Ghost Horses (9 page)

Ethan was practically bent over laughing, and Jack felt irritation surge through him. What right did Ethan have to mock Jack's father, especially after the way Steven was always taking Ethan's side against Jack, always standing up for him, always telling everyone to be so nice to poor little underprivileged Ethan. “Knock it off!” Jack snarled.

“Hey, it's as much your fault as mine,” Ethan answered, still snorting with hilarity. “That's why it's so funny. You made it happen.”

“My fault? I wasn't even near him!”

“You did the Ghost Dance.” Ethan's mirth was starting to subside. “It's really working.”

“Ghost Dance? What are you talking about?”

“Sure,” Ethan answered, now perfectly serious. “Think about all those creepy things that have been happening to your family. Not like your father slipping in the river right now—that's nothing. But the rocks falling yesterday, and the mustang nearly stomping your sister last night. You said it was my fault. Maybe you're right. But you helped.”

“You're crazy!”

Steven had waded up to them now. He'd heard what Ethan was saying, and asked him, “You think the Ghost Dance caused those accidents?”

“Do
I
think?” Ethan didn't answer that, but he said, “The Shoshone used to believe in it—a hundred years ago. Maybe some still do. They danced the Ghost Dance to make white people go away. What's so great about it right now is”—Ethan began to laugh again, but it was not a pleasant sound as he pointed a finger at Jack—“like, what cracks me up is that Jack and Ashley danced the Ghost Dance, too, and it's supposed to get rid of white people. Like them! You danced to get rid of yourselves.”

Steven said nothing, but his jaw began to work, and his fist clenched slightly. He just stared at Ethan, who stared right back, his stone-person expression in place again. Finally Steven said, “The trail map shows a sandbar around the bend from here. I think it's a good time for us to stop and eat.”

So Steven was going to let it go. Again. Jack mulled it over, deciding that the superstition about the Ghost Dance wasn't what bothered him—he didn't believe in stuff like that. He didn't think Ethan did, either, since Ethan wouldn't answer either yes or no when Steven asked him straight out.

It was Ethan's attitude that made Jack burn. That kid had the biggest and baddest attitude Jack had ever come across. Jack was ready to spit out an insult, but Steven was giving him a don't-make–a-big-deal-out-of-this look, so Jack had to hold it in. One more item to add to the long rap sheet of offenses by Ethan Ingawanup.

Rocks aren't the most comfortable things to sit on, but the air was warm, the sandwiches tasted great, and no one else was around. Just three guys—two blond, one Native American. Two fatherless, one lucky enough to have a father who cared so much, both about his own son and about all fatherless children, no matter what punky jerks they turned out to be.

Above them, the rock walls were streaked with dark zebra stripes from minerals that had leached out of the surface over thousands of years. Since no one was talking—just chewing—it was quiet enough to hear the splashing of the Virgin River as it veered around the rocks that studded its bed, and the faint twitter of birds on the cliffs so high overhead, and another sound much fainter, so far away that Jack wasn't even sure he'd heard it. Thunder, maybe, but far, far in the distance. It didn't repeat, so he didn't mention it to his father.

“When you guys are finished,” Steven said, “we'll hike up past Orderville Canyon. The water gets deeper there, and the walls get really close together, so it might be tricky to take pictures. I'm going to put away my camera for now.” He began sealing his dry bag around his camera and flash attachment.

Heading north, they trekked back into the river again.

Steven had been correct—just as they passed Orderville Canyon, which veered off to their right, the water did get deeper, and the current pushed harder against Jack's legs. “Ow!” he yelled.

“What's wrong?” his dad asked from where he was wading behind the two boys.

“A stick hit me on the leg. Here comes another one.” Jack managed to step out of the way of the second stick borne along on the current. But a third one slammed into his shin. “Hey, that hurts! Where are all these sticks coming from?”

“OK, stop, both of you,” Steven ordered. He peered intently into the flowing water, which was no longer as clear as it had been earlier. It looked a little muddy. Bits of sticks and other debris floated toward them. Just then, Jack heard the thunder again. This time there was no mistaking it, although it still sounded far away, and the sky overhead remained blue and cloudless.

