I went looking for this story dad wrote but when I found it is said "by John Goff".
Did you write this John?
OL YELLER EYES
Chapter one
THE PUPS
The morning sun was not full in the sky yet the heat of the day was making itself known on the small drama being played out on the dusty range below.
Every fiber in her body ached for release. Tense she watched as he moved, unawares of her presence, closer to what she hoped would be his last meal of the day and her first. She was not the only one interested.
A shadow had passed over seconds before and she knew from similar instances in the past that she was in danger of loosing a much-needed source of food for her and her two remaining pups. The cause of the shadow landed thirty feet away in the top of a dead yellow pine. Craning his head to better see his target the red tailed hawk paused before making his dive onto the unsuspecting rat.
Inching her back legs into position to pounce her eyes caught another movement behind the rat at the same time the rat became aware that a four foot rattler had plans for his demise. In a blur of motion the rat streaked away from the open fanged mouth of the snake, the hawk, now with his preferred prey in sight swooping down on a meal large enough to share with his mate and three fuzzy chicks. The mother coyote relaxed, good fortune was with her today. Instead of loosing the rat to the hawk, she would let the hawk kill the snake and at the right time while the hawk did its victory dance over the dead snake, she would kill the hawk and take her and the snake back to her young. The rat can wait for tomorrow.
The cross hairs centered on her chest and followed her as she pounced on the hawk. " I don’t see why we hav’ ta kill her Pa." Whispered as it was, she heard and with a spray of dust and sand, spun and leapt to safety with only a sting across her rump from what would have been a deadly bullet through her chest. The unfortunate hawk caught the brunt of the shot and flapped out the last seconds of his life in the dust by the snake he had intended for his family.
"Dad gum it boy, I had her for sure if you’d kept your trap shut." He spat on the boy’s boot and feigned a whack with the butt of his ought six.
"I know Pa but it don’t seem right, she’s bound to have pups and we killed her mate yesterday. They’d likely starve and that ain’t a good way to go. Besides coyotes ain’t all that bad". Rusty kicked dust over the spittle on his boot and squinted as he looked up at his Pa.
"Son, the county’s paying fifty cents a tail for wolf and coyote. That calf them varmints kilt yesterday is worth more than that but every bit helps. She’s ain’t all coyote either. She’s half again the size of any bitch coyote I’ve ever seen. That wolf she was runnin with was a biggin. Probably come from out of some northern state. I hear they got a bounty on them critters all over. She’s most likely half wolf. Wolves and coyotes are getting scarce and startin to run together. Ain’t no tellin what them pups will get up to? You take a wolf, bad enough, but mix in a cunning coyote and now you got problems. I swear a coyote can out think a man when it comes to fillin it’s gut and keeping it’s hide. Come on; let’s get back to the house. Mama’s got food on the table, not that you deserve any."
Risking another stream of tobacco juice on his boot, Rusty rode up besides his Pa and began to defend the coyote. "Pa, I don’t think they kilt that calf. It still had the birthin sack on it. Bet it was born dead. Betsy wouldn’t just let em take it with out a fight lessen it were dead and she had nary a scratch on her. I think it was dead and they was doing us a favor by cleaning it up."
"Boy, I swear there’s more of your mom in you than there is of me. Next you’ll be want’n to find the bitch and take her and the pups in". A stream of juice splattered across the toe of his boot.
Rusty had long since gotten used to his Pa’s gesture of impatience, frustration, irritation and some times just because he had to spit and the boot was there for him to spit on.
"Can I Pa, really"?
"Boy you don’t have a clue, do you?" his Pa muttered as they dismounted at the back porch.
Rusty burst through the screen door flinging it wide as the spring twanged and slammed it shut behind him, "Ma, Pa said I could have them coyote pups."
"Said no such thing boy," his Pa grumbled as he threw his hat on the table.
"Rusty wipe that tobacco spit off of your boot. Pa that’s a nasty habit you’ve got. One of these days your gonna spit on the preachers shoe and then what are you gonna say?"
"Far cry better than giving him the back of my hand like he deserves for some of the stuff he gets up to. Is that coffee still hot? Ice tea would be better as hot as it is already."
