High Country : A Novel

by Willard Wyman

  At the base of the switchbacks he stopped and dug under the manty where he’d stashed the feed bag. He went down the string, giving each some sweet-grain before letting Smoky and Cottontail finish it. He tucked the nosebag away, checked cinches and unsnapped all the leadlines except Cottontail’s. He snugged the shovel under her pack-ropes, mounted Smoky and started, his mules coming without hesitation, lining out as naturally as though still tied.

  They went up the first switchbacks quickly, the mules following so closely he wondered why he hadn’t thought to free them when they were in the woods. He remembered and it unsettled him: how lost he’d been, the blind luck that had led him to that lodgepole. He tried to put it behind him as he came to the drifts building across the switchbacks. Smoky pushed through the first ones easily, forcing herself through to make a way. The drifts grew as they climbed, Smoky backing off and pushing in again as Ty urged her ahead, her legs shaking from the effort.

  The wind picked up, gusts of it blowing snow in flat sheets. The mules didn’t like it, turning their heads away, pushing at one another to move faster. They came to a drift too high for Smoky, and Ty was off before she could move into it, the mules crowding forward, hating to stop in that wind. Ty pulled out the shovel and pushed into the drift himself. It was high but the snow light. He worked fast to make a rough trough, keep them centered in the trail. The wind swept the snow from his shovel as he worked, new snow blowing in where he’d shoveled, the wind shifting and rising and swirling snow so swiftly it was hard to gauge his progress. He kept his head down, tried to dig the trench faster than new snow could fill it. He felt sweat break out under his coats as snow exploded from his shovel, Smoky pushing at him as he dug, the two of them inching their way, the rest crowding behind on snow they packed themselves, shifting and stutter-stepping to move ahead.

  And then they were free of it, the wind-swept trail almost bare again as Ty led Smoky around the switchback, leaning into blasts of wind and looking down as his mules came through the big drift, Sugar last— crowding the mule ahead of her. Ty pushed into the wind, his stocking cap pulled low against sheets of sleety snow, walking almost backward as he led Smoky, turning to break through more drifts, twice more having to shovel, but the drifts not as bad as the first, Smoky’s legs no longer shaking. He grew hot and wet under his coats despite the wind and swirling snow.

  The saddle of the pass had been under spring snow when he’d led Bob Ring and Wilma over it. Now he could see they’d crossed a moonscape of boulders and heavy sand that stung and tore at him until he had to walk sideways. They topped the crest into an icy wind that lifted everything before it. He walked backward into it, starting down now, making sure all the mules were following, seeing one hesitate, turn his tail into the blast until Sugar took over, pushed him toward home.

  Suddenly they were back in snow, a field of it that settled into sweeping drifts where the winds quieted. Far across it, below him, he saw the trail snaking out, crossing more rock and sand before starting down the switchbacks. He kept moving into the snow, not worrying about how deep. Knowing he had to cross it. Knowing there was no way to turn back.

  He was back on Smoky and half across the snowfield before he realized the wind had stopped, the quiet so sudden it seemed another noise. He could hear the creak of leather, the squeak of dry snow as the mules moved belly-deep through the white.

  It was a quiet that made him uneasy, the light fading, blown snow sifting down, eerie as a moonless night. He made noise himself—took off his hat and beat ice from it, brushed sand and snow from Fenton’s coat. A streak of pale sky appeared out across the Swan, the valley itself below them, buried in clouds that shifted and darkened with the storm. The streak widened, took on color—above him clouds, below him clouds, the blue strip growing and changing shape out where the Mission Range should be, the strip brightening with the colors of the setting sun. And then he saw the Missions themselves, looking high and close, white serrated ridges rising from the clouds, lifting up, declaring themselves.

  The wind came again as they crossed the snowfield, sheets of snow whipping and swirling around the legs of the mules before settling back onto the drifts. Ty paid no attention, his eyes on the widening expanse of blue and purple and orange out across the Swan Valley, framing the high peaks of the Missions with colors impossible to catch, shifting and blending even as clouds rolled up from the Swan to swallow them, narrowing the scarlet line of color until it slipped back into the relentless dark.