“That's thunder!” Steven told them. His voice was sharp as he searched the sky intently. This time it was Ethan who gave a sharp cry. “Hey! A big stick just hit me!

The color seemed to suddenly drain from Steven's face. “Turn around! Quick!” he barked.

“Why—” Jack began, but Steven cut him off with, “We gotta get out of here! Fast!”

W
hat's happening?” Jack yelled. The current was growing stronger.

“Flash flood,” Steven shouted above the rushing sound of water.

Jack felt his eyes widen with fear; he knew what a flash flood meant. People died in flash floods. All the time. “But—it's not even raining!” Jack sputtered. “How—”

“It rained upriver. Don't talk—move your feet! Both of you get in front of me. Go!”

There was no way to run in water that flowed knee high. In an unbelievably short time it came all the way up to their hips. They were moving in the same direction as the current, but as the flow grew swifter and stronger, they had to fight to keep from being knocked off their feet and swept downriver. The deeper the river, the more turbulent it became. Its waters roiled with churned-up mud and sand that scoured the backs of their legs.

“Is this as deep as it will get? 'cause I can handle this,” Ethan yelled.

Jack jerked his head upstream and hollered, “It's just the beginning. Look for a ledge, a branch—anything to hold on to!”

Without saying a word, Ethan nodded. Jack kept whipping around to see his father, and Steven kept looking back to discover what might be coming. He tried to deflect the branches and debris swept forward by the river, to keep it from hitting the boys, but it was like trying to stop a bombardment of gnats—swat a few, and the rest kept closing in. “Find a ledge!” he kept yelling.

Jack scanned the sheer rock walls and saw nothing but rose-colored sandstone as smooth as tile. Nowhere to escape. Nothing to grab. It became harder and harder to stay upright.

“Dad—the water's getting higher!”

“A stone just smacked my leg!” Ethan bellowed. “Man, that hurt!”

“There's a ledge!” Steven cried. “Move!” He had to shout because the torrent was making so much noise—branches cracking, rocks rolling and pounding against each other in that same bowling-alley racket the rocks had made tumbling down the mountain. And once again, the sound of thunder, although it was still far away.

“Get to the ledge,” Steven kept yelling. “Hurry! The crest can come any second!”

The crest. Jack knew that when it hit, anything in its path would be swept away in a wall of water churning with rocks and tree limbs. Anyone caught in it could drown—or get battered to death. Don't think—just move! he commanded himself. Was it the cold water—or fear—that filled his insides with ice?

In less than a minute they'd reached the rock ledge that jutted out over the water, like a life raft in an ocean. Jack felt a surge of hope; if they could climb on it, they'd be safe. Ethan shoved ahead of him, Steven trailed after. Only a few feet to go.

“Come on, get up!” Steven ordered, grabbing Ethan and lifting him. Ethan clutched the ledge and pulled himself up the rest of the way. “Hurry, Jack,” Steven panted.

“Dad—what about you?”

Jack felt his father's strong arms raise him out of the water. “Pull,” Steven yelled to Ethan. From above, Ethan reached down to take Jack's hand, yanking him up.

Gripping the ledge with his hands, Steven was ready to boost himself up when a sudden breeze swept over them, followed by the thunderous roar of debris-filled water bursting in their direction. Steven shouted, “Move back! Here comes the crest!”

“Dad!” Jack screamed, but the words were sucked back into his mouth as the roar filled his ears and pounded through his head. Steven hung on while the crest of the flash flood washed past him, battering him with mud and water. Sputtering, he came up for air while Jack reached down to grab his father's hands. Just then a large cedar branch hit the edge of the rock outcropping. It ricocheted upward, with the splintery bottom of the branch slashing Steven across his fingers and the top flying up to smack Jack at the base of his skull.

Everything went dark. Jack could hear sounds. Someone was shouting, “Hold him,” and he felt himself grabbed around the chest. With tremendous effort he opened his eyes to see his father's bleeding fingers slip from the edge of the rocks. “Take care of Jack,” Steven seemed to be shouting, and then he was gone. Jack wanted to say something to his father, something important, wanted to see if he was still there, but golden lights kept flashing through the blackness in front of his eyes, blurring all that mattered.

