The trail narrowed, with jagged boulders crowding the way. By two o’clock we had advanced less than a quarter mile up the slope. Another explosion rocked the air; the ground rumbled as if from the stub end of an earthquake.
My mouth was a desert and my head was pounding and spinning as I pulled him toward the top of the hill. As afternoon slid on, I could see the first hints of the mine in the yellowing tree leaves and gray dust on the undergrowth. I limped past the abandoned cemetery and its collection of soulless headstones.
The sound of a massive truck engine gave me hope. I slowly pulled Pops up the overburden to the top of the plateau that was once Sadler Mountain. In the distance, about a half mile east, four pickups were dwarfed next to the gargantuan haul truck I had seen coming through town—its left rear tire twice as tall as the men gathered around it. One of them waved to the others and climbed into his cab and drove off.
I put down the travois and ran toward them, half skipping on shin pain. Two other men shook hands; one patted the other on the back as they walked to their trucks. They waved to the last man and went.
I hobbled toward him, calling out and waving my arms. He checked a tire on the haul truck. I was about a quarter mile away, screaming for his attention. He went to the back of the big rig. I could see cigarette smoke curling around his head. “Help!” I shouted. He exhaled, flicked the cigarette into a puddle, and climbed into his truck. “Hey, help me!” I ignored the shin pain and ran toward him. I came to the edge of the plateau and stumbled down the gray gravel to the road. He started the truck and backed into the course.
I was a hundred yards behind him now, waving my arms and trying to occupy his rearview mirror. He started to pull away; then brake lights flashed. He stopped. I was catching up, sweeping the walking stick in the air as I ran. He reached over and rolled down the passenger window. I yelled to him as loud as I could. Country music blared from the cab—something about prison. The brake lights doused and the truck’s rear tires spun on the loose gravel. They found purchase and the truck peeled off, exhaust still fogging the air when I arrived at the spot.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” My shouts echoed off the hills for several more rounds, then died.
“Fuck,” I whispered, hands on knees as I fought for breath.
It was all down to Jukes.
The White Stag had constructed a rampart of confidence inside me that I had never felt before. I couldn’t quit on him now, wouldn’t let him die.
I went to Pops and took up the travois to start across the ruins of Sadler Mountain, picking through the rock piles and the rainbow pools of poisoned water. I dragged the carrier down the ramp off Sadler to the road that ran over the Corbin Hollow valley fill. The gravel had been compacted and pulverized by the weight of the dragline and the haul trucks, so it was easy passage to the next ramp, a forty-degree angle up to the plateau that was once Indian Head. This and the hill up to Six Hollow Ridge was the last difficult ground to cover. Once I got to the ridge, it was four miles to Jukes, to the truck, and to help. I paused at the bottom of the ramp and took a drink from the canteen. My head was a dull throb; my legs hurt at the slightest movement; my shoulders pulsed with every beat of my heart; but none of it mattered.
I took my first step up the steep ramp, using the walking stick for push. In a half hour we were at the Indian Head remains. I stopped for water, scanned the rest of the mine, which was empty and quiet.
There wasn’t a trail up the hill to the ridge, but I recognized a lightning-struck tree at the top. I kept pushing up the hillside, over the broken rocks and damaged landscape toward the split tree. I took more water at the trailhead, then pushed through the deadfall to Six Hollow Trail—still good light as we left the broken mountains behind us.
Six Hollow Trail was an old logging road that ran across the tops of Beaver, Pine, Jukes, Slow, and what was left of Corbin and Wilmer Hollows. The way was wide and flat, and we made good time despite my total exhaustion.
Jukes was a magnet for me now; each step closer increased the strength of its pull. I paused every ten minutes to check on Pops—my cheek to his mouth to verify breath—but the closer we got to Jukes, the worse he seemed to be.
We passed over Slow Hollow as the trail ran up and over a slight hill. Ahead I could see the big ash tree that marked the beginning of the Jukes Hollow trail. I bustled my pace and reached it as twilight was settling over the woods. I took a gulp of water from the canteen without breaking stride. The trail down into Jukes was narrow and rocky, jostling Pops as the travois poles recorded the uneven ground. He moaned on a particularly rough drop.
“You okay, Pops?” He didn’t answer and I wasn’t expecting one. “We’re almost home,” I added, though I knew he was unconscious.
