Survival
Chapter 10
Hog Wallowing
This is the third installment of Wedding Belle, which got so longgg. Would love reviews! I write angst better than funny, and envy the comedic talents in this group of authors.
They had just made the turnoff to the farm when Walt brought the Bronco to a lurching stop in the dark. He put the brights on for a moment, and pointed into the darkness.
"Did you see that?"
"What?" Vic asked, peering out.
He was pretty sure the truck lights had caught something moving on the hillside near them in the shadows.
"Not sure. I'm going to check it out," he said, grabbing his jacket from the backseatk then unbuckling, and unlocking his rifle from the console. As he stepped out, he could hear a faint repetitive shrieking, which sounded to him like it could be a hog in distress. Since the call had been about a hog, this might be promising.
"Walt! Be careful!
"It'll be all right."
"Knowing our luck, it's probably either coyotes or pig rustlers. Wait just a sec, I'm coming with you."
She slid out of the truck, grabbing her duty belt from the backseat, fastening it around her middle. She efficiently loaded her Glock, clicked off the safety, and added it to her holster. It was definitely a different fashion look for her, but thought he might enjoy a private encore showing later, at that. Sort of Charlie's Angels meets Annie Oakley…
He pulled the Mag-lite out of his jacket pocket, climbed the rise and they both circled around to where he had seen the movement from the road.
"Over there," he pointed with his rifle.
They approached from different angles and converged on…
A large mound apparently struggling, but they couldn't see what. It appeared to be struggling against itself. There were definite unhappy snuffly and shrieking sounds.
"Is it the hog? Did he get attacked or break a leg or something?" she asked from the darkness near him.
"Dunno, yet. Let's get a little closer."
As they did, he could confirm that it was indeed a hog, struggling in what appeared to be a deceptively dry mud-bed. The beast must be somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 pounds, or bigger, he couldn't see the whole thing…huge and potentially lethal if riled. The hog didn't seem able to pull itself out, though.
Illumination hit: he had seen it a few times before, it was a soap-hole, a bog of expanding clay called bentonite which appeared dry to the touch but held a massive quantity of water. Dependent on the depth of the bentonite bed, it could be as effective as quicksand at swallowing unsuspecting wildlife—including the occasional ranch hand. This one was hog-sized, and also smelled to high heaven, a composite of clay and hog manure, most likely, if this guy had been here a while. He had thought Vic's Philly sensibilities might be offended by the overpowering stench if they went up to the hog-farm, but this might not be much better in the end.
"What the fuck is wrong with him?" she asked. He realized she must have never before seen one of the legendary soap-holes of Absaroka County.
"He's stuck, most likely. It's a slick mess in there, and full of his own muck as well. I guess…we try to get him out, but don't get in there, yourself. It's like quicksand, sucks you in. The more upset he gets, the more he…defecates, and…"
"Whoa. Poor pig. Hot mess doesn't begin to describe it."
"Yep, and I will make a bet this is Doug Framer's lost foundation stock."
"How did he get out here?"
"How does any hog go missing? Probably went under the fence or got out an open gate," said Walt, as he calculated what he might have with him in the Bronco to use to rescue the hog.
"Should we get to the farm and bring back Framer and some equipment?"
He was evaluating how far the hog had sunk into the muck. He had not been exaggerating about the quicksand effects. "May not be time…I have a shovel and blanket…"
"Can you rope him?" She had asked him that about once a month, after seeing what he could do with a rope. It gave him a curious sense of pride that she had such confidence in him. He was also willing to give personal demonstrations if that ever became a possibility…
"Nope. Hogs have no necks, and I can't get anything around him, his trotters are underneath the mud."
"Could we maybe shovel him over to the edge, get him on his side and drag him out?"
It was not a bad idea, but she sure wasn't dressed for it.
"I'll try that—but let's get the rope, in case I slip in or something. He doesn't have anything dry to stop against in all that mud."
"I can help—"
"Just stay out here, you can help if we can roll him to the blanket."
"Okay…" she said, but reluctantly. "But why don't I call Framer and have him come down here with a couple of extra hands? The Bronco is pretty noticeable to mark the location."
"Okay," he said reluctantly, but he was afraid by the time Framer got there, the hog might sink completely below the surface and drown. "At least if we get him out by the time he gets here, Doug can lock him back in his pen."
"Okay…" she said again, and called Framer with the number from the post-it Ruby had given Walt at the wedding.
"All I'm getting is a fucking voice-mail," she called over. "He must be out looking for him."
He dropped his jacket in the front seat, and she added her duty belt to that pile. He foraged in the back of the Bronco and brought back the shovel, the blanket, and some 2x6s he had bought for the cabin and forgotten about until now. At least his jacket and hat were safe inside against what he was afraid he'd encounter getting the beast out.
He had one other idea, roared the Bronco to life and carefully navigated it up nearer the bog. He attached the rope to the bumper, and slung it over the rise for their personal safety, not for that of the hog.
"So, you're going for that classic comfort food, a fucking pig in a blanket?" she snickered once as he positioned the blanket, but after seeing him maneuvering the wood, dropped the sarcasm and edged carefully around, again offering again to help.
