High Country : A Novel

by Willard Wyman

  Rosie took pancakes to the men when they started saddling, Tommy putting his on a log and eating as he saddled. Fenton, troubled by all the talk the night before, came into the cook tent to talk with the traders.

  One of the men had convinced everyone they should go down Lost Bird Canyon to the White River camp. Fenton had made it through the canyon years ago, which he’d made the mistake of admitting when he took that same man to the head of the canyon looking for elk the year before. It was the shortest way, that was true. But Fenton couldn’t remember how he’d done it then and was pretty sure no one had done it since. What worried him was that he’d enjoyed sipping their bourbon and looking at Cody Jo so much the night before that he might have given the impression he’d try, which in the morning light he knew was a bad idea. There would be undergrowth everywhere, deadfall, and bogs—often the only way through the thick timber—that could play hell with his mules.

  He got some coffee and went through it all again, surprised that his reservations made everyone even more interested. If they had to turn back, they said, the adventure would make up for lost time. They felt lucky Fenton knew the canyon. They called it “challenging,” trusted Fenton to “meet the challenge.” Rosie and Cody Jo just made things worse.

  “When do we start?” Rosie asked. “Kitchen’s packed and mantied.” “Just the way you said it would be.” Cody Jo’s smile warmed everyone. “High country under a Montana sky. You the hero.” She patted Fenton’s arm. “I like you as the hero.”

  Fenton raised a few more objections before going off to saddle. He felt undone again by Cody Jo. He’d been so taken by her confidence in something she knew nothing about, he’d lost his own. He grabbed a saddle and shook his head, thinking about the way she’d looked in the firelight the night before.

  They were well into the canyon by midmorning. Old Babe, the horse he’d ridden before Easter, kept finding the remnants of a trail, but after awhile it didn’t seem important. The sky was clear. They moved easily through meadows and open timber, watching game and stopping once to watch a black bear and her cubs scurry up the bluffs, the sow looking them over before disappearing.

  They had lunch in a high meadow. Below them the canyon narrowed and flattened, the timber heavy. After that it eased down to the South Fork, across the stream’s broad alluvial fan. Fenton knew that part would be easy, a gentle ride through open woods to the South Fork ford. Getting through the heavy timber was the problem. Even watching Cody Jo couldn’t keep him from worrying about that.

  Tommy Yellowtail rode Pinto ahead to scout out a route while Fenton let the mules graze. He sat with Gus and Buck, apart from the rest, eating and talking about what was ahead. They could hear Rosie and Cody Jo bantering with the children, getting the littlest to help make sandwiches.

  After lunch it seemed no time at all before they were at the edge of the deep woods, Fenton deciding to loose-herd his mules. He’d just finished breaking up the strings when Tommy appeared, coming from the other side of the stream and shaking his head.

  “Got our full hands. Like bear shit in there. Wet.”

  Fenton didn’t waste any time. He sent Tommy back into the woods to try again, told Rosie and Buck where he’d spotted a likely campsite and sent them back to find flat ground for the tents. He didn’t even string the mules back together, handing their lead ropes to the best riders, giving Cody Jo one too. But her mule pulled back, and without a saddle horn she couldn’t hold him. Fenton led him up the canyon himself.

  It was a good place for a camp, backed up against aspen with grazing on the slides above. Fenton trimmed a deadfall so they could stack the saddles. Gus got lodgepoles for the A-frames and put Buck to work cutting them to size as he unpacked the canvas. Fenton belled two mares, saved out a third bell for Babe and pushed the stock out of camp. Then he got Gus and rode back with axes and the handsaw, tracking Tommy into the woods. It wasn’t long before they heard Pinto nicker. They tied up there and went ahead on foot.

  It got darker in the woods, the stream slowed, drifting across the floor of the canyon to form bogs, the stream and the bogs murky looking. The wetness pushed them closer to the canyon walls, where they found Tommy, high on some deadfall, looking discouraged.

  “Rat’s nest,” he complained. “Logs all over. Bad shit.”

