was designed to protect his legs, but it was one simple cut, like ten thousand before, and he wanted to get back to the crew. He pulled the cord on the chain saw and it barked to life. He set the blade against the stump and pulled the trigger with his index finger.
The saw was loose in his right hand, the thirty-inch blade tight to the wood and perpendicular to his left leg. The second the clutch kicked in and the blade began to spin, the teeth kicked off the bark and flew back into his leg. Billy’s immediate reaction was to release the clutch, but he wasn’t quick enough. The blade slashed into his flesh, tearing into the muscle and tendons just below his knee. He screamed with pain as the blade embedded in his bone and stopped. He dropped to the ground, blood flowing freely from the wound.
Within seconds the entire crew was around him, two men ripping open a first-aid kit and Chris on the walkie- talkie to the mill, calling for the chopper. It took about thirty seconds for Chris to get Gordon.
“How bad is it?” Gordon asked, taking the walkie-talkie from the front-office employee who had answered the call.
“He’s cut right to the bone. We’ve taken the blade out and I’ve got a couple of guys working on the bleeding. It looks pretty bad, Gordon.”
“The chopper’s dumping that load of logs in the yard. It’ll be airborne again inside two minutes. Six to seven minutes out once it’s in the air.”
Chris did the math. Less than ten minutes for the helicopter to arrive, another couple to load Billy, and a fifteen-minute ride to the hospital. Under half an hour. “He’ll be okay if the blade didn’t hit an artery.”
“Is the blood spurting?” Gordon asked, knowing that a severed artery pumped blood like a crimped garden hose.
Chris looked at the cut. The blood was flowing quickly, but not spurting. “No, but he’s bleeding badly.”
“Get a tourniquet on it,” Gordon said, relieved. “It’s not great, but it’ll stop the flow. I’ll call it in to the hospital and have them get some blood ready.”
“The guys are getting one in place, Gordon. I’ll keep this line open.”
Gordon turned to the employee who had initially taken the call. “Get the emergency ward at the hospital on the line. Tell them they’ve got an emergency coming in and they’ll need A-positive blood.” He returned to the walkie-talkie. “Is the tourniquet on yet?”
“Just pulling it tight, Gordon.”
Gordon could hear voices, indecipherable but panicked.
“What’s going on, Chris?”
A few moments of background noise. Chris said, “They can’t get it to stop, it’s pouring out. The cut is too close to the knee to get the tourniquet tight.”
Gordon fought the panic in his chest. “Christ, you’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“We’re trying,” Chris yelled back. There was desperation in his voice. There was more background noise, raised voices, men shouting. Chris’s voice came over the air, but he wasn’t talking to Gordon. “Pull it tighter, for Christ’s sake,” he screamed. “Keep him conscious! Don’t let him pass out.”
“Chris,” Gordon said. “Chris!”
More noise, pandemonium as the men, well trained in first aid, fought to stop the bleeding. Gordon slammed the walkie-talkie on the table and ran from the room, shattering the glass in the door as he banged through it and into the late-afternoon sun. He sprinted to the helicopter, which had just finished dropping a load of logs, and jumped in beside the pilot. Seconds later they rose above the trees and banked toward Canyon Creek. He glanced at his watch.
The clearing materialized as they crested the treetops next to the creek, and Gordon could immediately see the swath of forest the two crews had cleared over the past thirty hours. He pointed at the group of men huddled over Billy and the pilot nodded, gently setting the craft down only fifteen yards from the group. Gordon leapt from the open door and weaved through the sea of tree trunks. The odor of pine sap was strong in his nostrils. He reached the group and knelt down at his brother’s side.
The wound was still bleeding. The loggers had secured the tourniquet immediately below the knee joint and cinched it tight. But although the flow was slowed, the blood was not coagulating. And Billy had already lost too much blood to lose any more. Gordon pointed to the chopper, then he and three other men hoisted Billy’s unconscious body into the air and staggered through the stumps to the waiting craft. They slid Billy in the back, and once he was in beside him, Gordon gave the pilot the thumbs-up. They were airborne in seconds.
Gordon turned his attention to his brother’s leg. The wound was gaping, but not as severe as he had imagined. The tourniquet was well placed and tight, but it was the refusal of Billy’s blood to coagulate that was the problem. Gordon slipped Billy’s wrist into his hand and felt for a pulse. Almost nonexistent. He looked down at his brother’s face, white as fresh-fallen Montana snow. He looked at the blood pooling and felt tears welling up in his eyes. Billy had lost too much blood. They were still at least twelve minutes to the hospital, plus time to get him from the chopper to emergency. There wasn’t time. And then he realized.
He was watching his brother die.
Gordon cradled Billy’s head in his arms and felt the tears let loose. They spilled down his cheeks onto his brother’s face. He gently brushed them off as he felt Billy’s body stiffen, then go limp. He brushed Billy’s hair back from his forehead. His body was still warm.
“Oh God, Billy,” he said softly. “Oh my God, what have you done?”
3
Billy Buchanan’s house was small but impeccably kept. Billy was the younger brother and had never reached the financial independence Gordon had achieved, but that didn’t stop him from taking immense pride in his modest abode in an upper-end neighborhood. He had often told Gordon that buying the smallest house on the street was the best financial decision he had ever made. The property value had shot up, mostly because of the larger houses lining the street. Billy had been very proud of that.
Gordon entered the house just after noon on the day after Billy’s funeral with a key his brother had given him some years earlier. As he turned the key in the lock, it struck him: He’d never had to use the key before. Billy had always been at home when he’d visited. He pushed open the door and was greeted by the faint scent of fresh strawberries. He removed his shoes and raincoat and glanced outside at the drizzle that had saved his sawmill, then closed the door.
The blinds were drawn, and Gordon moved through the house pulling back the shades and opening a couple of windows to get some air flowing. The house was a three-bedroom bungalow, with a country kitchen and a living room. There was no formal dining area, which Billy preferred, calling a dining room a total waste of usable space. Gordon returned to the living room and paused, scanning the multitude of framed photos on the wall abutting the kitchen. Many of the pictures were of Gordon and Billy fishing, hunting, at the mill, enjoying a cold beer together. Gordon stood motionless for a few minutes, remembering the weather and their conversation at the time when each picture was snapped. His eyes were moist, but his hands never moved from his sides to wipe away the tears.
A noise at the front door jerked him back to the present and he turned to see Sheriff Boyle framed in the doorway. Boyle was a large man with a prominent beer belly and jowls that moved every time he spoke. He was nearing retirement, and his eyes spoke of too many years seeing the downside of humanity. His uniform was clean and freshly pressed. The lawman removed his hat as he entered. “Hello, Arnie,” Gordon said. “Thanks for coming down.”
Boyle looked uncomfortable. “Not a problem.” He was quiet for a minute. “I’m so sorry, Gordon. I know how close you and Billy were.”
Gordon managed a hint of a smile. “Yeah, thanks. We
“You sure were,” Boyle said, relaxing a bit. “Not everyone gets to be so close to another person. You were lucky.”
Gordon walked over to the sheriff and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know this is tough for you too, Arnie. Don’t think I don’t know. I really appreciate your coming out today.”
