High Country : A Novel (12 page)

And finally she told him about the captain, about going with him and the married couples to Kansas City to hear the great jazz players. How she went back with him again and then again—fell in love with him and found herself sneaking into the bachelor officers’ quarters to see him. She told Fenton something must have been wrong with her mind, that she knew one wild thing would lead to another still wilder, but she saw too that nothing could hold her back, nothing would keep her from what she wanted.

It wasn’t until after they shipped his regiment away that she learned the captain was engaged to a colonel’s daughter in Washington. And she didn’t learn that until after she learned she was carrying his child. She wrote him no letters. She didn’t tell her father, going instead to her aunt back in Chicago, waiting with the students until it was her turn to go into the book-filled office to tell her everything.

The aunt was direct and capable. She said nothing as Cody Jo’s story unfolded, just watched, listened, made her wait while she consulted with a friend at the university. In a few days the three of them went into Canada, where they met with a man who would end the pregnancy.

The aunt didn’t like it, didn’t like how it had happened, didn’t like not telling her brother, didn’t like any of it. Some things have to be done, she told Cody Jo, but you must learn from the doing. The aunt’s friend was softer, taking the distraught girl into her arms, holding her through the long night, cleansing her.

Cody Jo looked steadily at Fenton, telling him all of it, looking away only when considering where to take him next, say it without excusing herself, putting the blame elsewhere. “I ...I was desperate for him,” she said. “I think I was crazy. It wasn’t just him.” She cupped Fenton’s face in her hands, holding him. “It was me. He wasn’t the first.” She said it slowly so there would be no confusion. “There was this boy from New Haven. I think he did it on a dare, a bet with his friend. I ...I’m not sure.”

Fenton was so unsettled he couldn’t speak. He thought anyone Cody Jo paid attention to would want to stay with her always. What worried her seemed backward to him, making him love her so much he took her in his arms, rocked her, wondered how he could be good enough for her.

“There may be all that in me still, Fenton.” Her face was wet against his chest. “I sometimes think it’s you that holds me together. Are you ready for that?”

“ Ye s.” Fenton was so full of admiration for her that all his worries went sliding away. “I am.” He kissed her hair, so moved by her candor that he was surprised to feel himself aroused—wanting her.

They lay in bed for a long time after they made love, quiet in one another’s arms. After awhile Cody Jo sat up and looked at him, smoothing his hair, his shaggy eyebrows. “Something happened when they did that,” she said. “There won’t be any babies, ever, for me. You have to know that too.”

Fenton reached up and brought her to him. “I wondered about that,” he said. “If you want, we could go see one of those docs at that Minnesota clinic. Had one on a trip once.”

“They can’t help.” She looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were wet again. “It’s over. It’s done.”
Fenton was quiet for awhile. “Well,” he touched her hair. “Saves me from shoppin’ for a slow horse. Nothin’ in my string that’ll slow down enough to match those dobbins your kids rode in that Thanksgiving rodeo.”

And so the wedding was scheduled for the spring in Fenton’s big barn on the edge of his pasture. Cody Jo’s father came out and looked Fenton over for a long time before he made his toast. Cody Jo’s aunt and her friend came out too. Fenton had a long visit with them, listening as they talked about having the vote, what the labor movement would do for women, how Cody Jo could be the best graduate student at the university.

He never doubted she was smart, he told them as they watched her making everyone at the wedding comfortable, pleased with her and with themselves and with the promise of this day.

“I just got this feeling,” he turned back to them, “that she gets a lot more pleasure from the teaching than from the learning.” They listened, sorting out what he meant, liking his directness, the size of him. And they watched the way he looked at Cody Jo. They liked him most of all for that.

Fenton liked them too, in his big easy way. He just came away with the idea that Cody Jo’s aunt got a little walleyed when she was excited.
“Had a mule like that once,” he would tell Cody Jo. “Rolled down a cut bank and hit her head on a rock. Worked fine after that. Just got walleyed in a tight.”
No matter how many times Cody Jo tried to straighten Fenton out, he never got that out of his mind. “Don’t you worry about your aunt,” he’d say. “My mule would go walleyed too.” He’d shake his head. “Damndest thing.”

Ty learned fast. He had no choice. He learned time on the trail was all Loco needed. He learned what made a good camp, what meadows held the horses, why to track them before the sun hit the ridges. He learned to take care of the stock first, then the cook, then the rest—himself, always, last. He learned an hour in the morning really is worth two at night. And he learned the hardest lesson of all: some things you couldn’t predict.