He felt himself laid roughly onto his back. Everything whirled around in his head like the blades of a giant mixer—the roar of rushing water, the coldness of the rock beneath him, Ethan bending over him. Slowly, words began to form inside him; to Ethan, he said, “Tell my dad—”

Ethan just shook his head.

“Gone?”

“He'll be OK.” But the look on Ethan's face contradicted him.

“Dad—I've got to—help him!” Jack tried to roll himself off the ledge, but Ethan's grip was as tight as a vise.

“He's OK. He had this big branch that he was holding onto, and he just floated away like he caught some raft or something. Don't worry about your dad.”

“You're lying,” Jack said weakly, and then he had to roll over again because he was throwing up.

A huge boulder smacked into the wall with an impact that sounded like a thunderclap, causing Jack to jerk up. “My head—” he groaned. He could feel the blood pound through his skull with every beat of his heart. He'd never felt pain like this before. Nothing else existed except his head and the pain that shot through him and the nausea and the cold of the rock that was beginning to numb his skin.

“Hey, I told you to quit moving. You've got to lie still. You got yourself hit. Let me see how bad. I'm going to turn your head, just a little.”

Sparks of pain shot through Jack's skull as Ethan, tried to gently lift him. Crying out, he saw whirls of light explode in front of his eyes.

“Sorry, Jack. I won't do that again.”

“Bad?” Jack asked. He couldn't believe how hard it was to move his lips. Things inside his head were slowing down, as though his brain were dragging though quicksand.

Ethan shook his head. “I don't know. You're bleeding. There's a cut. Right here.” Ethan pointed to the base of his own skull.

“Cut?” Why would he have a cut? Jack tried to remember, but thoughts were dropping away from him like leaves in a storm. They kept flying off, and he couldn't follow them.

Ethan's long hair stuck against his forehead and his neck, and his T-shirt plastered his body. “I gotta think,” he kept telling Jack. “Gotta think what to do.”

The words made no sense. Jack felt cold, so cold. Shivers wrenched his body, shaking his teeth. When he looked up, he saw two Ethans rummaging through Jack's backpack, but sometimes they melted together into one Ethan, and then there were two of them again, tearing open a large plastic bag to pull out a sweatshirt. “I'm afraid to lift you,” Ethan said, spreading the shirt on top of Jack. “Once I got whacked on the head like that playing football, and they said I had to lie still but not go to sleep.”

“But I'm sleepy,” Jack murmured drowsily.

“No, don't!” Squatting beside him, Ethan said, “We'll talk. I'll say something, and you say something back.”

“Ghost Dance,” Jack murmured weakly, and with tremendous effort he was able to speak the rest of the words. “It made another white man go away. My dad.” A deep sadness filled his chest, but he could no longer remember what he felt so sad about.

Protests began to pour out of Ethan's mouth the way the water was pouring down the canyon. “No!” he shouted. “The stuff about the Ghost Dance getting rid of white people—that's all garbage. Listen, you know why I said we'd dance the Ghost Dance? There's another part to it. It was supposed to bring dead Indians back to life. The Shoshone really believed in that when they danced it a hundred years ago.”

Jack frowned, having trouble understanding what Ethan was saying. When he squinted, Ethan was still double. Both Ethans looked like they were crying.

“I didn't believe any of it—I knew it was all garbage—but I kept wishing the magic would work just once to bring back my mother and father. I was five when they died. I hardly remember them.”

Jack's lips tried to shape the words, but his lips wouldn't twist right. “Did—” he managed to say.

“Did it work? Maybe.”

Jack wanted to bend his fingers. He couldn't—they were too cold.

“These last two nights, my parents came to me in dreams. They told me I should quit being so mad. But you kept making me mad, Jack.” Ethan pulled a dry sweatshirt out of his own pack and spread it across Jack's legs. “Look, as soon as the water goes down, I'll get you out of here. Don't go to sleep! Jack—I want you to say something. Keep talking at me, man. Say a word. Any word.”

“Aperture,” Jack mumbled.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Jack couldn't think what it meant—it was the only word that had stumbled into his mind. It had something to do with cameras, maybe. The spinning of his brain was so violent, and the back of his skull hurt so much that each syllable dug into him like a dentist's drill.

