What Einar wanted more than anything at that moment, standing alone in the
carport with the morning brightening around him and a soft wind whispering
through the brilliant yellow-green haze that graced the tops of the awakening
aspens, was to take off up one of the nearby ridges, push himself hard to the
top and make a circuit of several miles around the place, come to know its ups
and downs, the little hidden places where rock jutted out and trees hung over,
learn by what concealed paths a man might lead his family to safety should
the need arise. But, he could not do it. Not just then, not without potentially precipitating just the sort of situation he
was seeking to avoid, possibly alerting any who might be watching to the
presence of Bud Kilgore’s contraband houseguests. So he kept concealed, studying the
surrounding terrain as well as permitted by the limitations of being so close
to the tree-enfolded house, focusing his special attention on the gully that
held the creek. Really wanted to get
down in there and have a better look, more realistic proposal than had been his
notion of taking off up the nearest ridge, well covered as the approach
appeared to be by the dense boughs of several large ponderosas.
A reasonable risk, and he went, following the sound of the water as it
gurgled and cascaded over rock and root, finding as he went a deer trail which
provided more secure footing on the increasingly steep slope, slick with fallen
needles. Halfway down he paused,
crouching to examine the droppings of a large bird, too large to be
grouse. Wild turkey, he was pretty sure. Lot of meat on a turkey. Would have to ask Bud about their presence in
the area.
Below him, at last, appeared the creek, clear, moss-bordered in that spot
where a small pool had formed behind a section of the long-decayed trunk of a
fallen pine. Einar crouched beside it
the pool, both hands in the water, good, cold snowmelt water from up high in
the peaks. He could smell them in it, granite
dust and ice, the freshness of subalpine fir.
Splashed his face with the stuff, shoulders, let it run down the back of
his neck and trace along his backbone.
He shivered, stretched out flat on his stomach beside the creek and
submerged his face, eyes open, everything very still down there, silent, save
the crackling of the water over the top of his head. Had to breathe eventually, rolling sideways
to break contact with the water and lying for a moment in the rocks, staring up
at the canopy of towering ponderosas overhead as he struggled to get his breath. Had not helped the ribs any, those twisting
motions required by his little dip, difficult to fill his lungs to capacity,
but he did not care, greatly refreshed by the cold, grinning as he got to his feet. It was a fine place, reminded him of
home.
Critically studying the landscape as he stood with his back to a tree,
waiting to have enough breath to begin moving again, he supposed they could, in
the long term, eventually find their way into the hills some distance from
Bud’s house, seek out a sheltered spot in which to spend the remainder of the
spring and perhaps, over time, establish themselves as they had done in his own
high country. The place was different,
peaks not so high and everything so much further south as to be inhabited by
flora and, to a lesser degree, fauna with which he was not quite so familiar,
but it was a place he could come to know, to live with. Not a bad change, perhaps, considering that
it would theoretically allow them to break all contact with whatever remained
of the active search, start over without that constant threat hanging over
their heads. Theoretically. Would
have to see, keep a close watch to be certain their move had not been observed,
tracked, that this whole operation might not be—though not, he was certain,
with knowledge of Bud and Roger—a trap.
Not likely, but it would take him a while to be certain.
Do wish I could get up on one of those ridges for
a while, really watch the place from a distance, get some sense of the normal
comings and goings of the critters and birds and all, so I’d have some hope of
knowing if things had changed. Guess that’s what Kilgore does when he goes out
in the mornings, and he’d know it better than I, anyway, at this point, since
it is his home. Got to try and trust him
I guess. Fella’s never been one to let
things slide as far as noticing the sorts of little details that will make the
difference here between keeping us safe, and getting us discovered.
He sighed, stretched stiff arms and crossed them on his chest, focusing on
getting a full breath. Not an easy
thing. Guessed Susan might have had a
bit of a point that morning in trying to impress upon him the precariousness of
his own physical situation, entire muscle groups coming close to quitting on
him at random times and in so doing, interrupting functions which might
reasonably be deemed critical to the continuance of life. He laughed silently, shook his head and knelt
to scoop up a double handful of creek water, take a drink. Yeah,
she had a point, but I do fine when I’m out there in the hills. It’s just this civilized living that gets to
me. All the sitting around and standing
around and lack of activity, and only here do folks have the luxury of pointing
out little physical things like she was doing.
Out there, too busy just getting by for such nonsense to be noticed, let
alone folks trying to make a big deal of it.
I just need to get back out there as soon as possible.
Which brought him to the next difficulty, that of Bud and Susan’s
expectations. The tracker already had strongly
hinted that he thought it would be a good idea for his guests to stay at the
house for a good while and Liz…well, she had made no verbal objection to the
idea, seemed to think it sounded just fine.
He needed to talk with her, discover her true thoughts on the matter and
see what he had to work with. Speaking
of seeing what he had to work with, Einar had, the next moment, to admit to
himself that he might well have been overstating things a bit when he insisted
to himself that he would be “just fine” if only he were out in the hills
again. Couldn’t get his swallow of creek
water to go down, choking and coughing on the stuff and finally with some
difficulty leaning forward and down far enough to get his airway clear again
and allow himself a big breath. Well.
Fine thing this is. Can’t have
the others seeing this, for sure. Not
even once. Guess you’re back to drinking
like a bird for a while, Einar.
He rose, took a step and staggered, body stiff in the sharp morning breeze
and a great weakness seeming to have come over him, legs nearly too leaden to
lift for a single step, let alone the long climb that lay ahead of him to reach
the house once more. Yeah, doing just fine. Just have to…
Took a few more uncertain steps, fell against the exposed root of
one of the massive ponderosas which lined the steep-sided gully, limbs
stiffening into odd positions and refusing to cooperate when he willed himself
once more to rise. It seemed a long time
that he lay there waiting to regain some influence over his own temporal
existence, strange stiffness finally beginning to abate and an almost
irresistible sleepiness taking its place, forehead resting on the mossy ground,
eyes closing. Einar did resist, though, got
his knees under him, body pointed more or less uphill, and began to crawl. Cold.
He could feel it now, clothes wet from his splashing in the creek and
breeze flowing over him as he crept along the damp slope, seemingly unable to rise.
This is how it’s going to go, then? I don’t think so. Think there’s no reason you can’t stand,
aside from your own laziness and none at all, and you’re going to do it
now. Up.
Stand he did, legs trembling under him and a nausea rising in his throat at
the effort, but he took in great gulps of the sharp, evergreen-scented air and
did his best to ignore it, kept moving.
Einar arrived back under the shelter of the carport roof some twenty
minutes later, still wet from the creek and too cold, he figured, to go into
the house, lest someone bother him about it.
So he did the only thing which seemed reasonable to him under the
circumstances, taking a splitting maul that was leaned up in the corner and
working to split several massive ponderosa rounds on which it appeared Bud had
given up, setting them aside after a couple of attempts to dry and become
easier to split. That maul seemed to
Einar at first to weigh something over thirty pounds when he tried to lift it, arms protesting greatly at
the first swing and breath catching in his throat at the hurt it brought his
bruised side, but he kept going, found a rhythm, finished the job. Neatly stacking the split wood he laid the
maul aside, brushed the wood chips from his clothes—mostly dry by then, good
news—and went inside.