by Pete Hautman
“Maybe something happened,” I said.
Tim gave me a dark look and walked away.
The next morning I got up and walked out to the rim and looked down on the river. It looked different. I went back inside and got the scope and looked again. It was definitely wider. I ran to wake up Tim.
“They did it!”
Tim was pretty foggy. “Did what?”
“The river is up. They must’ve got the gates open.”
He sat up, scratching his head. “They did?” His face broke into a grin.
We celebrated by having eggs and venison sausage for breakfast. It was a wonderful feeling knowing that Uncle and Hap had succeeded in changing the way the river ran—the same river that had carved out this enormous canyon, slicing a mile deep into the earth. They had made it flow again.
Our feeling of euphoria lasted through that day, and through the next, when we expected the Land Rover to come rumbling down the East Rim Drive. I spent the whole day waiting for the blare of the perimeter alarm.
Two days later, we were still waiting.
INTO THE ABYSS
ON THE NINTH DAY, Tim and I loaded up the mules. We packed enough food and water to last us for two weeks. That was how long it would take us to get to Page and back. Of course, we hoped we wouldn’t get that far. We hoped we would run into Uncle and Hap and Harryette along the way. They would be furious with us for not waiting. It would be a pleasure to listen to Uncle rant and rave. I even missed Harryette’s smirking face.
The first day, we planned to make it to the Desert View Watchtower, the stone tower near the east entrance to the park. From the top of the seventy-foot-tall tower we would be able to see for a hundred miles. Maybe we would be able to spot them. If not, we would continue on Highway 64, through Cameron, then north to Hidden Springs, and eventually to Page. It should have been an exciting journey, but as we left Grand Canyon Village I was overwhelmed by a sense of dread. I held the reins with one hand, and kept my other resting lightly on the stock of the 30-30 carbine in my saddle holster.
Tim, riding a few yards behind me, kept up a steady stream of chatter. I could tell he was nervous, too. Every few seconds he would reach back and touch the shotgun strapped to the back of his saddle. After the first few miles, the clop of mule hoofs on the crumbling tarmac, regular as a metronome, lulled me into a daze. The trees marched slowly by, and white clouds boiled in the sky above. We had been traveling for two hours when Tim pulled up beside me.
“What?”
“Stop!”
We reined in the mules.
“Listen.”
I heard the breeze in the trees, and Cecil’s breathing. Then I heard the sound of an engine, growing louder.
“It’s the Land Rover,” said Tim.
An instant later, the Land Rover came into view a quarter mile ahead. I waved. The engine sound quieted, and it braked to a stop a hundred yards in front of us. I gave the reins a shake, urging Cecil forward.
“Hold up,” said Tim. “Something’s wrong.”
We could see only one person in the Land Rover—the driver.
“Is it Hap?” I asked.
“It’s not Hap.”
The Land Rover jerked and started forward.
“It’s not Uncle,” I said as the shape of the driver’s head became clear.
“It’s somebody else. Come on.” Tim gave Frosty a kick and headed off the road, away from the rim and into the trees. I waited, still trying to make out the features of the approaching driver. He was bald, like Emory and Harryette, but his face was painted pale yellow, and his eyes were outlined with red. Suddenly the engine roared and the Land Rover hurtled toward me. I jerked the reins to the side and gave Cecil a kick in the flanks. He reared, then bolted. The Land Rover roared past, missing his flank by inches. Cecil galloped into the woods, nearly taking my head off on a low tree branch. I hunched low in the saddle and followed Tim, who was zigzagging his way through the trees. Behind me, I could hear the angry honking of the Land Rover’s horn.
I caught up with Tim a few minutes later in a dry, rocky creek bed. He was sitting on his mule, his face white, holding his shotgun in shaking hands. I probably looked worse. I sure felt worse.
“Watch where you point that thing.”
“They got ’em,” he said, moving the barrel away. “The Kinka got ’em.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“They got the Land Rover.”
“Maybe Uncle traded it to them. Or they just stole it.”
Tim shook his head.
“What are we going to do?” I said. “If we go back to the village they’ll find us there.”
