by C. J. Box
Joe closed the distance quickly and managed to grasp Farkus by his shirt collar. There was no resistance-no indication of life or struggle-as he pulled him up. The river was shallow enough that he could stand and breathe, and he kept Farkus above the surface by reaching under the man’s arms and pulling Farkus’s back tight to his chest. Joe backed his way to the narrow bank and lowered Farkus to the river rocks.
The man was breathing, but his breath was soft and shallow. Farkus’s left shoulder was asymmetrical, and when Joe bent over and loosened his shirt he could see the shoulder-and possibly the clavicle and sternum-had been crushed by the impact.
Farkus moaned, opened his eyes briefly, then passed out again.
“Only you would nearly get killed by a falling deer,” Joe said to Farkus, hoping the power of the fall hadn’t broken too many bones inside the man.
Butch splashed his way over with the log in tow. They lifted Farkus and placed him facedown on the log as if straddling it, with his hands and legs dangling down into the water and his head resting on its ear on the trunk itself. They decided not to bind him to the log in any way so he wouldn’t slip off, but try to keep him balanced between them. If they tied him on, Joe thought, and the log flipped or got away from them in a rapid. .
Joe and Butch walked the log into the deepest part of the river, until the current leaned into them from behind. They pushed off and raised their feet out in front a foot or so below the surface and let the log float them.
As if he were guiding a fisherman on a drift boat, Joe kept his eyes downriver at all times. The river was technical and challenging; the trick was to anticipate the deepest runs and try to stay in the faster-moving water most of the time. But when the current looked like it would speed up and suck them into exposed boulders or dead trees or the cliff face itself, they’d have to maneuver the log so it would skirt the hazards but still keep floating.
It didn’t take long for Joe and Butch to sync, to read each other’s thoughts and keep the log-and Farkus-moving forward. When the bow of the log started to drift to the left, Joe’s side, Butch would drop a boot deep until it caught on a rock and the makeshift craft would correct to the right. They learned to slow it by dragging their feet on the riverbed like anchors, and turn it quickly if one man set his feet and the other lunged forward. They spoke very few words and navigated by feel and intuition.
“River right,” Joe would say, and Butch would either anchor a foot or shift his weight to cajole the log in that direction.
“River left-hard,” Joe would grunt, digging in so Butch could swing the craft over to avoid a series of bladelike rocks that blocked the right channel like a row of tombstones in a Civil War cemetery.
The sound of the river was omnipresent, but Joe could tell the intensity of the fire above was dissipating. Either the timber on top there was already burned to the ground or the fire hadn’t yet reached it-he couldn’t tell. The narrow band of sky was still choked with smoke and light diffused through it.
Despite how dire their situation was, Joe allowed himself to be astounded by some of the sights and features they floated by. He vowed to himself to come back someday, maybe with an experienced kayaker, and run the river with time to appreciate it. There was no wilder river in the mountains. It had never been dammed because it was impractical in the canyon, and there wasn’t enough water in it to be used for navigation or even to float ties or lumber when the railroad had been built downstream or the towns constructed. It was useless for irrigation because of the canyon walls. The Middle Fork was rocky, foamy, untamed, and amoral. Few human beings had left a mark on it of any kind.
Joe knew that the Middle Fork would eventually feed into the North Fork of the Twelve Sleep River several miles downstream, according to maps he’d studied. But river miles were different than map miles, and included bends, channels, and meanders that could double or triple the actual distance on paper. At the confluence of the Middle Fork and North Fork was a popular Forest Service campground that would likely be occupied by campers-if they hadn’t yet been evacuated. Joe thought it unlikely, since the fire had spread so fast.
Campers meant vehicles, cell phones, and possibly medical supplies for Farkus. It also meant the end of the trail for Butch Roberson, one way or other. Joe thought Butch had to know that.
But first they had to get there.
