Chapter 12

Taking one of the longer sticks that lay at his side, he used its end to move the burning sticks and logs closer together to retain their heat. He used it to check their locations and configuration, assuring himself that the pocket of coals tucked in the middle had both sufficient air space and sufficient fuel.

"No room in the chopper, eh?" he began, picking up an old conversation thread close to where he wanted to go.

"Not for the likes of us," grumped Frank.

"They ought to appreciate what you're doing," stated Mac carefully, feeling like a fisherman casting a line.

Marley bit.

"You're right. They don't appreciate us, and we do all the heavy lifting," he complained.

"Well, let me know if I can help you with that," commented MacGyver lazily, trying to mask his eagerness.

"Nah, you don't want to talk to the Boss," countered Marley.

Mac considered this. "Could use some work," he finally said. "Think he'd hire a blind guy?"

"Nope," Frank said laconically, spitting into the fire with a sizzle.

"You'd be surprised," argued MacGyver. "Nobody suspects a blind guy. I can get into a lot of places. Talk to a lot of people."

"Guess you could try," said Frank skeptically.

"Can't do much more than that," agreed Mac.

"Meet you in Missoula, once we get outta this shithole," said Frank, spitting again.

Mac winced inwardly. Outwardly, he merely grunted, poking the fire again with the stick.

"You gonna…?" Marley sounded surprised.

"Maybe," Frank answered, and left it there.

Mac sat for a few more minutes, then rose. "Guess I better get back before they call in the cavalry," he joked.

Frank leaped to his feet. "You told them where to find us? Those two old folks at the cabin?"

Mac held up both hands, palms outward. "Relax. I was kidding." He saw he'd made a mistake, however, because the atmosphere in the cave had shifted from friendly camaraderie to tense watchfulness.

"Tell you what," said Frank at last. "If we get outta this place without seeing any of them Rangers, I'll show up in Missoula to tell you where to find our boss. We get run outta here by the cops and you can forget it."

Mac extended his right hand.

After another long pause, Frank shook it.

Mac pulled his cane from where he'd tucked it, folded, into the waistband of his jeans. He shook it out straight, listening to the ferrules snap into place, and tapped it once on the ground to test it.

A quick sweep to his left found the day pack along the wall of the cave, and he picked it up and slid his arms through the straps.

"See ya," he said jauntily, and felt for the lip of the cave and the downward trail. The men said nothing and he felt the chilly silence follow him as he descended the hill.

Once he was sure he was out of sight of the cave, he stopped and leaned his back against a tree, resting against the cushion of the pack. He took several long, slow breaths, calming himself, and also listening to any sound that would indicate that Frank or Marley had followed him.

The beauty and stillness of the forest at night overwhelmed him and calmed him. A few nighttime animal rustlings broke the huge, absolute silence, but that was all. The moon had sunk low beyond the western trees across the river. Overhead, the sky looked velvety black to him but he knew it was peppered with stars.

With a sweep of his cane, he located the trail again, descending downhill to his left and he swung onto it, hiking steadily along its now-familiar length toward the river. Fording the river at this hour of the morning felt cold and unpleasant, and he gritted his teeth. At one point, near the western bank of the river, his foot slipped on the gooey slime that covered the round river rocks and his ankle twisted. He overbalanced and went into the water on his knees, the rushing, noisy water covering him above his waist. He gasped with the shock of the cold and as quickly as he could struggled to his feet again, bracing himself against the tug of the current.

As he stepped out of the water onto the grass and tangled bushes of the bank, he realized how unforgiving the wilderness could be. One slip like that and his life was suddenly much less secure than it had been. His ankle throbbed. His wet jeans clung to him while his sodden feet could no longer feel the tennis shoes that covered them. Nor could he feel the path that he wanted to find under his numb feet.

He pressed his lips together in frustration. For a minute, he debated with himself whether to press on doggedly to try to find the Shearer cabin, but he quickly realized he wouldn't be able to make it. Every step on his injured ankle was agony, and the numbness crept relentlessly up his legs.