Tim dismounted and sat down on a lichen-covered rock. “They’ll get us next.”
“No. We can hide until they leave.” I climbed down off Cecil and sat beside him. “I know these woods. They won’t find us if we don’t want them to.”
Tim shook his head. “That stupid dam. All because of a stupid dam.”
In the distance, I heard honking.
I said, “Look, they might be okay. Maybe they got away and are hiding like us, just waiting until the Kinka move on. Uncle and Hap know how to take care of themselves. And you know Harryette—she’s practically bulletproof.”
Tim nodded. He wanted to believe me. I wanted to believe me, too. It frightened me to see Tim so scared, but it helped, too. Seeing him that messed up, I knew I had to be the strong one.
“We have to get farther away,” I said.
“Away from where? We don’t even know where they are! We don’t even know how many. There might be a thousand of them.”
“Or there might only be one or two.” I stood up and took Cecil’s reins. “Come on,” I said. “We’ll walk the mules up the creek. They won’t be able to track us over all these rocks. I know where there’s an old cabin we can stay in.” I started off.
Woodenly, Tim rose to his feet and followed. We walked a half mile up the creek, lost in our own thoughts and fears. At the collapsed bridge, we climbed out of the creek bed and followed an old jeep trail south until we reached a dilapidated cabin I had discovered the previous summer.
“We can stay here.”
Tim looked through the cobwebbed doorway at the trash-strewn interior. “Nice place.”
I half-smiled. At least he still had his sense of humor. We sat outside the cabin and ate a cold lunch of pronghorn jerky and canned pears. The woods were still and windless. Tiny flies hovered around our heads; the carpet of pine needles absorbed the sound of their buzzing. As our bellies filled, the Kinka seemed less real. Maybe it wasn’t the Kinka at all. Maybe some crazy lone Survivor had stolen the Land Rover.
Tim said, “You know what we gotta do, don’t you?”
I looked up.
“We gotta go back. We gotta go find out where they’re camped. If they got my dad and your uncle and Harryette, maybe we can do something.” He ran his hand up and down the barrel of his shotgun. “Maybe we can save them.”
We left the cabin at sunset and led the mules north-east through the forest, paralleling the rim drive. It was slow going at first, but once the moon rose we were able to move easily through the trees. Years ago, a forest fire had burned up part of the forest. Blackened tree trunks stood among the young trees like silent dark sentinels. That night they looked to me like Kinka. Every few minutes we stopped and listened, but heard only the faint sounds of small animals and the gentle night breeze passing though the trees.
I had an idea about where the Kinka—if it was the Kinka—might be camped. There was an overlook a mile up-canyon called Moran Point. It was a natural stopping place and a good spot to camp. Even a group of crazy Survivors would appreciate the view.
An hour of slow, careful walking brought us to an overgrown jeep trail. We stopped again and listened, but heard nothing.
“This takes us back to the rim road,” I said. “We’ll come out opposite of Moran Point.”
Tim nodded, his face bright with moonli
ght. We followed the trail, listening to the soft crunch of mule hooves on twigs and pine needles. We stopped every few yards to listen. When we reached the rim drive I suggested that we park the mules and go in on foot. We crossed the road and left the mules in the woods between the road and the rim.
Proceeding on foot, we walked the quarter mile to the Moran Point access road. Again, we stopped and listened. But this time it was not Tim’s ears that alerted us, it was my nose.
“I smell smoke,” I whispered.
Tim sniffed the air. “Me, too.” The breeze was coming from the canyon. “You were right. They’re camped at the point.”
“We have to get closer, find out how many of them there are.”
We crossed the access road and made our way through the woods between the rim drive and the rim itself. It was only a couple hundred yards. The canyon in moonlight was a beautiful sight, but neither of us was in a mood to appreciate it. We worked our way along the rocky edge slowly, until we reached the edge of the small loop drive. We crouched behind a fallen tree. The glow of a campfire showed through a grove of junipers and pinyon pine at the center of the loop. The mutter of voices filtered through the trees. They were camped right at the overlook, fifty yards away. We couldn’t see them clearly, only momentary glimpses of firelight reflecting off hairless heads.
