“Gather around him! Get him out of the wind!” That was Pete Conway’s voice bellowing orders. Obviously, the boat containing Conway and some of the supplies had made it into the water. Frank felt bodies crowding around him, and it was a blessed relief as they cut the wind. He still felt like he was frozen through and through. The water had sapped every bit of warmth out of his body.
Frank couldn’t see anything. His eyes seemed to be frozen shut. He lifted a hand and pawed clumsily at them, finally forcing them open.
His sight returned in time for him to see the
He looked around, hoping to see the other lifeboats or maybe even Stormy or Goldy swimming for shore, but there was too much fog, too many crashing waves. As far as he could tell, the narrow boat containing him, Conway, half a dozen other cheechakos, and some crates of supplies was alone on the vast, storm-tossed sea.
“Look out!” one of the men yelled. A rock loomed up in front of them. The lifeboat seemed to be headed straight for it, but somehow the current carried it past.
They weren’t as lucky the next time. A man screamed as a wave lifted the boat and brought it crashing down against a rock. The boat broke in half, dumping men and crates into the water. Frank grabbed one of the crates as he fell, and this time he didn’t go all the way under. As the crate bobbed up, carrying him with it, he looked around, hoping to spot Conway.
Someone was thrashing around nearby. Frank held on to the crate with one arm and used the other to paddle toward the man. His muscles didn’t want to work very well because of the cold, but he managed to make enough headway that he could reach out and grab the man’s coat. He pulled the man closer and yelled, “Grab the crate! Grab the crate!”
Pete Conway’s head broke the surface. His blond hair was plastered to his skull. He flailed around for a second before he got one arm wrapped around the crate. With both Frank’s and Conway’s weight on it, the crate rode low in the water. It might not be enough to keep them both afloat. Frank looked around, spotted another crate floating nearby, and kicked them toward it. Once the second crate was within reach, he let go of the first one and grabbed it instead.
It was a struggle to think. His brain seemed to be slowing down more and more in the cold. But Frank could feel the current and remembered what Hoffman said about it carrying them to shore. He yelled, “Pete! Pete!” until he got Conway’s attention, then pointed in that direction. “Kick, Pete! Kick!”
Hanging on to the crates, they began trying to swim, helping the current carry them in. Frank’s muscles were really stiffening up, though, and he knew that Conway had to be experiencing the same thing.
“Hold on! Kick!”
They would freeze to death in just a few more minutes, Frank knew. The blood would thicken in their veins and cease to flow. Their stiff, brittle fingers would slip off the crates. They would sink below the surface as the cold, briny water filled their lungs, and their lives would be over.
“No!”
Frank didn’t know if he yelled the word out loud, or if the defiant shout was only in his head. But he knew he wasn’t going to give up and allow death to claim him without a fight. As long as there was breath in his body, he would continue to struggle against fate.
“Kick, Pete! Hang on and kick, damn it!”
Slowly, foot by foot, the two men struggled on, borne ceaselessly toward an unknown destiny.
Later, Frank didn’t know if he lost consciousness somewhere along the way, or if he simply blocked out the incredible torment his body suffered on the way to shore. All he knew for sure was that he lying on solid ground again, and his mouth was filled with sand.
He lifted his head, sputtering and choking as he spit out the sand. As he looked around, he saw pine trees nearby, with strands of fog twined around their branches. The trees bordered a narrow beach that disappeared in the fog in both directions.
A few yards away, Pete Conway lay facedown on the sand as well. The crates he and Frank had been clinging to sat there with water swirling in and out around them. Frank forced his frozen muscles to work and crawled over to Conway.
“Pete!” he called as he fumbled to take hold of the young man’s shoulder with stiff fingers. “Pete, wake up!”
For a moment, Frank thought Conway was dead. But then the cheechako let out a groan, then coughed and choked on the sand that filled his mouth, too. He managed to roll onto his side and rasped, “Mister…Morgan?”
Frank tugged at Conway’s sodden coat. “Come on.” Through chattering teeth, he added, “L-let’s g-get into the trees.”
On hands and knees at first, then forcing themselves upright into a stumbling walk, the two men made it to the trees and sank down among them. The thick trunks blocked the wind, and the canopy of interwoven branches was solid enough so that the carpet of fallen needles was somewhat dry.
“A f-fire,” Frank said. “We need a fire.”
He didn’t know if any of the other lifeboats had made it to shore, didn’t know about Fiona or the young women, Dog or Stormy or Goldy. But at this moment there was only room in his stunned brain for one thing: survival.
And survival meant a fire.
“How…how can we build a fire?” Conway asked. “We’re…we’re soaked…we don’t have…any matches…”
Frank’s hands felt twice their normal size. If he had to make a fast draw right now, he would have been out of luck.
He couldn’t have pulled an iron anyway, he realized, since his holster was empty. His Colt was gone.
But the bowie knife that was sheathed on his left hip was still there, held in place by the rawhide thong
