Depth of Winter

by Craig Johnson

  The boards of the bridge were warped but roughcut to an exact thickness as they had been in the old days, so the four-bys were actually a true four inches thick and stretched all the way across the ten-foot width.

  The ramp was on solid footings, but the span was supported by the cables and swung perilously. I could see the river rushing between the abutments after the first step I took onto the planks, but they didn’t crack in two. I got brave and jumped up and down on the thing, but it didn’t break.

  I was starting to get a little more confidence, so I reached out and took hold of one of the guide-wire strands that made up the makeshift railing—it came loose in my hand and dropped into the river where it was swallowed and disappeared.

  The Doc stood on the first plank. “I don’t think we should rely on the railings.”

  I called back. “Agreed.”

  Walking a little farther out, I could see that the weather had done more damage near the center. There were a few planks missing, and the ones that were still there weren’t likely to hold the weight of a mule, let alone a mule and rider.

  I stepped on one and watched as it split and hung there, one half on one side, one on the other. The next one seemed stable, but then there were two bad ones, and I was pretty sure that bringing the mules across this bridge was going to be an impossibility and a downright disaster.

  Turning back to Adan, I shook my head and yelled, “Not possible, not on the mules.”

  Carefully picking my way back, I figured we could make it walking; we’d have to let the mules go, climb the canyon trail on the other side, and then hike the distance to Adan’s place. The only one I was worried about was Alexia, but she was tough and even after what she’d gone through I figured she’d be okay.

  I’d almost made it back when my ears picked up a strange sound over the roar of the river. The sound bounced off the canyon walls, so it was difficult to tell which direction it was coming from, but I finally settled on the west, and the rim from which we had just climbed down.

  The high-pitched whine of two-stroke motors.

  Studying the rim of the canyon headed back toward the mountain village I’d destroyed, I could see headlights playing over the top.

  Adan followed my stare. “What is it?”

  “Motorcycles. God, I hate motorcycles.” I watched as the driver, who had taken out a pair of binoculars, spotted us immediately.

  “Damn.” I gestured toward the others. “Get off those mules, they’re not going to make it and we need to hurry.” Moving to help Alexia, I threw a thumb toward the bridge. “We need to get over to the other side before they get here.”

  Lowery stared at the trail bikes now congregating at the rim. “Then what?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to be here when they get here, do you?”

  In answer, he scrambled off his mule and immediately moved toward the bridge as I turned to Isidro, who already had unslung his M1.

  Following his gaze, I made a few calculations and figured it to be past the abilities of anybody. “Can you hit them from here?”

  He shook his head.

  “But when they get lower?”

  This time he nodded.

  “I’ll be back.” Moving toward the bridge, I handed Alexia over to Adan as he attempted to give me back the armory. “No, just the M16.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Hold them off.”

  “Once they get down here, you won’t be able to make it up without getting shot.”

  “If we don’t slow them down, none of us will make it out of here.” I gestured toward Isidro. “Besides, I’ve got some pretty good help.” I pushed his shoulder as he and Alexia started across with Lowery leading the way.

  The mules, bless their hearts, stood there looking at me as I carefully pulled off the saddles and halters. Moving to the left, I herded them away from the bridge and then shooed them down the banks of the river toward the north, where they stopped. “Git, go on. Get out of here!”

  They moved a little farther and then found a grassy patch and began eating.

  Oh well, I was sure they’d figure it out when the shooting started.

  Trying to think what our best position of advantage might be, I turned back to Isidro and glanced around at what I hoped was not our last stand. There were large boulders scattered across the canyon floor in a few spots, but what I was concerned with now was finding a path of retreat if that turned out to be necessary.

  Touching Isidro’s shoulder, I drew his attention from the dirt bikes as they worked their way down the canyon wall a lot faster than we had. “I’m thinking that we should get across the bridge now and set up behind the concrete abutments over there, because that bridge is going to be a no-man’s-land when they get in range and I don’t know what kind of weapons they’re carrying.”

  He stared at me for a moment and then pointed to himself and then the ground where we stood.

  “You want to make your stand here?”

  He ignored me and looked back at the headlights of the oncoming motorcycles as they navigated the trail.

  “Isidro, there’s not enough cover, and if we have to retreat they’ll shoot us dead on the bridge.”

  This time he pointed at me and then across the river.

  I shook my head. “I’m not leaving you over here.”

  He smiled and pointed toward the cliffs, flashing four fingers twice and then pointing toward his antique rifle and flashing the same number of fingers.

  “You want to even the odds a little before we cross the bridge?”

  He nodded his head once.

  “All right, why not?” I looked around again and picked out some pretty good-sized boulders and pointed toward them. “Over there?”

  He nodded, and we retreated, setting up on the other side of the rocks just to give us a little protection. Detaching the M16 magazine, I counted close to thirty rounds which was good; at least with the limited range of the 5.56x45mm NATO, I could lay down some suppression fire as the Tarahumara/Apache Indian picked a few of them off.

