Authors: Craig Lesley
When I informed Billyum what had happened, he lost his patience with the young doctor sewing stitches in his hand. "Come on, can't you hurry it up?" he asked.
The doctor did seem clumsy, but he had been busy all day and was dog tired. "You're going to need a tetanus booster, and I'm out." He cut off the thread with long-nose scissors.
Billyum flexed his hand a few times, testing the stitches. "All right. I'll get one tomorrow." As he shrugged his coat on, he glanced around at the others waiting for treatment or just waiting.
Many flood victims had gathered in the hospital tent, trying to remain warm and dry before they were transported to Gateway's high school, where the gymnasium, showers, and cafeteria had been converted to emergency shelter. These people remained subdued and I was struck at the contrast between this atmosphere and the boisterous one at the fire. They seemed awed by the raw power of the river, their personal losses. Unlike the fire that destroyed a workplace, the flood took personal items and memories. Homes, cars, furniture, clothing, mementos. Everybody knew they would never rebuild Hollywood on that site.
Juniper had been busy calming some of the old people, holding their hands and assuring them everything would be okay. Mrs. Sandoz was crying about the animals she had left behind. Still, she held out hope Jake would bring them across on the return trip.
"I'm sure he'll do all he can," Juniper said. "But we wouldn't want him to risk his lifeâ"
"He'll do it," Mrs. Sandoz said. "I know. When my Thompson had his heart attack, Jake drove the ambulance run with another nice young boy. They couldn't have been more considerate."
When Billyum was ready, we went down by the tribal boat. Squeaky had replaced the spark plug, but it still sputtered and died. "Carburetor," Squeaky said. "I'm pretty sure."
"That's the last time one of your relatives fixes our boat," Billyum said. "I ought to have my head examined."
"Hell, he's just shirttail on my wife's side," Squeaky said. "What's eating you?"
"Jake said he saw someone in that chartreuse house, but I went by it half a dozen times today. Never saw a thing. You were supposed to check it."
"I did," Squeaky said. "Waded right up on the front porch and yelled. No one answered. Jake couldn't have seen anyone."
All of us watched the faint ray of light work its way along the far shore. When it disappeared, we figured he was behind the first row of flooded houses where the structures blocked our view of the beam.
The light reappeared and everyone sighed. "That's close by the chartreuse house," Billyum said. "Check it and get the hell back," he muttered.
The boat seemed to linger there a long time, then the light disappeared again. We waited and waited. "What the hell's he doing?" Billyum scowled. "If he's stopping to get those animals, I'll fry that raccoon and make him eat it."
Then we saw the light, faint but steady.
All of us figured Jake had cleared the flooded houses and was heading for open water. "Here he comes," a couple people said quietly. No one cheered because he still had a long way to get across.
Three fellas drove their pickups to the water's edge and turned on spotlights, attempting to illuminate the water in front of the boat. But Jake was still too far across the river. "Keep those lights out of his eyes," Billyum warned. "He's got to keep them clear."
The light was coming toward us now, and you could see the smaller light from Jake's miner's helmet winking this way and that as he turned his head searching for obstacles.
"Wonder what he found over there," Squeaky said.
Jake was about a third of the way across when we could hear the motors laboring against the current. The fellas in the pickup adjusted their spotlights but the beams didn't reach far enough. They could only sweep the closest third of the river.
Suddenly, the boat light's direction changed, shining off at a cockeyed angle. It began pointing downstream, not following the natural arc a boat makes churning into a heavy current.
"What's this shit?" Billyum said.
The buzz of voices around the warming fires grew louder, and a couple people started up their pickups so we couldn't hear the boat motors clearly anymore, but I think they were still going.
Squeaky said something, Indian words that meant "Wet Shoes" and referred to the restless spirits of drowning victims, the same words Billyum had used a long time ago when we found Kalim.
Now Billyum swore, pushing Squeaky out of the way. He tried start
ing the motor with one hand, then both, pulling so hard he broke a stitch, but it wouldn't catch. "Come on, Jake. Shake clear." He rapped his knuckles against the front of the tribal boat.
