High Country : A Novel

by Willard Wyman

  “Maybe he thought I could hold back the rain.” Fenton handed

  Spec a plate. “Your people ever try that? Dance to hold back the rain?” “We don’t fool with what ain’t changeable. You shouldn’t fool with

  no ranger’s leg. Let the government pull his ass out. They put him in.” “Hell, Spec, you know Bob Ring.You’d pull him out too.” “I ain’t pleased with where he gets his paycheck,” Spec said. “Which

  don’t help me warm to your plans.”

  Spec was against it from the first, but Ty didn’t see what else Fenton could do. Jasper and Spec would take the guests in over the north pass without tents, while Buck went back to Missoula to get them. Fenton and Ty would take Bernard’s horses in to the south, find a way to bring Ring out, then pack up the tents and catch up with Spec.

  Fenton guessed they’d be a day and a half behind, that he’d catch them at their second camp. Spec had the kitchen fly if it rained, and Jasper’s good cooking. The only thing missing, as far as Ty could see, was sleep. And Fenton acted as though he’d forgotten what that was.

  He’d kept talking and organizing gear until dark, then he’d gone back to the big house to reassure the guests, who were getting edgy about starting without Fenton to tell them what to do. In the middle of the night he’d come back to the corrals, gotten Ty up, caught up the Forest Service horses, and had them all on the trail before Bernard was all the way awake.

  Now he hardly stopped Easter for a breather, not until the snowfield. Ty got his first look back at the country from there, Crippled Elk Lake far below, above it spare cliffs, broken rocks and boulders jumbled at their base. He could see the stream they’d crossed and recrossed boiling down, jumping and foaming before settling back into its course.

  Fenton stood down and climbed onto the snow, which pitched steeply before easing into the milder grade of the snowfield beyond. There was no wind, just the icebox cold lifting from the snow.

  “Slick,” he called down. “Hard to stay upright.” He slid back and climbed onto Easter. “Gotta get back here before it gets mushy.”

  Easter was already moving across the snow, the string trailing behind, slipping and skidding but coaxed along by Fenton and Easter as they worked their way up the snowfield.

  Ty held Smoky in as Bernard struggled up the bank, his horse slipping and scrambling for footing so vigorously that Bernard dropped Apple’s lead and grabbed his saddle horn. Apple turned and bolted, trying to pass Smoky on the low side of the narrow trail. Ty grabbed the lead and managed a dally just as the little mare went knee deep into the scree above the cliffs.

  It was all new for Smoky, but she saw nowhere to go but onto the snow, away from the unpleasant drag. She spun Apple back from the cliff’s edge, and before Ty knew it they were pulling her up onto the snow.

  “Saved, by god!” Fenton had watched it as he angled Easter across the snowfield. “That’s why I’ll take a mule, boys. A mule never would come that close to suicide. Willie will be thankful.”

  “Wilma,” Bernard spoke up now, the color coming back into his face, “seemed to know everything to do about that broken leg.”

  “She is a pistol.” Fenton looked ahead to find the trail emerging from the snow. “Won’t be long now before Bob has to dust off his shotgun.”

  They saw the smoke as they came into the meadow. They forded the creek and there was Bob Ring, his leg wrapped and elevated, his toes bluish.

  “Not sure Wilma’s too interested in your circulation, Robert.” Fenton dismounted and threw his lead-line toward Ty.

  “I knew it.” Bob Ring was propped up against a wadded canvas manty. “Break my leg and now I got to listen to you. Don’t know which is worse.”

  “We’ll have you out before you decide it’s me.” Fenton reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bottle. “Enjoy this while you think on it.” He handed Ring the bottle. “I’ll loosen up this rescue work.”

  “I didn’t want him to bend it.” Wilma came up from the creek with water, tall and thin, her eyes so sharply blue they made Ty look again. “He tosses so.” She let Bernard take the bucket.

  “You done fine, Willie.” Fenton got the first knot undone. “Tidier than what I’d of done. And I been the doctor in here more than I like. Drink up, Robert. Ty’ll have things packed before the sun hits the meadow.”

  Ty wasn’t sure Fenton remembered the only thing he’d ever packed was salt, in rotted old panniers with no hitch to tie. He knew enough to balance the loads, which he did as best he could. Fenton kept checking, jamming something deeper into a pannier now and then to give Ty the idea. But he never stopped his conversation with Bob Ring.