"Pa why couldn’t I have the pups? That would be better than them growing up wild and messing with folk’s chickens and stuff".
"Dead pups would be better. Eat your vittles and get your chores behind you. If there is any daylight left you can waste it looking for the pups. I might have hurt that bitch more than a little. I would not want the pups to starve either."
Rusty through his arms around his dad, "thanks Pa," I’ll take good care of them, they wont be any trouble, you’ll see.
"I know they won’t even get here iffin you don’t get your arms off of me and get your work done." He ruffled the already mussed hair and playfully shoved Rusty back into his chair. "Ma, pass the biscuits and some more of that gravy, this sure is some good fixins."
Rusty hated hoeing. Of all the chores he had to do, this was the most dreaded. Two acres of their small ranch was tilled under for a vegetable garden. He could remember when he thought it was fun to be out here when his mom would help him. He was told to hoe only in the middle of the rows. His mom would do the more tedious job of hoeing between the plants and pulling the weeds and grass up that grew at the base of the plants.
"Can’t get to close to the roots or you’ll do more harm than good " she would say as she began to teach him the whole boring job.
Once he made the near fatal mistake of complaining to his dad that this was "Squaws work and he didn’t see why he had to do it".
"Don’t ever say that word again" he snarled as Rusty picked himself up off of several corn plants which had been flattened when he went down. A big hand grasping his thin cotton shirt, ripping it across the back hastened his ascent. Tears filled his eyes. His face burned where the handprint began to turn crimson red. Terrified, he hung there, legs dangling two feet above the ground, his eyes inches away from the eyes of some one he had never seen before. Eternity passed as his shirt gave way and he slowly slipped to a huddle on the ground. Through brimming tears he looked up to see his dad reaching down to pick him up.
"I’m sorry Son. You have no way of knowing how words like that have caused pain and misery to your mom. Hearing them from you would rip her heart out. You meant no slight on your mom, most likely just saying what you’ve heard others say.
We are not to be like the kind that picks themselves up by putting others down. Some folks think that because their skin is white they are better than others that ain’t. If you had come out looking more like your mom than like me, you would be feeling the sting of their slang.
As for this being woman’s work? It’s a rare man that can do all that a woman can and still be standing at the end of the day. We all do what we do best. Your mom’s a better cook than I am or she would be mending fences and riding line and you’d be eating slop. Now get back to doing what needs to be done. Never heard you complaining come time to eat from the garden. Don’t know what your gonna tell your mom bout your shirt and the corn you messed up".
Rusty never forgot that moment. He began to notice what his dad was talking about. His classmates would use slang like injun, spic, nigger and wetback. Most often kids with less talent than others were the ones yelling the loudest when it came to name calling.
Rusty also figured that the quickest way to get out of hoeing was to get better at something else but that had not happened yet. He was not big enough to do what his dad did all day long and he sure did not want to do everything his mom did, he never would get finished.
Boring, boring, boring, chop, chop, chop, pull, pull, pull was there no end to it. A scorpion scurried off to another row. Rusty’s mind drifted off to the first time he had encountered a scorpion while hoeing.
He had reached down to pull weeds from the base of a pepper plant and drew back a hand that was burning from the rapid stings of a three-inch scorpion.
"Take that, you little shit!" He had said over and over as he chopped until nothing was left except two mangled claws.
"Make your hand feel any better" pa had said.
"No! But he stung me." Rusty cried, rubbing the sting on his hand.
"I imagine it crawled right up your hoe handle and got you?"
"No. I was pulling weeds and he stung me."
"Been a rattler we wouldn’t be talking about it. You’ve got to know what’s going on around you or you won’t get very far in this world. Things are going to happen though no matter how careful you are. How you act when things happen makes a big difference when it’s all over. You were mad and kilt a critter that helps us out and didn’t make your hand feel one bit better. Lucky you didn’t chop the pepper or something else would be burnin as well."
