Zack did not push Ornery, but let him choose his own speed. The silence of the world fell on him, washing away the noise and tension of the cabin, and he felt his muscles loosen as he moved into the wilderness.
He stopped at nine and ate one of the sandwiches. He was surprised to find that he could still break the ice for a drink for himself and the horse. By eleven he reached the bank of Seven Point, a small stream called a river, but really no more than a creek. He grained Ornery, watered him again, then tied him to a sapling. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he made his way with difficulty through the deep snow; but once he entered the fir forest, the snow was not deep.
It was like a cathedral, with the high arching branches far overhead, letting a few bars of pale sunlight lay their touch on the snow. The crunching of the snow crust under his feet sounded like pistol shots in the quiet.
He followed the creek to a wide spot, an old beaver dam, and made his way carefully across the logs that lay in all positions. They creaked and gave under his weight, but he moved carefully. When he reached the other side, he turned to his left, walking five hundred yards down the river until he came to the spot the deer used for a crossing all year long.
He checked the loads in his rifle, cocked it, and sat down to wait. The silence was heavy, almost palpable, and he thought only of the woods and the deer he waited for. A peace settled on his mind, and the tormenting thoughts of the past few days slipped away.
A wolverine came sniffing out of the woods, maneuvering within ten feet of Zack. He sat there motionless, admiring the wildness of the animal, one of the most ferocious pound-for-pound in the world, then said, “Hello!” Instantly, the wolverine bared her teeth and scrambled into the brush.
Game was scarce, and it was hours later when a buck with a large rack stepped out of the shadows not thirty feet away. He sniffed the air, then lowered his head to drink. Zack raised the rifle slowly and pulled the trigger. The animal dropped, and by the time Zack got to him, he lay still.
Zack removed his knife from his boot and dressed the carcass. When he was finished, he shouldered it and began his trip back. By the time he got to the dam he was worn out. It was too far to carry the buck back to where he’d tied Ornery, so he decided to carry the deer across, then go get the horse. He stepped onto the dam, balancing the heavy load carefully and holding on to his rifle with his left hand. The logs were coated with several inches of snow, and he tried to step in the places where he’d crossed earlier. Several times he had to stop to shift the load.
He was within ten feet of the bank when the log he stepped on gave way as he shifted his weight. He was caught in mid-stride, completely off balance, and plunged into the freezing water up to his waist. In his attempt to keep his balance, he dropped both the carcass and the rifle, swinging his arms wildly, and in the process disturbed more than the one log, for a larger one suddenly rolled over and struck him in the small of the back. He was driven forward, his entire torso going under, and came up sputtering. The larger log moved relentlessly down, crushing against his legs. He lunged frantically trying to escape, but was caught.
He rolled over to push the log off with his hands, and as he did, another one slipped behind him, trapping him in a sitting position. He pushed against the log, but his hands slipped off the slick surface. He pulled with all his strength to free his legs, but he had nothing to hold to gain leverage.
He sank back, trying to think. He knew he was in a dangerous situation. Though his head and shoulders were out of the water, the freezing temperature would pull his vitality down in no time. He had his knife, but no way to use it. His rifle was gone, so he couldn’t fire a shot to attract attention—and there was nobody to hear it if he did.
He thought about those at the cabin. They would begin to worry several hours after nightfall if he didn’t return. Maybe by morning Buck would follow his trail and come looking, but he would find only a frozen corpse, for he could not survive even an hour submerged in the icy river.
Before long the sunlight would disappear, and already his legs were numb. More than once during the war he’d faced death, but that was different. The blasting of muskets, the yelling of men, and the screaming of shells overhead enabled a man to lose himself in the fury of battle.
But to die this way! He had to fight to choke down the fear rising in his throat. He knew how it would be. The entire process flashed before him, and the paralyzing horror of it gripped him.
And as the terror rushed over him again and again, he began to pray. . . .
