by Laura Crum
Flung hard to the outside by the momentum of the horse's leap, she lost her tenuous grip on her mount. I heard her yell, saw her body falling-off the horse, off the side of the bank, and down, down into the canyon.
Leo and I both jumped as the pistol went off with a violent boom that echoed and shuddered from the canyon walls. Slowly the sound died away. Leo and the paint horse stood nose to nose, both still puffing. Other than their breathing and the distant chatter of the creek, there was silence. Barbara was gone.
TWENTY-SIX
What seemed like a long, long time later, I gathered myself to go on. On into the park, I decided. It was tempting to go back-so much shorter. And there in Sandy's backyard was my truck, with my cell phone on the dash.
But I thought better of it. Sandy had locked me in a box stall; Sandy probably knew that Barbara intended to kill me. Perhaps Sandy hadn't killed anyone yet, but it seemed to me that there might be an easy progression from cooperating with a murderer to becoming one. I had no intention of offering myself as her first victim.
Blue might be searching for me by now, but he would have no idea where to look. Summit Road ran for many miles along the ridgeline; even if Blue could locate Barbara's sister, I hadn't a hope in hell that she would just happen to live within hailing distance of Sandy.
However difficult it might seem, onward was the direction of help and safety. No one would pursue me now; I just had to keep riding down this road until I got to the other side of the park, where there was a ranger station.
I was well aware that I wasn't likely to reach that station until dawn, but I reassured myself that I could do it. I had survived Barbara; I could survive an all-night ride.
Gathering Paint's leadrope up in my free hand, I led him along with us. The two horses were clearly buddies, and I knew Paint would have followed Leo whether I led him or not. Best to keep the whole thing under control.
On we went. Down and down and down, until we reached the bottom of the canyon and started back up. As we topped the ridge, I forgot my aching legs and frozen fingers and toes.
High in the night sky, the almost full moon shone, illuminating a silver-and-black tapestry of rolling forested hills that tumbled down to the distant curve of the Monterey Bay. A shimmering trail of moonlight danced on the water; I could see the faraway lights of Santa Cruz to the north and Monterey to the south.
"Wow," I said softly.
The horses stood perfectly still, staring, as if they were admiring the view, too. Even the forest was still. I forgot Barbara; I forgot what had brought me to this place. I gazed at the moonlit world in awestruck silence and gave thanks that I was here to see it.
I don't know how long I stood there. I do know that eventually I rode on, in a mesmerized trance. For many long miles I gripped Leo's back as we trudged uphill and plodded down. Dark, tree-clad tunnels gave way to brief clearings over and over again.
At one point I lifted my head to see a buck deer step into the trail in front of me. Leo pricked his ears and snorted but didn't spook; he'd clearly seen deer before. Moonlight dappled the animal; I could discern the fuzzy shapes of his growing antlers, still covered in velvet. For a long second he stared into my eyes, then Paint stomped a foot and the buck leaped into the forest and vanished to the sound of breaking brush. I rode on, feeling oddly comforted.
Alone, adrift in this endless wilderness-or so it seemed to me now-I suddenly felt connected in small, magical ways to the animating life. Leo carried me patiently; the buck had appeared to me as a protective sign. I would be protected; I had already been protected, I realized. I had only to trust-in myself and in the constant illuminating spirit of all that is.
Familiar as the horses in my corrals at home, the roses on my garden fence, the intuitive voice was always there, and it would lead me where I needed to go.
This was true, of course. And this time it was leading me on a long, long ride. I ached all over. My hands and feet were numb; my legs were so tired they trembled. We climbed ridges and descended into canyons; the moon hung straight overhead. I stared at the off-center white stripe that glowed on Paint's black face as he walked next to my right knee.
This is more than I can do. The thought wandered into my brain. I can't go on. I need to stop. I need to get off this horse. I need to rest. I need help.
I rode. Even as my mind made plaintive protests, my body stubbornly clung to Leo, and Leo walked. On and on and on.
At one point, as we plodded through yet another endless tunnel of trees, I was startled by sudden yips and a high-pitched keening that sounded only feet away. Even as I tugged on Leo's leadrope with my free hand, more voices joined the chorus-a crescendo of yips and howls. Coyotes. Their singing echoed sweetly through the hills. Leo paused and lifted his head; Paint pricked his ears. We all listened. As abruptly as it had begun, the song died away with one long, mournful howl. I clucked to Leo with a sigh that was equally mournful. On we went.
