Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (16 page)

Reining Gunner to a stop, I stared upward. Shit. The sky was a deep, blue-violet gray. There were distant rumbles in the general direction of Nevada. The storm would be here soon.

I clucked to Gunner and started up through the rocks, feeling distinctly nervous. The trail looked reasonably well made, but the country was ungodly rough.

Gunner picked his way slowly and cautiously, allowing me to guide him. He had a characteristic I found useful: he would let me change his intended footfall in mid-stride, just by the lightest indication of the reins. Thus I could select which rocks he put his weight on.

Plumber I couldn't help much. All I could do was be sure he had plenty of slack in the lead rope when he was crossing a tricky section.

We progressed. Slowly. The wind blew my shirt away from my body, and I wondered if I should have stopped to put my rain gear on before we began the ascent. There were no places to dismount here.

Just for a second I let my concentration wander, looking away from the granite slabs of the trail and scanning the steep jumbled slope around us, the wild gray windy sky above. My God, I thought, it's beautiful. And I am really out here.

The next second I heard a horrifically loud rumble crashing above me, and my mind spun. Thunder? No. Rockfall.

"Jesus." I had time only for the one word before I saw the rocks crashing down on the trail behind us, coming from somewhere up above.

The noise was terrifying; both my horses leaped forward. Too rapid for thought or fear ... I corrected Gunner's tendency to plunge, did my best to hold him and Plumber steady and to the trail. Rock was still falling, landing, so far, behind us; I let the horse scramble forward, keeping everything controlled as well as I could.

No time to look for the dog. No time for anything but go, go as fast as I could. Rocks pinged and clanged behind me, not so loud now. The worst of it was over.

But rock was still falling. My heart thudded in great leaping bounds. I could feel Gunner's heart thumping between my legs. My God, my God.

We clambered up the trail at the long trot. I could see Roey's small foxlike shape right on Plumber's heels. I said a brief prayer of thanks.

The last of the rocks was rattling down the canyon. Taking a deep breath, I checked Gunner down to a slower pace. Keep moving, not so fast, no need to break a leg getting away.

Up and up we went, climbing an increasingly steep trail. I could see what I thought was the top of the pass. My heart thudded steadily. I wanted off this rock slope so bad I could taste it. I didn't think I'd ever been so frightened in my life.

Eventually we topped out. I stopped for a moment and dismounted, looked both horses over carefully. Plumber had a small scrape on his right front pastern, down near the hoof. Besides that everybody seemed fine, including Roey.

Hastily I put my slicker on, mounted, clucked to Gunner, and moved out. I was well and truly spooked. Thunder boomed above me; as soon as I could find a decent spot, I was making camp.

But a decent spot demanded that it have horse feed and water, and I couldn't find one. No convenient meadows appeared by the side of the trail. The map told me that Red Can Lake, a mere quarter of a mile away as the crow flew, was my closest campsite. Next was Wood Lake, a full five miles distant, but right on the main trail.

Drops of rain spattered around us; a cold wind blew out of the heavy gray sky. I was shivering with fear and chill. Casting my eyes over the countryside around me, I recognized the landmark Lonny had told me of. "A great big fallen pine by the side of the trail, just after you top Seavey Pass. Turn off there."

Here was the fallen pine. That was it. No trail, no sign, no ducks even. Should I?

I stared off through the trees and rocks. I could get myself in a pretty bad situation out there. But I really wanted to make camp before it started pouring, and Red Can Lake was close. I went for it.

Clucking to Gunner, I guided him around the log and down the gully Lonny had described. Sure enough, in fifty feet or so, I saw a duck.

"Follow the ducks until you come to the fern meadow," Lonny had said. "From there you can see the lake."

I followed the ducks. It was easier said than done. The wind blew in fitful gusts, whipping scattered drops of rain along. The horses were antsy and uncooperative, still upset, just as I was myself. Whenever I had to stop and reconnoiter, Gunner pranced and Plumber tugged on the lead rope.

