainly dead animal. Instinctively he retrieved it and wiped it on his pants leg before returning it to its sheath.
Surprisingly, he felt no hurt. He would, undoubtedly, any minute now. His mind still held that amazing clarity and calmness. The bear’s claws could have infected him with the bacteria in the dirt on them, he told himself with no emotion whatever. He would need the antibiotics in his pack sack behind Brute’s saddle, as soon as possible. He should get back to the horses while he could still move.
He tried to climb once more onto his feet and found his left leg reluctant to lift him. Looking down at his thigh where he had felt the blow, he saw the trouser leg torn and bloody. Almost enough of his blood available to paint with. The thought was funny, but he did not laugh.
With his fingertips he felt among the redness on his thigh.
Torn cloth, furrows in the flesh, and… holes where the claws had first struck. Surface wounds, then, but the bruising would immobilize him in hours. He would have to reach those horses. Undoubtedly there was internal bleeding under the bruised areas. Cold compresses for that, once back at the horses. The river water would be cold.
He felt his upper left arm and felt wetness there. More blood on his fingers. Happily, nowhere else did he seem to be bleeding. He looked around. His rifle was only about six feet away, teetering, half over the edge of the water. Rolling over on his good right side, he crabbed along the ground to the rifle, and when he got it, used it as a prop to get him up on his one good leg.
He began to hobble along the riverbank, downstream, back toward the horses.
CHAPTER 21
It was hard going through the willows. His wounds still did not hurt, though he was conscious of them.
Possessing him still was that same clarity and clearheadedness. Now, like mental tunnel vision, it was concentrating all his attention only on the seriousness of the moment, and what must be done right away. Time was now moving at its normal pace.
He must get back to his medical supplies, at the horses. From what he had read in the books on wolves, as well as in first-aid texts, with large-animal-created wounds, his greatest danger was probably that both arm and leg were deeply and massively bruised by the paw blows of the mother bear. The flesh, where it had been hammered by those paws, would flood with blood from broken internal blood vessels under the skin.
He would probably not lose much blood—he was not even losing much now, except
from his scalp—which seemed the least important. But the real damage was the inside damage, below the skin. That would mean swelling, which would take about twenty-four hours in which to reach its peak.
Treatment for swelling? His mind searched his memories of first-aid manuals. Cold compresses. He had no compresses or material for them at the moment. But the water in the stream close beside him was mountain-fed. It would be icy cold and he had, back at the horses, clothes he could tear up and wrap tightly around both the lower and upper wound. Also his scalp—which was still doing most of the bleeding.
The sooner the cold was put to work the better. At his present hobble, it would be a while yet before he could cover what he estimated to be about a hundred and fifty feet back to the horses. Thank God he had tied them up where there was water and grazing before leaving them.
It was the willows in their clumps that was slowing him down. Sometimes he could push his way through or go around, but they slowed his progress. He glanced at the stream. It was no wider anywhere than about thirty feet and had looked no more than about three feet at the deepest. There were no willows in it, and he would get the double benefit of immersing the hurt leg in its coldness and at least begin washing the leg wound clean.
For that matter, he could also keep splashing water up on his arm as he went. Both actions would help to clean the worst of the dirt undoubtedly there from the bear’s claws and pads. At the same time, he could get to his destination in half the time it would take him, limping around these willows or forcing his way through them. And the water would slow him no more than the willows.
He veered toward the stream and checked himself at its bank, suddenly remembering that the water might carry toxic organisms. There was one—a parasite named giardia—that came from the excreta of beaver, and other wild animals, and was supposed to be found in western mountain streams like this.
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