“Under the circumstances, that might be best,” Miranda reluctantly agreed. “I wanted to get some aerial footage anyway.”
“Good,” Mitch replied, looking relieved. “I’m real glad we got that resolved.”
*
After scarfing down some sandwiches washed down with Gatorade, Keith, Donny, and Dave rode out toward the mountains, but the trio hadn’t gone more than a couple of miles before coming upon two old mares with heaving flanks and sweat-coated skin, guarding a foal that was in similar shape. Keith dismounted and handed his reins to Donny, hoping it wasn’t too late to save them. The first mare, a palomino pinto, laid her ears back in warning at his approach, but she was too exhausted to put up any real fight. He crouched beside the weakened foal, a near clone of the mare, right down to its markings. The animal nickered to its mother and then struggled to gain its feet, but the effort was too much.
“Easy, little man,” he softly crooned, pressing a flattened palm against its neck. With his other hand he pinched the layer of skin at the colt’s shoulder between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted the skin away from the muscle and twisted, frowning as he mentally counted the seconds. Damn. The tented skin should have snapped back after a second or so. Keith rolled back its upper lip to reveal whitish-tinted gums. “Shit. This colt’s in some serious trouble.”
Dave rose with a grunt to pull his rifle out of its scabbard.
“No.” Keith raised a hand. “We’re not shooting him. Not yet.”
“It’s only humane,” Dave protested. “There’s nothing we can do for him out here.”
“Doesn’t Mitch keep IV fluids on hand?” Keith asked.
“I s’pose there’s a coupla bags in our emergency vet kit, but that’s all the way back at the camp. By the time we fetch the supplies, it’ll be too late. It’s a waste of time, Keith. He’s too far gone. Just look at him. He can’t even stand, let alone walk.”
Keith set his jaw. “Then I guess we’ll just have to find a way to carry him.”
Dave regarded him incredulously. “And just how are we s’posed to do that? He’s got to weigh over two hundred pounds.”
“Simple.” Keith stood and retrieved the satellite phone. “I’m calling the chopper in.”
“To carry the horse?” Dave asked. “That’s crazy.”
“Why? They airlift people, don’t they? This foal won’t make it if we don’t try,” Keith said. “The bird’s already in the air. All Trey needs is our GPS position to land it.”
“Look, Keith, they use special helicopters for rescue operations. We don’t have any of that. What do you expect Trey to do? Fly with a horse in that tiny cockpit?”
“It’s a really small horse,” Keith argued. He silenced Dave’s next protest with a dark look as he dialed base camp. “Mitch, it’s Keith. No, we’re all okay, but we’ve got a foal that’s in a real bad way. I need you to send the chopper.”
Mitch groaned. “How big is it?”
“’Bout two hundred pounds. We need to transport him. He’s gonna die if we don’t get some fluids into him ASAP.”
There was a long pause before Mitch answered. “This’ll have to be Trey’s call.”
“I understand that,” Keith replied. “You’ll call him?”
“Yeah. It’s crazy as hell,” Mitch replied, “but I’ll call him.”
“Thanks. I owe you.” Keith disconnected the call.
“He’s really sending the chopper?” Dave asked.
Keith smiled for the first time in three days. “He’s sending it.”
Chapter 7
“It gets really cold on that chopper. These’ll keep you warm.” Beth handed Miranda a sheepskin-lined jacket and a pair of leather gloves.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.” Miranda accepted the jacket, donning it over her hoodie. Her heart raced with excitement as she buckled herself into the helicopter. A succinct safety briefing followed. Trey was terse, almost gruff. She wondered if he’d taken a dislike to her or if it was just his personality. Then again, it had been a pretty shitty day for everyone.
“You’re gonna need these too.” Trey handed her a set of noise-canceling headphones.
“Will I be able to hear you with them on?” she asked.
“Yes, and I can hear you too. There’s a built-in mic.”
As soon as she put them on, Trey started the engine, and the aircraft jolted almost violently to life. She held her breath in anticipation as the blades began to rotate. Within seconds, the rough, rocking motion transformed into a smooth vibration. Her stomach filled with frantic butterflies as they lifted vertically into the air.
“How long have you been doing this?” she asked, trying again to break the ice.
“Flying? Or wild-horse roundups?”
“Well, both,” she replied.
“I started helping out with the roundups almost as soon as I could manage a horse by myself. I guess I was about six or seven. I fell in love with flying the first time I went up in one of these, but I had to wait twelve years before I could learn how to fly one.”
“How did you get your training?”
“Uncle Sam.”