High Country : A Novel (14 page)

He took stock, worried that something bad had already happened. Steering Smoky wide of a drift, he leaned off the saddle to look back for blood on legs, blood on the snow; look ahead for something safe, some sure footing. But there was no way to tell, just the silent white, the easy fall of big flakes. He worried about how far they’d drifted from the trail, saw there was no way to know that either. He must have been in a trance when they left it. He couldn’t remember crossing any drainages; wasn’t even sure whether Smoky had been taking him up or down. He peered back through floating snowflakes, hoping for some landmark, then swept the woods before him. There was nothing to help him in either direction, just the silent white.

I could tie up, he thought, take Smoky back, find the route, then track back to the string, take them to it. But how far back? How much time lost? Where would that put us when night fell?

He focused on what was ahead, every other sense suspended—no sensation of the cold, the saddle under him, the lead-line in his hand. His mind spun: if he were going to turn back, it had to be soon. By night his tracks would be buried with everything else. Besides not knowing where to go, he wouldn’t know where he’d been. Still he didn’t stop, couldn’t bring himself to pull up, tie his mules, go back.

His mouth went dry as he saw how little there was to work with. All he had was the ragged scar his mules left in the snow. He tried to calm his mind, make use of it. He looked back as far as he could and got direction from his own tracks, following them forward as a man might follow a pointer.

He looked ahead for something to fix on, found an uprooted tree, dirt showing through the twisted roots. He started for it, found a lightningtopped fir beyond the root, fixed on that. Then a leaning deadfall. He went from target to target, looking back to keep his course, ahead for some point to fix on—seeking always for something to tell him he was crossing the trail, paralleling it, some way to get it back so he would never lose it again.

His mouth went drier still when it came to him that the trail might be below them already, that he might ride until night with nothing showing up at all, that when his mind had drifted from him he might have missed not only the drainages but the buried creek too. The shifting snow had leveled the woods, changed everything he knew.

And still he went on, trying to hold his direction but bending and twisting his string of mules as the forest grew thicker. His heart sank as he eased them through places more and more difficult, knowing something might stop him at any moment. He was turning to check his course one more time when his eye caught something high in the timber. It was behind them—something out of place, wrong. He strained to make it out through the falling snow, finally turning back and riding toward it. He was almost under it before he realized it was a limbed lodgepole, almost fifteen feet long, high and braced on branches where nature could never put it.

He rode under it, dismounting into the knee-deep snow, feeling his legs shaking as he saw the woods opening in a lane, coming at the lodgepole at cross purposes and going off again down the canyon. He looked again, sure now that he’d found the trail but surprised that the lodgepole pointed off still another way. And where it pointed was Spec’s big boulder, marking the way to the cutoff as surely as a signpost.

Spec had done it, he thought. Stopped with the hunters, found the lodgepole, lifted it into place. Shown him the way.
He took off his stocking cap, shook the snow from it, noticing the sky was getting lighter, the snow stopping. He felt blood rushing through him, his heart pushing at it. He realized he needed to pee but went to his mules first, checked their packs, their legs for cuts. Then he stepped away, emptying himself as he dug under his coats for his pocket watch. Soon he’d need to look for a camp. He was thankful he’d packed feed.
He looked at the watch, put it back, walked over to Smoky and rubbed her neck, thinking of what Fenton would do. He took out the watch again, put it to his ear, made sure. He looked at it still another time before he put it away. Then he tightened Smoky’s cinch and climbed back on.
It was not yet noon.

“Let me tell you about snow.” Fenton was carving a spoon for Jasper. It was August; they were camped up toward the China Wall, going still higher in the morning to pull out a fire crew. Ty couldn’t figure what snow had to do with anything at that time of year.

“On that spring snow you can walk your mules over places you wouldn’t dare, could you see them,” Fenton said. “Don’t need to know where you are so much as where to go—if the goin’ ain’t too steep and you start early.” He compared the spoon with the one Jasper had broken rescuing the Dutch oven from the fire. “Use it right, old snow solves your problems. Gets you over places a goat couldn’t navigate come summer.”

He sipped at his coffee. “Fall snow is different. Might hide where it’s bad, but it don’t save you from it. Mostly air. Won’t hold a pinecone.” He looked at Ty. “To get out of these mountains in the fall, you got to know where the hell you’re going.” He looked back into the fire, whittling again.

Ty was well along the cutoff when Fenton’s words came back to him. The truth was he’d made his decision without them, sitting there on Smoky for a long time thinking more about what Fenton would do than what he would say. It seemed to Ty that Fenton talked most of the time when he was doing something, but hardly ever about what he was doing. And it was hard to predict what he would do. He just did it, not a word about why.

Ty wasn’t sure himself why he’d taken the cutoff. He’d just watched the snow and thought about Fenton and then found himself leading his string past the big boulder. He still wasn’t sure it was the right choice. All he knew was how anxious he got when he considered riding all the way down the South Fork to Hungry Horse.

But he was feeling better. Remembering what Fenton said about snow helped. That the snow had stopped helped more, the sky still dark but nothing new coming down. And the way was surprisingly open. Now and then he could see where Spec had broken twigs off the trees or a dip in the surface of the snow where Spec’s horses must have gone. He didn’t know exactly what was under that snow, but at least he was on Spec’s trail. And if everything went right, he’d soon be in a place he did know. The cutoff was supposed to come out in the meadows where Bob Ring’s camp had been. Ty had scarcely known what he was doing that day, but everything about it was with him as though it were yesterday—pulling Ring’s horse along the trail, watching the man fight his pain, hearing the girl cry, feeling every bump and switchback as though jarring something broken in himself.

He crossed the blanketed meadows by midafternoon, passing Ring’s campsite and breaking ice to ford the stream. The weather had lifted. He could see the headwall now, some of the trail exposed before disappearing into wind-blown drifts. If I have to come back and camp, he thought, I’ll have to turn everything around up there. He looked back at his string. There was a lot to turn around.

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 got 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.