"How’s a dumb old scorpion help us out?" Rusty wanted to know. Pa scratched around until he scared out another scorpion. Catching it by the tail below the stinger, he carried it back to the house. He dropped it into a gallon-canning jar and said to sprinkle a little water and drop insects from the garden in the jar every day. The bugs always ended up gone with only a few legs left.
One morning the scorpion was covered with something weird.
"Pa, Ma come look, something is wrong with the scorpion!"
Pa told me to look real close and I saw that the weird things on the scorpion were tiny little baby scorpions. I have never killed a critter again with out thinking about it first. Every thing has a purpose and as long as it’s purpose is not contrary to mine, let it be.
Thunder rolled some where beyond the ridge. The clouds were out of sight behind the tall pines that edged the horizon and most likely would not bring any rain on this side of the mountain.
"Drats and be darned. If it rains I could quit hoeing. If it rains all of the tracks will be washed out," Rusty muttered as another distant rumble reached his ears. Ten more rows. He knew better than to do less than best. "Ma knows how long it takes and if I come in early she would march me right back out here and point out more for me to do. Boring, boring, boring, dang I wish I had done more yesterday."
Twenty -two in hand, a burlap sack tied around his waist for carrying the pups and his canteen on his back, Rusty carefully scanned the ground where only a few hawk feathers held fast by cockle-burrs marked the scene of the morning.
Cherokee Bill, his mother’s brother had taught him to track. It was said in the county that Cherokee Bill could track a cricket across a hard wood floor if he had a mind too.
"Never rush the start. Go in easy. Look for all the sign before you mess it up. Circle slow, something will be amiss, if you miss it or mess it up you’ll have to make a larger circle and finding the start will be harder. Think like what you’re tracking. " All of his uncle’s advice bounced around Rusty’s mind as he looked for the start. There, that’s it she landed here, turned towards the gully and using the gully for cover headed up the ridge. "Go slow!" He reminded himself. "If I miss where she comes out of this gully, I won’t be finding any pups today."
As best as he could tell, the coyote stayed in the cover of the gully. The hard red clay offered few clues but scratches in the moss on some rocks were enough to keep his hopes up.
Close to the top of the ridge Rusty paused to examine a new sign. She had stopped here and circled as if ready to bed down. The few leaves, which had not been washed down the gully, were matted from the weight of her body. Tacky blood coated some of the leaves. She had been hit harder than he thought or the run up the ridge had opened up the wound.
"How could I have missed blood signs on the way up?" He wondered aloud. His question was answered when he topped the ridge. There she lay. Her tail cut off for the bounty. The scratch caused by his dad’s near miss had not bled much at all. A small caliber wound in her side causing the blood on the leaves was probably received as she lay licking the scratch and the fatal shot to her head came as like most coyotes, she had turned in her flight to see her adversary. Experienced coyote hunters take advantage of this often-fatal habit.
"She has pups." He thought as he examined her teats. "How am I going to find them now?"
"Think like what you’re tracking. " His uncle’s words answered.
Six hours of daylight were left when he started, two hours and one mile spent so far leaving him four hours till dark. He could see the clouds now that he had topped the ridge. Dark and ominous they loomed in the East.
"Never go down into Echo Valley when its been raining on top Son." His dad’s words mixed in with all the rest of his thoughts.
Always start back out when half of your time is gone.
I won’t be tracking on the way out. I can get back quicker than coming in. I’ll allow two more hours tracking and then start back. I should make three miles in two hours. Any way once I get back down on our side of the ridge I can make it home blind folded. Ma will be plenty mad though if I get in after dark.
Coyotes den up near creeks. Most likely I’ll have to follow the creek but which way when I get down?
"Think like what you’re tracking."
"Never go down into Echo Valley when it’s been raining on top Son."
Them pups are probably six to seven weeks old. If they come out looking for food some old owl or hawk will make off with them for dinner.
Pa ain’t gonna let me waste any more time on these pups, I’d better find them today. He might though if he knows they’re gonna starve.
A flash of lightning broke through the black clouds and Rusty’s thoughts. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, Rusty counted until he heard the rumble and divided the count by two. This time worn calculation meant that the storm was seven miles away. Now he had more to think about.