"Okay. Let me try to get a couple of pieces of wood under him for leverage, and we'll use the other two for levers. I'll try and roll him."
"Isn't he too big for you alone, Walt? Jeez, isn't he like a bazillion pounds or something?"
"That's what leverage is," he said grinning, but wasn't entirely sure he could manage it alone, or with her help. The hog was maybe pushing 500 pounds, although there was no way to tell with him partially submerged.
A half-hour later, Framer was still not there. He hadn't answered Vic's second phone call and she had left another message. Her cussing had intensified after the second call.
Walt, however, had become filthy and sweating in the mild summer evening. He thought he probably looked and smelled as bad as the pig, which, after prodigious squealing and thrashing, he had finally stabilized with the 2 x 6s. He had revised his estimate about the blanket and didn't want to use it. His Wyoming sensibilities wouldn't stand that much stench heading home.
He had finally demurred to her offer of help, but time was of the essence, before the hog pushed the boards away in his sruggles.
"Okay, you take one, I'll take the other," he said, gesturing to the 2 x 6s, "and we'll roll him to his feet on the other side of the hole."
"Okay," said Vic, in a very low, worried voice. Hardened felons rarely heard that voice. He had rarely heard that voice. It held…fear in it. He tried not to laugh, although it was possible the hog would not display suitable gratitude in return for its rescue. They could be ornery buggers, but he didn't want to have to shoot it if at all possible. He did not discuss those possibilities with her, though.
"One, two, and…HEAVE!" he said. The technique worked, the pig did sort of shift, flip and landed gracelessly on his right side outside the soap-hole, assisted by both the physics of the levers and lubrication (much of it self-produced.) Unfortunately, their feet slipped and tangled with each other as the 2x6s slid into the soap-hole, and they slid to the ground. The hog, already in a frenzy, scrambled to his feet and then—hooves solidly under him once more—shook himself like a dog, completely covering both of them in that lovely perfumed clay and manure concoction he had been wearing. They struggled to their feet in dismay. Just above one hoof, a tangle of wire trailed. Walt pursed his lips, he wasn't about to engage with the already stressed hog to try and remove it.
Doug Framer and another man clambered up the rise just in time to see the emerging filth spectacle followed by the floor show to follow, an impromptu stampede. The hog was definitely twitchy, no doubt spooked by its ordeal. It put its head down and shook it slowly.
Walt, who had been around pigs as a kid, caught the warning signs. "Be careful, Vic, he might ch—"
The hog, sensing captivity was imminent, made an impressive and quick u-turn. He scrambled past Vic, knocking her over again in the process, and Walt heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric as he sped by. Vic lay on her back, breathing hard, and Walt wondered if the pig had knocked the wind out of her. He ruefully thought of the report he must write on this call, stating officer down, with a description of the suspect, and tried not to laugh.
He gave her a hand to sit up. She stuck her lower lip out and blew upward, fanning the straggling hair on her face while she caught her breath. She finally struggled to her feet as the second man went after the stud pig, calling after it, 'Florian! Florian!" The hog seemed to be answering with squeals becoming more distant by the second.
Meanwhile, Doug Framer just stood there, staring at Vic. Framer cleared his throat and after a minute asked, "You okay, Sheriff?" but his appreciative eyes were still on Vic, which made his own eyes shift to her and take immediate action. Walt stepped in front of her, gently spun her around, and turned back to Framer.
"Walt, what the f…!" she said, voice a little shaky, but to him it was obvious she hadn't yet realized her dress was split raggedly down the middle, from neckline to below the waistband of surprisingly adorable floral bikini panties. It was quite a show for Framer, well, and for himself. He could see small raw contusions and several red places running from her neck to belly which might resolve to bruising before the night was over. "And who's Florian?" she grated out.
To Vic Walt said: "Florian apparently caused your, er, wardrobe malfunction. He is Mr. Framer's stud hog which we just rescued." At that, she looked down and apparently saw the state of her undress.
To Framer Walt said: "We're okay," but you don't want to hear what my deputy's about to say for the next, say, five to ten minutes. We got your hog out of the soap-hole, which you might want to fence off to prevent this from happening again with other stock. By the way, he's got some barbed wire attached to his left front hoof and may need medical attention. You will also want to look to your pens and figure out how he managed to get free."
"We missed your calls because we've been out mending the fence, couldn't figure out what happened at first, until we found missing a strip of barbed wire. We think it rusted out and gave way." He was sort of craning his neck to see if he could sneak another peek at Vic, who beneath his hands, Walt could feel seething.
"Well, go get him!" said Walt, now a little testy.
Framer must have heard the tenor of his Sheriff Voice because he went after his man and hog, while Walt kept Vic turned toward the dappled shadows. She let fly invective which both impressed and appalled him. No one had ever told him he could learn new words at his advanced age.
Framer and his hired man returned shortly and moved smartly past, guiding the hog with switches. Florian had stopped squealing and was just making little snuffles as the men shook a container of what must be some kind of hog manna in front of his snout to encourage his cooperation.