  The cold returned with the darkening sky. Ty shook himself. The sky had taken him so completely he’d paid little attention to what was ahead. He was startled to see they were following tracks, that the snow was broken out on the trail. He leaned off Smoky to look, using what light was left. Two horses, he thought, no mules. But why? Who? And on such a day? All he knew was to be thankful. He wasn’t sure he could get off and shovel again.

  He would be at the corrals by ten, he thought, knowing now there would be no way to get to Fenton’s except by horseback. Not through this snow. He’d do what he could to help whoever was ahead of him, bound to be snowed in, then head for Fenton’s barn. Maybe he’d make it by midnight. Knowing when didn’t bother him now. He’d made it. He had his mules. His packs were balanced. And someone had broken the trail out. He’d made do. He just knew it had taken more than a little luck to do it.

  That did bother him. He looked back through the fading light at his string, looked ahead at the tracks, letting Smoky set her own pace as she followed them. He knew nothing but dumb luck had saved them. And Fenton had taught him never to count on dumb luck.

  The drifts opened for them as they dropped into the dark, and with the dark came more snow. Ty tried not to think about it—thought instead about the Missions hanging there across the Swan Valley, the shifting colors lighting the sky behind them. He doubted he’d ever see anything like that again, thinking maybe it was enough that he’d seen it at all. If he stuck with this life there would be other things to see, things most people had no way to imagine. Maybe those things would stay with him too, the way he knew the Missions would: the sky cracking open in a blizzard and framing them in purples and golds.

  That was a kind of luck he didn’t mind counting on. It was different from the other. It might even be that you could earn it—if you knew your mountains the way Fenton knew his.

  Even before he got to the corrals he realized his feet were too cold. He got off and led Smoky, tried to wiggle his toes as he walked, the snow freezing in cakes around his pant legs and over his boots. But even with the drifts broken, it was hard going. After awhile he got back on. It was easy to see that Smoky was better at staying in the tracks.

  He was surprised to find no life at the corrals. No animals, no lanterns or snowbound trailers. He rode on, so tired he didn’t bother to tie his string back together. They were too tired and hungry to go anywhere anyway. And too close to home.

  He was concentrating so hard on keeping his mind from drifting that he didn’t notice he was still following the tracks until he was walking again, this time mostly to keep awake. His feet didn’t feel cold anymore; they didn’t feel much at all. He kept reminding himself to wiggle his toes, kept stomping his feet to get some feeling in them, so thankful for the tracks he’d given up wondering who made them.

  He was back on Smoky when the trail forked to Fenton’s corrals, the tracks so full of new snow he couldn’t tell which way they went. He heard the generator’s hum before he saw lights, a lantern in the barn. Maybe it was Buck. With a little help it wouldn’t take long to unpack, feed his mules, turn them out. They deserved it. He hadn’t made their day an easy one.

  He circled to pull all the mules into the corral before dismounting, pleased his legs held but feeling nothing in his feet. He was stomping them when the barn doors opened and light spilled across him.

  “Well, I’m goddamned.” Fenton, unbelieving, stared at him through the falling snow. “Chose an invigorating day to crawl over that pass.” Fenton g
ot the lantern, held it high to look him over. “See you remembered to bring out my coat.” He swept Ty’s hat off his head and beat the snow from it. “From the looks of you, it’s a good thing you did.” He tossed the hat at Ty. “Let’s unpack.” He led Sugar into the barn. “We’ll make short work of all that hair. Cody Jo might not rest until she takes some scissors to you.”

  Ty led Smoky in, liking it that she nickered when she saw Easter and Turkey nosing at grain in the feed trough.

  They had the mules unpacked in half an hour, the saddles stacked, manties shaken and spread out to dry.

  “Now let’s look after you,” Fenton said. “When all that ice melts off you, you might sting some.Your walking is already irregular.”

  “I walked a little coming out. I think it made my feet feel better.”

  “Good thing you could feel them at all. Blood don’t get around much in a saddle all them hours.”

  Ty put feed out for the mules while Fenton held the lantern high to see what was left to do. “All that ice on them pant legs might of helped,” Fenton said as they walked to the house. “Ice insulates. Sometimes.”