“It’s them,” I whispered.
To get any closer we would have to cross the loop road. If they had any guards posted, or if one of them just happened to wander away from the fire, we might be seen.
Tim said, “I can make it to those trees. They won’t see me.” He crept forward, then made a dash across the loop road and disappeared into a copse of junipers. I sucked in my breath and held it. There was no shouting or shooting or sudden silence. The voices continued to mumble, with an occasional burst of laughter. He’d made it! I let my breath out. My heart was banging around in my chest like a packrat in a trap. What was he seeing? I wished I’d gone with him, but I was too scared to move. Five or ten minutes passed, but it seemed like hours. What was he doing? A shadow appeared to the left of the trees; moonlight glanced off a naked skull. A Kinka was walking down the center of the road, coming in my direction. I ducked down behind the fallen tree and watched him through a screen of dry pine needles. When he was only a few yards away, he stopped and unzipped his pants. Urine splashed on tarmac; a few seconds later I could smell it. The Survivor zipped up, then ambled slowly back toward the campfire. I swallowed, trying to moisten my dry throat.
That was when everything happened. There was a shout, then excited voices. I saw bald heads in motion, then Tim burst from the junipers, his legs pumping, heading right at me. He hurdled the fallen tree and kept right on going.
“Run!” he shouted over his shoulder.
I didn’t need to be told twice. I took off after him, running at top speed in the dark, branches tearing at us, rocks and logs trying to trip us at every stride. It felt like we’d been running forever, but it couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes for us to reach the mules. I untied Cecil and leapt onto his back. He snorted and stamped his feet in protest. Instead of reassuring him, I gave Cecil a kick in the flanks like he’d never gotten before. He got the message, launching himself forward. Keeping my head low, my cheek pressed to the side of his neck, I guided him out of the woods onto the rim drive and headed west. Tim and Frosty were right behind us. I heard the sound of an engine and gave Cecil another kick, urging him to a full gallop. We pounded down the road. Tim shouted something. I couldn’t hear his words through the clatter of hooves, the rasping of breath, and the thudding of my pulse, but I knew he was telling me to head off into the woods. I made a scooping motion with my arm, telling him to keep following me. Headlights appeared behind us. I strained to see what lay ahead. I was looking for an open spot on the right side of the road, a place marked with a few stubby posts and an old sign. It had to be close. Tim came up beside me, pointing urgently at the woods to our left. I shook my head. We were almost there. There! I pulled back on the reins. Cecil snorted and stopped, I turned him back, then headed him between two wooden posts and onto an overgrown trail leading toward the canyon.
“We’ll be trapped between the road and the rim,” Tim shouted from the road.
“No we won’t!” I yelled back.
Tim hesitated. The roar of the engine—two engines—got louder. Headlights washed across him. He would come, or he wouldn’t. I headed toward the rim, pushing Cecil as fast as he would go, hoping that Tim was right behind me. I didn’t look back until Cecil came to an abrupt halt where the trail suddenly dropped into a steep switchback. The moonlit canyon spread out before us.
I heard Frosty’s hooves coming up, and Tim’s voice saying, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
We could hear engines racing, and see flashes of light coming through the trees.
“So do I,” I said. I urged Cecil forward. “We’re going down.”
RED CANYON
IT HAD BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’d explored the trail into Red Canyon, and it had been in rough shape back then. I hoped that it hadn’t washed out completely. Even when it had been in good shape, the Red Canyon Trail was one of the steepest, most treacherous ways to get into the canyon. Going down it at night, on mules, was practically insane.
Cecil didn’t want to enter the first switchback. I didn’t blame him. I leaned close to his long ear and said, “Apple, Cecil. Let’s go!” Reluctantly, he headed down the steep, rocky trail, placing his hooves carefully. I sat lightly on his back, trying to make it as easy for him as I could. Once a mule gets going on a canyon trail, it’s not a good idea to distract it—one small misstep could prove deadly.