“Never can tell the depth of a well,” Fenton would say, “by the size of the handle on that pump.”
He took to Loco and Cottontail, putting them in his string whenever he could. Loco had trotted into camp all by himself that first wet morning on White River, his packs askew but riding. The last thing Ty remembered, before drifting into sleep even as Jasper poured him coffee, was standing out in the rain with Spec, pulling off Loco’s saddle, watching him break into a lope as he headed out after Cottontail.
Ty and Spec grew naturally into one another. Ty learned tracking from Spec, would get him to tell hunting stories as they walked down the herd on those cold Montana mornings. Spec could read the woods, and Ty listened to everything he read. Spec said he’d learned it from his father, Tommy Yellowtail, and his grandfather, Sings at Night. But Ty thought it was something Spec just had in him. Simple as that. His tribe called him Special Hands, but Ty could see it was more than his hands. Spec could skin out anything as neatly as you’d want, but what impressed Ty was that he could find what he was after, passing by this elk or that mountain goat to get what he wanted, sometimes getting it in his sights and not taking it at all. Stalking for the pleasure of it, easy in his woods, liking to watch just as much as shoot—maybe more.
And Spec liked to watch Ty with his stock, the boy moving quietly into the herd, getting the ones he needed with so little fuss the rest hardly noticed.
“Maybe packing’s not so bad, leastways for you.” Spec had just come into the high camp in Lost Bird Canyon. He liked where Ty had put it, the tents tucked into the last stunted stands of fir, the big U of the upper valley wide and treeless above them, its floor dotted with boulders and rocky outcroppings where it lifted into the cliffy bowl. “You ain’t rolled nothin’ yet, and you can get through the woods without knocking down half the saplings.”
They were watching Buck ride toward them through the scattered firs. He had fresh supplies packed on three mules, and he waved as he hurried his string along, edging around one tree so tightly his second mule passed on the other side. They watched the tree bend as the leadline hit it, the mule pulling away, eyes rolling as the sapling bent to the ground before the rope cleared it, the tree popping up and startling the last mule so he wrapped himself around still another.
“Take Buck.” Spec watched the mules pull back, wild-eyed as trees bobbed, popped up, bobbed down again. “Got a different style. Might tear down the trees and lose a mule before it comes to him he’s got a problem.”
But Buck had noticed the commotion, letting loose such a string of language that the mules lined themselves out.
“Shit-fire.” Buck looked at them. “They come along right smart until they seen you two jawing away in the middle of these woods.”
“More like a pasture up here,” Spec said. “You must have a system. If there was just one tree, I believe you could locate it.”
“Shoot!” Buck watched as Ty and Spec caught up the mules and started unpacking. “I just take ’em to where Fenton says and hope it don’t rain.”
Jasper made a wonderful dinner, and Ty ate as though he hadn’t had a good meal for a long time. The truth was he hadn’t. He and Jasper had moved the camp alone, building a makeshift corral and getting things ready for the season’s first hunting party. Buck and Spec had been gone for a week. Without any resupplies Jasper had been down to flapjack mix and peanut butter—and the cutthroats Ty caught when he dropped down the canyon to fish the big pools.
But he didn’t do much of that after he began seeing grizzly tracks, picking them up the third morning on the other side of the stream. He saw them the next morning too, which made him worry about being away. Jasper’s hearing wasn’t good, and everyone knew he was mortally afraid of grizzlies—unless he was into his cooking sherry.
Fenton had ruled out hard liquor for Jasper, using the cooking sherry to keep him going. When Jasper got into more of it than he should, he wasn’t afraid of anything, which posed a problem. Ty wasn’t sure what Jasper would do if he’d had some sherry and found a grizzly nosing around, and he didn’t want to find out. He hid the last two bottles of sherry under his pistol and left a rifle out. That’s all he could think of to do, and it didn’t seem to him like a long-range solution.
The temperature dropped below zero one night, and the next morning Ty couldn’t find his horses anywhere. He talked it over with Jasper, who wasn’t all that concerned.
“Don’t believe Spec could track over this froze ground. They likely left them meadows to warm.” Jasper made some peanut-butter sandwiches with leftover flapjacks. “Take that nose bag and go high.” He handed Ty the sandwiches, enjoying how skinny the boy was despite all he ate. “To where the sun is. He waved Ty out. “Probably hidin’ from big Fenton. Sneak up sideways. Might not see you’re there.”