  This was going to be some dirty business.

  I looked back up the canyon wall and counted the headlights—there were at least a dozen motorcycles. “Well, hell . . . Maybe some of them will fall off before they get here.”

  * * *

  —

  The mules took notice of our hiding place and ambled over to investigate. I hissed at them, and they looked at me like I was crazy and then came closer to make sure we were all right.

  Isidro ignored them, and I was pretty sure he was of the mind that when the shooting started, our noble steeds would make a hasty retreat. I decided to move them off. They’d done us good service, and call it the rancher’s son in me, but I couldn’t stand the thought of them being shot.

  The trail bike motors sounded like a swarm of angry hornets as I stepped out from the boulders and moved toward the mules. “C’mon, guys . . . Get out of here. Yah! Yah!”

  They stood there, looking at me.

  Remembering that they probably only spoke Spanish, I used one of my few words and this time I yelled, “Vamoose! Vete!”

  They studied me some more.

  Not wanting to fire any of the weapons in hopes of not wasting any more ammunition, I picked up a pebble and pitched it at the lead mule, who flinched, and then redirected his large ears toward me.

  I picked up another pebble, and they all took a step toward me, curious.

  I dropped the pebble, shook my head and rejoined Isidro, who was smiling as he leaned against the back of the boulder.

  The bikers had taken the trail away from us in order to get some level land before turning back to make the run at the bottom of the canyon toward us. I was thinking there were at least a dozen of them, which didn’t bode well. Even if Isidro tagged eight, that meant four o
f them could set up camp and take potshots at the remainder of our party.

  There just weren’t enough of us.

  I looked at the mules.

  The mules looked at me.

  I thought about the story I’d told Bianca, the one about Ambrose Bierce and the counterattack near Brown’s Ferry. If my estimations were right, it would be another couple of minutes before the dirt bikes made flat ground and would be bunched up in the narrow pass for the charge.

  Smiling at Isidro, who was studying me with a curious expression, I climbed up on the boulder and the mules moved in even closer. Checking the magazine and then slapping it home, I selected full-auto and then pushed the button to close the bolt. Propping the butt of the stock on my hip, I pointed the barrel skyward and addressed the combatants, with all apologies to Tennyson.

  Half a mile, half a mile,

  Half a mile onward,

  Right toward the Georgia troops,

  Broke the two hundred.

  Forward, the Mule Brigade,

  “Charge for the Rebs!” they neighed,

  Straight for the Georgia troops

  Broke the two hundred.

  Squeezing the trigger, I cut loose with a quick burst and watched as the mules spun, bucked, crow-hopped, and then took off at a high rate of speed back down the trail from whence we’d come.

  They quickly disappeared around the corner, and I listened to the sounds of shrieking men, screeching metal, and braying mules.

  It was with a great deal of satisfaction that I watched as the four mules appeared in quick succession. They were heading up the trail, apparently unhurt, racing up the narrow path back toward the village. I wasn’t too concerned about their health, figuring that they would stay in the high meadows where there was plenty of food and water until somebody found them.

  Isidro stood, looking at me and shaking his head, finally coming around the boulder and starting toward the area where we’d last heard the motorcyclists.

  I followed as he began trotting, and after a couple hundred yards we rounded the corner and took in the devastation. There were motorcyclists everywhere, most of whom had crashed among the boulders, almost all of them unconscious and bleeding, with only a few sitting up, although clearly dazed. There was one man standing in the path holding his arm and turning in circles, trying to figure out what had just happened.

  I punched him hard in the gut and then sat him down in the path.

  We picked our way through the broken men, gathered the scattered weapons, and checked them for other weapons as we went.

  The final rider was trapped under his bike where it had gone off the road and then caught traction and flipped over and back onto him. He was holding a pistol and had it trained on us as we approached. I was hoping it was Bidarte, but we weren’t that lucky. His leg was turned in an awkward angle, and I was pretty sure it was broken.

  The semiautomatic shook in his hand as he aimed it at us.

  I stopped, about three paces from him. “Hola. You speak English?”

  He spat and then gestured with the 9mm. “I speak with this.”

  I glanced at Isidro, who had the barrel of Epitafio pointed at the man’s head. “If you’re not careful, this conversation is going to be over before it starts.”

  He snorted. “I’m the only one of us who speaks the English.”

  “Where’s Bidarte?”

  He gestured with the pistol. “He’s never far, gringo.”

  I crouched down and studied him. “Look, your leg is broken and probably a couple of other things too. . . . Now, we can leave you here under your motorcycle to die, or we can gather you up with the others and put you over against those rocks.”

  He snorted, studying me with wavering eyes. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because I’m a police officer.”

  He wheezed a laugh. “So was I.”

  “I was sworn to protect and to serve.”

