Something hit the ground behind me and I jumped away with a yelp. I was moving to shield Ben when he said, “Pinecone. Fell from the tree.”
“Oh. I thought it might be—”
“Watch Bingle,” he gritted out, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain.
I studied the dog. He was calmly studying me. I realized what Ben meant, then. Parrish wasn’t nearby. Bingle would have reacted.
I took Ben as far as I could into the forest, where eventually there were too many obstacles to allow me to continue dragging him. I brought him to his feet again. I moved in front of him, took his arms and pulled them over my shoulders, rolled him up on my back, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the woods. I’m not in bad shape, but carrying him was awkward and exhausting. The ground was too uneven to make this a smooth trip. Occasionally, despite Ben’s efforts to hide his torment, sharp cries escaped him. Bingle began whining in sympathy.
When we came to ground with fewer rocks, bushes, and branches on it, I set him down. He had passed out again. I took a few minutes to catch my breath. Then I unfolded the tarp again, placed Ben on it, and pulled him deeper into the trees.
We reached the stream. I told Bingle to stay — the water was deep enough to make me worry that he wouldn’t be able to swim it if he fell in. I scouted ahead and found a relatively narrow place to cross. There was no way to make it if I dragged Ben after me, though, so I cut the tarp and bundled it around his legs, taping it on to him like a bizarre form of waders, to help keep him dry if I fell. I managed to rouse him long enough to help me get him on my back again. Slowly and carefully, I stepped from flat rock to flat rock. I only lost my balance once, misstepping into chilly, knee-deep water midstream and nearly dumping him in.
We made it across. I had jostled Ben badly, though, and by the time I laid him down among the trees on the other side, he was unconscious again. This whole endeavor had cost us hours, and I wondered how much blood he’d lost. I moved him onto his side, into a position that would ensure that he could breathe and would not choke on his own vomit, should he get sick again. I cut the tarp-waders off, and was pleased to see that at least one of us had stayed fairly dry.
Bingle whimpered anxiously, perhaps afraid we were leaving him behind. I went back for him as soon as I could. It took much less time to cross without Ben on my back, and soon I had fitted Bingle in a harness and returned with him. He nimbly made it to the other bank without incident.
I did some quick scouting and found a place that seemed to be fairly safe, out of view of the meadow and stream. I dragged Ben there.
My next concern was keeping Ben from going into shock. In part, that would require warmth. I took off my jacket and what layers of warm clothing I thought I could safely spare. Then, remembering my first night in the mountains, said to Bingle, “Duerme con él.” Sleep with him.
He cocked his head at me, perhaps wondering what I could mean by that at this time of day — then, when I continued to look at him as if I expected to be obeyed, he slowly moved to lie down close to Ben.
I was tired, but I moved as quickly as I could back across the stream, through the woods to the camp we had set up that morning. I didn’t want to leave Ben alone any longer than necessary, or to be caught at the campsite if Parrish returned.
The camp was some distance from where Ben lay. I didn’t know how well Parrish knew this area, but his awareness of the airstrip, his coyote tree, and the two burials were all indicators that he had been here again and again. The odds of successfully hiding from him for a long period of time weren’t great, but I only needed to manage it until J.C. and Andy returned by helicopter. That could be soon, I told myself.
The camp was in shambles. Parrish had dumped the contents of the backpacks out onto the ground. Cookware, tent supports, clothing, sleeping bags, and other items were scattered over the site. Most were damp. For all the disarray, though, I felt some hope when I saw what was left.
I found my own pack, looked it over and could see no damage. I picked up most of my clothing, putting on a few items for warmth. I had a moment of almost losing whatever semblance of calm I had managed up to then when I realized that he had taken all but one pair of my underwear. Telling myself that it was a very small matter to become upset over, given his day’s work, and congratulating myself because the pair he left was clean, I went back to the task at hand.
I started to gather whatever I could remember seeing Ben wear, then thought better of it. If Parrish returned here and saw that the only clothing that was missing was mine and Ben’s, he might learn that Ben was alive.
This brought me to my next task, one of the most difficult to face. Bracing myself, telling myself this was not the same as going through a battlefield, stealing coins off the bodies of soldiers, I began to sort through the belongings of the dead.
I tried hard not to think of Earl wearing this shirt or David, this sweater. I would not think of what had happened in the meadow, or worse, who it had happened to. I came across the little wooden horse that Duke had whittled, felt tears welling up, and tucked the horse into my backpack, all the while telling myself I was a fool to add something so unnecessary to the pack.
Stay alive. Keep Ben and Bingle alive. First things first.
I took a duffel bag — the largest one I could find — instead of Ben’s backpack, and began to gather clothing belonging to each of the dead men, mixing Ben’s in with them.
I did not take much of the clothing, saving room for food. But as I looked through the pile of belongings, I only found three packages of chicken noodle soup — which had been in Manton’s daypack — and Bingle’s dog food.
You have water and a filter, I told myself. You also have lots of water purification tablets. If you’re rescued soon, you won’t even have to worry about feeding the dog.
Although only one of the tents had been set up when Parrish went on his rampage, he had pulled the others from their nylon cases, scattering their supports, rainflies, and tie-downs. But I was able to find all parts for mine, and was pleased to discover that even the rainfly had not been damaged during his rampage.
To this collection I added two well-stocked first aid kits, three sleeping bags that were unharmed — including my own — my insulation pad and one other, my stove and cookset, a flashlight, three candles, a tarp, some rope, a shaving kit that had Ben’s name on it, a plastic bucket, and a few other essentials.
I considered it a major stroke of luck when I found Earl’s medications for his ear infection. One plastic cylinder held a decongestant, but the other might help me save Ben’s life. The label said it was Keflex, an antibiotic.
Since Ben had lain in a damp meadow with open wounds for over an hour before I could reach him, infection was a major worry. But here, at least, was a weapon to fight it.
I put on my own pack and made a quick false trail to the upper portion of the stream, trying to make it look as if I were heading back to the airstrip. I returned in a less obvious manner, and did my best to obscure my tracks. I picked up the duffel bag, and loaded down, cautiously made my way back to Ben and Bingle.
A strong breeze kept my scent from Bingle, who growled as I approached. Until I called softly to him, I was half-afraid he’d start barking, or attack me outright.
Ben was awake.
“How are you doing?” I asked, setting down the duffel bag.
“The others . . . ?”
I shook my head.
He looked away.
I hurriedly unrolled one of the sleeping bags, put it over him. Carefully enunciating each word, like a man who had downed a pint of whiskey but was trying not to appear to be drunk, he said, “You should leave me here.”