It took pa and me two hours to get to the creak last time but we weren’t in a hurry.
Ma ‘s gonna be plenty mad if I don’t get home by dark.
As well as teaching him to think before he acted, his dad also admonished him for "plowing the same ground over and over." Or another way he would put it was "if your shoe ain’t under the bed the first time you look there’s no need to keep on looking under the bed for a shoe that ain’t there. Make up your mind and get on with it."
"It’s four thirty now, I’ll turn back at six thirty and high tail it out. I’ll be home before dark, pups or no pups," that’s my plan Rusty thought as he once again looked for a trail to follow.
Animals often use the same trail when passing over territory to and from hunting or feeding grounds. All you have to do is look around for a natural opening in the underbrush and more than likely you will see where the leaves and grass have been pressed down. One such trail continued down the ridge in the general direction the coyote had been heading. The tall trees on this side of the ridge kept the ground shaded. The underbrush was sparse from lack of sunlight. Rusty made good time. Some times the trail was so plain; he could lope along for hundreds of yards before slowing down to check the trail.
Fifty yards or so from the base of the ridge, Rusty came to a distinct split in the trail. One trail continued on in the direction he had been going. The second trail cut sharply to the right and down to the base of the ridge coming out on the valley floor. Rusty studied both carefully. Deer hooves had cut leaves on both trails. He looked for scat and the tell tell sign of pee on trees and large rock. Both were present on both trails.
"Think like what you’re tracking." "OK" he reasoned, "I’ve never been far above the falls but the creek peters out pretty quick up there. There is always more water in the valley and more thickets for the coyotes to hide in next to the creek. A nursing mom needs lots of water. Coyotes sleep soundly and use thickets to protect them while they sleep. I’m going to the right. I made good time coming down, little over an hour and a half left to find the pups. I’ll start at the base of the gorge."
As Rusty came out onto the valley floor, he looked over at the bluff that concealed Hidden Gorge. This wonder of nature never ceased to amaze him. The slope at the foot of Bear Mountain ended abruptly in a fifty –foot high red rock cliff that spanned a half-mile across the beginning of Echo Valley.
From anywhere in the valley all you could see was what looked like a solid wall. When you followed the creek up to the bluff, the bluff revealed it’s hidden gorge.
The eastern half of the bluff was set back sixty or more feet to the North than the western half. A thirty -foot thick extension of the western half ran parallel to the eastern half for fifty yards.
When the creek was down you could walk into the thirty -foot wide gorge back to where centuries of water erosion had carved out the echo chamber. Like half of a giant teacup lying on its side, the chamber was sixty feet wide, thirty feet high and thirty feet deep.
Even in the hottest of summers there was always a pool of cool water in the basin, deep enough for swimming.
On the north rim of the cup, another wonder exists. The powerful left forearm of a man reaches up to within ten feet of the top of the dome. His open hand forms a ledge, which extends ten feet out into the chamber. Year round a constant stream of cold water pours out of the palm of the hand between the thump and fingers forming a thin transparent water fall about a foot wide. Pa had said that it reminded him of a painting he had seen after the war in a chapel in Rome
The trail was no longer discernable after it opened into the valley. Rusty had expected this because animals often take different paths to the den in order to keep it concealed. He cut across the valley floor to the creek. To his disappointment, he was unable to find any tracks in the soft creek banks. He decided to follow the creek to the bluff. If no tracks could be found, he would come back to this point and start down stream.
Coming into the gorge he remembered the first time that pa had brought him here and how surprised he was to hear his name being called by someone inside the rocks. Pa had explained how the echo worked by having him blow on the water and watching the ripples reach a flat protruding rock and start back to where the ripples began. When you shout you send ripples through the air. When they hit the rocks they come back to you.
"Life is like an echo," he said.
"How so?" I asked.
"Shout, You are an idiot!" He said.
"You are an idiot!" I shouted into the chamber. "You are an idiot! You are an idiot! You are an idiot!" came back to me from the rocks.
Now shout, " you are terrific!" He said.
"You are terrific!" I shouted. "You are terrific! You are terrific! You are terrific!" Came back to me from the rocks.
