What options did she have? Only two that she could see.
Sit here and die, or get up and try.
She had no choice, and she knew it. It took a few minutes for the tears to dry up, and when they did, she pocketed her fear and confronted reality. “Let’s see how awful this is going to be.”
She braced against a boulder and pushed up to her left foot, then, slowly, put weight on her right one. Pain shot through her foot and up her leg. “Damn.” She immediately shifted her weight off her injured foot.
I’ve got miles to walk. What am I going to do?
There was no plan in her toolbox for dealing with this. A knife was easy to make, a fire easy to start, but a broken bone in her foot was a death sentence.
The distance across the sagebrush-covered ground from her position to Spring Creek was probably a hundred yards—the length of a football field.
You have to hobble to the river.
“No! I can’t do it.” She slid back down to the ground, reached for her hat, and plopped it on her head. “I quit.”
When have you ever given up, Ensley MacAndrew Williams?
“Never.”
Are you going to start now?
“Why not?”
Do you want to die?
“I probably will anyway, so why bother?”
If you do not give up, you will survive.
She glanced around.
Who the hell was she talking to?
She was alone in the wilderness, so it was either a ghost or her thoughts. She often engaged in deep, metaphysical conversations in the middle of the night, with only her thoughts answering back.
But this was different. The voice wasn’t hers. It was gravelly yet gentle and caring, and while it reminded Ensley of her dad, it wasn’t his voice either.
She continued the conversation asking, “What if I can’t make it to the river?”
Stop and rest. Then try again.
“Do you think I can make it?”
He didn’t answer. Why? Had she imagined the voice? That was possible, or maybe, if he did answer, he’d have to say, “No.”
“You’re wrong,” she shouted. “I can do it”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.” She pushed up to her good foot again. “I’ll show you I’m no quitter.”
She couldn’t put her full weight down, but she could hobble on the ball of her foot. It’d be slow going, but she’d get there—eventually.
She picked up her spear and breathed through the pain shooting up her leg. “I can do this.”
Yes, you can.
She jerked, looking left, then right—but he wasn’t there. She hadn’t expected to see him anyway, but yet she was comforted by his voice.
Ahead of her, the tall grass rippled as if someone was walking through it. Was it him? Was it just the breeze? Or her imagination? But the spirit was going in the wrong direction. The shortest route to the river was straight ahead.
“You go on,” she shouted. “I’m going this way.”
She continued hobbling toward the river and noticed the tall grass stilled. Was he watching her? “I’m not going your way.” She kept walking, and a hidden flock of meadowlarks exploded out of the grasses and took flight, startling her. “Jesus!” The birds circled above, then returned to the same spot, which was blocking her path.
Come, Ensley.
“Look here. My goddamn foot hurts like a son of a bitch. The creek is straight ahead.”
Come, Ensley.
She jabbed her spear into the ground. “Damn it.” As soon as she veered back, the tall grass rippled again.
She hobbled through a grove of cottonwoods and down a slightly-sloping, well-worn path to the creek. She’d never been here before, even though she’d ridden through most of the area.
A few yards from the bank of the creek was a rocky overhang, maybe fifteen feet wide. It was a perfect shelter from bad weather and the heat of the day. Beneath the overhang were remnants of a rock-lined firepit. While there was no evidence anyone had been there recently, it was a popular place. The blackened ceiling above the firepit was proof of that.
She limped to the creek for a drink of water. If it was filled with bacteria, so be it.
Take off the boot.
Just the thought made her cringe. “What? No way.”
Take off the boot.
“Who the hell are you? I’m not going to do it. You know it’ll hurt like hell.”
Take off the boot.
“Damn it.” She eased to the ground and grabbed the bootheel. But before she could tug on it, she took several deep breaths, and then she yanked hard. “Jesus Christ!” She stopped, tears tracking down her face. “I can’t do it.”
Take off the boot.
“Go away and leave me alone.” Maybe she was losing her mind. On a one-to-ten scale, the pain was a ten, maybe a twelve.
Take off the boot.
“You’re a one-trick pony. Go away.”
Take off the boot.
She had to try one more time, even if it killed her.
She hissed as if preparing to deadlift a hundred pounds, and she tried again, tugging the boot against the pain. “Shit!”
Take off the boot.
“Shut up!” It was now or never, so she yanked again, screaming, “Shit!” The boot came off, and the pain shot straight up, right off the charts.
She ripped off her sock and sank her foot into the freezing river. The breath-stealing cold swamped the pain. She shivered violently but knew the injury had to be iced. It wouldn’t heal a broken bone, but it would numb the pain so she could hobble around and collect kindling for a fire.
How long would she have to sit here, eat fish, and wait for her foot to heal? A few weeks. By then, she’d start getting malnourished from eating only fish. That would trigger a downward spiral until the lack of complex carbs, fats, and vitamins killed her unless she found some purslane.
So what was she going to do? Fall into an abyss of despair without an escape?
Maybe she could chop
