by Laura Crum
Blue had died a couple of years ago at the age of fifteen, so it had been many years indeed since I'd dealt with a puppy. I was accustomed to a dog who understood what I was saying to him, who knew my ways (and human ways in general), and who obeyed me (albeit with a lot of grumbling). I was now faced with a fluffy bundle of energy who had no clue what I wanted in the way of behavior, and who had a strong desire to tear things up with her teeth. Any things. Not to mention, she saw no reason why she should not defecate wherever the impulse took her, or why she should follow my arbitrary orders. She was, like most Queenslands, smart, stubborn, and endearing.
I opened the door of the camper and rubbed the wide, wedge-shaped head that was thrust over the tailgate at me. Roey wagged her tail frantically and wiggled all over. I ran my hand down her back. Roey was a red heeler, like her mother, Rita, and with her small size and her pricked ears, I often thought she looked just like a little red fox.
She reminded me of my old dog, Blue, in being very intelligent and incredibly hard-headed, but unlike Blue, Roey was generally friendly. She liked people, and other dogs, and cats, and for that matter, the whole world, as far as I could tell. Lonny teased me that she'd never make a watchdog; she'd probably try to inveigle potential burglars into throwing a stick for her. This was true. After Blue's protective tendencies I found Roey's amiable nature somewhat of a relief. No more worrying that my dog would nip (and mortally offend) a client.
A few more pats, a check to see that her water and food bowls were full, and I shut Roey back in the camper. I'd taken her for a run when I first got here; she should be fine for the night.
So where the hell was Lonny? Out for a ride. But the sun was sitting right on top of the western ridge at this point, and nobody had come riding in down the trail for the last hour.
Lonny knew he was meeting me tonight. So why wasn't he here? Annoyance and worry struggled for dominance in my brain.
Well, neither of those emotions was going to help anything. I stared off across Deadman Meadow, already in shade. Crazy Horse Creek ran along its far side, as I knew. And right where the creek emerged from the canyon and rushed out into the meadow was a pretty little waterfall. I'd just walk quietly up and check out the waterfall. Spend a moment enjoying the mountains. If Lonny rode in, he'd know I was here-horses in the corral, rig parked nearby. We'd find each other.
Resolved, I headed off down the trail that crossed the meadow, looking around with a deep sigh of relief. I was here, at last, about to achieve a goal I'd held all my life. I was going to spend a sizable chunk of time in these mountains all alone, with just my horses and my dog for company.
The farther I walked into Deadman Meadow, the more the busy bustle of the pack station receded and I could feel the presence of the mountains around me. Granite and pine tree clad ridges rose up all about me; the meadow was springy under my feet. Ahead of me the chatter of Crazy Horse Creek grew louder. In another few strides the bright water was visible, jumping and chasing between boulders.
I followed a faint trail that led upstream, worn by the feet of many fishermen over many seasons. The creek got noisier and noisier as I neared the canyon from which it emerged.
It was dusk now. The air was soft and still and dim-with every moment that passed, the shapes around me dissolved further. I could see the lights of the pack station across the meadow. Wondered if Lonny had come in yet. Don't worry, I told myself, Lonny's had more experience in the mountains than anyone you know.
Still, I peered hopefully through the gathering darkness at the big barn, although it was impossible to see anything as small as an individual horse and rider from here. And even less possible along the unlighted main trail, though I traced its course along the far side of the meadow. I could see a white horse, maybe.
In point of fact, I saw nothing. I scanned the meadow one more time, started to turn away, and stopped. There was something out there. Something shiny. A car.
The car was behind a clump of willows that screened it completely from the pack station and the main trail. It was partially obscured, but visible from where I stood on the banks of the creek. Small and low and dark, some sort of sports car, it had only caught my eye due to the sheen of light reflecting off its metal surface. It was pretty damn well hidden.