"You see what you put out in life will come back to you like an echo. Be nasty and mean, nasty and mean comes back at you. Be good and kind, good and kind comes back at you. Life is like an echo!" he repeated.
Rusty found large wolf tracks and large coyote tracks in the gorge along the water edge but they were all headed out of the gorge. This puzzled him to no end. Thinking back to the split in the trail, he wondered if maybe the den was above the falls. Maybe the male wolf had picked the site or being half wolf, the coyote had chosen a wolf den location over a coyote den location.
"Think like what you’re tracking." He had not factored in any wolf thinking at all.
Maybe it was not too late. He still had an hour. The falls were about a quarter mile up at the head of the gorge. It would be a hard up hill climb but he would not have to track until he got above the falls. There was absolutely no way any animal would den up in the gorge.
He followed the creek around the horseshoe bend in the echo chamber. Looking up at the open palm with the thin waterfall, he wondered what he would find if ever he could get up in to the hand. Maybe a deposit of gold or silver or some other rare mineral was up there. Pa said there was no telling how far the water traveled before it came out of the hand. It was cold enough to come all the way from up North, maybe even Alaska.
Rounding the bend, Rusty hurried up the gorge. The gorge was forty feet wide with sheer walls thirty feet high. The bottom was covered with water worn large boulders through which the creek trickled. Fifteen minutes later he rounded another bend; the walls were not as sheer, and only ten feet high. Some saplings were desperately clinging to the cracks in the wall trying to hold on to life.
Rusty could see the falls with the summer trickle streaming over the edge and began planning his search for the den. He excitedly imagined himself getting home right at dusk with a sack full of pups.
The air sizzled; a blinding light engulfed him, as lightning cracked down the trunk of a tall pine no more than a hundred yards between him and the falls. Bark exploded from the tree with a deafening roar followed by a thunderous report that left his ears ringing louder than the roar of the cloud burst descending upon him. Through the flying chunks of bark and golf ball size hail, Rusty saw the wall of water coming over the falls.
Moon Shadow dropped to her knees. Fear gripped her stomach so hard it wrenched her over. The thunderclap from Echo Valley brought a vivid picture of the trouble Rusty could be in. "Father God!" She cried, "Protect my son, place him in the palm of your hand and bring him home safe to me."
Ray reined in Buck at the sound of the thunderclap. Looking off to the East he studied the black boiling clouds. A sickening feeling washed over him. Slapping leather, bent low in the saddle, he shouted in the wind, "Dad gum it boy, you better not be in the valley." Knowing that he was, Ray called out again, "Almighty God, he ain’t got sense enough to stay out of trouble, you’re going to have to pull him out of this one for sure."
Dropping his rifle, Rusty scrambled for the wall closest to him. Clawing for a hand–hold he pulled up three feet to a ledge. Slipping, he fell back and franticly reached for a thin sapling. Grabbing hold and climbing his way up he gained five feet and reached another sapling. This one could get him over the rim. Two feet from the top, the wall of water swept his feet out from under him and pulled him horizontal. He hung on to the sapling with every once of strength in his body. It felt as if he would be ripped in two. Logs and limbs racked against his side slamming him into the wall. A snag on a log caught the strap for his canteen. Strangled by the strap, his air cut off, he thought to turn loose of the sapling and take his chances in the flash flood. The strap broke releasing the log and allowing him to gasp for air.
He had managed to survive the crushing wall of water. Safety was still out of sight. The rising water filled his nose and mouth. Turning his head, Rusty managed to grab more air. The fragile hold the sapling had in the crevice gave way and both swirled out into the boiling water.
As Rusty was sucked under, the deafening roar was replaced with the muffled sound of boulders clashing together and rolling along the floor of the gorge.
Like a kitten thrown into a creek, Rusty kicked and clawed with more vigor than he had ever used in his life. Bursting through the surface, he saw the wall of water rolling up the back wall of the chamber. A giant wave, like the ones he had seen in movies of the ocean, came off the top of the chamber heading for him. Grabbing a final breath, Rusty waited for the inevitable slam to the bottom and his turn to be smashed into the wall.
