James Smith: Hybrid

The scoutmaster and four of the older boys ran down to the bank to help Struthers pull. They grabbed onto the rope and tugged in an attempt to pull in the slack in the rope that had bowed against the force of the current. Together, they tugged, backpedaled, tugged. When one fell to the ground, he tripped over another. Three more Scouts joined in to help.

Amy watched in terror as the river swelled above Dieter’s neck and beat at his face, pinning him against the boulder. She shook her head in exasperation, realizing that the Scouts somehow had to overcome the ungodly drag of the rope against the current. Otherwise there was no chance in hell to haul him in.

The Scouts huddled on the bank in single file, each holding tightly with rope-burned palms and fingers to the rescue line while the older ones moved into the rushing river. Those in back squatted into the mud. Farmington was in front, up to his waist in water. He turned toward Amy on shore and yelled. “We can’t keep going! It’s too dangerous.”

Jesus, no!

Michael ran down to the edge of the river, suddenly aware it was his dad out there, drowning.

Amy shouted back at Farmington. “Hold on, Leonard. Give me just one more minute.” She seized Michael by his jacket before he waded out. She clamped her arms around him and carried him back to shore, flopping down with him behind the group. “I want you to help with the rope, Michael. When I tell everyone to pull, give it all the muscle you have. Do you understand?”

He was panting, wildly staring back at her through streaks of rain. When he nodded, she rubbed his wet hair and rushed back to the river’s edge, where she waved toward Dieter with both arms high above her head. Uncertain if he could see her, she folded her arms around her chest and threw her hands out away from her body with her fingers spread open.

She repeated her action with exaggerated gestures, grabbing her chest, tossing her hands out harder, faster. Let go, she thought, mouthing the words.

Let go of the log!

She flung out her arms, back to her chest and out again, hoping and praying he could see her through the rain.

“Let go, Dieter,” she cried above the roar of the falls, gesturing again and again. “Let go… let go! For God’s sake, let go!”

He waved back. Holding onto the rope with both hands, Dieter dived upstream against the current. The river surged into his face as he reared back his head.

A younger boy at the front of the group fell into the water and Mr. Farmington grabbed him from behind. The other Scouts slipped in the mud, but still clung to the rope, refusing to turn loose.

“Pull, men,” Amy yelled. “Pull like crazy. Head for the trees behind you and pull!”

Calling encouragement to one another, they shuffled back away from the river and toward the trees, everyone in sync like one monster gear.

Dieter was losing the battle, drifting toward the waterfall. Amy gasped and cupped her hands to her mouth. The force of the current towed the Scouts along the bank until Dieter swung on an arc out over the falls with his legs flailing in midair.

He came hurling back. His chest smacked the water and his head narrowly missed another boulder that jutted above the surface.

The Scouts rushed for the trees, hauling Dieter through the river. He slid into shore and slammed his face into the gravel, gradually skidding to a halt. When the Scouts braked, they rolled into a human ball, cheering and yelling.

Dieter lay buried in the mud. A rumble roared in from above and river water sprayed into the air like a small tornado.

The noise pierced Dieter’s skull. His wet clothes flapped in a torrent of wind. Voices. Commotion.

Someone was shaking him, shouting. He wallowed in the warm mud, completely spent. A blurred figure of a man with a handlebar mustache checked his breathing and pulse. “He’s okay. Just scratched up a bit.”

Amy crouched over Dieter and squeezed his face with the soft hands of a nun… or an angel. Michael lay with his arms around Dieter’s waist and his head glued to his dad’s belly.

Too exhausted to move, Dieter could only watch rescuers bring out stretchers from the helicopter and rush to get both him and Josh inside the craft. After hooking up an IV to Josh onboard, the rescuers stripped away Dieter’s soaked clothes and boots and slipped him into a jump suit. They wrapped him in a blanket and applied a heat pack under his neck before locking him in next to a window.

He pressed his face against the glass as they lifted off. The Scouts stood back, ducking and holding hands up to shield their faces from the whirlwind. Amy and Michael waved. Dieter was too numb and too weak to wave back.

When the chopper paused in midair, Dieter stared down on the string of jagged boulders at the base of the waterfall. A flock of ravens had gathered on the bank, feasting on a large black carcass.

“Whereare we anyway?” Josh asked.

“Bozeman Deaconess,” Dieter replied. “You just got out of surgery. The bullet smashed up your thigh pretty bad. Just plain luck the main artery wasn’t hit.”

Josh’s left leg was wrapped in a bandage from crotch to knee and his foot rested on two stacked pillows. “Who the hell was trying to knock us off?”

“Would you believe Jack Corey?”

“Not only do I believe it, I would have bet on it.”

“They found him floating in a hot spring—more or less poached.”

Josh coughed and reached for his glass of water on a bedside tray. “Sometimes the Lord acts in mysterious ways,” he muttered. “You should’ve taken that wolf out with your revolver, you know. Would’ve saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

Dieter moved closer and placed his head down to Josh’s ear as he whispered. “What revolver you talking about, partner?”

Both men smiled.

While Dieter had waited during the surgery that morning, a visitor from Yellowstone Headquarters arrived—Greta McFarland. She apologized that the superintendent couldn’t accompany her. He was called to Washington on urgent business.

No doubt he was.

The conversation was awkward. Of course, they were concerned about both his and Mr. Pendleton’s wellbeing. Of course, the National Park Service would cover all medical expenses. They also knew the details regarding the bravery of the Boy Scouts and intended to provide special Yellowstone Park Awards to each for their acts of heroism. Of course.

She spoke only in vague generalities about Jack Corey. His sudden and unexplained transformation shocked everybody, she said, adding nothing about a renegade wolf. Dieter made a quick decision not to bring up either topic.

Two days later, Dieter drove Amy, Michael, and Megan the twenty-four mile trip to Livingston and the veterinary hospital. Rusty was ready to be checked out. When they first spotted their precious pet in his cage, he wagged his tail and whimpered. He wasn’t able to bark. The throat wound was going to need a couple of more weeks to heal, but a complete recovery was expected.

That evening they drove back through the center of the Park toward Colter. Rusty was well drugged, lying on a blanket in the backseat, his head on Michael’s lap and his tail in Megan’s. Because the pair claimed starvation, Dieter stopped at the Yellowstone Lake Lodge for a buffet dinner.

After the kids had stuffed themselves, they wanted to explore the gift shop. Amy watched as they pranced away, then turned to Dieter. “I thought you might want to know that I’ve changed my mind.”

“About?”

“Moving.”

“You’re staying in Colter?”

“Nope, I’m headed upstate to Browning.”

“But what about the beaches of the West Coast? Wine and sunsets?”