In some stretches where the canyon walls were especially close and the spray hung in the air, the fast river created an ecosystem of its own, Joe noted. There were ponderosa pines growing almost parallel to the canyon wall itself that were eight feet in circumference and reached sixty feet in the air. They were the tallest-and oldest-trees Joe had ever seen in the mountains. Unfamiliar orchidlike wildflowers in vibrant colors clung to small shelves along the way, nurtured by the steady spray and almost constant shadow. Butch nodded at ancient hieroglyphics drawn on slatelike slabs. Joe could make out human forms, spears, bows and arrows. The stick men appeared to be hunting bison, although the bison looked more like wildebeests than the buffalo Joe was used to. He wished he had a camera.
But whenever Joe’s concentration wandered from studying the river ahead, they’d drift one direction or the other and have to overcorrect. Or Farkus would moan pitifully or vomit. Joe noted that Farkus’s shoulder seemed to have doubled in size since the deer hit him, and dark discoloration was creeping out on his neck from under his collar. He continued to drift in and out of consciousness, but something inside him kept him clinging to the log regardless.
The water was cold and was fed by springs and snowmelt high above. While it had been welcome at first, given the heat of the fire, Joe was wary of hypothermia setting in. His limbs were numb and tight and at times not responsive. It was as if the cold water was sapping his strength away. When they floated through a patch of sunlight, he basked in it and tilted his face up toward the source of the warmth.
When he glanced at Farkus, he saw that he, too, was cold. His skin was ghostly white, and his lips were pale and tinged with ultramarine.
They floated the first hour-Joe guessed it had been three miles at best-without any serious mishaps. Given the circumstances, Joe felt almost ashamed of himself for enjoying the ride.
Until they heard the roar up ahead of them that sounded like the booming of thunder.
But it wasn’t thunder.
34
Savage run canyon pushed in on the narrow river, which pinched the flow of water and speeded it up. Joe looked frantically right and left, looking for a place they could lay up so he could detach from the craft and scout ahead, but there were no banks-only slick vertical walls.
Ahead, the river narrowed in even more, and Joe couldn’t see beyond a sharp V of rock a hundred yards ahead of them. Beyond the V there was no sign of the river in the distance. Which meant it dropped sharply in elevation.
“Oh, man,” Butch said.
Joe tried to climb up the side of the log to get a glimpse of what was in front of them, but when he did he nearly tipped Farkus into the water.
“Have you ever heard of Middle Fork Falls?” Joe shouted above the growing roar.
Butch looked over with fear in his eyes. “No.”
“I haven’t, either,” Joe said. “So maybe it’s just a drop or rapid ahead and not a waterfall.”
“What should we do?” Butch shouted.
The river seemed to rise and bunch up with coiled power, as if it were gathering to propel them through the V. The walls on both sides shot by. Joe tentatively dropped his left boot to gauge the depth of the river, but he couldn’t touch bottom.
“Keep us in the middle and hold on tight,” Joe said. “Shout if it looks like we’re going to hit something.”
Butch nodded frantically, then turned to face the V as they powered into it.
Joe shouted into Farkus’s ear: “Wake up, Dave, and hold on.”
Farkus raised his head, looked ahead, and screamed.
The first sensation as they plummeted through the V was of expl
oding sunshine and weightlessness. The bow of the log was suspended in the air for a moment, and when Joe glanced up the length of it, he saw not river but treetops. Then it tipped and plunged.
There was a Middle Fork Falls after all, and the log rode it almost straight down in a twenty-foot drop. Joe could do nothing other than wrap his arms around the trunk and press his face into the slick wood. The momentum of the plunge knocked his legs back until they were parallel with the log itself, and they knifed into a deep pool below-immense silence, again-before floating back to the surface.
Joe did a quick inventory. Butch Roberson was sputtering and choking on water, but had held on. Farkus was moaning and had slipped over to Joe’s side, so Joe shoved the man back up on top and in balance.
While he did, Joe almost didn’t notice that the log was once again picking up speed.