****
For most of the morning Bron sat beside the fire, reading stories to Paul and Alice, but they grew tired and after lunch went to sleep. She was restless, and paced the floor, going outside to see that the horses were watered and fed. Each time she would look east to the spot where Zack had disappeared, feeling vaguely upset and troubled.
Finally at twelve-thirty she tried to take a nap, but could only toss and turn. She got up and went to look out the window, but saw nothing, and went to read her Bible. Her mind was not on the Scriptures, however, and the restlessness increased. At one-thirty she shut the Bible with an impatient gesture, closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. The heat from the fire made her drowsy, and she began to pray silently. For a long time she sat there with her head back, and most of her prayers were for Zack.
She drifted off into a fitful half-sleep in which she was only vaguely conscious of things around her. Thoughts flitted across her mind—strange thoughts that seemed to make no sense. She swept her hand across her face to brush them away.
Then her eyes flew open and she cried out, jumping up with a frightful start.
“Bron! Wake up!” Lillian urged, grabbing her shoulders. “You’ve had a bad dream!”
Bron looked at her without seeing her for a moment; then she began to tremble, her hands shook, and her lips twisted with fear.
“What’s wrong, Bron?” Buck cried, dropping the leather he was braiding.
She gave her shoulders a shake and said slowly as if her lips were frozen: “I have a premonition that something has or will happen to Zacharias!”
Choiya sprang lightly off the bed and moved close. “What is it? A dream?”
“I don’t know—but he is in trouble, terrible trouble!” She bracketed her head with her hands, then dropped them. “We’ve got to go help him.”
“Bron! It was only a dream!” Lillian cried. “We can’t go out in this weather.”
“If you feel so, we must go,” Choiya said. She had lived with both the Cheyenne and the Arapaho for many years. Dreams to them were much more real—and much more meaningful—than to white people. She knew of many instances when dreams turned out to be reality.
Buck said, “No, I’m the one to go. You can’t leave the babies here, Choiya. I’ll saddle up and follow his trail.”
“Buck—wait!” Bron was thinking fast. “We’ll have to take the sledge. If he’s hurt, we’ll need it to bring him home.”
“Right! I never thought of that.”
Buck raced out the door, and Bron grabbed the blankets off her bed, saying, “Get the blankets from the loft, Lillian.” When the girl hesitated, Bron yelled, “Get them, I said! Now!”
Lillian whirled and scrambled up the ladder like a squirrel. Bron began throwing warm clothing, some food, and a lantern into a gunny sack.
“What did you see in your dream?” Choiya asked as she moved to help her.
“Only his face. He may be hurt. He called my name—that’s all.”
“I wish I could go to him,” Choiya said.
“You must stay with the babies.”
“Do you think your God will lead you to him?”
Bron looked intently at Choiya’s face, now no longer stolid and still. She saw the fear lurking behind the dark eyes, and she said gently, “Yes, sister, I believe that.”
“Then I will pray to Jesus,” Choiya replied quietly. She brought her doeskin coat and half moccasins to Bron. “These are better for cold
than yours.”
Bron nodded, “Thank you, Choiya.”
The team pulled up and Buck called, “Let’s go!”
The two women ran out, threw the things inside the sledge, and Bron jumped in. Buck gave the mules a touch of his whip, and they leaped forward, plowing rigorously through the snow. The cabin was soon lost as they rounded the edge of the trees, and Buck asked, “What time is it?”
“It was five after two when I—when I woke up.”
“It’ll be dark by five,” Buck said. “If we don’t find him by then, we won’t be able to follow the trail.” He hit the team again, and they increased their pace. “Not hard to follow his trail,” he shouted. “That’s good!”
They raced across the snow steadily, stopping to rest the mules. They were breathing hard as Buck pulled them up at a creek. “Look, the ice is broken,” he said as the mules drank. “He got this far.”
“How far is it to Seven Point?” she asked.
