James Smith: Hybrid

He opened and checked the rifle chamber. The best strategy was to approach from a distance and call out. The bastards would be carrying weapons and he’d have to tell them to put them down. No tricks and no sudden movements or he would shoot them on the spot.

The superintendent depended on him to enforce the letter of the law. He was already counting on a big bonus for discovering the low-life poacher who’d killed the wolf over at Red Lodge. No doubt he’d get an even bigger bonus for this mission. Of course, the superintendent would try to make a big deal about it. He could see the look there’d be then on the face of Greta McFarland, the Black Princess whore.

He cradled the rifle in the bend of his left elbow while he rambled alongside the river and searched for a place to cross to put the river between him and them. One spot in fast water was shallow enough but ran too swift in narrow pockets. Couldn’t take the chance. Another place was more promising.

He stepped from the bank onto a rock that was well above the surface and then found two more within easy stretch. There was no choice but to plant a foot down into the rapid flow while he held his rifle high overhead. He sought out a foothold sandwiched between two rocks as water slapped above his knees.

His waterlogged trousers rubbed against his thighs and freezing water squished inside his boots. Focusing on the gravel bottom, he slogged along until he finally arrived at the edge of the bank where he jumped up onto the field grass.

An hour passed before he stopped to rest under a large pine. He placed the rifle barrel against the trunk and unzipped his jacket, swallowing to lubricate his dry throat. All that cold rushing water and so few ever saw it. Why the hell should they? They were too occupied waiting on Old Faithful to erupt while they sat on log benches fixated on their wristwatches. No need to worry about warnings that he’d given so many backcountry hikers, warnings about the possibility of giardia in the streams. This pure mountain water was direct from a lake at ten thousand feet.

Alert, he moved toward the bank. When he reached the river, he bent down and scooped up water with the palm of his hand. He quickly looked about before slapping a few chilled drops into his mouth. Lowering his head again, he dipped his cupped palm into the water and slurped up more as he twisted his head about to search and listen. His eyes darting back and forth, he rapidly scooped water again and again until his thirst was quenched.

He stood and grabbed his rifle.

Keep moving.

The mellow rumble of a waterfall in the distance egged him on. When he arrived at its base, his first thought was that of another wonder of the backcountry he’d never known existed. If only he had the time to sit and marvel at it, to draw near it and bathe in its spray. The path around it looked steep, but he scrambled along it until he reached the top of the falls. Out of breath, he glared at the sight before him. The Gallatin River—a mighty surge of clear, deep water—plunged over the rim.

A whiff of sulfur fumes caught him by surprise. Then he spotted the cascade of steaming water that bubbled from a crevice in the rocky ground and meandered like a scalding slime down the bank to the river.

Voices.

Crouching down, he waddled through the junipers. The long neck of a grazing llama appeared through a gap in the trees. He stooped behind a boulder and cautiously raised his head. It was them all right.

He needed to alert headquarters and reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt, first one side, then the other. Not there.

Dammit to hell!

He released the rifle’s safety. Careful not to make the slightest sound, he rested the barrel on top of a boulder, held his breath and glared at the quivering image of outlaws in the rifle’s scope. A warning shot, that was all… just a warning shot.

After the rain let up, Dieter walked the trail. He held the antenna high and tried to keep one eye on the meter while watching the ground for rocks and puddles of mud. When his arm grew tired, he switched hands. At that same moment the red light on the meter flickered.

He stopped and reoriented the antenna. The light flickered again and this time the needle on the meter’s face surged to the right.

A signal pickup?

He smacked the metal box against his hip and flipped the switch on and off when a thundering bang pierced the stillness.

A pine bough shattered above his head. Before he could react, a second shot rang out. He tossed the equipment into the weeds and ran in Josh’s direction. When another bullet ricocheted off a rock to his right, he dropped to the ground and lay flat on his stomach. Yet another shot and Josh cried out.

Dieter wormed his way toward him.

Josh had fallen. He held onto his leg and squirmed as Rocko pranced around his master, hovering over him. Blood drenched Josh’s trouser leg, just below his waist. Dieter grabbed his partner’s jacket and attempted to drag him toward the safety of scrub oak. Rocko jammed his snout between Dieter’s face and Josh, the sight and smell of blood throwing the llama into a frenzy. While Dieter struggled he felt the llama’s breath on his neck as the animal let out a low-pitched hum. With both hands under Josh’s arms, Dieter tugged, readjusted and tugged more, repeating the maneuver until he finally dragged Josh into cover. He sliced open the leg of Josh’s trousers with a pocketknife. Blood was gushing from his thigh—a bullet had ripped through it.

“Lie still,” Dieter whispered. “We’ll get out of this.”

He grabbed a thin stick from the ground and broke it in half, then removed his belt and secured it around Josh’s thigh just above the wound with the stick wedged between flesh and belt. As he twisted the jerry-rigged tourniquet, the bleeding gradually stopped. Josh stared back at him, his teeth clenched in agony. Rocko crouched on the other side, licking at Josh’s ashen face. Dieter reached inside his jacket and pulled out his .44 Magnum. His head down he slowly made his way across a bed of pine straw on his belly until he could peek through the underbrush and search for the sniper.

Corey balanced himself on one knee and lowered the rifle to his side. Tree branches thrashed in the wind and he could no longer see Joshua Pendleton or the vet across the river. He stood and scrambled in the direction he’d fired. Puffs of steam soared high above a stand of trees. He ducked under the pine and moved closer.

A hot spring appeared—no more than fifteen feet in diameter and surrounded by a limestone crust. The white mineral spiraled deep into clear green water and now and then a bubble scampered to the top and burst free. Wedged within a narrow crevice far beneath the slowly boiling surface lay the blanched skeleton of a large mammal completely intact.

Alarmed by a rustling of bushes, he twisted around. A pair of amber eyes peered from the head of a massive black body on four legs standing in the white haze rising from the hot spring. He jerked the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and took aim through the steam, only to lose sight of the piercing eyes. He inched forward.

The glowing eyes beamed again, larger than before. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger.

Click . The cartridge had jammed in the chamber.

The amber eyes moved toward him.

He slammed the rifle to the ground and grabbed the fighting knife from its sheath hooked to his belt. Standing at the edge of the spring, he crouched low, his shield hand stretched out in front. The other hand squeezed the handle of the weapon like an axe.

He was back in the jungle, inside the DMZ with the 147th Brigade. Just him, and the quick and agile VC soldier.