This, I supposed, was because it shouldn't be there. The Forest Service did not allow cars to be driven out into the meadow. However, the big gate that blocked such vehicles from the main trail was often left open so that various ranger Jeeps, or pack station trucks, could go up to the ranger station at Bright Water Flat, a couple of miles up the trail. The gate had been open this afternoon, I recalled. But duly posted with many signs declaring it off-limits to cars.
Well, this car had clearly ignored them. I guessed it belonged to a particularly lazy fisherman, and wondered briefly if it was now stuck. The meadow was damp in spots and the car didn't look the sort to have four-wheel drive.
It was possible. And the light was dying fast. If I wanted to reach my destination, a mere hundred yards away up this canyon, I'd better go.
I turned and headed for the waterfall.
TWO
Twenty minutes later, when I got back to the meadow, it was almost dark and the car was still there. Knowing where to look was the only thing that made it visible.
I stopped and studied it in mild consternation. What in the world was it doing here? Was it, in fact, stuck?
I had a small penlight in my pocket (as well as a Swiss Army knife and a waterproof container of matches). Perhaps I should go and see.
Ten steps in the direction of the car and I stopped. Was this smart? I was a woman alone; I had no idea what the car was here for. On the other hand, I argued, I was perfectly safe skulking out here in the dark willows. No one who was in the car would be able to see me without a light.
Cautiously I approached the vehicle from the rear, out of headlight range, my hand on my own small flashlight. No humans seemed to be about; the car looked deserted. But it also looked too expensive to be cavalierly abandoned.
From twenty feet away, I stared. It was some kind of two-seater sports car- I couldn't put a name to it. No movement in it, or around it. My eyes tracked along the ground nearby. A patch of white. Not large. Bigger than a paper bag, smaller than a picnic blanket. Next to the car, about ten feet from the front bumper. I stared. The white thing didn't move.
Cautiously I brought the flashlight out of my pocket. Wiggling gently behind a sheltering screen of willow branches, I aimed it at the white shape and clicked it on.
For a second I still couldn't figure it out. White cloth, it looked like- I moved the light. And something darker. A face. Shit.
The white was a shirt, a shirt that was on a man lying flat on his back in the meadow.
I clicked the flashlight off. This was weird.
Peering through the near-dark, I ascertained that the man hadn't moved. I mentally replayed what I'd seen. A man lying flat on his back-I'd had a brief glimpse of his face, staring upward. No one I recognized.
Was he hurt? Dead? Asleep? Drunk?
I clicked the light on again. The grass and willow branches obscured him somewhat, but there was no doubt of what I was seeing.
Pointing the flashlight right at his face, I looked for signs of life. For a second, nothing. Then the face turned slowly toward my light. I couldn't read his expression.
I hesitated. Before I could make up my mind what to do, the man sat up.
Big, dark blotches all over the front of his white shirt. What? No. Yes. Blood. Dark red blotches. Blood, or something like it.
"Leave me alone," he said.
My mind spun.
He lay back down.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do? Could it really have been blood on his shirt front?
I kept the flashlight on his face. Thought about it. Then I shouted, "Do you need help?"
No response. And then, slowly, he sat up again, looking in my direction. "Leave me alone," he said again.
And then quite distinctly, "I'm trying to kill myself."
Once again, he lay back. Shit, shit, shit. This time I was sure the dark red blotches were blood. "I'm trying to kill myself," he had said. I played the flashlight on the ground around him. In a moment, I caught the dull flash of reflected light off the blued barrel.
A gun. Lying on the ground near his right hand. Within reach of his hand. If I approached him, he could shoot at me. I trained the flashlight back on his face.
"I'll get help," I shouted.
This time he spoke without moving, and I had a harder time making out his words. "No, no help. Don't want help."
"Just hang in there," I said, using my strongest reassuring-veterinarian tone. "I'll help you."
"No. Leave me alone. No help. Let me die."
I tried to decide what to do. If I went near this guy, he could potentially shoot me, though he had made no move toward the gun so far. I had no idea if he was dying, or if there was anything I could do immediately that would help him. Get some help, I thought. Don't get yourself shot for no good reason.