“About five miles, but we’ve come a long way.” He whipped the mules up, and they struggled through the snow until finally they came to a clearing, and Buck shouted, “Look, Bron! There’s his horse!”
He drove the team up to where Ornery was tied, and fell out of the sledge. “His trail goes this way, Bron—come on!”
“Wait! We’ll need the lantern.” She got it out of the sack, checked the oil, then joined him as he plunged along beside the river. They both feared they wouldn’t find him in time, so they ran until their breath rasped and their lungs burned like fire.
“He crossed here—at the old dam,” Buck gasped. “Come on!”
“Wait!” Buck stopped and saw that Bron was standing very still, holding her hand up.
“What is it?”
“Shhhh!” she said. Both of them listened. Then they heard a very faint cry.
“Where are you, Zack?” Buck yelled.
“Over here—in the water . . .” came the reply.
“There he is!” Buck pointed.
Bron rushed ahead, stepping carefully over the logs. When she reached him, she cried, “Oh, Zack!” She leaned down and touched his face—by now ashen, with a bluish cast. He tried to smile but his lips wouldn’t move easily, and he mumbled, “Bron . . .”
“What should we do?” she asked, the hot tears running down her cheeks, so relieved she was to see him.
“Legs are stuck.”
Buck came up and looked over her shoulder. He had lit the lantern, for darkness was descending fast. Swinging the light back and forth, he studied the situation. “Don’t want to shift the logs—”
“We’ve got to get him out!” Bron cried.
“Wait a minute,” Buck said. “Hold the lantern, Bron.” He had spotted a small log on the bank. He scooted over and picked it up—just three inches in diameter, gnawed to a point at one end. He walked the log back like a tightrope walker, then paused and put the larger end in the water, probing for the bottom. “It seems real solid here, mostly gravel, I think.”
“What can we do?” Bron asked.
“Put the lantern down,” Buck said. “I’m going to pry that log up just enough for his legs to slide out, but he’s probably too numb to move them.”
“You’re right there,” Zack whispered.
Buck braced himself, then plunged into the freezing water. The icy temperature nearly drove him into shock, but he only gasped, then picked up the pole. He shoved it under the large log, felt around for a purchase, and said, “All right, Bron—when I holler, pull for all you’re worth.”
Bron bent over on her knees and said, “Lean back—let me hold you.” Zack did as she directed, and she put her arms around his chest. “Hold to my arms!”
Buck moved up under the pole until he had to bend his knees. He took a deep breath, then suddenly straightened up. The log cut into his shoulder, bending as he pushed, and he thought with despair that it was too flexible; but he took a half step forward and with the last ounce of strength in his slender frame, gave a mighty heave—and he saw the log rise several inches.
“Now, Bron!” he gasped, and she flung herself backward, her fingers clawing at Zack’s jacket. He didn’t move, and she strained until the blood pulsated in her head—then she fell backward as he slid free.
“He’s loose, Buck!” Bron cried, holding Zack tightly until Buck came splashing to them. “Let’s get him to shore.” Together they pulled him across the logs until he lay on the bank. “I’ll get the sledge, Bron. We’ve got to have a fire!”
He stumbled off, carrying the lantern, while Bron sat holding Zack. He looked up at her, awed by everything. She opened the deerskin coat, pulled him within as if he were a child, then closed it around him. The heat of her body soaked into him, and he whispered, “Thanks.”
“I’m just glad we found you!”
“How—what made you come?”
She shook her head, holding the coat tightly to keep the chill wind from him. “Are your legs broken?”
“No. The log just pushed me down and held me.” He was quiet, and soon they heard Buck shouting at the mules as he drove them beside the river. He looked up at her and asked again, “Why’d you come, Bron? I was a dead man.”
She looked down at him. “I heard you calling me.”
Puzzled, he asked, “When?”
“About two o’clock.”
Trying to comprehend, he said, “Now that’s a strange thing. A very strange thing. Maybe He does hear before we speak and answer before we call!”
