James Smith: Hybrid

The wolf cowered—its tail and ears drooping—and flaunted a paw in the air.

Dieter focused on its eyes. He pictured the vacant image in Rusty’s eyes that horrible night, then dropped the revolver to his side.

The wolf moved to the water and lowered its head to leap. The river ran swift and deep at the top of the falls.

“No! Stop!”

Dieter sprinted for the bank and heaved the revolver at the wolf. The weapon flew over the animal’s head and splashed into the river as Dieter yelled again.

The wolf leapt into the river. The freezing water seemed to energize the animal and it paddled to keep its head above water—drifting swiftly downstream all the while.

Dieter raced along the bank, keeping pace with the wolf while the rain picked up force and hammered at his face. As he watched, the animal was caught in the eddy downstream from a boulder.

The wolf struggled against the roiling undertow, but it was clear in an instant that the current was too strong.

Dieter stooped to grab a dead tree limb and dragged it with him as he waded into the river. A voice behind him shouted, but he couldn’t make out the words.

The frigid water hit him like a fist in the stomach, the violent flow tugging at his legs. He tried to reach the drowning creature with the tree limb, but he was too far away.

He took a step toward the flailing wolf, and then another. Each movement brought a new battle to keep his footing against the relentless current. His legs and feet were becoming numb from the cold, but he inched forward and tried to stretch his overextended muscles enough to reach the floundering animal with the limb.

A stone must have rolled under his boot heel. His right foot slid to the side and he tried to recover his balance. Both feet gave way and he went down.

The river snatched him like a piece of litter caught in a storm drain. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and tried his damnedest to imitate what others did whenever he watched them swim.

The Gallatin hauled him hopelessly downstream. Again shouting erupted from the shore, but he couldn’t make out who was calling to him. He tumbled in somersaults and swallowed the river in gulps before slamming his ribcage into a log wedged between two boulders.

Blindly grabbing onto the log with both hands, he sputtered and coughed while he jerked himself above the surface.

The wolf had somehow gotten free of the eddy, but it was still at the mercy of the rushing water. It paddled feebly against the power of the river.

Dieter could only watch in agony as the majestic animal vanished over the rim of the falls.

Both arms clutching desperately to the log, Dieter was only seconds from the same fate. The frigid water turned the muscles of his neck and shoulders to stone. The shoreline appeared only as a haze, far removed from reality.

The shivering stopped. A surprising calm overtook him as he realized he was rapidly losing the strength to hold on. A preposterous way to die, really.

His thoughts turned to Michael and Megan, the many plans he’d made for them as he grew older and they grew up. I’m sorry, Fran. I’m sorry I let you down . And what would Josh think of his stupid blundering?

Would Fran be there to greet him?

It had been a lousy day for hunting.

A strange object flew directly at his head and splashed water into his face when it hit the surface. He flailed at it and attempted to push it away.

His wounded leg throbbing with each step, Josh led Rocko along the shore through the blowing rain, yelling at Dieter. His foolish partner couldn’t get out of the rapid current on his own. He stopped and pulled out the rope from beneath Rocko’s panniers. Creating several long loops with the rope, he could only hope it would be long enough to reach. He tied the end into a lasso, raised it over his head, and twirled. When he tossed the loop across the river, pain shot through his thigh like the stab of a dull knife.

The lasso splattered into the water nowhere close to the log. He dragged the rope back across the surface and cussed between heavy breaths. He made up more loops—larger ones this time. When he heaved the lasso into the air, he yelled out through the damned excruciating pain like a cowboy on a bronco.

Howin God’s name could the youngest Scout be left behind?

The thought kept bombarding Amy’s brain while she trampled in the rain alongside Michael. How was she going to explain all this to Dieter? She and Michael hurried to catch up with the Scouts. She held her thin jacket collar tightly around her neck, but it wasn’t the rain creeping down between her shoulder blades that bothered her. She was fuming about the stupid strategic mistake the scoutmaster had made.

When they met up with the Scouts backtracking on the trail and nearby woods, they were calling out Michael’s name. Scoutmaster Farmington was shocked to see Amy although more than thrilled at the sight of Michael. As if the boy was Jesus returning, she thought.

She felt like announcing to him the First Principle of Hiking —don’t lose anybody!

The scoutmaster’s apologies were weak but abundant. The Scouts, drenched from the rain, trudged back toward the camping area at the waterfalls.

“We’re almost there,” Farmington barked for the third time. They had hiked in the frigging rain for an hour and the scoutmaster no longer had credibility on the topic of how far they had left to go. Amy walked in the center of a single file of exhausted Scouts while Farmington hung back at the rear. Paul Struthers—introduced to her as a volunteer father—was in the lead when they came on an open field by the river that ran wide and deep. Farmington announced that the patrol cabin was just ahead.

Something was wrong.

It was hard to make out the image through the downpour. When she got closer, the figure of a man emerged, crouching on the bank. He was gripping a rope that coiled around his arms and chest like a python and was leaning back, straining, as if playing tug-of-war with someone in the river.

Josh Pendleton?

She jogged toward him, but began to run as soon as she spotted his blood-soaked trousers and the panic in his strawberry face. An agitated llama stood by his side. In the middle of the river a man was half-submerged with a loop of rope around his chest. He was about to lose hold of a log stuck between large boulders jutting above the surface. Through the sheets of rain she couldn’t see the face of the drowning victim but knew who it had to be. Glancing at Michael and then back to the river, she gazed in fright at how close the brim of a gargantuan waterfall was to Dieter, who struggled on the other end of the rope.

Josh was planted like a Ponderosa pine on the bank. A llama—poised to attack anyone who approached—stood guard.

Farmington made the first move toward Josh. The llama snorted and lowered its head, its nostrils flared and ears pinned back. When he took another step, the excited animal charged and rammed him in the groin, sending him on the run back through the mud.

Michael slipped between the Scouts to the front and moved toward the llama. “Hello, guy! Hey, boy!” He spoke softly, holding out his hand. The llama arched its head and thrust out its tongue, tasting the tips of the boy’s outstretched fingers. It licked his hand and wrist and worked its way up his arm. Michael reached up and displayed a fist stuffed with Juicy Fruit gum, still in wrappers.

“Can you take him up to the trees?” Amy shouted.

Michael grabbed the llama’s lead and moved away, whispering to it as he patted its neck. He doesn’t recognize his dad out in the river, Amy thought. Mr. Struthers rushed to Josh’s side and covered his head and shoulders with his own plastic poncho to shelter him from the downpour. He then uncoiled the rope from around Josh then twisted it about his own waist as he dug in with the heels of his boots to anchor himself in the mud.