Schoville looked back at the beginning of the bridge, watching the waterlogged bamboo quiver from the stress of its injuries.
He whipped his head around to Patrick. “Go!”
With both hands clutching the stretcher, Patrick pushed forward against the current. The bridge dipped lower into the water, which now pulled on the men’s calves.
More cracking. More groaning.
The weakened bamboo bridge uttered its last cry and rolled over in defeat.
Schoville pitched into the churning water and slammed against what was left of the woven boards as the river threatened to carry him away.
Patrick, still holding on to Linley and the stretcher, grew tangled in the mass of splintered bamboo. He could not get his feet free, but neither could he let go of Linley to help himself.
He wanted to scream, but every time he opened his mouth, river water rushed in before he could get the air out. It was like the worst game of apple-bobbing imaginable. Or getting one’s head dunked in the toilet and having the chain pulled.
Or drowning. Just like Johnnie.
Patrick sputtered, hanging half in and half out of the water. He kicked as hard as he could, refusing to be the second Wolford to die that way.
He kicked until he felt he couldn’t kick anymore, and then kicked again.
He kicked his way free of his bamboo bonds.
Still clutching the stretcher, Patrick slammed against the broad side of the bridge so hard it knocked what little breath he had out of him. He felt dizzy and cold, and his lungs burned.
The canvas sheet covering Linley from the elements threatened to wash away. Her limp body flopped against her restraints.
Patrick could fight for his life, but Linley was defenseless against the raging river. He pressed the stretcher against the side of the bridge, letting the current hold it fast. Fighting as best he could against that same current, Patrick struggled to unbuckle the belts that secured her to the stretcher.
Further down the bridge, Schoville clung to the shattered bamboo latticework. He wanted to help—needed to help—but did not have the strength to fight his way there. The rough bamboo dug into his skin, and with every bob and dip of the water, Schoville’s body grated against it like cheese on a shredder.
But still he held on.
The debris in the water seemed to come more frequently. Stumps and branches scraped against the bamboo, knocking chunks out of the woven boards as they flew past. They, too, tore at Schoville’s arms and legs. He gritted his teeth and bore every lash, but knew he would not be able to withstand the large, broken tree barreling down the river. He watched in horror as it headed straight for them.
Patrick saw it, too. He fumbled with the belt buckle holding Linley in. His hands shook, and he kept turning around to see the how close the tree was.
It came at them hard and fast.
He had a minute—at most—to get Linley free.
After an eternity, she came loose from her restraints. The stretcher could not be wrenched away from the broad side of the bridge, so Patrick held her around the waist with one arm and to the last line of bridge support with the other.
The tree slammed into the battered bridge, sending shards of bark and bamboo flying through the air. Patrick held fast to the rope as it trembled from the impact, but Schoville took the brunt of the crash.
What was left of the bridge whipped around, dragging Linley and Patrick along for the ride. Somehow, he held on through it all.
“Schoville!” he cried.
But the man was gone.
It was like a nightmare Patrick had relived over and over again. The water. The helplessness. If only he could have been there when Johnnie went in.
If only he could have been there for Schoville.
No time to think about that. He had to get Linley to safety. Patrick pulled at the bamboo support until he felt his muscles tear. He inched along, fighting the current and his own fatigue with every motion of his hand as he slid closer and closer to the riverbank.
It seemed like hours had passed when he finally crawled onto the muddy earth. He dragged Linley up to the tree line, along with their sodden leather packs. It was nearly dark, but he tripped back down to the water’s edge.
“Schoville!” Patrick cupped his bloodied hands around his mouth and called again. “Schoville!”
No answer came.
He walked the bank and screamed until his voice went hoarse, but all he found of Schoville was his leather satchel, full of mud, and dirt, and leaves.
But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. As Patrick dug the muck from the bag, he realized he had the tent. He pulled it out and saw with his own eyes the stakes, ropes, and everything else he needed.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Patrick carried Linley to higher ground. He strung together a makeshift shelter using the tent components from Schoville’s bag. The sun sank and the moon climbed higher. The air grew cold, and he shivered beneath his sopping wet clothes.
His teeth clattered. And even in her fevered state, Linley’s did, too.