It was almost noon before Ty was high enough to see back across the valley. He’d found nothing in the the chutes and slides horses might use: no scraped rock, no frost knocked from grass, no droppings. He climbed even higher than horses could go, wanting to see all the upper reaches of the canyon.

When he saw a chute angling up the cliffs, he went higher, climbing fast, reaching up for handholds. Now and then he would stop, but it was more to look for a way up than to see where he’d been. And then he was on top, looking across still another canyon, the head of it forming a rock-strewn bowl even bigger than the one he’d left.

He looked back, barely able to make out the white of the tents far down the valley, scanned back from there. Nothing. When he looked back at the way he’d come up, a chill lifted up his seam. It seemed impossibly steep; he couldn’t tell how he’d done it.

He pulled the last sandwich from the nose bag, stashed there with ropes and halters and grain, ate it before reaching beneath the ropes for some grain. He ate that too. Chewing, he felt better. He was sure there was a way down; he just needed a place to start.

He looked at the country, high cliffs crowning the valleys, boulders spilling into flat greens where lakes once lived. Below them the forests grew a deeper green as they followed their streams. Somewhere under the purplish haze was the South Fork of the Flathead River, running north, different from other rivers. And better, he thought, protecting all the meadows and streams and game a person could want. He liked being where it all started, watching patches of snow drip into rivulets, feeding the high lakes drained by the streams that gave the woods their voice, bubbling their way down with life for the big river.

He turned and looked into the bowl behind him, liking the soft green of it, the way winter snows had scattered the big boulders. One of the smallest boulders seemed to move, inching toward another, making that one move too. It took a moment for him to realize he was looking at his horses.

He was so glad to see them that he was half way down into the bowl before he thought to be thankful this side wasn’t as steep. Not until he was down did he realize how big the canyon was, how uneven the floor. Smoky nickered as he came over the last rise. He let her nose into the grain, rubbing her neck and talking to her. The others moved in, their bells ringing, comfortable after their easy morning in the sun. He made sure they each had a bite before catching up Smoky and Cottontail. Where they went, the others would follow.

He swung himself up and led Cottontail, the rest stringing out behind, bells ringing as they settled into a ragged line. When they came to the first timber, Smoky acted as though she wanted to go off into a jumble of deadfall, but Ty pulled her back, seeking the broad lanes along the stream. The others hesitated there too, finally following, their bells ringing as they wove down, the stream at last merging with the one draining from camp. Ty guessed they’d dropped a full three miles, with about that much to cover climbing back up to camp. There was no way to get back before dark now, and they took their time, Ty using the last light to look for the tracks they’d made coming down. He could find nothing. No sign at all.

They went through slides and in and out of timber, Smoky moving surely even when darkness fell, helped by a sliver of moon topping the trees. When they neared camp, Sugar worked her way ahead, breaking into a trot as they pulled up the last rise.

Ty was startled to see no light in camp—more than startled to hear, in the last dark patch of trees, a cough that came from something big. Sugar left the trail, scrambled up a bank, hit something and rolled back down, knocking Smoky to her knees before she struggled up—below the trail now—hurled herself back, hitting Loco, going down again. All the animals had turned before Smoky righted herself, spun around to follow them. Cottontail yanked the lead from Ty’s hand as he grabbed Smoky’s mane, the rest of them ahead of him now, going at such a breakneck speed he barely had time to realize he’d just confronted the grizzly.

That might explain the dark camp, but there was little time to think about it as Smoky veered so sharply he almost went off, crossed a long slab of rock and following the others into the woods. They hardly slowed as they skirted rocks and jumped downed timber, going so surely he knew they’d traveled this route before. They were headed directly back to the canyon he’d left a full three hours earlier. But they were taking their own route, crossing a low shoulder he’d thought impassable.

Soon the choked route slowed them, Ty flattening on Smoky to get under limbs, leaning deadfall, trees twisted and bent almost parallel to the ground. They came into the canyon in the same jumble of deadfall he’d made Smoky leave earlier. Immediately they began grazing, still edgy but hungry now, blowing, nosing at one another, oblivious to Ty, who slid off to try out his legs. They were wet with Smoky’s sweat, wet with a warmth that chilled so fast his legs began to shake. But it was more than the cold. He wasn’t sure how he’d stayed with the herd, why he hadn’t been left back with the bear. He walked in circles to settle his blood, try to think.