“Jesus-look what’s ahead,” Butch yelled.
Farkus shouted, “I’m holding on!”
Joe swung around and could see the river. It was a terrible sight. From where they were until the river finally made a sharp bend to the left a quarter-mile below, it was angry white foam punctuated by rocks. The pitch of the river dropped steadily toward the bend below. Joe could detect no theme to the river, no central current or deeper passage where they could safely avoid the hazards. It was as if the river itself was being fed down a rocky chute.
Joe swung himself around back into position and got his feet out ahead of him. He craned his head up to look for deeper water-the darker, the deeper-and he judged by the speed they were going they’d be literally on top of navigable water before they could see it. Running the rapids would demand split-second adjustments.
“I’ll call it out if I can,” Joe said. “If you get thrown off, just lean back in the current and keep your feet out in front of you.”
“Gotcha,” Butch hollered. “Take us through it, Captain!”
Joe almost smiled.
They flew down the rapids like a pinball bouncing from post to post, bumper to bumper. Joe called out, “Left, left, right, left, right-right-right! Left, left, right. .”
All senses on high, Joe didn’t think; he saw and reacted and yelled. The nose of the log swung from side to side to avoid rocks, sometimes riding up the side of a boulder for a moment before settling back down in the current. The chutes between the rocks were so narrow he banged his knees and thighs on them as they caromed down, and Joe’s left knee hit a boulder so hard he felt the impact all the way into his hip socket. His left leg was so numb he actually glanced down immediately after the impact to see if it was still attached. It was.
Halfway down the rapids, Farkus regained consciousness and raised his head. When he saw what they were in the middle of, he shrieked and clung even harder to the log.
Which was good. Joe had almost forgotten about Farkus.
They banked hard right around a huge boulder with Joe on the outside pushing and scrambling and Butch on the inside at pivot. When the front of the log nosed around the rock, Joe glanced up to see a hollow-eyed Kyle McLanahan, propped up as if sitting in a pile of driftwood, staring back at him. McLanahan’s torso was out of the water, and his arms were propped up on lengths of debris as if he were leaning back in his easy chair watching a football game. His head was cocked slightly to the side. His face was bone-white and slack, his mouth slightly open.
In reaction, Joe nearly lost his grip on the log, but he realized McLanahan was still dead and his body had washed all the way downriver from his fall until it caught in the pileup.
Several thoughts came to Joe at once before the current built up again and swept them away:
It still hadn’t sunk in yet, the fact that ex-sheriff Kyle McLanahan was dead.
McLanahan had been in the valley just slightly longer than Joe. They’d known each other for twelve miserable years. Although he’d schemed and plotted against Joe and had made decisions that cost good men their lives and mobility, McLanahan was a worthy adversary.
Sheriffs didn’t seem to do very well in Twelve Sleep County.
And. .
Dead bodies in cold mountain rivers took on unique characteristics of their own-the skin remained well preserved, predation was rare, they didn’t bloat. Dead bodies in cold rivers became mountain mummies, at least for a while.
They got through the worst of the rock garden with bruises, abrasions, and no broken bones. They were able to lay up in an eddy with a hundred yards still to go, and fortunately the eddy was shallow enough they could stand again on the riverbed.
Joe and Butch panted until they got their breath back and once again Joe was grateful the water was so cold. If it wasn’t, he knew, he’d be able to feel the injuries he’d sustained. When he looked down into the water, he could see several small spirals of blood coming from gashes on his left leg. The pant leg of his Wranglers was tattered, ribbons of it floating in the current. He was surprised he hadn’t lost his boot.
“I can’t believe we got through that,” Farkus said in a croak, looking back up at the rapids above them.
“We?” Butch said.
“I’m hallucinating, I think,” Farkus said. “I had this dream I saw Sheriff McLanahan sitting on some wood, watching us go by.”