  It looked even worse to Fenton—the forest dark, the ground spongy, the stream spreading and uprooting trees, laying claim to the whole canyon. Tommy said the other side looked no better, the stream running close under the walls, a bog going almost to the cliffs. But it seemed to Fenton that’s how he’d made it years before, never sure of a trail, just scrambling through, clinging to the hem of the canyon. It had been later in the year, drier. But he’d made it. He didn’t want to give up now.

  They worked their way across the canyon and found the bog, looking just as bottomless as Tommy predicted.

  “I’m goddamned.” Fenton looked at Tommy. “Got through once. Can’t see how.You think it was that much drier?”

  “Shit yes. Best is just before snow. That’s when my people traveled. Down. Always down for winter.”

  “Yes, and in spring they came up,” Fenton said. “They couldn’t go down if they didn’t come up. How the hell did they get up?”

  “Same way everyone does. But them horse soldiers.” Tommy enjoyed seeing Fenton swatting at mosquitoes. Mosquitoes didn’t bother him. “Stayed high.” He looked up at the cliffs. “What’s up there?” “Straight up, is what’s up there.”

  “Not up top it ain’t.” Tommy was already starting. “There’s other ways to get on top a cliff. Up there we maybe find a smart way.” He swung himself up over the ledges, moving easily for such a big man.

  “I’m thinkin’ we’re whipped.” Gus knocked limbs off a deadfall to see what kind of ground was under it. “You must of come through before these trees plugged it up.” His shirt was wet with sweat, spattered with mud.

  Tommy’s call was welcome. They wanted to get above the bugs. By the time they climbed up to find him, Tommy was convinced.

  “See? Didn’t move nothing. Used the country. My people.”

  They were on a shelf. For thirty feet to either side there was a clear way, like a good game trail. Across some shale Tommy found more. Then it was gone again. They combed back and forth, picking it up in bits—narrow, dropping or climbing to intersect other shelves, but there. They worked toward the South Fork, staying high until they found a clear trace that angled down to meet the broad alluvial fan. They marked it, followed it back, lost it entirely until it came to them that it switched back against itself, dropped into the canyon down a rough chute, cutting into the woods above the big bog. It crossed the canyon there, skirting a water-soaked meadow, and climbed the other side, found another shelf before dropping back, returning to the canyon floor just above their horses.

  Fenton considered it as he rode up the darkening valley toward camp.

  No trail, but there was a way. If he had to bring Tommy and Gus through with a few mules, he could make it. There would be steps to dig in the chutes, footing to hack into the shale, but it could be done. It was a different matter to bring a whole party through, most green as grass.

  “No good for them people.” Tommy spoke as if he heard Fenton’s thinking. “Don’t see the no good places.” Tommy always worried about people from the city. They didn’t seem to know what could happen to them in the mountains.

  Fenton understood Tommy’s objections, but they were so close. It might take three more days if they turned back, four if the weather changed. He was about to ask Gus what he thought when they heard bells high on the grassy slide. Babe whinnied, the bells pausing as if in answer.

  They came into camp just after dark. Fenton belled Babe and pushed her out toward the others, knowing the feed would hold them. He knew too that this was a good camp: the sleeping flies taut, water close by, lots of room around the fire, where everyone seemed to have gathered. He went to the creek to wash. When he came back they were hu
ddled around Gus and Tommy, asking questions. Rosie gave him a bowl of thick stew and he moved away, letting the tiredness wash through him, hearing the talk without listening to it. There was so much to think about that he hardly realized they all had gone quiet, waiting for him.

  He turned back to them, thinking things through. He told them about looking for the trail, the logs choking the canyon, only Tommy Yellowtail knowing they should look high. Cody Jo’s eyes were on him as he talked, her face still.

  “We’ve come this far,” he heard himself saying. “We’re awful close to White River. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.” There was a murmur of approval. Subdued, not at all like the night before. They’d heard enough from Gus and Tommy to know this was a gamble.

  Fenton squatted, drew a map in the dirt, feeling Cody Jo’s eyes on him still. He told them how they could help, saying even if things went well it would take the morning to get the route ready. He hoped they could be on their way by early afternoon. That way, barring a wreck, they could be across the big river and camped on the White River benches by dinner.