We came to the flat rock that marked the beginning of Jukes Hollow. I cruised past it without pausing. The creek on my right picked up speed as it gathered water from various springs on the downslope. In the fading light I could see the top of the waterfall, could hear the splay of the water hitting rocks below.
We pulled up to the edge of the cliff overlooking the old cabin. I laid Pops gently on the ground. His breathing was infant-like, faint, short breaths as if his one good lung had shrunk to newborn. I jostled his arm to wake him, but he didn’t stir. I was running out of time.
Both sides of the precipice ran to sheer rock. The best option seemed to be lowering Pops down the face by the waterfall. I untied him and carefully pulled the bedroll off the travois. I removed the rope from the crosspieces and unlooped the webbing. My plan was to tie him tightly into the bedroll, lower him to the ground, then reassemble the carrier for the last mile to the truck.
I readjusted Pops inside his bedroll and tied the rope tight, crisscrossing him to a mummy. I wrapped the extra line around a sapling on the edge of the cliff, then around my waist, with the other bedroll between my skin and the rope. I tied double knots every five feet for gripping, then brought Pops to the edge. I braced against a rock and slowly began to lower him down, taking the pull of the rope onto my hips and arms. I let the rope slide slowly through my hands, protected by the sleeping bag cushion. The edge protruded two feet, so there was no danger of him hitting the rocks as he lowered. Pops’ head lolled on his neck as he descended, his body turning several times on the drop.
My counterweight and the twist around the tree gave the rope sufficient purchase to check his descent. His feet touched and he gently lay down in the grass at Sarah’s picnic spot.
I gathered the makings of the travois and tied them as a bundle and lowered them down with the rest of the rope. When the bundle made ground, I threw the line next to Pops, then went to the far side of the cliff.
I lowered the pack to the first ledge and slowly climbed down, taking hold of a trumpet vine that was growing out of the rock, using it to rappel ledge to ledge, then jumping to the hollow floor, wincing from the pain in my shins.
I limped over to Pops, who was lying peacefully in the middle of the picnic spot. I went to hands and knees and brushed my cheek to his mouth. A feather of breath. I reassembled the travois as quickly as I could, leaving out several crosspieces. I gently pulled him onto the carrier, shouldered it, and raced up the slight hill toward the road.
I rounded the corner of the cabin and saw a shadowy figure coming out of the woods in the dusk. As he came closer, I could see the black line of a rifle barrel cradled in the bend of his arm.
Chapter 37
WHAT NEIGHBORS DO
The rifleman saw us and accelerated, slipping the gun from his arm to his right side. A dog barked in the distance. I looked around frantically for a place to hide. The hill to our left was too steep for the travois; behind us the rock face prevented any escape. I made for the cabin door, throwing off the shoulder straps and pushing Pops into the porch corner. I fished his pockets for keys while the rifleman advanced, gun ready.
Pops’ key chain was a fist of unknowns. I shoved keys into the cabin door lock—a large silver key stopped half in; a green one slid in but wouldn’t turn; a brass key wouldn’t go past the tip. I shook the key circle, hoping to light on the correct one. I tried a slim gold key with a blue cover on the fingerhold; it slid in but the lock stayed fast.
“Hey!” he called, striding purposefully. I went to the pack, pulled the bowie out of its sheath, and whirled. I recognized him from the meeting at Hivey’s—it was Gov Budget. At a hundred feet he switched the rifle to his left hand and started a half run.
I went at him, covering the space between us easily, fear and rage balming my exhausted body. “Noooooooooooooo!” I shouted and lunged with the knife. He stepped aside with surprising grace and grabbed my arm at the wrist and twisted it. With the same hand he seized the hilt of the knife, disarmed me, kicked me to the ground, and tossed the knife aside. I landed on my wrist; the pain almost made me pass out.
“What the hell you doin, boy?”
I gathered, stood, and ran at him again.
He was a matador now, and I was a bull, charging on fury, pain, and hatred. He slipped me, still casually holding the rifle, and seized my collar with his free hand. He held me at arm’s length while I launched windmills. “You best settle down, tiger, or I’m gonna womp ya.”
“You killed Buzzy and tried to kill Pops.”
“What the hell you talkin bout? Where’s your grandaddy?”
“You’re the one that shot him.”