The returning wave poured back into the turbulent waters just in front of Rusty. The opposing forces bucked together causing a tremendous swell. In stead of being slammed to the bottom, Rusty felt himself being lifted up. Opening his eyes, he saw that he would be slammed into the wall above the open hand. The last thing he remembered was a swooshing sound and the thought, "Ma’s gonna be plenty mad."
Moon Shadow grabbed for the phone. Ellen Redding was talking with Betty Smith. Party lines were common in the county. As many as eight families shared a common line. Most people would pick up the phone quietly, if some one were already using the line, they would hang up and try latter or quietly listen in on the gossip.
"Ellen? This is Rebecca, I think Rusty is over in the Valley and a storm is coming. I need to get Bill to help me find him. Could you hang up while I call Bill?"
"Oh no, they just put out a flash flood warning on the radio for the Valley. Go ahead. Let me know if we can help." Ellen gasped before hanging up.
Two long rings and a short ring, every one on the line knew Cherokee Bill was getting a call. Give him a minute to start talking and they would pick up to see what was happening.
"Hawkeye!" Moon Shadow cried, "Rusty is in the Valley. I am afraid he needs help. "
"Saddle up. I’ll be right over." Hawkeye shouted back, slamming down the phone. Grabbing his rifle and keys he headed for the door.
Though Bill and Rebecca were their Christian names, Hawkeye and Moon Shadow talked to each other using their tribal names. Hawkeye had left the reservation when he was seventeen to fight in world war two. He had become a best friend with Ray Bach while sharing foxholes and close calls in the war. After the war, Bill introduced Ray to Rebecca. Following a short court ship, Ray and Rebecca were wed and settled down on the Bach ranch. Bill was asked to help out on the ranch. Never being to fond of reservation life he accepted and the three of them gave new life to the old ranch.
Knowing that Ray, upon hearing the thunderclap, would ride hard to get back and need a fresh mount, Moon Shadow saddled three horses. She filled three carbide headlamps and a kerosene lantern and paced anxiously while she waited.
The sound of tires on gravel, always a welcome sound, brought her some relief as she ran out to meet Buckeye.
They watched as a cloud of dust signaled Ray’s approach.
The spent cloud spilling over the west ridge of Bear Mountain began to drop light drizzle on the three as they drew near to the base of the ridge. Hawkeye took only a moment to pick up Rusty’s trail up the gully. Without comment they reached the top.
"That must have upset him." Ray said, shaking his head as they passed the dead coyote.
At the split in the trail, Bill pulled up and studied the signs. Both the ridge and the clouds had robed them of daylight. There was not enough light left to read the trail and although the trees had filtered the rain from washing out the trail, recent tracks were dampened beyond reading.
"Think like what you’re tracking" Bill muttered. " Rusty would have thought coyote, I hope he didn’t realize his error and head up the gorge."
No one answered. They lit the carbide lamps and headed into the valley.
Deep in his mind, Rusty heard his Pa call his name and the three echoes that followed.
"Up here, Pa." In his brain he heard himself answer, in his ear, he heard a garbled muffled sound he could not understand.
Deep in his mind, Rusty heard his Ma call his name and the three echoes that followed. She didn’t sound mad at all.
"Up hear, Ma." In his brain he heard himself answer, in his ear he heard a garbled muffled sound he could not understand.
Over and over Rusty heard them call, his Pa, his Ma and his Uncle Bill. Over and over he answered with the same results. The calls slowly got weaker and weaker and finally became so faint, he only imagined he heard them. In his mind, he kept answering any way. At long last, an ever so soft whisper "Up here, Ma" reached his ear in echo to the shout in his brain. Rusty opened his eyes and closed them. He opened his eyes again just to make sure he could not see any thing. "I must be dead," he thought.
The water had already receded back into the creek banks. Some say that a flash flood comes and goes so fast that it leaves a cloud of dust in passing. The devastation was not so quick in leaving. Logs and animal carcasses could be found thirty feet on either side of the creek.
The clouds had parted and a bright full moon made the weak light from the carbide lamps useless. Hawkeye commented that it was on a bright night such as this that Rebecca was born and given the name of Moon Shadow.