"Listen," I yelled at him, "I'm going to get help. Just hang in there. You'll be okay."
"No, please." He didn't move; I thought his voice was weaker. "Don't try to help me. I'm dying. I want to die. Like the horses."
"Like the horses?" I repeated, startled.
"Dying." He stared straight up at the night sky. "Green fire in their bellies. I couldn't save them. Dying."
This made no sense to me. "I'll be back," I yelled. "Please. Just hang in there." Then I turned and ran.
Running through the dark, to the jouncy, jerking beam of the flashlight, running down the trail. I could see the pack station lights ahead of me, across the meadow; they seemed a long way away. I stuck to the trail; I could run faster on the trail than I could through the meadow.
All I could hear was the thump of my feet, the panting of my breath. Hurry, hurry.
The lights across the meadow flickered and bounced to the rhythm of my feet, the bob of my head. Faster, a little faster, I urged my body. I kept my eyes on the trail as it flared and faded before me in the flashlight's lurching beam.
Even as I ran, I planned. I would go straight to the bar; someone would be there, there was a phone there. God, what in hell was that man doing out in the meadow? Why shoot himself there, of all places?
Hurry, hurry. I was tiring; my breath came in gasps. Find the rhythm, keep breathing, keep running, I chanted to myself. Keep your eyes on the trail, keep moving, keep running.
I looked up. The pack station was closer. Eyes back on the trail, I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm.
A man with blood all over his shirt front, lying on his back in Deadman Meadow, wanting to die. Had he picked this spot to shoot himself because of the damn name?
Come on, Gail, I urged myself. Move it a little. Save this guy's life for him.
I could see the bar, with the long porch across the front of it. Not so far now. God, I was out of breath, though. I was really out of shape.
Closer, closer, almost there. The meadow was soggy, almost boggy, here; my feet squished and stuck a little. I could feel moisture seeping through my boots.
No matter. The lights were in front of me, the parking lot, the cars. Gasping for air, I pounded across the dark road-empty of tourists, for once-up the wooden steps, across the porch, and through the open door of the bar.
Lights, noise, faces, confusion. My eyes struggled to adjust to the bright light; all faces looked my way. And then I saw Lonny.
Standing at the bar with Ted, I registered. Turning toward me with a look of welcome changing to concern.
"Gail, what's wrong?"
He took three fast steps toward me, put his hand on my arm.
"A man ... shot himself ... still alive ... in the upper meadow." I said it between pants.
Lonny had never been slow. "Damn. Go get the Jeep," he ordered one of the boys. "Pick us up along the trail. Bring the first-aid kit. We're headed up there." He turned to Ted. "Better call the ambulance, and the sheriff."
"I think," I gasped, "he's going to need a chopper."
Ted nodded. "Okay." Then he headed for the phone.
"Come on, Gail, show me where." Lonny had hold of my arm.
"He's got a gun," I said.
"Ernie. " Lonny held out his left hand. Without a word Ernie produced a short shotgun from under the bar and handed it over the counter to Lonny.
"Okay. Let's go," Lonny said.
"Okay."
I started out of the bar, still panting, but a little better for the rest. I could keep going until the Jeep picked us up.
Lonny had the long stride of a six-foot-plus man, and despite the fact that he walked rather than ran across the parking lot and down the main trail, I had to jog every few steps to keep up.
Before he'd had time to ask me more than, "So just where is this guy?" we could hear the noise of the Jeep behind us. Headlight glow lit the trail as Jake, one of Ted's crew, pulled the vehicle up beside us.
As we climbed in, I told Lonny, "Behind some willows at the far end of the upper meadow. His car's out there. Some sort of black sports car."
I could barely see Lonny's face in the peripheral glow of the headlights; he looked strained and tired. And old, I thought. Well, he was fifty-one. Considerably older than I was. But until recently I'd always thought he looked young for his age.
"So, did you recognize this guy?" he asked.
"No." I thought about it. "He had dark hair, sort of an aquiline nose. He'd be about your age."