The flickering light reached the head of Deer Island, gaining speed as it hit the swift current. The light went in a crazy half circle, first pointing to the shore, then sweeping the flooded trees of the island.
"Something spun him around," Billyum said. "Hit that damn tree, maybe."
Near the foot of the island, the light winked out.
Nobody spoke.
Buzzy took off in the Stearman, and the plane's roaring overhead offered comfort, even though we knew he couldn't help Jake directly. We traced the plane's dark silhouette against the night sky until it disappeared downriver. Buzzy didn't use running lights because he never dusted at night.
We waited, holding our breaths, half expecting the light of Jake's boat to reappear at the head of Deer Island. But there was only darkness and the deep churning of floodwaters.
When the faint sound of a motor droned from the distance, the outline of Buzzy's plane reappeared. Lining up on the burn barrels and the illuminated Texaco lights, he landed on the frozen air strip behind the Totem Pole. Billyum and I were waiting when he climbed out.
"What happened to Jake?" Billyum asked.
Buzzy took off his aviator glasses and shook his head. The glasses were wet and his jumpsuit was soaked. "Snag or a big stump maybe. I could see roots tangling the boat. Jake couldn't get free."
"Did he jump?" Billyum asked.
"I followed him as far as Picture Canyon. I think he was still in the boat. It was awful goddamn dark, and I had to watch those narrow walls."
"Was anybody else with him?"
Buzzy shrugged. "I kept making passes over the boat. A couple times I thought I saw someone, but it might have been a big root over the top. To tell the truth, my night vision is shot."
After Buzzy had been back awhile, old Sylvester went down to the water's edge and picked up some dirt and grass. Letting these sift through his hand into the water, he began chanting, bringing the empty hand to his heart. Continuing to chant, he reached into the medicine bundle he kept tied around his neck and tossed something into the water.
"What's he doing?" I asked Billyum.
"Sort of praying. Asking the river not to keep Jake."
"I hope it works," I said, remembering how things had turned out for Kalim.
"Don't worry about your uncle," Billyum said. "He's got more lives than a tomcat. Has more fun, too."
The longer Sylvester chanted, the more compelling his voice became. Billyum went down to join him, then Juniper, finally Squeaky and some of the other Indians. They didn't know all the words, but joined in the chant now and then.
I stood off a little way, saying my own prayers. It was best to go at it from all sides, I figured.
About fifteen minutes passed before Billyum left the group. "Let's drive down the railroad grade as far as we can. Maybe he jumped and Buzzy missed it."
"Sure," I said, glad to be doing something. Like Billyum, I wasn't certain if Buzzy had seen things clearly at all. He had to work pretty hard at not smashing his plane against the narrow canyon walls.
Others had started up their four-wheel-drive rigs and climbed the hillside to the old railroad grade. It went downriver almost a mile before dead-ending at a blasted tunnel. Now the drivers positioned themselves at spaced intervals, turning on their headlights and spotlights, forming a kind of beacon row along the flooded blackness. When I realized they were keeping watch, I wanted to cry.
"Look." Billyum pointed to the opposite hillside. Studying the high bluffs, I thought stars were coming out of the clouded night sky. Then I realized the lights were coming from Indian rigs high above the black basalt cliffs. They, too, were standing vigil.
For two hours we searched the flooded shoreline, poking among the piles of debris and calling out for Jake. Dozens of others joined us, but there was no sign.
When we found a waterlogged sofa that had floated down from Hollywood, Billyum said, "Let's take a break. I'm about asleep on my feet." He swept the flashlight beam across the sofa. "Wish old Jake was here taking a little snooze."
"Me too," I said.
Billyum shone the light in my face, just for a second. "Did your uncle have a fishing pole with him?"
"I didn't see one. Probably he had fishing gear stored up front."
Billyum put the light on his own face, so I wouldn't miss the grin. "If that sneaky bastard swam to the Indian side and is poaching our fish, I'll ticket his white ass, flood or no flood."
In spite of my weariness and worry, I grinned, too. "Hope he's catching some lunkers."
Billyum nodded. "More power to him ... as long as they're on the white side." He focused the beam on his stitched hand. A crust of blood had formed across the broken stitch. "No kidding, Culver, we better get some rest. At first light, we'll take the boat down Picture Canyon."
