Just as I stepped onto the ledge at the base of the bluff, I heard a sound that sent a shock wave of fear coursing through me. It was a dry, hollow buzz: the buzz of a rattlesnake. I froze, trying to pinpoint the source. It didn’t take long. The snake—a big timber rattler, its body as thick as my wrist—was eighteen inches from my right foot. Head up, tail vibrating, the snake was coiled to strike. The rock ledge was catching the last of the afternoon sun, and the snake had been basking in the warmth—possibly the last real warmth for months. No wonder it was mad about the disturbance. Its eyes, I noticed, looked cloudy—a sign it was about to shed its skin. The good news was, that meant its vision was impaired; the bad news was, rattlesnakes get more aggressive when they can’t see well, so the snake might launch a preemptive first strike.
Moving with excruciating slowness, I relaxed my right hand, lowering the loop of rope with what I hoped was enough subtlety to escape notice. Then I eased the hand up and across my chest, grasping the blade and sliding the hoe upward from beneath my left arm. The snake buzzed steadily, its head motionless except for the tongue sliding in and out, in and out, as it sampled and resampled my scent. My scent was changing fast, I suspected, with the flash flood of sweat, adrenaline, and whatever other chemicals were triggered by terror. Fearomones, I thought. When the hoe was halfway out from under my arm, I inched my right hand down the metal neck to the midpoint of the shaft, and then eased my left hand onto the thicker wood near the end.
Twenty feet above me, Tyler’s footsteps crunched on leaves and twigs as he approached the edge of the bluff. “Dr. B?” he called. “You down yet?” I dared not answer. “Dr. B? Are you okay?” I hoped his voice might persuade the snake to crawl away, or at least distract it enough to allow me to move. No such luck—it remained poised, and it continued to buzz its warning. “Shit,” I heard Tyler mutter, and then, loudly, “Hang on, Dr. B, I’m coming down. Don’t worry!”
Suddenly I felt my left arm jerk wildly as the rope—still spiraled around my forearm—was yanked from above. Pulled off balance, I stumbled, and the snake hurled itself at my leg. In desperation I swung the hoe, knowing I was too late, too wild with my panicked swing. But to my astonishment, the snake’s head stopped in midair, as if it had hit a pane of glass, then the body dropped to the ground. The edge of the blade, I saw, had sliced halfway through the snake’s lunging body, pinning the creature to the ground, its jaws snapping an inch from my shin. Pressing down on the handle, I stepped away; then—when I was safely out of reach—I raised the hoe and brought it down on the neck, severing the head.
“Doc?” It was Sheriff Grainger on the bridge. I looked up and nearly fainted: Aikins had the 12-gauge at his shoulder, and the barrel appeared to be pointing straight down. Straight down at me.
“Jesus, Deputy, don’t shoot,” I shouted, and the sheriff pushed the barrel of the gun to one side, then pried it from the deputy’s grip.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” yelled Tyler, his voice high and strained. “Dr. B? Dr. B? Are you all right? What the hell is going on?”
“I’m all right,” I said weakly, twisting my arm free of the rope. “I’m fine. Come on down.”
Sixty seconds later, Tyler was on the ground. “Why didn’t you answer me before? Why was he pointing a gun at you? What was all that racket you were making down here?”
Wordlessly I nodded in the direction of the snake. The mangled body was still writhing and thrashing, the spinal nerves continuing to send impulses to the muscles, even though the brain had been disconnected. When Tyler saw the snake, he jumped back as though he’d been bitten, then gasped, “God damn, I hate snakes. Hate ’em.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t tell you what the hoe was for.”
“How’d you know this thing would be lying in ambush?”
“Didn’t know. Just knew to be prepared. Knew this is the kind of rocky habitat they like, and this is the kind of weather that brings ’em out.”
“You keep using the plural,” he said, his face ashen. “They and them. Those pronouns are making me really nervous.”
“I was just talking about snakes in general,” I assured him. “The same way I might hold up one human skull but use the word ‘humans.’” I resisted the urge to tell him that in the fall rattlesnakes sometimes converge in dens by the dozens or even the hundreds. If the sight of a single dying snake could spook Tyler so much, I hated to think how he’d react to the notion of scores of writhing vipers; serpentine spaghetti.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got work to do now. Plenty of time for post-traumatic stress later.”