He unsnapped the lead from Cottontail and got back on Smoky, the sweat on her back cold and coarse now. He got everything in front of him this time, letting Smoky push them back along the cutoff, back toward the dark camp and Jasper.

It took longer going back, but Smoky warmed. His legs felt better as the mules calmed, and he let Smoky take up the lead again. He wondered how they’d found this route in the first place, the way twisting and turning back to join the trail to camp. Smoky slowed as they neared that last dark stand of timber, and Ty decided to sing, make noise to comfort the mules, to warn the bear too. He settled on “The Bear Went Over the Mountain.” That seemed about right; no need to worry about the words.

As they entered the timber Smoky skittered, not liking something in the trail. He sang louder as a chill ran up his back and into his hair. Then moonlight again, the bells telling him the rest were following, trotting through the trees, made bolder by Smoky.

Still no light in camp. He saw no smoke coming from the cook tent and called out above the jingling bells as they forded the stream and moved into the corral. Only quiet. A deeper silence.

He took off the bells and put out feed. Called out again before walking toward the cook tent, looking for anything out of place—a tent torn, something knocked over. Everything was in place. The tent flaps were tied. He reached his hand in to untie them, pulled back the canvas, and was blinded by a beam of light.

The light wavered, outsized shadows playing on the tent walls as Ty’s eyes adjusted to see Jasper slowly lowering the Smith and Wesson, which clattered onto the table. Ty saw the bottles of sherry as Jasper dropped the flashlight and hunched deeper into his coat.

“Lucky you ain’t that red-headed bastard. For a minute I thought you was.” Jasper poured more sherry into a jelly jar.
“You been gone so long I was commencin’ to think you got et.” He took a long swallow. “He sure as hell wasn’t gonna get Jasper Finn. Not while I got this.” Jasper shoved the pistol across the table. “And my rifle.” He reached for it, knocking it down. “Let’s have us a drink. If he gets interested, we’ll fight the son of a bitch off right here. You ever find them rascals? Tell about your day.”
Ty lit the lantern and got the stove going. He picked the rifle up, took the round out of the chamber and set the safety. He put it out of reach of Jasper and uncocked the pistol, rolling the cylinder over an empty chamber. Then he went back to the stove, warmed his hands, feeling the shakiness drain from his legs as his pants began to steam. He told Jasper what had happened, going through everything but the part about not knowing how he’d gotten himself up the cliff.
“I looked down there for tracks,” Ty said. “Didn’t think to look above that rock. Might not have shown there, though. Thing’s frozen solid.”
“You done good,” Jasper approved. “Had you a learning day.” He dug some cold flapjacks from his bread box, loaded them with peanut butter.
It was a theory of Fenton’s packers that Jasper was a great cook for the first half of a sherry bottle but no good at all after that. Ty didn’t mind. He was thankful for anything. He even liked the sherry, the way its sweetness warmed him. The peanut butter tasted good on top of it. And he liked Jasper’s company.
“You shoulda told me about that bear, Ty.” Jasper shook his head. “I’d of got him if I’d knowed he’d been around. Seein’ him there is what startled me.” Jasper told Ty about the bear, across the creek, downwind and up on his hind legs, his reddish head high, testing the air.
“Didn’t have a fire going. Nothing around but those flapjacks. For you to eat, not that damn bear.” Jasper took another swallow, liking the attention Ty was giving him.
“I was only partly scared, Ty.” Jasper nodded as Ty stoked the stove. “ Yo u’d of been proud. Went to your duffle quiet as Spec. Found the gun, sherry bottles right there.” He patted Ty’s arm. “Good to have them handy.” He took another sip. “Snuck back and seen that rifle and says to myself, Ty sure looks after Jasper.” He smiled, poured more sherry into Ty’s cup.
“I was afraid he’d chased you out of camp.” Ty folded the last flapjack over and took a bite. “Or got you. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
“I did hear somethin’ out there, Ty. But I don’t hear too good in this coat.” Jasper undid the snaps of his big coat. “And you can’t never trust them bears. They snoop around mild as milk. Then all of a sudden they act like you pissed in their boot.”
“All you had to do was answer. I could of got shot.”
“Hell, you know I wouldn’t shoot wild.” Jasper poured a little sherry in Ty’s cup and took more for himself. “Fenton’d raise hell if I put a hole in his tent.”