The two Ethans began to rub Jack's arms, hard. “Listen, here's my word. Fort Washakie. That's where I live on the reservation. Now it's your turn. Say something else.”

“Sorry,” Jack wanted to apologize, but the word got stuck behind his teeth, his chattering teeth. Sleep reached out to him with icy arms. Did he hear far-away thunder? No, it was Indian drums. If his lips hadn't been so stiff with cold, he'd have smiled, because the warriors were coming to dance just for him.

The first warrior rode toward him on a tall horse. No, it wasn't a warrior, it was his father, Steven, on Hal. Jack wanted to run to him, but Steven vanished slowly into the mist.

“Bring him back,” Jack tried to shout to Ethan, but when he opened his eyes, he knew why his father had disappeared. Ethan was making magic again. Raising the same cedar branch that had hurt Jack on the back of his head and smashed Steven's fingers, Ethan slapped it hard against the rock wall behind him. Again and again he smacked it, limb against rock, until the wood splintered and broke into pieces.

Now the real warriors came, their faces painted into frightening masks. All of them rode white horses, ghost horses, and all in a row they galloped toward Jack until they ran over the top of him, but they didn't hurt him. Their headdresses were made of feathers so bright they burned the backs of Jack's eyes. “Please bring back my father,” he begged them. When he tried to get on his knees to beg, strong arms pushed him back down.

Then he smelled it. Cedar smoke. When he opened his eyes, the smoke stung them, but he could see that once more Ethan was working his magic. Ethan held flame in his fingers, flame that pushed against the green, wet foliage of the broken cedar branch. It didn't burn, even though Ethan blew on it; it just smoked into a cloud that covered Jack and hid the ghost horses. He knew that was supposed to happen—the smoke would hide them and they would disappear, only to reappear when the Shoshone danced the Ghost Dance.

Next came a lone Shoshone woman riding a sleek white mare that reared in front of Jack. He was afraid the horse's hoofs would crash down and break his skull just as the mustang had nearly crushed Ashley. Then his heart soared, because he knew this horse. It was Wild Spirit.

He could see stars painting a track through the velvet sky, but they were orange stars, sparks that flew up from the cedar branch Ethan waved as he muttered, “Can't get the stupid thing to burn.”

And then a man and a woman came toward Jack. At first he thought the woman was Vivian Swallow, because she was dressed in white elk-skin beaded with bright patterns, the kind Vivian had worn. But when she got close, Jack didn't recognize the woman or the man with her. He saw that their faces had no color. They were pale as—ghosts.

Jack tried to talk to them, but they reached out toward Ethan. He thought he heard them say, “Ethan,” but then he realized that it was he, Jack, who was speaking the name.

“I'm right here,” Ethan said. “But Jack, I gotta get you out of here. I can't get a fire started and you're breathing funny and your skin is white as a ghost. We've been here over an hour. I think you're getting that—what do you call it—hypothermia.”

I saw your mother and father, Jack wanted to tell him. They were here, trying to touch you.

“The water level is lower,” Ethan was saying, “so I think—maybe—we can make it.” Ethan looked worried. “Can you hear me, Jack?”

Jack's lips formed “yes.”

“I'll blow up all these plastic bags like balloons and stick 'em in the backpacks. That'll make them like life preservers. It
might
work.”

Jack drifted into his dreams again until he felt himself lifted roughly by Ethan.

“I'm trying to get this sweatshirt on you. Jeez, can't you help at all? Jack, I need you to wake up!”

Jack felt his left arm seized and jammed through the sleeve of the sweatshirt. Then his right arm. The jolt cleared his head a little.

“Open your eyes,” Ethan ordered. “Look at me! I'm gonna jump into the water and then I'll pull you off this ledge, hear?

You gotta hang your arms around my neck so I can carry you. You gotta hold on.”

“OK,” Jack whispered around the throbbing inside his head.

He heard a splash. Then he felt himself dragged by the hands until he toppled over the edge of the rock ledge. The shock of water spluttering into his mouth sent him into a fit of coughing. “Why'd you do that?” he demanded of Ethan.

“Good! You're talking. Give me your hands, and don't fight me.” Ethan slung Jack across his back, pulling Jack's wrists forward so that his arms draped across Ethan's shoulders. “Hang on.”