Evergreen - Chapter 10

Johnny had no idea how long he'd been buried. It could have been only minutes or maybe much longer. He was wasting time, precious time, just thinking about it. There had to be something he could do to extricate himself. He yelled again, but his voice couldn't be carrying far. It sounded muffled but his ears were packed with snow, so he wasn't sure.

Johnny remembered that the boy had seen him go down. He'd go for help, surely, but would it come in time? The miners. . . they might not go out of their way for a stranger, even if they'd shared their vodka with him. And the avalanche would have made the whole area unstable; they wouldn't risk their lives for him.

Knowing he couldn't rely on anyone except himself, Johnny made another attempt to move. He flexed his shoulders and pushed back as hard as he could against the snow. The effort got him nowhere and he was soon breathing heavily and using up too much of the scant air.

There was a tree limb near his face, so close the pine needles pricked his forehead. Its piney smell was strong in the enclosed space. The tree must have been swept down the hillside and landed on top of him, and it provided a small air pocket that was free of snow. Just enough to give him a little more time to live.

Time to reflect, to wonder why the hell he'd gone on the stupid trip in the first place. He grunted angrily. But then he thought of Scott, lying back in the cabin, sick and on his own. He thought of Murdoch and of home - Lancer. Oh Jesus, he was gonna die in here, frozen deep in this mountain of snow and nobody would find him until Spring. Johnny struggled again, a futile, raging action, a storm against the world and the unfairness of it all.

He'd heard stories about men buried alive, how the moist air slowly froze on a man's face, creating a death mask that slowly and inexorably suffocated its victim. A protracted and agonizing death, but preferable to freezing to death, he thought. Maybe. The cold was so bad his limbs ached and he couldn't even feel his left arm below the elbow. His right hand. . . Johnny sent a message to his fingers to move and suddenly he realized they obeyed his command. The snow wasn't packed so tightly around his right hand as he'd thought and his arm was twisted so the hand rested against his body. He carefully wiggled his numb fingers, and was sure that one of them touched something hard - his gun. His coat must have been torn open, exposing his holster, and his right hand was pressed up against it. Hope caused his heart to race.

The air he was inhaling was getting warmer and his breath was coming in short pants. Even the simple act of drawing in a breath was becoming a struggle as the snow's weight bore down on his chest. Johnny's head was swimming and he forgot what he was trying to do. He closed his eyes. He'd just rest a while.

~ • ~

Scott knew that if Johnny found out he'd kill him, but he felt so much better that he decided to get some fresh air. He'd been sitting around for far too long, and he seemed to have sweated everything out of him that was going to come out. Finally, he was on the mend. If it was due to Mrs. Petrov's distasteful tea, he'd be the last person to admit it.

Once he was bundled up, with very little skin exposed to the cold air, Scott pulled his hat down and stepped out the front door of the cabin. It was getting on in the afternoon, but the sun was warm enough to cause the snow on the roof to melt. After a couple of drips hit the crown of his Stetson, Scott moved away from the cabin and carefully negotiated the narrow, trodden-down path that led out to the road. He'd only just reached the road and was about to turn back when Mrs. Petrov approached from the direction of her home.

Even before she was within twenty feet of Scott, she lit into him. "Young man, what do you think you are doing out here in the cold?"

"Just getting some fresh air," Scott explained. "I'm heading back now." He wasn't about to tell her he felt weaker than he liked, but he didn't regret taking the short stroll.

"You're darned right you're going back." She held up a basket. "More tea, that's what you need."

"Oh no, ma'am, I've had enough-"

"Don't you tell me 'no', Mr. Lancer. If you know what's good for you, you will drink a cup of my tea every four hours and don't stop doing so until I tell you so." She tried to usher him with a hand on his elbow but Scott didn't budge.

He looked down at Mrs. Petrov, taking in her wild hair and pink cheeks. She was wearing so many layers of clothing she looked like a rag-picker, but when she returned his gaze and raised her eyebrows, he smiled. Despite their initial skirmish on that night when she had forced him and Johnny away from her home, he was grateful for her help. "Thank you, Mrs. Petrov," Scott said in a gentlemanly way. "You've been very kind."

She was nonplussed and brushed his thanks away with one hand. "No need," she said, blushing.

"However," he continued, "If I have a choice between contracting the chuma again and drinking any more of your tea, I. . .I would prefer not to drink the tea."

With hands on her hips, she tilted her head to one side and retorted, "Who gave you any choice, Mr. Lancer?" Then her features lightened and she almost smiled. "We go inside now and you can have some of the raisin cake I brought you and your brother." She held up the basket to indicate she was bearing goodies.

Scott peered into the basket and there, indeed, was some cake wrapped in a checkered cloth. "All right," he acquiesced, and turned to go back inside. They had almost reached the door when he stopped in his tracks. "Did you hear that?"

~ • ~

Suddenly his eyes opened. He thought he'd heard the sound of rifle fire. Yes, there was another report, sounding far away. He yelled even though he knew it to be in vain.