At one point I found myself on what appeared to be a path-less field of granite, my way marked only by these obscure little rock stacks. I followed where they led, hoping some practical joker hadn't moved them all last week.

I heard a crack of lightning and the accompanying roll of thunder and shivered. The rain came down more heavily, dripping steadily off the hood of my slicker. Gunner's neck was wet. My jeans were starting to soak through where they stuck out beneath my slicker.

Damn. This whole day had gone so far wrong it would be laughable, if I weren't having to cope with it. Here I was, alone in a literally trackless wilderness with a storm about to break overhead. Having just escaped a rattlesnake and some major rockfall.

Lightning flashed again; thunder rumbled almost immediately. Rain cascaded out of the sky, as if someone had suddenly turned up the shower. Visibility was getting difficult. I parked Gunner under a pine tree and stared out at the uncompromising place I'd chosen for my vacation.

Another clash of light-a huge ka-boom. The storm was right above. Peering through the half dark, I tried to judge whether my pine tree was the tallest one around. It was providing us with a certain amount of shelter; big drops fell on us at intervals rather than a steady barrage of wind and rain, but this would not be a worthwhile trade for being struck by lightning.

Never stand under a tree in a lightning storm, they say. I wondered again who they were. This advice was ignored by virtually everyone I knew. Who wouldn't take shelter in a downpour?

The horses stood quietly now, heads down. Water ran off them. They lifted their heads sharply at each flash and drum roll, but seemed willing enough to wait out the deluge under the tree.

In the next second my hair stood up. Lightning again, a strange green light and an eerie crackling hiss. Instantaneously, a deafening crash.

Shit. "That was too close," I told the horses. "That hit right near us." They huddled together, their eyes big. Roey was curled in a small, shivering ball at the base of the pine.

I tried to decide whether I should leave the shelter of the tree. Rain poured down in sheets; I stayed put, shivering.

The next bolt of lightning was farther away. I kept thinking about one of Ted's favorite stories-the two cowboys who had been struck by lightning as they were crossing Emigrant Meadow. "Both their horses killed dead under them." Ted would repeat it with apparent relish.

I trembled with cold and fear and wondered what in the hell I was doing here. What had made me think I could cope with all this alone, what stupid hubris had drawn me out into this godforsaken country to what looked to be my imminent demise.

The rain was abating a little, but I still huddled under my tree, feeling helpless. Jesus, it was all just too much. I didn't feel up to dealing with it. I wanted to crawl into my nice warm bed in my cozy little house. I wanted back to civilization, pronto. I'd had enough of the wilderness.

I stared down at my small red dog, who was shivering even more than I was. Tough luck, Gail, I told myself. You chose to be here, and you have to take care of these animals. They're counting on you; you can't let them down.

"Okay, okay," I said aloud. One thing about being alone in the mountains, you get to talking out loud. "I'll persevere."

The downpour had decreased to a sprinkle; it was time to ride on. I could hear intermittent thunder a ridge or two away, but the sky was steadily getting lighter where I was. I lifted the reins gently, clucked to the horses, and called Roey.

Wet and bedraggled, we moved out, aiming for the duck I could see up ahead. Three ducks later we were in the fern meadow. Through an opening in the trees, I could see the gray, restless water of Red Can Lake. Now all I had to do was get down to it.

Once again, easier said than done. Lonny had explained to me that this was the tricky part. "Follow the ledge to a crack that runs down the rock face. It's a pretty wide crack. Just stay in it. You'll be fine. The crack will take you right down to the lake."

Lonny's directions proved accurate, but, as usual, he'd way underestimated the scary factor. I felt completely exposed, riding a horse along a granite face that looked as if it should have been reserved for rock climbers.

Gunner picked his way obediently down the crack under my direction; I could only hope Plumber would do the same. My heart thumped steadily and I cursed my own foolhardiness. Why, why, why had I ever chosen to put myself and my horses in this much danger?