With Butch holding the log in place, Joe splashed to the foot of the eddy and scouted ahead. The last hundred yards wasn’t as rocky, but it was a steep narrow flume that ended in a wide slow run before it went around a bend. After what they’d been through, it looked like a picnic.
He realized, as he gazed downstream, that there was warm sun on his shoulders. He turned. The mouth of the canyon was behind them now. The terrain surrounding them was still mountainous but softer, flatter, tamer, with folds rather than cliffs. And although the sky was thick with smoke that gave every vista a sepia-toned look, the fire hadn’t advanced this far downriver yet.
Joe felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. They’d gone through the worst. He’d never heard of anyone running the Middle Fork in August when the water was so low-probably because no one in his right mind would try, he thought. He stanched back a feeling of guilty pride.
When he returned to the log, he saw that Farkus had passed out again. Butch stood waist-deep in the water, keeping the log in place. His expression was pained but stoic, and Joe wondered if the reason was because of the many injuries he’d sustained or because he knew, like Joe did, that the campground would be less than an hour away.
Although the flume wasn’t marred by rocks, it was steep and fast. Joe felt exhilarated by the descent, which was fueled by a combination of momentum and adrenaline. He felt intense sun on his face and his hat wanted to lift off his head in the wind. They shot the pitch like seasoned professionals, Joe thought. He’d grown attached to the floating log, and thought that he’d like to load it on a trailer and take it home. Then he remembered it was only a tree trunk, although a special and much-loved tree trunk, and that Marybeth would rightly wonder why it was in the garage.
When they hit the pool at the bottom and slowed down, he secretly wanted to do it again.
Ten minutes later, Joe and Butch tugged the log along behind them through the warm shallows. It was no longer a boat, Joe thought, but a kind of floating stretcher for Dave Farkus.
The riverbed was soft and sandy, and the water was warm. His cuts and bruises came to life as he warmed up and slogged along, and he noticed Butch grimacing as well. Now that they were out of the rapids and falls, the price they’d paid to run them was coming due.
Joe looked downriver. The water was knee-deep and still. Behind them, the fire raged out of control, but the wind wasn’t blowing north yet. When it did, and it was a matter of time, everything he could see on both banks would go up in flames. He felt small and powerless. It was a feeling he appreciated for the pure truth of it in a situation like that.
Joe thought this was the time to talk with Butch. Soon he wouldn’t have the chance. As he took a long breath and began to speak, Butch interjected: “Joe, thank you for getti
ng me through this. I couldn’t have done it on my own.”
Joe grunted.
“I mean, I’ve spent a lot of time in the mountains. I know my way around, and I’ve put myself in situations I had to think and work myself out of. But I’ve never run a river, and I never could have done what we just did.”
Joe said, “Thanks.”
“I’ll remember this for the rest of my life,” Butch said. “I’ll remember what you did. This could have gone a bunch of different directions, I know that. But you saved my life. And the idiot Dave Farkus-you saved him, too.”
Joe didn’t respond to that. Instead, he said, “Butch, I know you had opportunities to make this go another way. You could have shoved Farkus off the log, or knocked me on the head, or just let go of the log and let me try to do this on my own. You could have escaped, is what I’m saying. It would have been easy. But you hung in there, and I appreciate that.”
Joe glanced back to see if Farkus was awake. He was glad he wasn’t.
“He’s out again,” Joe said. “I don’t know how long he’ll be under. So while we’re just walking along here. .”
Butch grinned in response, as if he’d been anticipating the questions.
“You know we’re going to be at the campground pretty soon,” Joe said. “Who knows who will be there, or what will happen. So since it’s just you and me, and before we show up. .”
“What?”
“There are decisions that need to be made.”
“Yeah, I know,” Butch said, resigned. “When you agreed to make sure that helicopter was coming, were you lying to me?”
Joe said, “Yes. It was out of my hands.”
Butch nodded to himself, as if checking off a box in his mind.
“Were you setting me up?”