  “Throbbing might slow if you concentrate on that bottle. Soon as these boys get lined out, I might have a sip myself.”

  “Time they get lined out it might be gone,” Bob Ring wiped at his mouth. “It’s some better than your usual.”

  There were beads of sweat on Ring’s face, lines of dampness showing through his shirt.

  “Drink lots. We’ll get you out. It just ain’t gonna be pleasant.”

  “I’ll do that.” Ring took another pull on the bottle. “Stop your morbid forecast and I might even save you some.”

  “Stirrup sip’s all I need.” Fenton was looking at saddle pads. “Help yourself. I’ll ready that leg after we pack.”

  Fenton packed the first horses so fast Ty couldn’t follow it. He just pulled rope where Fenton pointed, watched a perfect diamond appear.

  “Pack this last one.” He handed Ty a lash cinch. “I’ll look at that leg.”

  Ty tightened the cinches and hung balanced panniers on the cross bucks. He tucked a bedroll over the top and threw a manty over all of it, snugging it tight. That was as far as he could go.

  “Can you tie a hitch?” he asked Bernard. “He went too fast for me.” Bernard shook his head. “He was teaching me. I think she knows.”

  “I know some.” The girl looked to see that her father was all right, then pointed at this rope and that, telling them when to pull, how to tighten. She was serious and precise and now and then a little unsure. But when Ty pulled the last rope taut, a lopsided diamond appeared.

  “Doubt I could do it again.” He tied the rope off, surprised.

  “You will. He’ll show you. Just make him as careful with my father as he is with his mules.” She went to Fenton, crouched over her father’s leg.

  “Need it straighter before I splint it.” Fenton seemed to be speaking as much to himself as to Bob Ring, who held the bottle and watched.

  “Doubted you would be so generous with this just for pleasure.” Bob Ring looked at his daughter. “Hang on to my upper half while Fenton straightens my lower. That lump doesn’t want to be there.”

  “Ty,” Fenton called. “Come hold this leg steady.” He touched the bump again. “Save on the bleeding in there if things is more in place.”

  Bob Ring lifted up into his daughter’s arms, sweat dripping from his face. Ty and Bernard held the leg steady as Fenton pulled, Ty queasy as he felt the thigh muscles tense, Ring fighting against Fenton’s pull.

  “Not sure I got you drunk enough, Robert. You ain’t exactly relaxed.” Fenton ran his hand across the blue place on the side of Bob Ring’s calf, the lump diminished. “It’s near in line. Drink more. I’ll hustle us up a splint.”

  He pulled the torn pant leg back down, wrapped the leg in a saddle pad, then opened a length of bark from a lodgepole, fit it over the pad. He tied the bark closed with strips of canvas, padding the top and bottom and making sure the splint locked Ring’s foot, stretching the leg. He wrapped a manty around all of it, tied it firmly with canvas strips.

  “Drink,” he said. “ Yo u’ve rode drunker than this and still got home.”

  “Not with a leg this fat. Or this broke.”

  The color had gone from Ring’s face. Fenton saw circles of sweat soaking through his shirt. “Don’t see how to make it ride better, Bob.” Fenton massaged Ring’s toes. “It’ll bleed in
there. But less. It’s mostly in place.”

  “Mostly’ll have to do.”

  “That leg won’t kill you. I ain’t as confident about the splint.”

  Ty got Ring to his feet. He saw that the girl was crying.

  “Get me on and lead me out.” Ring looked at Ty belligerently. “And leave me that goddamned bottle ...I got plans.”

  Bob Ring’s parents had been Pentecostal preachers. It wasn’t long before he began singing hymns. He knew all the verses, each verse more vigorous than the last. He was singing loudly when they climbed onto the snow, Fenton leading with the pack horses and looking back to see if Ty and Ring were all right. The snow was softer now, a worry to Ty. Ring hadn’t been all that steady, singing and drinking and flopping around in his saddle, trying to get comfortable. It would be rougher crossing the snow. He looked back at the girl, leading Apple now, her face as white as Ring’s when Fenton set the bone. Bernard followed, grim faced as he listened to the hymns.

  Fenton circled his string and dismounted.

