“Shut up. I bet bears would eat tobacco if they could,” Gabe said. “There’s a picture of one on your can.”
There was an edge in Gabriel’s voice. He was still hurting, and Tom looked apologetically at us both.
I got up and went to the edge of the river, lying flat on my belly on the warm white granite rocks to put my face down and drink. I wiped my mouth dry with the front of my T-shirt.
“We could make it all the way up there by dark if you think the horses’ll hold up,” I said.
Tom came over and took a drink, too, then pulled a can of tobacco from his back pocket.
“I think we should keep going,” Tom said. “We’ll take it easy and if it gets dark before we get there, we can just set up camp for the night. Here.”
He tossed me the can of tobacco. I took some.
We both looked at Gabe, who was licking the inside of his pudding container.
“It’s okay with me,” he said, standing up to join us at the river’s edge.
We got back onto our horses and continued up the mountain, following the sound of the rushing water. Eventually we came to the meadow where I had fallen asleep and then fell from Reno, busting my head open on a rock. I swore I found that exact rock and pointed it out to Tom and Gabe.
“Yeah,” Tom said, “that rock does pretty much match the dent in the back of your head, Stotts.”
I spit.
“Why do you think he came this morning?” Gabe said. “Chase, I mean.”
“He probly wanted to see what we looked like. After finding Gunner,” I said. “Just to see our faces, I bet.”
“I woulda kind of liked to see his face,” Tommy said. “ ‘Cause I bet he’s got a good black eye where you kicked him, Stotts.”
“I hope he had to sit on a pillow to get in his dad’s Bronco,” Gabe said.
“Anyone who’d do that to a little horse,” I said. “I don’t think he’s done yet.”
“Neither do I,” said Tom.
I heard Gabriel sigh. Then he started to whistle.
He was scared.
There was still an hour or so of light left when we arrived at that clear cold pond up where the tree line ended, and there was still plenty of snow, turning pink with the dusk, left on the rocky peaks above, and those two pale fingers poking up, one looking a little more crooked, as though it could topple at any time.
The pond looked bigger, calmer. I could see the dark stand of trees around on the north side where I had found that cabin.
“It’s over there,” I said. “Let’s hope nobody’s home.”
I looked at Gabe. He looked a little nervous, and shifted in his saddle.
“I could go check it out first,” I said. “I know the place pretty good.”
“I’m coming with you,” Tommy said.
“I’m not scared,” Gabe lied.
So we rode around the shore of the pond, me pointing out the place up on the peak where I had found the plane and telling my friends how easy it was to get the fish here. There was no sign that anyone had been up here, no evidence that even Luz or myself were here at one time. The cabin looked exactly as I had left it.
“Dang,” Tom said, “you wouldn’t even notice it if you didn’t know it was here. It’s like part of the mountain.”
“Let’s go in.”
We left the horses on the side of the cabin by that old steel trough and walked slowly to the open doorway. Everything was still there: the table by the window with the plate and the forks exactly where I had left them, the wooden Coke crate on the wall, the two books resting atop it, the plank bed where Luz had slept as I held her hand, the old stove, and even the coffee grounds from the coffee she had made were clumped and dry, like old tobacco, in its belly.
“This place is great!” Tom said.
“Let’s bring our stuff in and get some wood for a fire,” I said.
When we were all settled into the cabin, my sleeping bag on that plank bed and the others spread on the floor, we got a fire going in the belly of the stove. It was dark, and we were all hungry and sat where we could to eat potato chips and the sandwiches Tom had made that morning.
“Man, I could live in a place like this,” Tom said.
“You do,” I said.
“Hey Stotts, you remember that turkey you had to butcher?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I brought another to butcher up here.” And Tommy went to his knapsack and pulled out a gleaming bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey.
“You’re out of your mind, Tom.”
“Not yet, Stottsy. Not yet.”
“Count me out,” Gabe said. “I’m not getting drunk with you guys again.”
