“Goddammit!” he growled, yanking to snub up the rein, sawing on it with all his might as the pony fought against him, twisting nose around into the current.
Water immediately swept over the pony’s head once more. In the next heartbeat it felt as if the bottom came out from under them as the animal lost its footing on the roiling river bottom, legs clawing desperately at nothing but murky water, head bobbing frantically into the muddy current that rushed into its eyes and nostrils, streaming over Titus with a persistent tug that threatened to shove him loose, to unhorse him in the middle of that great river.
As he continued to cuss and grumble, spit and spew—one hand on the rein and the other on the rifle held over his head—Bass’s gut tightened on reflex. He was frightened—not knowing what to do about all that was going on beneath him, around him … unable to do a damned thing for the animal he rode as it fought the bit and refused his commands.
Now it became all he could do to hang on to the pony as the water swept him backward, off the cantle of the saddle. As the animal lunged forward into the murky water, the rifle went under as he clung desperately, that solitary arm straining against the muscular neck as the pony thrashed its head from side to side, fighting to free itself from the watery prison, from this strong eddy that forced the animal ever farther into the muddy current as they sidestepped deeper and deeper into the heart of the river … all while the wild-eyed mare whinnied and neighed behind them—her head bobbing barely above the froth as the Platte’s force heaved against her two great packs, tugging her farther and farther downstream from him.
Sideways in the stream he clung to the Indian pony with one arm around its neck, the long, thick lead rope to the packmare burning that bare hand as the current tugged and hurtled the mare away from him. Stretched across the surface of the mighty Platte, he felt himself swallow more and more of the gritty water, drowning his cries of terror.
God—how he hated deep water!
He had to let go of one or the other … then the decision was made for him as the river’s force pulled his desperate grip from the Indian pony’s mane. He let go the mare’s lead rope next, sensing the relief in his rope- burned hand, his strength failing as he desperately hugged the rifle to his chest, locked within both arms. His head just above water, Titus spun around slowly in the current, capturing one last glimpse of the pack animal as she bobbed out of the brown, frothy current, then went down again as she was wheeled in a tight circle beneath her heavy packs.
“Damn you, now!” he twisted his head to shout at the Indian pony behind him as it clawed for a moment at the air with its two forelegs.
He just might make it to the pony if he could stroke with one arm, try swimming toward the horse—get hold of the animal’s neck. Then he was spun about again. Felt something beneath one foot that must surely be the bottom … but as quickly it fell away again, and he slid under the water with the heavy rifle still gripped in his hand like life itself.
Another man’s words he remembered now as the water took him and the rifle, closing in over him—grit forcing him to clench his eyes tight as he tried again to yell out in numbing terror. Finding he could only sputter with a mouthful of murky, silt-laden water, Washburn had told him about this shirting bottom. Warned him about the quicksands that could spell danger to any man crossing the Platte.
“Try, goddammit!”
The words echoed in his memory, recalling how his pap had hollered to him as a small, skinny youngster that summer afternoon Titus had jumped into a riverside pool too deep for him. Remembering how he caught fleeting glimpses of his father and the others on the Ohio riverbank as Titus bobbed up and down, arms flailing as he fought for air, struggled to stay on the surface.
“You gotta try, goddammit!”
He was crying now—the burn of memory hot in his eyes. Knowing his pap was not there to dive in and drag him out of the Platte as he had been that fateful spring day so many, many years before. The last glimpse Titus had of his pap—watching his father yanking off his big boots and jerking down the galluses from his shoulders as he shucked out of his heavy canvas britches before leaping in after his eldest son.
“Do it your own self, Titus!”
With the one arm he began to stroke, wanting to open his eyes, daring not as the swirling sand slapped and scratched his face.
“I’m coming, boy! I’m coming for you!”
Bass felt something huge and powerful brush against him in the raging current, hurtling him aside—and knocking out what little air he had left in his lungs. Titus rolled over in the water, there just below the surface … but he kept on swinging with that one free arm, feeling his tired muscles grown so damned heavy. Weighing him down, dragging at him from that shifting, sandy, murky bottom where the darkness gathered and the mud conspired to bury him.
With that solitary arm he fought like he had never fought before. And suddenly burst back to the surface for a fleeting moment in time—blinking his stinging eyes against the sand and the foam, feeling the warm wind brush his cheek.
“I’m here, boy!”
Oh, how he had clung to his pap then as Thaddeus had dragged him to the shore. “I’m right here now, son. Just hold on to me and ever’thin’ be awright.”
One yard at a time Titus dragged the arm through the thickening water, back under the surface as the river rolled him over onto his side … praying to feel the air at his cheeks once more—beginning suddenly to catch glimpses of that big, shady clearing back in Boone County, scenes so frighteningly clear and vivid behind the eyelids he clamped shut so fiercely that he knew he was dying. Quick little vignettes of his old hound, Tink … the copper- muzzled mule his pap used to pull stumps … those elusive gray squirrels he hunted whenever he dared run away … the dark, deep grave where they laid his grandpap to the old man’s final rest. Remembering suddenly how that had been the very first time he ever remembered thinking on this thing called death. So afraid of it then as a youngster.
So terrified that it finally had him now.
Then he burst into the wind. Spewing dirty, murky water in a gush from his lungs that screamed out—sucking in air as he bobbed back down into the current, blinking his eyes … and catching a glimpse of the far bank.
There was no one there. Not his pap. Not his mam. Not none of the others that day so long, long ago. It was not the Ohio. This was the bank of the Platte—bare, but beckoning. Urging him on.
Clumsily switching the rifle to his left hand below the. surface, Titus began to stroke with the right arm—by far his stronger—pulling himself yard by yard toward the north bank, shoved relentlessly downriver, until he felt the sandy bottom drag beneath his toes.
With that first attempt to stand on the slowly shifting bottom, he slipped and nearly went under again. But on his second try he managed to lunge up on his hands and knees, suddenly heaving forward—vomiting dirty water.
Again and again … then at last he emptied his belly, coughed painfully with that gritty sting at his throat, and struggled to his feet, something beyond him compelling Titus to slog the rest of the way out of the churning Platte all crouched over, his stomach in spasms, chest gasping still, coughing up even more of the river’s grit.
At the edge of the water Titus collapsed, clutching the rifle against him as he slowly regained his breath. As he rolled over on his side his stomach brought up a last heave of the bile and sand. Dragging a hand across his messy bearded chin, Titus caught sight of the packmare’s head far downstream as she fought her way within the grasp of the river, bobbing now and then in the roiling current.
Pushing himself up from the sandy, grassy bank, his elbow slipped as he struggled to rise, spilling down on his knees again. Bass grumbled a curse as he hauled himself back up, coughing and spitting as he used the rifle as a crutch to stand. His legs felt so weary, they almost did not respond to his commands as he swung his bare arms, hacking away at the brush, fighting his way through the tangle of undergrowth to struggle up the side of the bank, where he immediately turned to hobble downstream.
Desperation pulled him onward when his muscles threatened to fail. From time to time he caught a brief glimpse of the mare through the maze of leafy brush as the current drew her closer and closer to the north bank, swimming with all her might against the river that pushed downstream faster than she was making any headway toward the north bank.
