Abandon

she climbed, uncertain, just grasping in the dark, trusting her arms and legs to take her where—

Her right foot slipped, and she gripped wet rock, feet scrambling for purchase, her fingers cramping.

It hit her—a load of buckshot colder than Emerald Lake in June, with more properties of liquid metal than water, the current dragging her toward that hole that drained the lake deep into the mountain, kept the depth constant.

She came up gasping, lungs, heart, muscles, bones stunned, standing now in two feet of freezing water, stumbling on, no intended direction or destination beyond someplace dry.

After awhile, her knees banged into the bank and she crawled up onto it and climbed until her head struck a wall.

“Goddamn it!”

The way her voice blared back in her face, she figured she’d crawled into some kind of alcove. The air smelled fixed, and her hands shook so hard, she couldn’t grasp the buttons on her cotton shirt.

She ripped it open, pulled her arms out of the sleeves, undid her trousers.

Her boots poured out several jars’ worth of water apiece, and then she sat there naked, shivering in the black and colder than she’d ever been in her life, leaning against a flat-topped rock, sizing up her predicament, chuckle- headed with shock.

“Well, you got a Chinaman’s chance now a gettin out a this hitch, you fuckin yack.” She wiped her eyes, humiliated, facing death, and realizing she didn’t have as much sand as she’d thought. This was worse than looking up a limb at the string party awaiting her in Arizona. No hiding from it—she was down-in-her-boots afraid, with not even a blanket to fill to calm her nerves.

She thought about Lana, wondered if she’d gotten herself back to Abandon, imagined that by now she’d freed everybody. They’d probably have a big meal of soft grub, outdoing even their Christmas Eve supper. But not her. She was done. Done being a saloonist, only thing she’d ever loved, never pour a shot of rotgut in that dog hole again, never taste whiskey, feel the sting of tobacco smoke inflating her lungs, never spread mustard with the rich, never exchange corral dust with the miners, never tell another bugged-up, bandbox, mail-order cowboy he weren’t shit and to take his ready-mades and get the fuck out, never scheme with another picaro.

“Got me, didn’t Ye?” she yelled. “Congratulations! You picked one fuckin helluva way to save me. This funny to You? Wearin a big smile up there? Let me tell You the straight goods. You think I’m gettin down on my knees now my leg’s tied up and I’m feelin poorly, gonna beg You to spare me, make amends for my behavior and pledge everlastin loyalty, You got another fuckin thing comin. Thought it’d be like gettin money from home breakin my ass down in front a my unshucked self? Thought You’d steal my dignity while You kilt me? Well, fuck You! Don’t know if You was watchin back there, but I saved Your child, Lana. Won my spurs, far as I’m concerned. Why You hate me? Tell You what. You all-powerful, all- knowin? We can call the shit even if You end me right now. Don’t care how You do it, long as it’s quick and—”

She didn’t see it, but she felt it.

The alcove shook and filled with dust.

The waterfall went mute.

Her lungs burned, and within thirty seconds, the sulfur gas had killed her.

2009

EIGHTY-ONE

 A

bigail spun around, whispered, “No.”

Isaiah stood between two scarred aspen trees, his breath pluming in the cold, moist air. He reached down, lifted his trouser leg, unsnapped the ankle sheath he’d taken from Jerrod, and slipped out the little dagger.

“Your boy over there never saw it coming. Cut his throat mid-shit. But I want you to see me coming. I want you to watch me carve up that beautiful ass.”

Isaiah dragged on his cigarette, the ash cherry flaring and fading. Then he threw it down, blew out a stream of smoke, and started toward her.

Abigail sprinted up the dry creekbed as the mist thickened into rain, her lungs raw in the thin air. She spotted the chokecherry thicket in the distance, glanced back, tripped over a rotted log, plowing face-first through the soppy bed of the wash.

She sat up, dazed, sucking air as she wiped the cold mud out of her eyes.

Snow mixed with the rain—big flakes falling silently between the aspen.

Abigail clambered back onto her feet and ran up the wash, tree trunks chipping off all around her, bark exploding. Ten more strides, then she ducked into the thicket and dived through the open tent door. Scott’s pack lay in the corner of the vestibule. She turned it over and unzipped the top compartment as brittle leaves crunched outside. She reached in, pulled out everything—bottle of sunscreen, map, wallet, small compression bag labeled “Scott’s emergency kit,” and finally the ring of keys.

She peeked out the vestibule through the chokeberries’ foliage, bright as pyrotechnics in the dismal dawn.

All she could see of Isaiah was the pair of black leather boots just beyond the thicket.

“Why don’t you come on out so we can do this?”

Bullets ripped through the tent. Abigail flattened herself on the ground, closed her eyes, clenching her hand around the keys so tightly, they cut into her skin.

“Get the fuck out here. Be ten times worse if I have to come in there, drag your ass out.”

Abigail slid the locking mechanism up the drawstring and opened Scott’s emergency kit.