He poked around near himself with his cane looking for a clear spot. Luck was with him, because he found a sandy patch almost immediately. He broke as many dry twigs off nearby bushes as he could, and sat down on the sand with his fire-making kit. Like he had done in the cave, he built and lit a tiny fire, adding larger and larger sticks as the flames took hold. Crawling on hands and knees, he searched for larger wood and finally found some bare lower branches on a nearby pine tree. It took all his weight to snap them, but once he did and added them to his little fire, it began to crackle and burn brightly.

Stripping off his wet clothes, he laid them out on the sand near the fire to dry, and then sat down to examine his right ankle. With his fingers, he prodded the joint. It was swelling, but he could move it and no bones seemed out of place. He rummaged in the day pack for the first aid kit he never left behind. In it, he found a rolled up elastic bandage, and he wrapped the ankle, then set his shoes and socks next to the fire to begin drying.

In spite of still being damp and cold, he found that he was enjoying the night and the fire and peacefulness. He crawled a few feet to the water's edge to refill his canteen, and then began to munch handfuls of trail mix he'd stuffed into his pack.

With his ankle still throbbing and the fire to tend, he doubted he'd be able to sleep, so he began thinking instead.

Frank and Marley were obviously just one small link in a long chain designed to gather and move the large store of weapons. The stash has been gathered but where were they bound? And to what purpose would they be put? There were enough guns there to outfit a small army, not to mention the crates of ammo.

Why had the group chosen to amass and store them in such an out-of-the way, inconvenient location?

His thoughts swirled with questions that had no answers as he lay propped on one elbow, occasionally tossing more dried sticks onto his fire.

The sky began to lighten and high in the trees overhead, birds called a greeting to the new day. Mac fingered his still damp footwear and decided he might as well finish the trek back to the cabin and Christy. He wasn't going to get any answers sitting there on a little sand bar by himself.

He winced as he slipped his shoe over his right foot, and gritted his teeth to stand. Once he was upright, however, he decided it wasn't any worse than the injuries he'd gotten while playing hockey. He pulled out his trusty duct tape and put a firm layer of tape over his sock as additional support, and tied his shoe a little looser. Then he slung his pack onto his back and shook out his cane.

The sun still hadn't risen yet and the world seemed to hold its breath as it does very early in the morning. Mac forced his way through a tangle of bushes toward the main Selway trail, thinking grimly to himself that if he could see what he was doing, he would not automatically choose the most tangled, obstructed route possible. There was probably a nice, tidy little path just feet to his left or right but he had no way of figuring out where it was. So he just bushwhacked and finally emerged, scraped and scratched in a few places, onto the trail.

"Hey there, Good morning!" called a cheery voice from his left, and he heard the snort of a horse and smelled its unmistakable scent. He turned toward the voice.

"Morning. You're out early," he called in return.

"So're you," replied the man on horseback, coming closer.

"You an Outfitter?" asked Mac, searching his memory for horse owners in the backcountry.

"Yup," came the reply. "Goin' up to Moose Crick to meet a group this mornin'. Where you headed?"

"Shearer," replied Mac, gesturing with his head.

"Ah, not too far then," replied the outfitter.

Mac stepped back off the trail to allow the horse to pass. He debated with himself about asking for help getting to Shearer but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Have a good one!" called the outfitter as his horse plodded up the trail.

"You too!" replied Mac. He wondered if the man had not noticed his cane or just didn't care. One of the unwritten rules of the backcountry was that your business was your business, so he supposed the man simply didn't care. If a blind guy wanted to wander around out here by himself, it wasn't any of his nevermind.

Once the sound of the horse had vanished up the trail, Mac turned and began following it himself. His ankle ached but he found that walking wasn't too difficult, and it felt nice to stretch and move stiff, cold muscles.

Every so often along the trail he found evidence of the horse's passing, and he gritted his teeth as he stepped into the pungent piles. Yet another thing he'd avoid if he could see, he thought.

As usual, finding the path that led up to the Shearer cabin was tricky, and he had to backtrack a few times before he found it. He was glad to reach the cabin at last, exchange his wet clothes for dry ones from his pack, and join Christy and the older couple for a hot breakfast.