Hard Winter Part 18

I lost track of time. Decided we'd better ride some. Thought the horses had rested enough, and the snow kept getting deeper, harder to slog through, and my feet felt so cold. I stopped, turned, made my way back to Tommy. He still held Crabtown's tail, but when I could make out what was behind him, I panicked.

"Tommy!"

He couldn't hear me. I stepped closer.

"Tommy!"

He looked up.

"Where's your horse?"

"Right here."

His left arm stretched out behind him, his hand in a frozen fist, but he held no reins. He pulled, like he was tugging on the reins, and stared at his empty hand, eventually comprehending that the reins had slipped through his fingers. Somewhere. How long ago?

I stumbled past him, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind. That horse meant our life. Now what? The wind blew me down. I found my feet, started, almost blindly, but stopped. Don't be a fool! I told myself. I couldn't see but a few feet in front of me. That horse could be twenty feet beyond that, or a thousand yards. That horse could have wandered off the trail-if I could even find a trail. Tommy's horse could be dead, covered by another drift. If I kept going, I might never find my way back to Tommy and Crabtown, so I staggered back to my pard and my horse.

"I'm sorry," Tommy said. "I thought I was holding . . ." He looked again at his empty hand, flexing his fingers.

"It's all right," I lied. "Come here."

I helped him free his frozen hand from Crabtown's tail, led him to the side of my horse. I held the stirrup out, but Tommy couldn't lift his leg. "Grab the horn," I told him, and knelt, lifting his leg, putting his foot in the stirrup, boosting him up, grunting, lifting him into the saddle. He managed to swing his right leg over, found that stirrup on his own.

"Both hands on the horn." I made sure he followed my instructions. "Keep as low as you can." I wasn't sure he heard me.

"You . . . ?" his lips mouthed. I couldn't hear him. I could barely see him.

My head shook. "Crabtown can't carry us both," I said.

With a soft prayer, I walked back, taking the point, pulling the reins, moving south. Or so I hoped.

On. And on.

Folks say it snowed for sixteen hours straight. How cold? I've heard twenty-two below zero. I've heard thirty below. I don't know. I walked until Crabtown stumbled, that poor horse's legs torn and bleeding from the shearing mounds of ice, then helped Tommy dismount. I didn't trust him to be able to hold onto my horse's tail, so we walked together, him to my left, me pulling Crabtown behind me, making sure every so often that I hadn't let those frozen reins slip out of my grasp.

We walked. Stumbled. Cried.

Tommy slipped, fell in deep snow, face first. I helped him up, clawed the ice from his good eye.

"Leave me," he said.

Shaking my head, I pulled him to his feet.

"I'll get a fire going," I said. "Find some wind block. Warm us." I went back to Crabtown, hoping those pine splinters soaked with coal oil would work just how Busted-Tooth Melvin told me they would. Wasn't sure I could find anything dry enough to burn. Wasn't sure I could even find any wood. I might just use the splinters, if only to warm our fingers for a minute.

My heart sank. I looked on one side of the saddle, then the other. The war bag had fallen off somewhere. No! I swore, bowed my head, remembering. John Henry had brought in the war bag and my sougans, tossed them in the corner of the line shack, and I had not thought to grab them when me and Tommy rode out to find Major MacDunn and Mr. Gow. I had no wood. No blankets. Nothing but the clothes on my back, a horse quickly going lame, and a weak friend.

I didn't even have matches. Lot of good those pine splinters would have done me.

"Keep walking," I told Tommy "I can't," he said.

I didn't listen. I threaded his right arm through my left at the elbow, let my right hand grab Crabtown's reins, and we walked. Walked, the wind driving us, the storm's fury never dulling. Walked until Crabtown collapsed, blood frozen to his legs. This time, I couldn't get him up. I knelt by him, rubbing his neck. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, wanted to put him out of his misery, but I had no gun. Couldn't even open the jackknife in my vest pocket. I left Crabtown, bridle, even that worn-out saddle I'd bought with those soap coupons what seemed like a thousand years ago. I locked arms with Tommy, and we abandoned Crabtown to be buried by snow and ice.

"Leave me," Tommy said.

Those were the last words spoken. For how long? I ain't rightly sure.