Tommy twisted away at the top of the bottle, then waved it under his nose, sniffing. The look on his face convinced me he had never tasted whiskey before, but I could smell it, too, across the cabin. Then Tommy looked at me with that wry coyote smile of his, squinting his eyes so they sparkled in the little light thrown out from the open stove, and he put that bottle to his mouth and tipped back his head. When he brought the bottle down he bent forward at the waist and blew out his mouth, shaking his head. Then he coughed like he had been punched in the stomach.
“That doesn’t exactly look fun, Tom,” I said.
“You tell me,” and he stretched his arm out to me, head down, offering the bottle.
“One time,” I said. “That’s it.”
I held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the whiskey as I brought the bottle up to my mouth. It was like jumping from a bridge, you didn’t want to stay at the edge thinking about things; so I just put the mouth of the bottle inside my lips and tipped back, filling my mouth full and willing myself to swallow that entire dose in one gulp. My stomach contracted and churned, and I had to fight the urge to throw up. I bent my head forward, shaking it as Tom had, feeling that burn like molten metal tracing its path down my throat toward my belly.
I couldn’t talk. Tears were pooling in my eyes. I looked over at Gabe.
“No way,” he said.
I gave the bottle back to Tommy, who took a couple quick breaths like a swimmer about to go under, and then he took another long swig. This time it didn’t appear to hit him so hard. He held the bottle back, admiring its label, as if to make sure it was the same stuff he had just drank a moment ago. He gave the bottle back to me.
“The second one’s real smooth,” he said.
I took another gulp, bigger than the first. And he was right. This time, my stomach did not rebel against the whiskey. It didn’t taste so bad. I looked at the bottle. It was nearly half gone in those four swigs of ours. I was starting to feel hot and light-headed.
“That’s enough,” I said, handing the bottle back to Tom.
“Maybe for now,” he said.
I wiped at my mouth. “This stuff makes me feel like punching something just to see if it’ll hurt.”
Tommy smiled at me. “You smell like whiskey,” he said.
I leaned to my left and smelled Gabe. “Even Gabey smells like whiskey right now.”
Tommy laid back on his sleeping bag, feet toward the stove, open hands pillowing his black hair.
“You and Luz slept here?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Did you—”
“I didn’t even think about it, Tom. Not then.”
“I bet she did,” he said.
“I’m sure she did,” Gabe said.
Then they both laughed, and Tommy punched Gabe’s arm like they had some kind of secret joke.
I pushed Gabe’s shoulder hard and made him topple over onto his left side. He lay back on his sleeping bag and kicked Tom’s leg, laughing again.
“That’s your big sister,” I said. “She’s the one who goes to church.”
“Yeah,” Gabe said, grinning wickedly, “and maybe she needs it more than you and me put together.”
I got up and walked to the door in my socks, making it an obvious point to kick both of them hard as I passed. I stood in the
doorway, looking out at the stars wriggling in the pond.
I wished she were here.
“What’re you looking at?” Tom said.
“Nothing.”
“Can we fish tomorrow?” Gabe asked.
“That or starve,” I said.
“How long we gonna stay here?”
“We could rest the horses a day or two. Then we can get back before your folks. Before the funeral.”
“I like it up here, Stotts.”
“So do I,” Gabe said.
“I like that whiskey,” I said. “At least right now I do.”
We drank again. And then Tom Buller started singing, “You’re wanted by the police, and my wife thinks you’re dead.” It was an old Junior Brown song, and me and Gabe laughed so hard and Tommy just kept singing and singing until we both caught on to the words and sang it, too.
TWENTY-TWO
Of course we didn’t know it then, but the next morning Chase Rutledge set out through our apple orchard, following our trail.
We slept late. The sun was already up and the day was warming fast when I got out of bed. Tommy and Gabe were still asleep as I dug through my bag and pulled out the coffeepot and some coffee.
I saw that blood-blackened arrow in there, too.