We were bouncing along the trail now. Lonny asked Jake, "Did you bring the first-aid kit?"
"Yeah. And three flashlights." Jake was all of sixteen, but, like most of the crew, he had already picked up Ted's laconic way of speaking. He said nothing more, just kept manhandling the Jeep over and around boulders, jolting up the trail.
When I judged we'd gone far enough, I said, "Stop."
Jake stopped.
"See if you can get the headlights pointed out into the meadow."
Jake began jockeying the car; Lonny and I were already scanning with the flashlights.
In a second I saw the sharp reflected gleam. ''There.''
''Take it as far as you can without getting stuck," Lonny told Jake.
Then he was out of the Jeep, with me scrambling to follow him, and we were both half walking, half running through the meadow grass and low willow scrub toward the car.
"He has a gun," I reminded Lonny.
"Did he threaten you with it?"
"No, but that doesn't mean he won't."
Lonny grunted. We both kept moving. Until, about twenty feet from the car, he stopped. "You wait here," he told me.
"What are you talking about? I'm not going to stand back here watching while somebody shoots you."
"Gail, will you for once in your life do what you're told? Especially when it makes sense. Why should we both get shot? Now stay here." And he walked off.
I stayed. What the hell. He was right, more or less. I kept my flashlight on the car. From this angle I couldn't see the man, but I knew about where he was.
Lonny moved cautiously forward; I could see him sweeping the ground with his flashlight beam. In the other hand he held the shotgun loosely. He stepped quietly around the front of the car, stopped, stepped forward again, and stopped.
"My God," he said. "It's Bill."
THREE
Do you know him?"
"Yeah, yeah I do. It's Bill Evans. He was my vet."
"Your vet?" I walked toward Lonny.
He bent down; I saw him come up holding the pistol.
"While I was running this pack station; he's Ted's vet now. Or was."
Lonny handed the pistol and the shotgun to me and bent down again, pressing his fingers under the man's jaw. No response from the recumbent figure. He was either unconscious or dead.
"He's got a pulse," Lonny said.
We both s
tared at the big, dark blotches on the white shirt front, the still face. Bill Evans didn't appear to be bleeding heavily.
"Is there a blanket in the Jeep?" I asked.
"Should be."
I could hear Jake slowly piloting the Jeep toward us around scrub, boulders, and wet spots.
"I guess all I know to do is keep him wann, maybe try to put some pressure on the wound if it's still actively bleeding."
"Yeah." Lonny looked stunned; he stared down at the man as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Jesus," he said quietly. "Bill."
"So why would try he to kill himself?" I asked.
"I don't know. But he has been acting real strange. He was up here last night, got drunk and obnoxious, and Ted threw him out of the bar. Jesus."
The Jeep was behind us now; Lonny yelled, "Bring a blanket."
In a minute Jake stood beside me, staring down at Bill Evans. I handed him the guns and took the wool blanket out of his hands. Jake didn't say a word. Bending down, I covered the man's legs with the blanket. Gingerly, I explored with my fingers the wet red spot in the center of the chest. Seeping. Not much of a hole. The pistol had been a .22, I recalled. The bullet appeared to have gone right into the sternum. Whether it had hit the heart or lungs I had no idea. Probably not the heart, or the guy would be dead by now.
"Get the first-aid kit," I told Jake.
He headed back toward the Jeep; I looked up to see Lonny still staring blankly downward.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I just can't believe it," he said slowly. And then, "My father killed himself."
"He did?" I hadn't known this.
"He shot himself. In the head. I found him." Lonny recited these facts quietly enough, but I sensed that the emotions behind them were roiling wildly through his mind.
"It's okay," I said soothingly. "This guy's alive. I can see Ted coming," I added.
Sure enough, headlights were bouncing along the main trail-Ted or somebody.
Jake handed me the first-aid kit; I opened it and began making a pad with gauze and cotton. This I pressed firmly against the wound. Lonny and Jake stood over me, wordless.