  “Bet we’re on ten feet of snow here,” he said. “But solid. Good place to have a look at that leg. It won’t like the downhill.”

  “I have no plans to complain.” Bob Ring was casting around for what hymn to sing next. “It’s not the Christian way.”

  “The Christian way won’t keep you from bleeding all over your saddle if that splint rubs you wrong.” Fenton added his kerchief to the padding.

  “‘The meek shall inherit the fuckin’ earth.’ That’s what He said.” Ring offered Fenton the bottle.

  “Forget about who’s gonna inherit what till we get to the doctors.” Fenton saw something was left in the bottle and handed it back. “By the looks of that leg you won’t want a meek doc.”

  They slipped and slid their way down the softening snowfield, finally dropping back onto the trail, Bob Ring rolling around in his saddle more than Ty wanted him to. Ring’s face was drained of blood again and Ty heard him begin swearing, quietly at first, then tilting the bottle up, draining it and smashing it onto the rocks.

  “Fuck ’em,” he shouted. “All of ’em. Fuck ’em all....”

  “Oh!” Wilma was off Apple, looking for broken glass. “Oh Father!” Ring’s, eyes were glassy. He kept swearing in bursts, Ty finding himself as lost for what to do as the girl, knowing only to keep following Fenton.

  He didn’t look back much after that, concentrating solely on keeping Ring from being jarred. The trail switched back in long traverses, fording the stream again and again, the final crossing just below the waterfall he’d barely seen as they’d climbed in darkness, the country invisible and unknown. Now he felt it more than saw it, all of him concentrating on Ring.

  By the time they came to the corrals the swearing was over. Ty wasn’t even sure Ring was conscious. His eyes had been closed for the last mile, and he was slumped in the saddle, the splinted leg, grotesque, protruding like a growth.

  Buck was there with the tents, mantied and waiting to be packed. Cody Jo was there too, with two coolers of fresh meat they would pack in for Jasper. Fenton pulled the unconscious Ring from the saddle, holding the wrapped leg steady with his great strength. Ty watched as Cody Jo cut the pant leg off. Blood had soaked through the saddle pad, the splint cutting through the muscle of Ring’s thigh.

  “Never said a word.” Fenton unscrewed the cap on a bottle of peroxide. “Just sang and swore.” He poured peroxide into the wound, the foam hissing and whitening. Ty turned away and saw Wilma crying as she dug through the packs looking for something, anything, that would help.

  “Make sure that don’t infect,” Fenton said to Cody Jo. “He’ll claw it when he wakes. He’s got himself pretty drunk.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Cody Jo said. “I’ll have Wilma. Buck can drive.”

  “Willie’s done herself proud.” Fenton turned and looked at the girl, weeping quietly now in the pile of duffle. “This ain’t been no picnic.”

  After they left Fenton took the truck to get more hay. Ty sponged the sweat marks from Smoky and looked around to see what Spec and Jasper had left them to pack, counting five mules and one pack horse. He pulled his bedroll from the the pile of duffle, spread it out to get some sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come. He lay there, thinking about his first day of packing. Or was it two days? He wasn’t sure knowing was important as he wondered about what was still to come. They would start in soon after Fenton got back, going over the north pass this time and riding steadily until they caught up with Spec. Fenton had said they’d be a day and a half behind. Ty thought it might be longer.

  He guessed Spec was right: Fenton was optimistic. But he did what he had to do. Bob Ring had needed him. Ty didn’t see how any of it could be helped.

  He got out the neat’s-foot oil and began to oil the Meana saddle, wondering if Bob Ring and Willie were all right. He wasn’t sure if he was more concerned about Bob Ring or the girl, knowing only that he was very tired, that there was a lot of riding still to come.

  He was worried about the packing too. Two of the mules Spec had left were Cottontail and Loco.

  6

  Across the South Fork

  The sun was dropping by the time Fenton returned, and still Ty hadn’t slept. After oiling the saddle he’d started weighing out panniers and mantying up Decker loads, laying out things for Fenton to change.

  But Fenton didn’t change anything, just nudged the packs with his foot and began. Ty asked no questions, tightening the ropes Fenton pointed to, hoping answers would surface. They packed the mules with sawbucks first—then Turkey, the only horse Fenton packed. He blew up against his cinch. Fenton jobbed him in the belly and cinched him tight.