"Sure thing," I said, then paused. "What boat?"
"If you got a spare set of store keys, we'll buy a new motor for the tribal boat. That'll be a hoot when old Jake has to pay you a big commission."
"I got keys." I could barely say the next part. "Think we'll find him okay?"
Billyum slapped some mud off his trousers with his good hand. "As Jake would say, 'Don't go thinking any negatory thoughts.' Remember, bullshit floats and he's full of it. Clear up to the gills."
"I hear you," I said. "Maybe old Sylvester's chanting will work, too."
Billyum lowered his voice. "If you promise not to tell, I'll level with you. The fact is, I put a lot more faith in Jake than I do in old Sylvester. But don't go spreading that information." He glanced around, but no one was near. "See, Sylvester misses more than he makes. Even his prophecies are all over the place. Take the World Series. I won bets off him five of the last seven years. My hunch is we'll find Jake tomorrow, if he isn't already walking out of the canyon tonight."
"That's good news," I said, but behind the hopefulness of Billyum's words I sensed his doubts. I didn't know exactly what to think, and remembering the way that boat light had spun around made me nauseous. I could feel slivers of doubt piercing my own heart.
"Listen, Billyum. There's one thing I need to ask, if you don't mind."
He turned to face me. "Sure, kid."
"When you and Jake were fishing and taking sweats, did he stay on the river the whole time? I'm just wondering if he left at all."
His features turned somber in the lantern light. "How come you ask?"
"No real reason, exactly. I just keep thinking about that business with Meeks and Chilcoat. I know Grady and the newspaper editor keep trying to stir things up, but it is funny how those two drove so far out there and then burned up. Pretty weird." I wanted to tell him about the night Sniffy had come into the store telling the wild stories, and I wanted to
ask about the time I saw the three of them in Billyum's rig outside the Alibi, but I didn't know how. Even so, I believe Billyum understood my drift.
"No need to go worrying about Jake," he said after a while. "He stayed with me all the time. Right there on the river."
"That's pretty much what I figured all along," I said.
Although I settled for Billyum's answer, I was too worried about Jake to sleep. Homer had shown up with fresh bakery goods, and throughout the night I helped him carry them to the men and women waiting in their rigs along the railroad grade. When they rolled down their windows to take the baked goods we offered, I smelled the coffee, cigarettes, air freshener, and damp wool. Now those scents mingled with the yeasty odor of doughnuts, butter horns, and bear claws. All these warm human smells offered comfort, a welcome contrast to the rising damp odors of the flood.
The people inside the vehicles kidded around about Jake, trying to make me feel better. "Don't worry about that crazy bastard," one said. "He'll ride that snag all the way to the ocean if he has to. He's a regular wild boat buckaroo." Another added, "Jake'll use that stump for a battering ram and knock out a couple dams along the way. Should help the steelhead and salmon return. And old Jake will be here waiting with his pole and a big fish-eating grin."
A
FTER TAKING MY STORE KEYS
, Billyum drove to town for a new motor. Attempting to get back on Billyum's good side, Squeaky and his relative installed it while Billyum caught a few winks. By first light we were on the river. Squeaky brought a chain saw to cut through brush and debris, if we needed. I didn't like the search dogs, two bloodhounds Billyum borrowed from a trainer. They smelled so bad I didn't understand how they could follow any scent other than their own. In the boat they seemed too anxious. On the riverbank, each time they nosed into a pile of debris, I caught my breath.
All that day we searched. Other boats tried, too, including one manned by Ace and a couple Redwings. Buzzy flew numerous passes over the river but failed to spot Jake or the boat. Once I found half a package of waterlogged Fig Newtons and showed them to Billyum. He shrugged and said lots of Hollywood people ate them, so they might have washed down from anywhere.
When we returned at dusk, the rigs had lined the old railroad bed again; some flew banners with Jake's name from their antennas. Gab had driven my uncle's pickup to the grade, so it sat there, keys in the ignition, waiting.
He reported that downriver, near South Junction, they had found two victims of the flood, both white, but neither was Jake.