The lake was just ahead of us now. I could see what Lonny meant. Despite its storm-ruffled appearance, it was truly lovely. Smaller than Snow Lake or Wilma, Red Can nestled in a granite hollow on the rim of a huge canyon. The entire shoreline was granite, except for the small green jewel of a meadow we were descending into.

The meadow was ringed by rocky gray walls on three sides and by the lake on the fourth-a proper box canyon. I could turn both horses loose here. There was one small grove of pine trees with a little-used fire ring in the middle. I rode the horses up to it and dismounted.

The rain was over; the sky had turned a pale, misty gray. I stared around at the most perfect campsite I'd ever seen and patted Gunner on the neck.

"We made it," I said.

FIFTEEN

The next morning dawned gray, but with no actual precipitation-yet. It hadn't rained all night, either, for which I was grateful. I spent a leisurely few hours in camp, taking my time over coffee while Gunner and Plumber grazed contentedly in the meadow. I figured I'd ride to Wood Lake in the afternoon and camp there. It hadn't been part of my original plan, but what the hell. Plans were for changing.

Eventually I got everything packed back up again-no small chore. The pale, evenly gray sky had resolved itself into a pile of heavy thunderheads over the peaks, and I thought it might rain again in the afternoon. I wanted to be snug in camp at Wood Lake when the storm broke.

Getting out of Red Can turned out to be trickier than getting in. I stared at the steep crack I'd descended the day before and wondered how in hell I'd get back up. Leaving my horses tied to trees, I investigated on foot.

A closer inspection was not encouraging. As Lonny had told me, a horse had to stay in the crack. The steep granite slope on either side was slickrock, and absolutely prohibitive. Any horse who tried to clamber along there was going to fall.

I tried to decide what to do. I could lead the horses up, one at a time, hoping they would stay in the crack behind me. But there were problems with this. I had less control when I was leading them rather than riding; I couldn't really stop them from moving off the dirt onto the rock. Also, they would be anxious, separated from one another, and this might cause them to hurry.

On the other hand, if I rode Gunner and led Plumber, I wouldn't really be able to control the pack horse at all. Odds were he'd follow the saddle horse, but I couldn't be sure. And if Gunner slipped and went down, I'd go with him. Scary thought.

I stared at the crack, my heart starting to pound. There was no other way out of here. I had to go up that thing unless I planned to spend the rest of my life at Red Can Lake.

"We went down it; we can go up it," I said out loud, though I knew this wasn't necessarily true. Horses tend to go very slowly and carefully down steep descents, and they have an equal impulse to hurry on climbs. Trying to get some momentum up, I supposed. Whatever their reasoning, it made going up tricky spots more dangerous than going down. Down felt scarier but was actually safer. All the major wrecks I'd seen on mountain trails involved a horse or mule scrambling while climbing up a tricky piece of rock.

I couldn't stand here all day staring at it. Walking back over to the horses, I untied them and mounted. For lack of a good reason to do otherwise, I was going to do this the cowboy way.

Clucking to Gunner, I pointed him in the right direction; he started up the crack. I tried to keep a steady, gentle guidance on the reins, checking him when he hurried, aiming him toward the dirt footfalls, not disturbing his concentration. I leaned slightly forward so my weight was over his withers where he could balance it best. I kept my eyes on the crack, my concentration straight ahead. I could hear Plumber behind us; there was slack in the lead rope. I didn't look back.

We almost made it. We were near the top of the crack, right where it merged into the ledge, when it happened. The first warning I had was the tension on the end of the lead rope. I looked over my shoulder to see that Plumber had balked, unwilling to make a steep step up that Gunner had taken in stride. I clucked and tugged firmly, trying to stay calm.

Plumber hesitated and then, to my dismay, he stepped to the right, out of the crack, trying to go around the step up. I tugged on the lead rope, said "Whoa," to no avail. The little brown horse took one step on the slickrock and slipped, going down to his knees.