Buck pulled the team up and came racing over with the lantern. In short order he had a fire going so they’d have some heat while changing into warm clothing. They got Zack into dry clothes, wrapped him in blankets, and put him in the back of the sledge. Buck changed his own clothes, and they made the long trip back to the cabin by midnight, stopping to get Ornery.
Choiya met them and Zack smiled at her as Buck pulled him out of the sledge. His legs folded, and Choiya rushed forward. “Legs don’t seem to work,” he complained.
“You must soak in water, and it will hurt very much,” she said.
“Won’t complain,” he said. “Guess I’m pretty lucky to be feeling anything at all tonight.”
Soon as the water was heated, Zack was immersed in a tub of warm water. He had demanded that the women make some sort of curtain, and they hung a blanket over a rope. Though he sat with his back to the opening, he still had little privacy. They kept sending Buck in with something to eat or drink. The women, concerned that he was doing all right, poked their heads around the curtain at frequent intervals. The children, too, not to be left out, came to stare at the big man in the small tub who almost “got drownded.”
The pain came, too, with frightening force, and by dawn he grumbled, “I felt a lot better than this under that blasted log!”
“I know it hurts, but Choiya says it’s what we have to do,” Bron said. She and Choiya had stayed up with Buck in case he needed help.
Finally Zack felt he was ready to get out and begged for his clothes. But when he tried to stand he discovered that his legs were like rubber, so Buck wrapped a blanket around him, then with Choiya’s help, half carried him to her bed.
Zack flopped down with a sigh and looked up. They were circled around him—Bron, Choiya, Buck. “You remind me of buzzards looking down at a dying calf!” he groaned. Then he closed his eyes, fatigue hitting him like a fist.
“Got something to say,” he mumbled. He struggled to a sitting position, wincing with pain. “I had a few close calls in the war—but this thing was different. I was dead in that creek—but somehow I’m here. So—I think God must be giving me a second chance.” He saw Bron’s eyes glisten, and added, “I’m not in real good shape with God—but He sure did get my attention while I was in the water with that log in my lap!”
He nodded and said with some satisfaction, “I came to be a hermit—” He looked around at the faces surrounding him and smiled. “Well, I’ve not quite made that—but I’m not sure I’m satisfied with it a
nymore.” He shifted around to get more comfortable. “I think I could learn to live with all of you—and we’ve got the whole outdoors to spread out. No crowding here at Alder Gulch! We’ll build some more space, and go to town when we want to—and there’ll be nobody to bother us, no sir!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NEW DEVELOPMENT
The snows of January melted in a sudden February thaw, and when the mud of March appeared, Zack attached the wheels, hitched up the wagon and drove to Virginia City. The others clamored to go, but he was adamant. “Nope, I’ve got something on my mind. You can all go next trip.” He drove off that morning whistling happily, as he had often done since his brush with death.
He had been a different man since then, gentler with the children and talking with a freedom he’d never had. But Bron was still worried about his trip to town. She spoke to Buck about it while she was washing clothes in front of the cabin.
“I wish Zack would come back,” she said. The water in the pot boiled, and she shaved some lye soap into it, then stirred it with a stick until it dissolved into a froth. She picked up a dress and put it in the pot, then looked across the meadow where the trail bent obliquely. She had watched that road all afternoon, hoping to see the wagon appear.
“You worried about him meetin’ up with Red Yeager?” Buck asked. He himself had been watching the trail but said nothing. He had asked to go with Zack when he left for Virginia City, but Zack had refused.
“It hurt his pride—getting knocked down by that bully,” Bron said. “We didn’t have to have anything from town.” She put a pair of pants into the pot, and looked again toward the trail. “I wish he’d come back.”
“He’s been real quiet since that time, Bron.” Buck stood up, stretched, and said, “But I’m glad you and the kids are here.”
“Choiya’s not happy with it,” she said, looking troubled. She hesitated. “I shouldn’t have said that, Buck.”
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