We couldn't talk. Not as cold as it got. Can hardly breathe when it's that cold. Head bent, I put my gloved right hand over my mouth and nose. That helped. Tommy done the same, using his left hand. We walked.

Right. Left. Right. Step. Step. Step. Stop. Rest. Right. Left. Forward. Forward. Keep the wind at our backs. Right. Left. Step. Step. Step. . . .

Please, G.o.d.

It had to be nigh dark. Hard to tell when you can't see the sun, can't see a thing except a raging blizzard, can hardly see two feet in front of you.

Tommy had fallen again. Now I had to drag him. I'd make, I don't know, five yards, then halt, trying to catch my breath, trying not to freeze the insides of my throat, my lungs. I'd drag him, stop, make sure he was still alive, then get as good a grip as I could on his coat, and pull, pull, pull.

The wind drove whirling snow into my face until I couldn't see. I dragged him, until I backed against something, and slid down, felt my coat slightly tear. Turning, I reached up blindly, grabbing, groping. My hand gripped . . . something . . . pulled myself up . . . stared closer.

The fence! Icicles snapped as I ran my gloves over that strand of Mr. Jacob Haish's S-shaped barbed wire. The fence. The stretch of fence that Tommy and John Henry hadn't torn down. Only the top rows of wire hadn't been covered with snow, but I could make it out, the wire and a crooked cedar post.

I fell to my knees, jerked Tommy close, slapped his face until his eyes fluttered with faint recognition.

"The fence!" I whispered. I helped him to his feet, forced his hands on the top of the wire.

I pointed. Stepped in front of him, grabbed the wire with both hands. I took a step to my left, but stopped.

The wind wailed. I looked down the wire, but saw nothing but a world of white and gray. It was growing darker.

Which way?

The wind was at my back. Left was east. Wasn't it? I wasn't sure. Go east, I told myself, to the end of the fence. Left meant east. Sure. Wind's at my back. It hadn't changed directions. We hadn't walked in circles. Or had we?

Yeah, your mind don't think straight. Not in twenty below.

Left. I nodded, trying to convince myself. Left meant a chance at life. Right meant death.

It had to be.

I took a tentative step. Made myself keep going. Kept looking back to see Tommy.

"I can't feel my legs," he told me.

I grabbed his hand with my right, moving down, pulling him, praying.

I reached out for the wire, found nothing, and fell. The fence had ended. Tommy collapsed on top of me, and I thought we'd both be buried in three feet of snow. That barbed wire had gotten us this far. The rest had to be up to me and Tommy. And G.o.d.

That's right. Infidel cowhand like me . . . praying.

Tommy was unconscious. Maybe dead. I couldn't be certain. I slapped him, but he wouldn't come around, so I dragged him. Dragged and rested. Dragged. We went down the bank, and I slipped, rolling to the Sun River. I clawed my way out of the s...o...b..nk, blundered to Tommy, lifted him again. I hadn't guessed wrong. We had to be close to the cabin. I felt the ice of the frozen river under my feet.

Going down the embankment was one thing, but now I had to climb up. Had to pull Tommy. We'd get part way up, then slide down. Or roll down. My whole body felt encased in ice. I'd given up trying to wipe the frozen snow off my clothes. Moved like I weighed a thousand pounds. The scary thing was that I started feeling hot. Sweating. That was terribly dangerous. Deadly. If that sweat froze, I'd die. So would Tommy.

I grabbed Tommy's shoulders, began pulling dead weight. My boots found a ledge, and we moved sideways for a few yards, then I backed into a fallen tree. I used it as a ladder, somehow, working slowly up the bank. Reached the clearing. Felt the wind.

It was dark.

Dragging Tommy, I moved. Bouncing off trees now, finding some shelter, though not much, from the wind.

I had to be close to the cabin. But how close?

I turned, saw nothing, and screamed: "Help!" My lungs burned. Why? Wasted breath. n.o.body was there. n.o.body could hear me. Where was the line shack?

I started, stopped, cursed my stupidity. I had almost forgotten Tommy. Mind's going, and my strength ebbed. It was a miracle I'd gotten this far, but wouldn't that be ironic? To die, so close to a cabin that I couldn't see. I could hear Busted-Tooth Melvin joking about that come spring. Joking over my grave. If anyone found our bodies.