I need to rest. The words chanted in my brain to the cadence of Leo's steady gait. I could think of nothing but my sore and weary body, desperate for an end to this grueling ride.
Once again we were descending into a canyon; running water clattered somewhere ahead. On and on, through the trees, down and down. I was impossibly tired; every part of my body ached.
Judging by the sound of the water, we were almost at the bottom. As the moon shone through a gap in the trees, I saw the sparkling, moving light of the creek, dancing over rocks. And then I saw the bridge.
The same bridge, I realized a moment later, where Blue and I had found Mountain Dave. I recognized the delicate arch, the graceful railing. A bridge as elegant as any piece of garden sculpture ever built.
I blinked my eyes. Surely I was seeing things. There seemed to be light under the bridge. A soft, yellow glow. Not the white light of the moon, the warm light of fire.
But there couldn't be a fire under the bridge. Unless ... The two horses tugged forward toward the water. They were thirsty. I let them wade in and drink, staring in the direction of the bridge. Sure enough, after a minute, I saw a figure emerge. A slender figure with long hair in a ponytail and an equally long beard.
"Mountain Dave?" I called tentatively.
"Who wants to know?" It was Dave's voice.
"It's Gail. I met you the other day. I was with Blue Winter, the tall, redheaded guy who used to ride bikes. We were tracking some horses; you called to let us know where they went." My voice trailed feebly on and on; Mountain Dave stood silent in the moonlight, a modern embodiment of Pan. I could almost see the hooves.
"I remember you," he said at last.
"I need help. The woman I told you we were tracking, she chased me in here and tried to shoot me. She's lying in a ravine at least five miles back that way." I waved a hand in the direction of the ridgeline. "And I'm exhausted. I don't think I can ride any farther." I heard the catch in my voice as I spoke the words; pressing my lips firmly together, I resisted the sobs I could feel rising.
Dave was silent for a moment.
Let him help me, I implored wordlessly, realizing how bizarre my story must sound. Please.
Perhaps bizarre wasn't a problem for Dave. As if he'd heard the plea, he answered, "I'll help you. Climb down off that horse and come on under the bridge. I've got a blanket there. You look cold."
"I am cold," I said. I slid off Leo and tied him and Paint to nearby trees.
"Can you ride your bike to get help?" I asked Dave tentatively.
"I can do better." I saw his teeth flash white in the moonlight. Reaching in the pocket of his pants, he produced an object that gleamed. I jumped, caught by memories of Barbara and her gun, before I realized what I was seeing. The mysterious object was a cell phone.
"Will it work from here?" I asked.
"Not from this spot. But it will from the top of the ridge. And it will only take me five minutes to get there. I'll call the rangers and have them come get you."
"How will they know where to come?"
/> "Oh, everybody knows the Buddha Bridge."
"The Buddha Bridge?"
"Sure. Go look. And get the blanket."
After a minute, I walked obediently towards the bridge and ducked under its sheltering span.
I blinked. Several small votive candles illuminated the space with their flickering yellow light. They were arranged in a semicircle in front of a seated Buddha figure, who rested with his back to one end of the bridge. Someone-I suspected Mountain Dave-had placed a tiny bouquet of wild iris just where the Buddha could rest his eyes upon it.
Beyond the candles, in a flat, sandy spot, I could see an extremely lightweight sleeping bag. Footsteps alerted me to Dave's presence. "I see why it's called the Buddha Bridge," I said. "Who put the statue there?"
"No one knows. It's been here as long as I've been roaming the park, and that's ten years now."
I stared at the figure. Just a foot-high concrete Buddha, faded and worn, the ordinary sort one could buy at garden centers, the statue had a delicate shawl of lichen and the soft patina of age and weather. Candlelight made the slight smile on his face seem to change from moment to moment. His eyes appeared to look right at me-and to look right through me.
Dave picked up the sleeping bag, unzipped it, and handed it to me. "It's clean," he said.
It did, indeed, look freshly laundered. I wrapped it gratefully around my shoulders. "Thanks," I said.
"I'll go make the call. You rest here."
"Okay. Be sure and tell them to send some kind of rescue crew for the woman; if she's alive, she's probably injured. And they should get hold of a Detective Matt Johnson with the sheriff's department. He'll want to be here. And we'll need a trailer for the horses. Oh, and please, can you call my boyfriend? He'll be worried sick."