  Cody Jo and Rosie started putting things away as people drifted from the fire, talking among themselves. Fenton answered a few more questions, then slipped away. He had more thinking to do before he went to sleep. He’d been surprised by some of the things he’d said himself. He went past the saddles and looked at the stars as he took a long pee.

  “You piss like a moose.” A voice lifted from the darkness.

  “Should of spoke up.” Fenton knew Tommy slept by the saddles, watching the weather and keeping the porcupines away, but the disembodied voice gave him a start. “Might of pissed right on you.”

  “You done that already.”

  “Not ’cause I didn’t know you were there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean you didn’t have no idea what was gonna come out when you started sweet-talkin’ them people. Me and Gus sure didn’t. We just didn’t count on you bullshittin’ yourself.”

  “Truth is I didn’t know. I was so occupied by how I got through there in the first place, I wasn’t ready. Still don’t see how I done it.”

  “Maybe you was so green you didn’t know it couldn’t be done. Most of us was that way once. It’s best to disremember.”

  “Well, I made it. That’s the thing.”

  “The wrong thing. And you went the wrong way.You was strong and dumb and lucky. Luck don’t come that often. Don’t pay to ask for it twice. Now you’re gonna take these people through what you don’t remember back when you didn’t know no better than to try.”

  Fenton was startled to get such a long speech from Tommy. “Let’s think how we will, not why we shouldn’t. I might of chose wrong, but I chose. We just got to do it.”

  “Horse shit,” Tommy grunted. “Even Spec would know better.”

  Special Hands, Tommy’s son, was barely ten but already known for his skill as a hunter and skinner and woodsman. Fenton liked it when Tommy talked about Special Hands. He stood there waiting for more, looking up at the Big Dipper and listening to the creek. Tommy started to snore just as the cold came in. Fenton went back to his bedroll, moved around until he was comfortable and could concentrate on the day ahead. There was much truth in what Tommy had said. There were cliffs and bogs and snags all over the place. Something told him it was too big a bite to take, but something stronger told him to take it. He hadn’t come all this way just to turn back.

  They were up early. Rosie had a big breakfast ready at daybreak, pancakes and eggs and lots of bacon and coffee. Fenton sipped his coffee, watching Cody Jo turn pancakes and stack them on the corner of the stove while she did eggs to order in a big skillet. She moved easily about her work, a quality in her movements so graceful and sure he found it hard to start in on his day’s work.

  Buck and Gus were already at work, catching up the horses they needed, pushing the rest out for more feed, saddling fast. Despite his lingering, Fenton found himself heading down the canyon before the sun reached the valley floor. Behind him came everyone he thought he could use—and some he couldn’t. There was so much talk in camp, he had little choice. Everyone wanted to help.

  Fenton put Buck and Gus to work cutting away limbs and moving deadfall. He sent Tommy up on the cliffs with some of the teenagers, digging a path across the shale and cutting rough steps in the chutes. He dropped down to check where the route crossed the canyon, worried about how soft the ground might get after the first horses broke through.

  Rosie organized things in camp, setting aside a lunch, taking the stove down, getting the kitchen tent ready for the packers. Cody Jo, still unsettled by the way Fenton had watched her, wasn’t much help.

  “Take this and go.” Rosie handed her a sack of apples and a wedge of cheese. “Not much use to me, and you’ll be a big hit with them.”

  Cody Jo brightened at the idea. She needed something to do. All the talk about cliffs and bogs worried her.

  “Should I give tips on trailblazing?”

  “Stick with the food. It digests,” Rosie said.

  They had the way open almost to the first chute when she found them. One log, still to be moved, had poles jammed under it. She stayed back as they tried to slide it, their bodies straining, faces red.