  “Lazy bastard,” he said. “Won’t make a move till dinner . . . or when

  I crank on his latigo.”

  “Might be scared.You were to tighten my latigo, I’d catch air too.” “Nothin’ wrong with a tight cinch.” Fenton was amused by Ty’s

  solemn ways. “A tight everything. Start packs riding right, they’ll ride all day . . . all night too.”

  When Turkey was packed, Ty led him away and returned with Cottontail, snubbing her to the post in the middle of the corral. “These here Decker saddles make balancing some easier.” Fenton undid the sling ropes, actually explaining something. “Packs gotta balance, of course, but if one side rides up on your Decker, just lower it by loosing up one of these loops. Evens things out.” He picked a mantied pack and gave it to Ty. It was so heavy Ty’s knees buckled. “These two match.” Fenton held the second pack with one hand, gesturing with the other. “Put yours up against the saddle and pull that loop over.”

  Ty tried to get the pack high enough to brace it, work the loop across. But it was too heavy and came down hard against Cottontail. She jumped, scuttling toward Fenton, who cracked her rump with his free hand. She reversed direction, skittered back. Ty dropped the pack and tried to calm her, but she saw she was astraddle the pack and went up, the tie-rope yanking her back to her knees.

  “Keep this up she’ll be crazy as Loco.” Ty pulled the pack away and skipped free of her hooves.

  “No time to romance her.” Fenton still held the pack. “And Loco sure won’t be an improvement. Never warmed to his shoes at all.”

  “One crazy mule’s enough. Let’s put these heavy ones on Loco.”

  Fenton put the pack down and watched as Ty calmed Cottontail and led her away, tying her out of sight. Fenton had watched Ty shoe a bronc mule, quiet Smoky, pull a runaway off the cliffs, ease Bob Ring down the switchbacks with a gentleness he could hardly manage with Easter. Late as it was, he decided to let Ty do this his way. He wanted him comfortable with the long ride ahead.

  Ty snubbed Loco to the post and tied a blindfold on him. Fenton watched as the boy fashioned a bowline around Loco’s neck, ran the rope around a hind leg and back through the the bowline collar, pulleying the hoof up until it was almost touching Loco’s chest.

  “Thought we’d come to that,” Fe
nton said. “Only later—given your tender heart. Now let’s pack. You can learn that Decker lesson on the job.”

  Ty heaved up the heavy pack and gave it to Fenton, who took it effortlessly and turned to Loco. Loco couldn’t see what was coming, but he sensed something bad when Fenton got close. He kicked out with his untied leg and spun around the post on three legs until the tied one came free. They watched through the dust as he reared back against the lead-line then tried to charge by the post, the lead yanking him back. He tried again and was spun back, the post cracking this time, then breaking free as Loco backed away, his lead dragging the post through the dust. He turned, ran from it, the post relentless behind him, toppling and rolling as he circled the corral at a run. Finally he backed from it, backed until he was cornered, stood quivering and dripping, the blindfold hanging useless from his halter.

  “Lucky we didn’t tie this on.” Fenton still held the heavy pack. “Would have played hell with my jelly jars.”

  Ty hardly heard it. He was talking to Loco already, freeing the big mule from the spooky post, touching him, rubbing his legs until the quivering stopped. He led him around the corral in circles, then in figure eights.

  “If you can pack him,” Ty spoke in the same low voice that had quieted the mule, “I’ll hold him. He’s gainin’ his confidence back.”

  “He drags you around like that post, it’s you who’ll need the confidence.” Fenton separated the packs so the mule could pass between. Ty led Loco through, turned and led him through again.

  “That post didn’t help,” Ty said quietly. “It might be a spell before he stops trying to uproot every tree we tie him to.”

  “Better he uproot a goddamned tree than you.” Fenton eased a pack against Loco’s saddle, kept the weight off the mule until he got the loop across the pack, pulled it tight, and tied it off. Ty held the mule, calmed him as Fenton let the weight down.

  When he felt the weight, Loco went up like a shot, front legs striking out as Ty tried to keep him from going over. Fenton managed to release the knot and let the pack drop as Ty was pulled through the dust by the big mule, who fought back from the pack, the big man, even the boy until at last he stood, calmed by the voice, the relentless hands reaching to touch him.