Dave fished in his pocket and brought out the small notebook and stub of a pencil. "I've still got your phone number," he said. "What's the cop's name again?"
I told him. I gave him Blue's cell phone number, too.
"All right," he said. "I'll make the calls, then I'll come back and collect my stuff. When the troops get here, don't mention me, okay?"
"It's a promise. And thank you."
Mountain Dave picked up his bicycle, which lay in the sand next to the rudimentary camp he'd made under the bridge. In another moment he was on it and ascending the stream bank in the moonlight.
I watched in awe. Like one creature, man and bike scrambled up the steep trail. It was unearthly; again I thought of Pan. Pan, who is the protective god of all hooved and homed beings. I remembered the buck who had appeared to me on the trail. Pipe music seemed to tremble in the air.
Tired beyond my own understanding, I suddenly saw Mountain Dave, the cycle tramp, as a shape-shifting shaman, entrusted with the secret of the lost bond between man and Nature, sent to save me in this hour of my deepest need. I took a deep breath. Who knows, I told myself. Truth and magic are intertwined. You don't need to figure this out. Just be grateful.
Wrapping the sleeping bag more closely around myself, I sat down in front of the Buddha to wait.
TWENTY-SEVEN
My rescue, when it came, was relatively uneventful. Dave and his camp vanished, just as he'd said he would, when ranger Jeeps growled up the old logging road in a blaze of headlights. Detective Johnson was with them and so, to my amazement, was Blue.
Hurrying to his side, I asked, "How'd you manage to get in here?"
"The detective and I were camped out in Paula King's living room when we got your message. We came together." Blue wrapped his arms around me. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I am. I'm sore as hell, but I'm fine."
Turning to Detective Johnson, who was at my elbow, I said, "I'll tell you the story as we go, but we need to look for Barbara King. If she's alive, she's probably injured."
In another minute I'd directed the rangers who had brought a horse trailer to take Paint and Leo back to Sandy's. Blue, Detective Johnson, and I climbed into another Jeep.
The ranger behind the wheel glanced at me briefly. "Dave gone?" he asked.
"Who?" I responded.
"Right." He started the Jeep and headed up the road.
I told my story as we jolted and bounced our way back over the country I'd just traversed on horseback. I left out only two details: Carlos Castillo and the fact that I'd purposefully spooked Barbara's horse. All else I recounted just as it happened, right up until the point I encountered Mountain Dave.
"How did you manage to call us?" Detective Johnson asked.
"I ran into a cyclist with a cell phone," I said.
The ranger snorted.
"What time is it, anyway?" I asked the group in general.
"It's two A.M.," the ranger replied.
"I got your call just after midnight," Blue added.
"You must have been worried." I squeezed his hand.
"I was," he said quietly.
"It's just over this ridge, I think," I told the driver.
It was surprisingly hard to pinpoint the spot where Barbara went over. Everything looked different, approaching from the opposite direction, safely ensconced in the Jeep. I found it hard to believe that only a few hours ago, I had been struggling to stay alive, here on this very hill.
In the end, I got out of the Jeep and backtracked on foot, finally spotting the big rock that I'd used as a shelter.
"Here," I said, pointing to the bank. "Her horse spooked right here. She fell off and went over the edge."
We all peered down. Moonlight poured over the lacy, patterned depths of the canyon; I could hear water on stone.
"Barbara!" I shouted.
No answer. Only the quiet voices of the night.
"We've got a rescue crew coming," Detective Johnson said at last. "They'll rappel down and have a look. Are you sure this is the place?"
"I'm sure," I said. "Real sure."
EPILOGUE
Barbara King didn't make it. The rescue crew found her body; appearances indicated she'd died in the fall. I never told anyone but Blue that I'd spooked her horse and caused her death, but I haven't forgotten. And I still believe that I did what I had to do.
Blue and I got married in June, in my garden. My cousin came out from Michigan; Blue's parents stood by our side. Roey and Freckles wore bows on their collars, and a good time was had by all at the party afterward.
For our honeymoon, we took the horses back to the old barn on Elkhorn Slough. Blue made margaritas, of course, and we touched our glasses together as the full moon rose over the water.
"Here's to you, Stormy," Blue said.
I took his hand. "Here's to us."