They stilled called out hopefully every few yards. There was still a chance that Rusty was far enough in the valley to have gotten to the edge of the flood away from the killing wall of water. Bill kept calling out as well but he knew from the time Rusty had started till the time of the flood that Rusty had been some where near the gorge.
Four sets of lights were heading their way from down in the valley.
"Ray! Is that you?" Howard called out. "Ellen called around and we started looking from the other end. Is this Rusty’s gun and canteen?"
Rebecca’s stomach knotted and she suppressed a wail that hurt her throat as it tried to come through.
"No other sign lessen this is his " Howard said, holding a beaded moccasin to the light.
The horses startled. A sound that could tear the heart from a stone statue soared through the valley. Ray lifted Rebecca from her saddle, his big arms held her close to his chest as he whispered, "Rusty is all right Let’s go home and pray."
Somewhere in a foxhole at a time and in a place Ray cared not to remember but could not forget, he had learned that he was not big enough, strong enough or wise enough to make it through life on his own. He had turned to God then and ever since. God is always there. You don’t sit at the table and expect God to feed you, but you ask for guidance and follow His word and life works out just fine, here and in the here after.
"Bill, would you mind staying out here and finding Rusty? Rebecca needs to go home and get things ready for when you all come back in." Setting her back on her Paint, Ray and Rebecca turn and headed home.
"Can’t be dead." Rusty reasoned. "Brother Charlie always would say at funerals that the dead were free from pain and suffering and in a better place. I ain’t free from either. There ain’t a spot on me that’s not painful. This place, wherever it is, for sure ain’t better than the worst place I’ve ever been before. Maybe I’m in hell. No that can’t be. I have accepted Jesus as my Savior. Besides I’m too cold and the fires of hell would give off some kind of light. Maybe they found me and thought I was dead and buried me alive."
This thought brought a chuckle as Rusty remembered how he used to think that Brother Charlie always ended funerals by saying, "In the Name of the Father, and the Son and in the hole he goes. "
The events of the day began to slowly play back through Rusty’s mind ending with the terror he felt when he realized he would be slammed into the palm of the hand.
"That’s where I’m at. It’s dark cause it’s night. How am I going to get down? I’d better be careful not to fall off."
Rusty began to feel around. Each little move reminded him of how much he hurt. He started to stand up and smacked his head on something.
"Ouch! Dang it that hurts." The warm goo on his hand as he rubbed his head let him know that he was bleeding.
"It’s not to bad he thought," feeling for whatever it was that he had hit. As he felt around he realized that he was in a space no more than two feet high.
"This don’t make sense. I know the ledge is a good ten feet from the top of the dome. I should be able to stand up. Where am I?"
Fear began to grip him as the uncertainty of his situation came over him. Cold, so cold he could not remember ever being so cold. Dark, eyes open, eyes shut, it did not matter. He could hold his finger right in front of his eyes and not see. Was he blind? Listen? Yes he could hear. Sounds of water dripping, sounds of water falling into water some where below. Slowly he crawled towards the sound of the water. A wall of smooth rock blocked his way.
"Find the water and follow it out to the sound." He thought. "Cold water, this is the water that comes off of the hand. I must be way back behind the hand where no one can see. I’ll be out in a bit."
With renewed hope, Rusty crawled two or three feet. Ever so faint just ahead was a thin line of light. Rusty reached for the light. His hand came to rest on a large log, which sealed off the two-foot high, five-foot long entrance to the cave. The same swell that had thrown Rusty out of the flood into the cave had also thrown out the log, blocking out the light and Rusty’s way onto the ledge.
Rusty shouted and was glad to hear his voice loud and clear. His throat soon became sore and his voice began too weaken. No answer came from behind the log. No one would ever think to look for him up here. He had not been able to even budge the log with his arms or his legs. Fear and desperation returned. Tears filled his eyes. Sobbing, he crawled away from the cold water. Exhausted, shivering and sobbing, he fell to sleep.
