James Smith: Hybrid

The imposing falls plummeted down onto massive boulders spread about in the narrow fast-flowing river before them, not more than thirty yards wide. Dead trees that had drifted over the brim lay scattered in a churning pool. What the falls lacked in width it made up for in height and sheer volume of flow.

Josh spotted more tracks and bent down to examine them, then pointed toward the river. “They lead to that flat rock on the water’s edge. Take a look at how those larger rocks line up. He’s crossed to the other side.”

“No way we can wade that,” Dieter replied.

“Let’s hike up above the falls and look for easier places to cross.”

“Do you think he’ll still be following the river?”

“You can put money on it. Who knows what drove him to cross at this point. Less he senses a path to get around the falls. On upstream he could just as well come back to this side.”

Dieter gazed above the waterfall where a cloud of steam rose high into the air behind distant trees. When Josh saw where Dieter was staring he said, “You’ve got to watch out for the scattered hot springs in these parts. We’re not that far from the geysers and thermal springs around Mammoth.”

Beneath skies of a dingy charcoal gray, the switchback to the top of the falls looked steep and challenging. A cold steady wind arose from the west and brought in a light rain. Josh held Rocko at a stop and grabbed the rope hooked around the saddle. He tied one end to a ring on the strap around Rocko’s breast and stuck his arm through the remaining coil. “I’ll lead Rocko up the path if you can stay at his rear. You might have to push him at times.”

Dieter nodded and took a position behind Rocko as they began the trek along the switchback. Progress was slow. Josh’s heavy breathing could be heard above the rumble of the falls while he pulled on the rope and grunted with Dieter shoving on Rocko’s rear. When finally reaching the top of the falls, they followed the river upstream several hundred yards to a clearing.

“That’s a patrol cabin up ahead,” Josh said. “It’s used often by park rangers.” The tiny log cabin was in the open field between the woods and the river. Josh rubbed his knee and mumbled about the need for a break.

While Dieter collected water from the stream, Josh rummaged through Rocko’s panniers, careful not to bump his head against the antenna on the saddle horn. He dug out a small camp stove and dented steel coffee pot followed by two ham sandwiches and a fresh egg from a cool pack.

Dieter sat cross-legged near the bank and watched his partner perform. The flat top of a boulder served to hold the stove. After bringing the water to a boil, Josh tossed into the pot a handful of ground coffee with a pinch of salt and waited. When the brew simmered, he cracked the egg on a rock, tossed away the yolk and white, and dropped the crushed shell into the pot to filter the grounds. It wasn’t long before he poured rich black coffee into two tin cups. While Dieter sipped the hot brew, he knew that he had to stop fretting. Michael would be safe with Leonard Farmington and Paul Struthers. The Scouts and the renegade wolf were miles apart and chances of any encounter were one in a million. He patted the inside of his jacket and took comfort in the feel of hard steel. Given the chance, he’d accomplish his mission quickly, humanely. Fortunately, in the wilderness a carcass wasn’t going to last long before it would be devoured by foragers. He owed the undertaking to his clients and

kids… and to Rusty.

Ambling over to Rocko, he stopped and stroked his wet fur. After untying the antenna from the saddle and the meter linked to it, he turned to Josh, who was relaxing with his back against a boulder. “I’m going to do some exploring,” Dieter said.

He held the antenna above his shoulder, grasped tightly the meter’s handle with his other hand and began walking along the trail.

The troop had paused next to the Gallatin River. Some of the Scouts lay in the grass while others snooped along the bank. Most sat in small groups, eating snacks and drinking cold sodas. The ones taking turns at the spotting scope searched mountain slopes to be first to catch a glimpse of a bighorn sheep or even better, a Grizzly.

Michael jerked up when a boy standing behind the scope shouted that he’d found something. Others ran to crowd around it, shoving to be the next to look. Scoutmaster Farmington rushed toward the group and called out, “What you got, Rowen?”

“Looks like a small bear. A black bear!”

Farmington struggled with the scope. Someone pointed to a dark spot moving across the hillside, but Michael couldn’t see it. Mr. Struthers held his binoculars to his face. “I’m not so sure. It’s moving much too fast for a bear.”

“I can’t pick it up with this thing,” Farmington complained, moving his head away from the spotting scope. Everyone stared at the hillside.

“I’ve lost track of it now,” Mr. Struthers said. The scoutmaster then motioned for him and the pair huddled away from the boys.

Michael sat on the ground near them, positioning himself to listen in on the conversation. The scoutmaster had opened a large folded map—he called it a “topo”—and said they were less than two miles from the camping area near the waterfalls. Michael looked forward to sleeping in a cabin with other Tenderfoots. He was tired, hungry and wet, just like everybody else.

“Okay, Scouts,” Farmington called out. “Come on over.”

They bunched around their leader as he explained the need to keep together in a tight group until they reached the camping area, which wasn’t far. While they hiked they should talk as loud as they wanted. Sing, if they wished. Whistle. Any kind of noisemaking would be okay.

The scoutmaster said that after getting into dry clothes and getting a good night’s sleep, they could look forward to a fun hike back to the Camporee tomorrow under sunny skies. In a steady drizzle, the boys took off laughing and arguing over what marching song to sing.

While Michael walked, the Scouts passed him by one by one, just like they did on the hike at the church. It was a lot easier for them to pass by him this time because he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. Everyone was moving too fast, trying to keep up with the leader. Michael kept falling behind until someone would look back and call out to him. Then he’d walk faster, but it was now happening more often.

He wanted to go home. When he stumbled over a rock for the third time, he lay flat for a moment and then rolled into a sitting position. The Scout ahead of him disappeared over the rim of the hill.

“Hey!” Michael shouted, but not loud enough. “Hey!” he repeated, louder.

No answer.

Maybe they didn’t want to hear him. But they’d be mad when they discovered he wasn’t around. That would slow them down, for sure.

They’d have to come all the way back for him, but he didn’t care about causing a problem anymore. Serve them right.

Larger drops of rain began to fall, stinging his face and splattering like pellets of hail in the puddles around him. He shivered. A dead log lay in weeds beside a shallow place where there might be enough room for shelter.

He crawled down into a low spot, pressed his shoulder against the log, and curled up with his face mashed against rotting bark, drawing in the musty stench with each breath. As he pulled the jacket collar up around his neck, he slid his hands inside the sleeves, yawned and leaned against his pack.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach as he squeezed shut his eyes.

Thechopper climbed straight up and sped away, leaving behind the silence that Jack Corey had craved. He stood for a long moment, a smile across his face, then sauntered to the rushing river and stooped to examine tracks near the bank—clear prints of hard-leather boots. Hiking boots plus a hoofed animal that left behind soft impressions like a lamb on wet sand. But he knew llama tracks when he saw them. Yanking the walkie-talkie off his belt, he heaved it into the river.