I started a fire with the coals in the stove and filled the pot from the drip pipe outside. I sat down on the bed and waited for the sound of the boil. I opened up that Dawson folder of mine and chipped away at a log in the back wall. By the time the first trace of steam started from the spout, I had carved a neat TS into the wall of the cabin.
The coffee was boiling. I kicked Gabe on the shoulder and Tom on the back. Tommy moaned. Gabe turtled his head down into his sleeping bag.
“Those fish aren’t gonna walk out of that pond and just jump on the stove for you,” I said.
“Just pour that coffee on my head,” Tom said.
“I might have to. I only brought one cup.”
“I got one,” he said, and got up and crawled to his pack.
“I want some, too,” Gabe said, muffled from inside his sleeping bag. “Tommy, get a cup from my bag, will you?”
Slowly, Gabriel emerged from the sleeping bag, hair wild and electrified. We all sat on the edge of that plank bed, holding our coffee with both hands to warm them.
“I heard you doing that,” Tommy said, nodding toward my initials in the wall.
Gabe saw my knife sitting there on the bed and picked it up. “I want up there, too,” he said as he opened the blade. Tommy flinched away in exaggerated terror as if he thought Gabe would accidentally cut him.
“Shut up,” Gabe said.
“Didn’t say nothing.”
When the coffeepot was emptied, they were all three up there in a straight line: TS GB TB.
“That makes it as much ours as if we peed on it,” Tommy said.
“That reminds me,” Gabe said, and slipped his shoes on and went outside, followed by me and Tommy.
I only had one fishing pole and some smelly cheese bait, so we all took turns using it. Gabe had seven trout well before lunchtime and left them tied on a line at the shore with the others that Tom and I caught, to keep them for dinner. We still had some jerky and candy bars, which we ate for lunch, and all three of us spent some time stacking wood for the stove and grooming our horses. After lunch, Tommy said, “Well, are you gonna take us up to see that wrecked plane?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Gabe asked. “We wanna see it.”
I looked at them both, so they could see I was serious.
“Look, it was a really weird time. I thought I was crazy or something.” I sighed. “Mostly I kept thinking it was all a dream, or maybe I didn’t see it at all.”
“I know how to find out,” Tommy said, then spit.
We rode north, past the pond on that rock-strewn gap in the peaks where the trees grew sparser and sparser, under the guard of those towering granite fingers. Gabe was drinking from his canteen, Tommy looking intently forward and up to where that plane would be, still obstructed by a stand of low, twisted trees and a mound of rock shards.
And I felt less and less easy as we went along.
“That’s it!” Gabe said.
I wasn’t even looking. Gabe was pointing up at a V between the peak of the fingers and a lower peak to the west, a slash of white snow, peppered with the dark rocks that rolled by themselves with each freezing and melting, and there we saw that plane. It was much cooler here, we could feel the chill on the breeze as the air brushed over that ice and barren rock.
“Well, it’s real, Stotts,” Tommy said. “It’s a pretty big one.”
The fuselage was torn open on the top, a big black slash cutting across it, and the one wing we could see from our side was bent back, nearly shorn completely free of the rest of the wreckage. It looked like death, like a big, sad, dead animal left to decay slowly.
“Someone had to’ve died there,” Gabe said. “You can see a propeller down the slope from it, in the snow. See?”
I followed Gabe’s finger down that swath of peppered white and saw, starring out like a flower, three blades of a propeller, black and straight.
“Is that a propeller, or a body?” Tommy said.
“It’s been there for years. No way it’s a body,” I said.
I hadn’t been to my mother’s grave yet, not even once; had never seen the headstone, never left flowers.
Tell me about Will, Mom.
She always remembered things, carried them with her. One time, when I was brushing Reno, she was standing behind me, watching, and she said, “You brought Reno home a year ago today.”
And I didn’t know that. She loved Reno, but never rode him, told me he would never want anyone but me to ride him, she could see it in the way he carried his head when I was on him.