"Rebecca, you’re going to have to calm down. It’s early. He probably dropped the rifle and canteen when he started running. I know I would have. Them briers along the creak snatched his moccasin off. Worst thing to happen will be the tannin he gets when he’s back home and having to soak his scratched up foot in kerosene." Making as light of it as he could, Ray tried to ease Rebecca’s mind as he thought of where else he could look for Rusty.
"Bill may have missed Rusty’s track where the trail split. I’m going back and look up around the falls. Will you be all right?
" I’ll call Ann. She will be wondering where Bill got off to and she can help me get a meal up for the men. I’ll be fine, I know Rusty is OK. He is in God’s hands. I just want him home." Rebecca said as she gave Ray a hug.
The trail played out above the ravine. Ray could see well enough by moonlight to know that the falls had returned to near normal. Up-rooted trees were the only indication of the ferocity of the flash flood.
"If Rusty had been in the gorge," Ray could not even finish the thought. "Rusty!" He yelled and listened with out expecting a reply. Dismounting, he made his way down close to the water’s edge. The water had been at least ten feet over the falls when it entered the gorge. There was no need to look for sign. Ray called out a few more times. Dejectedly, he worked his way back to the top and slowly rode home.
The sound of his dad’s yell, though faint, entered Rusty’s mind and woke him up. He listened for more and tried to call back. The effort spent earlier had left his voice hoarse and weak. His name came again, wafting, not from the chamber with an echo but from the other direction. Again and again his name seemed to drift to him through the dark. Slowly Rusty crawled toward the sound of his name.
Silence, just the sound of the water dripping some where behind him was all he could hear. Had he imagined that he had heard his dad calling? Was he dreaming? Dreaming or not, he had crawled twenty feet or so with out hitting a wall.
"There is no way out behind me," Rusty thought, " I’ll keep going this way till I can’t go any farther.
Rusty inched his way through the darkness. At times the walls would close in on him and he would have to crawl in the cold water. He would squeeze through spots where his stomach was pressed against the floor and his back against the ceiling.
After one such passage, Rusty sensed that he was in a larger space. Feeling around he realized he could stand up without touching the ceiling. After hours of crawling on hands and knees and some times on his belly, Rusty found great relief in standing up. He felt for the wall and began to inch his way along.
Cold water shocked his bare foot. Stepping back, he knelt down and felt around the edge of the wall. As deep as he could reach, he could not find the bottom of the water. Reversing direction, he inched his way along the wall, passing the opening through which he had come and continuing until he once again came to water. His way was blocked by the icy cold water.
"Was this the end of the cave? If I swim across, will I be able to get out? How far have I come? I could find my way back by following the water but what good would that do? Questions without answers rolled through Rusty’s mind until he was ready to start crying again.
"Pa’s voice had to get in some where, this can’t be the end of the cave, I’m going on." Rusty decided. Determined, he decided to hang on to the wall and make his way around the pool.
He only thought that he was cold before. The water took his breath and left him shivering so badly, he was barely able to hold on to the side. Within a few minutes he was able to find a ledge and crawl out of the water. Curled up in a ball Rusty finally stopped shivering and felt around for the way to go.
This side of the pool was dry and seemed warmer. No longer able to stand, Rusty continued on his hands and knees. The pitch black was no longer pitch, just black as if you had your eyes shut in a lighted room.
The incline of the floor slanted up. Rusty had to dig in with his feet to keep from sliding backwards. Pausing to rest after fifteen minutes of crawling up the slope, Rusty heard the muffled sound of a waterfall. As the floor leveled off, Rusty was able to finally make out the sides of the cave that at this point was more like a tunnel. Just ahead the floor dropped three feet into a small chamber. The morning sun, cresting over the East Ridge, sent rays through a small opening on two hungry pups huddled in the back of the den.
They were in the saddle before dawn picking there way back over the ridge heading for the falls. Rebecca insisted that Rusty was to be found near the falls and no amount of talking would keep her in till daybreak.
Clothes torn and hanging in shreds, caked with mud, one shoe off and one shoe on, a sack with two pups on his back, a tired and weary but happy Rusty looked up to see his Pa and Ma.