Walt continued shielding Vic with his body until they were gone over the rise.
He would have taken his shirt off, but it wasn't fit to put around her. He went to retrieve the unused blanket, and came back to drape it around her.
"Fuck it, Walt! I don't want to wear that, only fucking corpses get wrapped in it!"
"Dead people and deputies whose dresses get ripped stem to stern."
"So, why didn't you tell me ahead the monster fucker might charge? My experience with pigs is pretty limited, Walt, Pumba from Lion King, and a passing acquaintance at the breakfast table. If I had my way, that guy would be bacon…"
He just gave her a look. She ducked her head, bit her lip, and reluctantly let him wrap it around her, but he went over the rise to the truck, fished out her duty shirt, and brought it back.
The braids in her hair had come loose and her hair straggled every which way. She had whorls of the suspicious mud-like substance, smudges, and scratches maybe from the wire from neck to belly, also couple of marks which might turn into bruises where the hog's hooves had clipped her, her legs and feet were coated with the substance, and the odor…but he thought she had never looked more beautiful to him. They were a team, and they had prevailed. Again.
Unfortunately, he knew he didn't smell and probably didn't look any better. He hoped there wouldn't be any more hog wallow crime sprees in their near future.
He handed her the shirt without comment, but helped her thread her arms into the sleeves and button it when she seemed to be fumbling with them.
He was going to spread what Vic called the dead guy blanket over the seat as soon as they got back to the Bronco. He suspected everything both of them were wearing should go directly into the trash can when they got home. He wasn't sure he could save his own boots, or whether he should even try. Damn, and they were his favorites…
Good thing he had changed out of his suit; Cady would not have been pleased. She had bought it for him after Martha died, to have one summer outfit to contrast with the black suit she had bought him but he'd never worn for Martha's funeral, because Martha had never gotten one. He trucked it out faithfully for funerals, since, just because Cady had bought it. The summer suit had only been worn twice, and was safely in his bag in the Bronco, along with the accompanying dress shoes and socks.
But Vic still hadn't moved from the edge of the soap-hole, where she'd stood since her dousing, even well after the men had left. She was quiet now, which worried him more than when she had run her mouth. He remained near her, patiently waiting, but to his horror and amazement, her bottom lip trembled.
"Oh, Walt," she sniffed, and his mouth dropped open. His deputy was crying… "my pretty new boots, and the dress Ruby helped me make." He knew he would be dead meat if he mentioned he had not been upset to see the sundress ripped down the middle, including his enjoyment of the released cleavage behind it, although he acknowledged there had been the accompanying relief that she had not been badly hurt in the wildly thrashing hooves or trailing wire during the brief stampede. Her duty shirt was now respectably buttoned.
He gave in, and drew her firmly to his chest, both amazed and dismayed that his tough-as-nails deputy was having a girl moment.
"I'll buy you some new boots," he said gravely, "since Florian ruined them on company time. You can wear them just for me if there aren't any more weddings for a while," he offered generously. "Besides," he added, "I'm not exactly turned out pretty or smelling like a rose, either at the moment. Is this where I say, it's not the years, it's the mileage?"
She snuffled softly into his chest. "That's from Indiana Jones. I didn't know you knew that one. There's sometimes, when the light's on your eyes, you—you almost look a little like him."
"Huh," he huffed, but he took it as a compliment. Of course, the actor who had played Jones was probably twenty years older than him. Maybe it wasn't a compliment? But he'd take it, and as a botched evening went, at least at the end of it, he would be able to say he'd left with the girl. Twice, really, if you counted both the reception and from the erstwhile crime scene. He wondered idly if he should get a warrant for the soap-hole for assault, with Florian as the accessory? After all, he'd had an officer down during the operation.
She said very little all the way back to town, just shivering occasionally as the cool summer night air turned sharp over her mud-encrusted self. He kept the windows cracked so they didn't expire from the stench. He knew she needed a hot shower, garbage bags to deposit everything in, maybe another hot shower, some salve on the contusions, and then sleep. So did he.
She'd touched his cheek with her palm when he offered to come in to help her with the clean up. "Not tonight. Soon." It seemed to be as much as she could manage at the moment.
So it wasn't to be an evening for laters. He reluctantly dropped her off at her dinky trailer. He didn't like her living in it because he had hoped she would choose to stay with him, but he had been too cowardly to say so, the moment had passed, and she had chosen it in the breach. He would always prefer to take her home with him if given a choice, but it was not to be that night.
If you counted it as an evening in her company and not in the company of other men, though, he counted it as a qualified success. He had a feeling if he told Cady or Henry about it, though, that they would not deem it that, and would proceed to give him a difficult time about how he had handled, or mis-handled the social event of the summer. From prom queen to pigsty…sort of a Cinderella in reverse, well, yeah, in that department, poor Vic.
Still…it was probably a tell to both Cady and Henry that he would rather be out pig-wrestling in the dark than sitting stewing while she danced with the unmarried and married men of Absaroka…
He groaned inwardly. The pork-related references were going to be epic at the office for the next week or so…