  Fenton was so unpredictable Ty thought he might be starting in to talk about snow again. But he was wrong. “Now that you been cold,” Fenton said, “it’s time you warmed. But not too fast.” They went into the shed off the kitchen. “Cold is one of them things where too fast is bad.”

  Ty took off his coats, shaking the snow and ice from them, brushing off his pants.

  “We got dry clothes you can use.” Fenton was pushing open the kitchen door. Ty could hear Cody Jo’s music on the record player. “First you best set in a tub of warm. You’ll hurt, but it might get us by with no blisters.” He pushed Ty into the kitchen. “Here he is, Cody. Raggedy.” He looked at Ty. “But he’s ours.”

  Cody Jo was suddenly there, her smile dying as she saw the way Ty looked. “Oh, dear.” She stared at him. “You ...you’ve grown all up.” She hesitated, then took his arm. “Why, you’re too tired to think.”

  Then she was all business: There was a big bathroom off the main room and she had him in it in a minute, getting warm water in the tub, getting towels, clothes. “I’ll cut that hair tomorrow,” she said. “We’re putting food in you tonight.” She looked at him, worried. “Feel that water with your hand. Make sure it’s not too hot.”

  Fenton came in with a cup of thick soup. “Warms you from the inside.” He tested the water with his hand. “That helps. Water will too. Let’s make it luke. Them feet are gonna hurt.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Ty said. “I’m just glad I got here.”

  “And you should be.” Fenton was turning to leave. “I just ain’t sure how. Didn’t seem to me anyone could cross them drifts.”

  Ty’s feet hurt so much he had to lift them from the water. When he did, it came to him at last. It had been Fenton and Easter on the pass. Fenton leading Turkey to break out the trail. Fenton worrying about him, Fenton leading him home.

  Got to thank him, he thought. Tell him about the colors behind the Missions.

  He decided he wouldn’t tell him about getting lost.

  And then he was asleep.

  15

  Warming from the Inside

  Ty’s feet were red and sore, but no blisters. Later his big toenails turned black and he lost them. Fenton said he’d probably bruised them kicking at things to get the feeling back. Fenton had lots to say about Ty’s ride out, especially that first night: waking him to drink more soup, keeping the water warm—talking all the time about warming from the inside.

  “Them boys are always surprised, after they hold their hands half in the fire, that back in the cold they can’t tight a rope. Something that says to work right a body needs to warm from the inside.”

  He left, coming back with more soup and a sandwich. “Food warms. He fussed around for something more to do. “Probably didn’t eat a damn thing coming out over that pass.”

  He was right. Ty had some jerked elk in his saddlebags, but he’d eaten only one stick, chewing it until he decided to unhook the mules. But he didn’t tell Fenton about that. He didn’t tell him about getting lost either. That wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “Don’t believe I could have made it if you hadn’t broken that trail out,” Ty said. “I was sure thankful.”

  “Watch mules on a cold mornin’.” Fenton held out the sandwich. “Buck and fart, tear all over hell and gone. But I think what warms them most is that sweet-grain. Makes sense. Look what warms a bear.”

  Ty wasn’t sure Fenton had heard him. He started in to thank him again but the words drifted off. Fenton put the sandwich back on the plate, put his hand in the water, checking the temperature.

  “I think Fenton should have been a doctor,” Cody Jo said the next morning. Ty was surprised that Fenton’s pants almost fit him. He’d rolled up the extra length and was shuffling around in an old pair of Fenton’s slippers. His feet were red and itchy, but otherwise he felt wonderful. He loved the big breakfast Cody Jo had made.

  “I don’t even remember him bringing me the blankets,” Ty said. “I must of slept deep.”

  “I brought the blankets.” Cody Jo put more flapjacks on his plate. “He doctors, I comfort. He thinks the more it hurts the better it’s getting.”

  “There’s somethin’ to that.” Fenton brought in firewood. “Sounds crazy but it ain’t. Take Ty’s feet. Itchy. Blood gettin’ back in there.” He poured some coffee and sat. “Bound to feel some hurt when a body corrects.”

  “I just wish you wouldn’t take such pleasure in it.”

  Fenton turned to Ty. “In these mountains you got to remember to set anything that’s broke, sew up anything that needs sewin’, right off the bat. Nature’s smart enough to make us plumb numb after we take a whack. When you’re numb is when to move things around. He sipped his coffee. “Set old Buck’s nose that way once.”