It was dark in his icy tomb and Johnny felt very much alone. He struggled to move against the crushing weight of the snow. It did him no good. Anger and fear spurred him to fight the unyielding force that held him in its grip. Determined, he summoned all his strength and willed his fingers to move. At first nothing happened, but then his thumb caught the edge of the hammer. But try as he might, he couldn't pull it back to cock it.

Grunting in frustration, his head swimming, Johnny was afraid that he was going to lose this battle. His face was damp from his exhaled air, and his rapid breathing gave off the only sound in the enclosed, dark space. He was so close to losing consciousness there were stars before his eyes.

~ • ~

Mrs. Petrov halted next to Scott and stood still, too, to listen. "Only a rifle shot," she said. "Someone is hunting? Not my boy. He doesn't have a rifle."

"Johnny went out a few hours ago. . . " But something told Scott there was more to it than Johnny, or someone else, out hunting. There was no reason, none at all, for him to think otherwise, but a feeling in his gut told him that something was wrong - very wrong.

Once more, the woman encouraged Scott to enter the cabin, but he wouldn't budge. There came the sound of another shot; it carried clearly on the crisp, cold mountain air. That time Mrs. Petrov stopped and stiffened. Both she and Scott waited, and just when they thought that was the end of it, one more shot resounded.

"Three shots fired," she said to Scott. "Someone's in trouble? It's coming from the other side of town."

But Scott was already running through the deep snow, around the cabin to the corral. He had trouble opening the gate, it was so frozen. The remaining horse had a halter on, so Scott led it to the shed in order to saddle up. But when he looked around, he remembered that Johnny had taken the saddle inside to repair. In a second he rushed in and picked up the saddle, only to find the girth had been detached. "Damn it, Johnny!"

~ • ~

Johnny's body was shaking from the cold - long, drawn out shudders. He concentrated and used his last ounce of willpower to fight the numbing cold in order to pull the hammer back. After what seemed a lifetime he was able to force his thumb down and he heard the click when the hammer retracted and the cylinder revolved. It was a sweet sound, but unless he could get a finger on the trigger this was the end of the road.

~ • ~

Mrs. Petrov didn't waste any time trying to dissuade Scott from going out to find out if something was wrong. She helped him change the halter for a bridle and within a couple of minutes Scott was urging the horse across the untouched snow. The big horse slipped, almost onto his haunches, but recovered, and plowed through the snow and onto the road.

Scott didn't have to follow Johnny's tracks. He knew the general direction his brother had gone in, but once in the small town of Evergreen, he slowed the pace of the horse to get his bearings.

There was a man wearing an apron on the front steps of the general store. He was peering up the road, curious but unmoving, in the direction Scott was heading. Scott called out, "Where did the shots come from?" The man pointed but then turned and hurried inside his store and firmly closed the door.

Infuriated, Scott dug his heels in the horse. As he rode down the street at a fast clip, a cluster of rough-looking men carrying tools rushed out of a rundown place that appeared to be the saloon. Scott was going too fast to stop, but he had the impression they were following him on foot.

~ • ~

Anton stood as close to the edge of the avalanche are as he dared, then nervously retreated. In his hands was the rifle, taken from Mr. Lancer's saddle. It had been difficult to cock and fire the repeater, but one by one, he'd managed to fire off three shots - three shots to signal for help. When a few, seemingly endless minutes passed and nobody came, the little boy took hold of Johnny's skittish horse and led him over to a snowy boulder. Anton dropped the Remington, and just as he clambered up and got into the saddle a rider appeared, riding hell for leather right towards him. At first he didn't know who the man was, he was so bundled up with a big coat and a muffler around his lower face, a cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes. Pistol grew rigid and barked madly, but then his tail started to wag when he caught the scent of the rider. Anton was frightened at first, but then saw the light blue eyes and blond hair and knew that this was the other Mr. Lancer. The boy slid off the horse, relieved beyond measure that help had arrived. Mr. Lancer would know what to do.

~ • ~

Scott pulled up his steaming horse when he arrived at the end of the road and saw the little boy up on Johnny's horse. That damned dog was barking loudly, scaring the horses. Scott's heart, already beating fast, thumped even harder. He'd been right. Johnny was in trouble.

Scott's horse was grunting from exertion, spouts of vapor coming from his nostrils. Scott slipped off the animal's warm back and stumbled over to Anton's side. He started to cough and, with eyes streaming, barely able to catch his breath, rasped the words, "My brother? Where's. . .Johnny?"

Anton pointed down the slope. "Avalanche," he said. "You can't go down there!"

Scott rushed to the edge, despite the boy's cautionary words. The once-smooth snow was a rough jumble of icy boulders, disturbed snow and broken trees taken down by the ferocity of the avalanche. There was no sign of Johnny, no sign of life. He yelled at the top of his lungs, "Johnny!" The only sound was the cawing of a solitary crow.

*** tbc