I looked back. Tim was right there, hanging onto Frosty, looking terrified.
“Just let Frosty do the work,” I said.
He nodded.
We were only a hundred feet down the trail when the Kinka reached the rim. I heard shouting, then the clatter of feet on rocks. One of them cried, “Wait, come back!” I wasn’t sure whether they were calling to us, or to one of their own. “We won’t hurt you,” the voice said.
“Keep on moving, buddy,” I said in Cecil’s ear. To our left was a steep talus slope—a sloping field of rubble—that ended forty feet below me in a sheer cliff.
I heard a grunt of surprise and turned to see Tim struggling, flailing with his fists. One of the Kinka had caught up and was trying to pull him off the mule. Frosty danced on the narrow section of trail as Tim struck at the Kinka. I pulled my rifle from the saddle holster and tried to aim, but in the dark, with the two of them so close, I couldn’t risk a shot. Then Tim had his shotgun out. He swung it like a club, hitting the Kinka on the ear. The Kinka howled, staggered back, lost his footing and tumbled down the talus slope. For a moment I thought he would catch himself on one of the small, shrubby trees that dotted the slope, but the Kinka just kept rolling until he disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Judging by the length of his scream, he must have dropped a couple hundred feet before he hit.
Tim sat unmoving on Frosty, staring after the Kinka. I reholstered my rifle.
“We have to keep moving,” I said.
Tim nodded. We continued down, looking back every few seconds. We could still hear the voices, now a hundred feet above us. For almost a minute, nothing happened.
Then the rocks began to fall. The first rocks were small—we couldn’t see them, but we heard them hitting behind us, rolling down the slopes and causing mini-avalanches. Above us, the Kinka were shouting and laughing. Then they started to push the big rocks down on us. I heard a loud crunching, ripping sound from above us. A boulder as big as an easy chair smashed through a juniper and plowed across the trail a few feet in front of me. Cecil reared. Several smaller rocks, dislodged by the boulder, came skidding and bouncing in its wake. One of them glanced off my shoulder, nearly knocking me off. Cecil suddenly bolted forward, and another huge boulder came thumping down, end-over-end, right behind us. I heard Tim shout and turn
ed just in time to see a rock the size of a loaf of bread hit Frosty on the side of the head. The mule collapsed instantly, throwing Tim forward onto her neck. She tried to right herself, but the edge of the trail, damaged by falling rock, gave way. They began to slide, unable to stop themselves on the loose scree. I lost sight of Tim. Frosty let loose a horrific squeal as she went over the edge into the drainage. I saw a flash of white—Tim’s face? Had he gone over? From directly above, I heard another boulder coming. I dug my heels into Cecil’s flanks, sending us down the trail at a dangerous clip. Within seconds we reached the protection of a limestone overhang. I dismounted and listened as more boulders came crashing down from the rim, the echoes of their descent swallowed up by the vastness of the canyon. After a few minutes, the bombardment stopped. I grabbed my rifle and began to walk quietly back up the trail, ready to shoot anything that moved. At the spot where Frosty and Tim had been knocked off the trail, I stopped. I couldn’t see either of them. The steep slope beside the trail was dotted with scrub oak and agaves. Forty feet down, the slope ended in a precipice that could have been five feet—or five hundred feet. I stood and listened. I wanted desperately to call out for Tim, but I was afraid that if the Kinka heard me the rocks would come again. I waited for some sign that he had survived—a groan of pain, anything—but I heard nothing. Even the Kinka were silent. Either they had gotten bored and left, or they were creeping down the trail—or they were waiting, like me, for a sound. I considered scrambling down the slope to look over the edge—there were enough plants and rocks to grab onto—but I was afraid the Kinka would hear me and send another barrage of rocks. I decided to continue down the trail a few hundred yards, then bushwhack my way back up the drainage. Maybe I could reach them from below.
As I approached the overhang where I’d left Cecil, I heard a low voice. How could they have gotten in front of me? I moved forward slowly. I saw Cecil first, then a figure standing beside him, talking in his ear. I raised the rifle to my shoulder.