  “You did.” Cody Jo grimaced. “Look at poor Buck’s nose now.”

  “Didn’t have much time.” Fenton’s arm went around her. “Least not enough to be no Michelangelo.”

  “No.” Cody Jo rubbed his hand. “But you could be a doctor. You’ve got that way. Just promise never to do anything like that to Ty’s nose.”

  Fenton headed out to the barn to put away the equipment. Ty got up to go with him, but Fenton wouldn’t have it, telling him to read Cody Jo’s books—there were things to be learned. “ Yo u’ll be workin’ like a coolie in a few days. Repair first.”

  It snowed off and on for a week, so there was plenty of time for helping. By the next day Ty was doing what he could, seeing what was needed and doing it without a lot of questions. He liked being there, liked the work, liked his little room off the barn, liked watching Fenton and Cody Jo.

  It was a happy time for him. Cody Jo had arranged for him to go to school in Missoula, and Mary wrote that she and Will were pleased he’d have the chance. Ty liked talking with Cody Jo about classes, the books they’d be reading. In the mornings he’d oil and patch saddles, listening to Fenton’s stories, asking questions, learning even when the answer had nothing to do with the question. In the afternoons he’d fire up the woodstove and read in his room off the barn. At night Cody Jo would play the piano and they’d sing, or they’d listen to her records. She even started teaching Ty to dance, telling him it would be good for his feet, that he’d be a hit at the schoolhouse dances. She thought he might have natural rhythm, but he needed to relax before she’d know for sure.

  The fourth day it cleared. Fenton saddled Easter and took two mules, opening the trail to Murphy’s so he could get supplies for Cody Jo. When he came back he brought Buck and Angie with him, and the Murphys too. They’d run out of things to do at the store and decided to come through the snow to stir up some excitement. They wanted to hear Cody Jo’s new records, which they’d brought along with her mailorder things. They wanted to see Ty too, not sure whether to believe Fenton’s story.

  “There he is.” Fenton unpacked t
he mules at the backdoor. “His feet are scratchy, but the rest is tuned up keen.”

  “Wait’ll Spec hears.” Buck passed the groceries across the snow. “He claimed you’d have to come out down Hungry Horse way.”

  “And he didn’t say how much you growed.” Angie watched Ty carry the groceries in. “You could break some hearts, Ty.”

  Ty took the horses to the barn and threw out feed. When he got back the women were talking about what food to have and Dan Murphy was already mixing and stirring his favorite concoction.

  “I’ll make a special for you.” He looked at Ty. “Made me nervous just ridin’ here from the store. Don’t know how in hell you made it all the way from Ring’s meadows.”

  “He was in a worse place than Ring’s meadows.” Fenton was watching all the mixing. “And it wasn’t luck that got him out. If he’d counted on luck we’d still be looking for him.”

  “This is a Murphy special. Take a taste. People drive miles to partake.” He watched Fenton sip it. “Save some for our hero.”

  Fenton rolled it around, swallowed. “I like most everything that’s got a bite. Try it, Ty.Your taster’s not so contaminated.”

  “Here.” Dan Murphy handed Ty a cup. “Then tell your secret. Fenton says he don’t see how you made it.” He watched Ty take a swallow.

  “Oh . . .” Ty wiped at his eyes, sucked air to cool his mouth. “No secret, but maybe not knowing what’s ahead when you saddle.” He wiped his eyes again, hearing the music start up from Cody Jo’s victrola. “This sure warms you.”

  “Slop me a little more, Daniel.” Fenton held out his cup, amused by Ty. “Appears your special is right special.”

  Dan Murphy mixed a big batch of it in a bowl. Rosie put out some cheese and bread and they asked Ty lots of questions about his ride through the blizzard. He did his best to answer, thinking it probably wasn’t as dangerous as they thought though there was no way to describe the wind. It was hard to believe that himself. He said no part scared him more than any other, which was true. He hadn’t had time to get scared, except for the getting lost part—which he didn’t mention. When he finally said how grateful he was that Fenton had broken out the trail, Fenton hardly listened.