Grabbing Tommy again, I pulled, heaved, backed up. My back pressed against something solid. Too flat for a tree. Boulder? I turned, hands groping, feeling, flattening, running from side to side.

The cabin!

No. But it was a structure. Privy. The privy. But I couldn't get my bearings. Which way to the shack? Which way to life? I moved past the outhouse, the wind blasting me, and my side pressed against something. Firm. Small. A rope.

Rope!

A rope, tied to a post next to the privy's door, stretching out into the white darkness. Before he had left the cabin, I thought, John Henry must have secured the rope, to use it as a handhold, to find his way from the line shack to the privy. Follow the rope, and I'd find the cabin. My heart pounded. I grabbed Tommy again, one hand holding the rope, one hand lugging Tommy. Moving, half crawling, backing, biting, praying, struggling through the snow. Knowing that we were going to live.

And . . . just like that . . . all those hopes died.

The rope ended, but not at the cabin. It had been tied to a corral post. The rope had been put up as a guide from the privy to the corral. To check on the horses. There had to be another rope, then, to the cabin, but I knew I could never find it. Didn't have the strength to pull Tommy from the horse shelter to the cabin. I barely had enough strength to open the gate.

I left it open, somehow managed to get Tommy underneath the lean-to. I fell on frozen hay, brought Tommy close to me. A horse snorted. I must be dreaming. There couldn't be anyone at the cabin. John Henry had to be long gone. No, one of Tommy's string. Or could it be? Someone had put that rope up. It hadn't been there before we left. I tried to stand, but couldn't. Didn't have an ounce of strength left in me. Weakly I leaned against Tommy, letting our body heat warm us, if only slightly.

Stay awake, I told myself. Go to sleep and you'll die.

It didn't matter, though. I was dead anyway. I pictured Mrs. Gow. Wondered if my face would look so horrible when someone discovered my body.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

The smell of coffee lured me out of a bottomless sleep. My eyes opened, and, for a moment, I saw nothing but raging torrents of snowflakes, felt myself rocking in the wind. The vision, or nightmare, pa.s.sed, and a roof came into focus. Then John Henry's face. Then nothing.

When I next awoke again, I saw the dim glow of a lantern, surrounded by darkness. Above the moaning wind, I made out what sounded like humming. Certainly not angels singing. I tried to move, but couldn't, and felt a presence hovering over me again. A voice spoke, and the lantern revealed a face. John Henry Kenton's face. He said something. At least, his lips moved, but I didn't hear. I felt his hand on my forehead, cool. Cool. It felt so fine. I was burning up.

On fire. After being so awful cold, now I raged from heat. Sweat streamed down my cheeks. Hot. Blazing hot. I must be in h.e.l.l.

"Rest," his mouth moved, and I slept again.

Don't know how long I slept, really. At some point, I was lucid enough to ask John Henry, or what at that time I figured for an apparition of John Henry Kenton, about Tommy.

"He's all right," the ghost spoke. Sounded just like John Henry. This time I had heard him, too. Not just read his lips. This time I didn't feel so infernally hot.

I woke again. No longer sweating, or chilled. Things became clear. I lay on a cot in the line shack. My mouth was parched, and I tried to throw off the heavy woolen blanket, but didn't have the energy. Boots thudded, and John Henry sat beside me.

"It stopped snowing," he said.

"Water," I begged.

He left, returned, lifted my head, and let me drink from his canteen.

"Not too much," he said, pulling the canteen from me. I sank back on the bed.

"Hey," I suddenly blurted out, "I'm alive."

He smiled, a sad smile, and I slept again.

"Can you eat?" John Henry asked as he propped my head up, using my sougans as a pillow.

"A little," I answered. Staring across the room, I spotted Tommy O'Hallahan lying on that bearskin rug by the fireplace, kept looking at him until I was certain the blankets covering him were rising and falling over his chest and stomach. Yeah, he was breathing. He was alive.

So was I.

John Henry brought a bowl, sat beside me. He give me a hard look.

"Jim," he said, "I want you to listen to me. Before you eat." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Listen. I had to take off the pinky and the tips of two fingers on your left hand."

I jerked my hand up, stared, not quite believing.

"But. . . ." I turned back to John Henry. "I still feel them."

"I had to do it, Jim," he said. "You're lucky that's all you lost."