  “Do better if you got her unstuck.” Fenton’s big voice came down off the chute. Then he was there with Gus, grabbing the longest pole, finding purchase for it under the log as Gus kicked a chunk of deadfall underneath for a fulcrum. Fenton levered down; the log came up. He braced it as they got other poles under it, slid it a few feet. They did it again, everyone falling in behind Fenton’s strength and directions, moving the fulcrum, lifting and sliding the log until there was room for the mules.

  “A short horse soon curried.” Fenton tossed the pole aside. “What worries me is the damn bog. Might not have any bottom at all.” Cody Jo watched him take his hat off and wipe his face, which seemed an even deeper brown against his white hair. Mud was splattered on him everywhere, drying and browning in the sun. There was a tear in his shirt. He looked big and strong and capable—yet somehow vulnerable too.

  “Something to eat might help,” she said, enjoying their surprise. They were happy she was there, telling her what they’d done, blaming and congratulating each other, pleased with themselves, the day, with Fenton—who made sure everyone had food before taking some himself.

  “I believe you’re our Florence Nightingale.” He cut off a chunk of cheese and snapped his knife shut. “But I got this feeling she wasn’t near so good to look at.” The words came out of him so earnestly he was surprised himself, his throat tightening around them.

  “I ...” She felt her face warm. “Aren’t there others ahead?”

  “There are.” Fenton cleared his throat. “Let’s go find ’em.”

  Cody Jo was shocked by where he took her. She had to use her hands to get up the chute, cross the ledges and slides. They dropped and crossed the canyon to reach the others, the canyon magical to Cody Jo, sunlight filtering down to make the little meadow look rich, verdant. Tommy was on the other side, finishing up the chute they would have to climb.

  “Ain’t gonna do much better.” Tommy popped a chunk of cheese into his mouth. “Test it with Babe. We’ll patch where there’s trouble.”

  Fenton put Cody Jo in front of him as they went back for Babe. He was embarrassed by how mud-spattered and dirty he was. They talked little, even when she hesitated crossing a chute.

  “There’s room,” he said. “And the cliffs aren’t what bother me.”

  “And the mules aren’t what bother me.” Cody Jo tipped a little. He reached out, gave her balance.

  Gus and Buck had the horses ready for everyone to go back to pack up. They watched Fenton ride back again into the dark canyon, leading Tommy’s pinto behind Babe.

  “That Tommy, he can find a way through anything,” Gus declared.

  “And Fenton can clear the damn way.” Buck was tired. “That man like to worked me into next
week.” He started up the trail. “Sure was determined. And by God he won.”

  Babe and Pinto handled the route with little trouble. Tommy met Fenton at the first chute and walked behind, shoring up the route, both worrying not so much about these horses as the others, especially the mules who might hit something and tip their loads off balance. Fenton grew more worried when Babe went up to her pasterns edging along the meadow.

  On their way back the pinto went in still deeper, but there was nothing to be done. Jumbled deadfall forced them to skirt the meadow. All they could do was hope there was a bottom to it.

  They were underway by early afternoon. Fenton noticed clouds but didn’t make much of them. There could be buildups for days before a storm. He saw no sense in worrying about tomorrow with so much trouble ahead today, which came where he feared it would. Sugar, a little Tennessee mule Fenton favored, tried to climb above the mud, ramming her pack into a log that forced her back out into the meadow. She went down, tried to lunge up, went down again, rolling out over her packs, which kept her from sinking but now held her there, her struggles only miring her more deeply. She struggled a final time before giving up—her packs, off balance now, holding her fast.

  Gus had already taken the guests through, each walking to lighten the horses. Tommy had followed, leading Babe, the mare the mules followed without fail. Fenton and Buck, alert for trouble, came last. Fenton was already pushing the other mules toward the stream when Sugar went down. He hurried the rest across, turning back just as Sugar lifted a mournful bray, which encouraged Fenton. If I can calm her, he thought, get her saddle off, she might fight free to catch up with the others.

  When he got back to the meadow, he saw that Sugar’s bray might have come from confusion as much as loneliness. Buck had worked some deadfall out onto the bog so he could stay on top of the mud. He was out there on the logs himself now. Fenton watched him reach across the mule and down into the mud, searching for the lash cinch.