  “So was I, but I found something that paid better.”

  “Though not quite as worthwhile.”

  He grinned and re-aimed. “It’s the things you do, the things you leave behind that matter, and I think killing you will be something worthwhile, yes?”

  I nodded toward Isidro, who was now even closer. “You’ll never get the round off.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Where’s Bidarte?”

  “Are you the one that set the mules on us?”

  “I think the mules made that decision themselves, but I might’ve helped.” I waited a moment and then pushed my hat back on my head. “Where’s Bidarte?”

  He gestured with the gun again, motioning behind us. “We have a saying in our country, that you are permitted in times of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll find out, gringo.” He redirected the 9mm toward me, and Isidro fired, knocking his head back as if it had been kicked by one of the long-gone mules. His faceless body slumped to the side and twitched a few times before lying still.

  We disentangled the rest from their bikes and dragged them to the slight overhang, doing our best to make them comfortable using all their supplies except for one wool-blanket-sided canteen, which I kept for myself. One young man looked vaguely familiar, with his American soccer ball cap. “Iván?”

  He avoided making eye contact with me.

  I nudged his leg with my boot. “Iván, the last time I saw you we made a deal that if we saw you again we were going to stitch your face to a soccer ball.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “What the hell are you doing down here trying to kill me?”

  His head shrank down on his neck like a turtle trying to become invisible. “Um, I had nowhere to go.”

  “How about landscaping in Tucson?” I glanced around. “How about anywhere but here?” I shook my head and pulled out my wallet, snatching a couple of fifties and handing them to him. “Once we get out of here, buy some help.”

  He looked at the bills. “Is this all you got?”

  “You know, I may kill you myself.”

  Isidro, standing to the side, raised his weapon but I waved him off. “Look, you’re the most mobile of the Light Brigade. Hang around for a few hours and then if nobody comes looking for you, take off and get help from one of the towns, okay?”

  “Nobody is going to come looking for us.” He glanced around. “Maybe I can get one of the local ranchers to come help, but it will take more money.”

  “So much for the milk of human kindness.” I pulled out a couple more fifties and handed them to him. “Do it, and if you leave these guys down here to die and I hear about it?” I threw a thumb at Isidro. “I’ll send him after you, and believe me, you don’t want that.”

  He nodded, glancing at the Indian, who looked like some vision from an Edward S. Curtis photograph, with the exception of the M1C Garand sniper rifle.

  “Now, one more thing. Where’s Bidarte?”

  “I don’t know. Honest.”

  “Was he the one that sent you and your friends after us?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “When and where was that?”

  “At the monastery.”

  That seemed curious. “So before the avalanche.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why did it take you so long to catch up with us?”

  “Um, the avalanche? And we went down the road because we thought that was the way you went.”

  “Did you see my daughter?”

  “No.”

  He wasn’t telling me everything, so I crouched down there, very close to him, and leaned in. “Did you see a pink Cadillac?”

  He avoided my eyes. “Um, yeah.”

  I reached out and gripped his chin, pointing his face at
mine, moving in even closer. “Where?”

  “Um, on the road, but there was nobody in it.”

  14

  Even in my agitated state, I couldn’t keep up with Isidro.

  Maybe it was my age, lack of sleep, the heat, the beating, dragging around bodies or what, but no matter how hard I tried I could feel myself slowing down.

  The two of us kept climbing, and I continued to look ahead to see if we could catch a glimpse of the others, but so far there was nothing except the flat, horizontal light peering over the canyon edge like an empty page.

  The temperature was rising with the sun, and my energy was playing out as we climbed, but I was a long way from stopping. I wasn’t sure how long it took to get to Adan’s place, but I hoped that Cady would be there. Maybe the Cadillac wouldn’t start—it had shown a propensity. Maybe they’d gotten a ride in a better vehicle more suited for the mountain roads. My mind raced ahead of me on the trail, leaving me in the mental dust.

  Looking back, I could see Iván peeking out from under the outcropping, and I was pretty sure that he was simply waiting till we were out of sight to abandon his compañeros with my couple of hundred dollars.

  Ah, the honor of thieves.

  I trudged after Isidro, feeling like a grizzly bear trailing a pronghorn antelope.

  I stopped, resting an arm on an adjacent boulder, and adjusted the M16 strap. I wiped the sweat from my face, and when I looked up, Isidro was staring at me from above. “Sorry, not as young as I used to be.”

  Predictably, he said nothing.

  Pushing back my hat, I shook my head. “Who am I kidding, I couldn’t have kept up with you in my prime.” I started toward him. “Played college ball at USC—I was an offensive lineman. Got my degree in English.” I smiled. “That’s why I speak it so good.” I caught up with him and pulled out the confiscated canteen, which I held out to him—he declined. “Maybe I should’ve taken Spanish.”

  He grinned.

  Unscrewing the top, I took a swig. “Thank you again, for my life.”