I knew it was Will’s birthday. I saw her holding his photograph against her lap, rubbing the edge of the yellowing glossy paper with her thumb, how she touched her finger to her lips and, then, placed it softly down on the picture. And she never blinked.
I sat beside her, on the couch in our front room. My father was still at school.
I held her hand that folded carefully on the picture’s border.
He loved to draw, Troy.
I know. I seen the pictures you keep.
And he loved to sing.
I can’t remember that, Mom.
I can still hear it in my head.
Was he a good boy?
He never did anything mean to anyone.
Did he like me?
You were his best friend.
I can’t remember it, Mom.
“We should go up there,” Tommy said. “I bet there’s dead guys in it.”
“We can’t,” I said. “It’d take too long. And the horses wouldn’t make it anyway. I showed it to you, now I kind of want to go back.”
“I’m hungry,” Gabe said. “Let’s go eat those fish.”
“We’ll come back, then,” Tommy said.
“Good.” I turned Reno around to head back down to the cabin.
“Hey, Stotts?”
I held Reno up and turned back. Tommy held his fist out and I punched it.
“We’ll come back sometime,” he said, holding out his tobacco. “Want some?”
“Sure.”
Tommy threw the can across to me and said, “You don’t have to say nothing.”
It was a fine dinner. We cooked more fish than we could eat, and heated beans right in the cans sitting on the stovetop. Afterwards, Gabriel said he wanted to put a line in the water before sundown for some fish for breakfast, so we all sat out at the pond’s edge as the sky darkened through all its colors before night. This time, he wasn’t so intent on keeping the fish, though, and he let the small ones go, keeping only the largest three on his string. We all had our shoes and socks off, cooling our pale feet in the icy water.
“I brought that arrow with me, you know?” I said.
/> “Go get it. I want to see it,” Gabe said.
I hobbled over the rocks and dirt and brush back to the cabin and brought out the arrow, the grooved triangular head scabbed over with that little colt’s blood. I also found the bottle of whiskey Tommy had brought, half-drained.
A full moon was rising behind us.
“Here,” I said, and handed the arrow, point up, to Gabe. Then I opened the bottle and took a swallow of whiskey and it just about knocked the wind and my fish dinner out of me. “And here,” I gasped and handed the bottle to Tom.
“Damn, Stotts,” Tom said. “I better stand up for this.”
I pulled Tommy to his feet and watched him tip that bottle up and arch his shoulders back as he took a long swallow.
Then we saw Gabriel Benavidez do something I never would have thought he could do. He held that arrow tight in his left hand, like he was holding a pencil, and he jabbed the point of it right into his right wrist, not deep enough to really injure, but plenty deep enough to draw his blood. And we watched, amazed, as he held his right forearm up in front of his face and a bead of blood painted a thick slow line toward his elbow.
“Tell me about horse medicine, Troy,” he said.
I took the bottle from Tommy; didn’t hesitate. This time I drank from it twice before handing it back.
“I’ll be damned, Gabey,” Tommy said.
“Give me that,” I said, and held out my wrist in front of Gabriel.
Gabriel watched me, his pale eyes looking right into mine, without any expression on his face. And then he put the point of the arrow down onto the soft flesh of my wrist. I clenched my fist. He pushed.
I felt the pain as the point broke through me, watched the blood pool in the recess at the wound. Blood ran off my wrist and spilled down on Gabe’s knee.
“You’re tough, Gabey,” I said. “You stuck me better than you stuck yourself.”
Tommy took two big gulps of whiskey. The bottle was nearly empty. We both looked at him, knew what he’d do. He held his wrist out in front of Gabriel.
“Do it, Gabey.”
He winced as the arrowhead cut down on his wrist, making a popping sound before Gabe pulled it away to reveal a separation of the flesh and the bright red blood that ran across Tommy’s arm, dripping from both sides of it.