Chapter 8
As cold as it had been inside the car's interior, that was nothing compared to the frigid water in which McCormick found himself struggling after he and Hardcastle had pushed off and away from the car and out into the river. He came up to the surface yet again, sputtering and gagging, his teeth chattering in the cold wind, just in time to see the Edsel sweep majestically past him, still upside down, caught in a much stronger current than the one in which he was swimming. The only parts of her visible now were the very lowest edges of her red-painted body, the rusty brown of her undercarriage, and the blackened rubber of her four tires as they reached futilely to the sky. It occurred to him that if he had left Hardcastle there, the judge would already be dead, his stiffening body floating face down in his waterlogged tomb, and McCormick looked around in panic, terrified that Hardcastle might still have been caught up with the Edsel in that powerful current. But the cord was still tightly wrapped around his hand, and the other end was definitely still attached to something both solid and weighty.
Suddenly, he felt a tug on the cord from somewhere to his right, and looking that way, he could see Hardcastle bobbing up and down, trying to catch his attention. McCormick made an effort to swim in that direction – it was only a matter of a few feet, after all – but he could make no headway against the current, so instead he tried pulling Hardcastle toward him. As Hardcastle was slightly upstream of him, this worked much better, although McCormick was worried that the cord might be too fragile to withstand the demands they were placing on it. Hardcastle, realizing what he was trying to do, paddled along in the cord's wake, and almost immediately he was at McCormick's side, his skin an icy whiteness, his eyes almost opaque with pain and fatigue. Still, he was alert, forcing himself to tread water despite his suffering.
"I thought you said that thing wasn't a towline!" Hardcastle yelled over the roar of the river.
"It wasn't supposed to be!" shouted McCormick in reply. He looked around despairingly and yelled, "Judge, we can't swim out of this, the current's just too strong. Got any ideas?"
Hardcastle grabbed hold of the back of McCormick's t-shirt with fumbling fingers and pulled himself closer, bringing his mouth directly next to McCormick's ear. "Look, just go with the flow, okay? See that bend down there, with the branch sticking up? Maybe we can catch hold of that."
McCormick looked over at the branch in question, positioned relatively near the riverbank, and nodded, already too exhausted to make any reply. Hardcastle kept his grip on McCormick's t-shirt, and together they rode the current, accompanied by small pieces of debris, sticks, clods of dirt, even an occasional splinter of wood that looked like it might have once been a part of the bridge that had betrayed them hours earlier. But there was nothing that they could use as a float to allow them a few desperately needed moments of breathing room, so they were forced to rely on each other for survival, an risky proposition indeed, considering just how near to exhaustion they both were at this point.
As they headed toward the bend in the river, a vagary of the current suddenly shot them straight in the direction of the branch itself, so that Hardcastle lost his grip on McCormick's shirt and they became separated, with the judge now slightly in front, although the cord between them still held. It was only when they were too close to do anything about it that McCormick realized the broken branch wasn't really a broken branch at all, but part of a fallen tree that lay submerged just beneath the surface, like an iceberg preying on unsuspecting ships. The unwary victim this time was Hardcastle, who slammed unawares against the hidden trunk with such force that he made hardly a sound, only an explosive exhaling of air and a soft whimper of pain, before slipping silently beneath the rushing waters.
McCormick, who had been a couple of feet directly behind the judge, realized just in the nick of time what had happened. Somehow he managed to bring his legs up, gliding over the submerged tree instead of into it. The next minute, he found himself painfully tangled in the branch that rose from the water's surface, with only a Divine Providence preventing him from having become impaled on it instead. Still, the branch had broken his headlong rush, and he was no longer trapped in the river's current. Frantically he climbed over to the place where Hardcastle had disappeared and positioned himself on the submerged trunk. Reached down beneath the surface of the water, he was surprised to find his hand immediately touching the back of Hardcastle's neck; evidently the current had prevented the judge from being dropped to the riverbed on impact, its force instead holding him draped against the trunk itself.
McCormick wasted no time, but quickly took hold of Hardcastle's arms, pulling him up with a superhuman effort out of the water and into a sitting position on the trunk beside him. His cold-numbed fingers tried anxiously to find a pulse in Hardcastle's neck with no result; he laid one hand against the judge's chest, but there was no motion that he could detect. McCormick became conscious of an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, as there was no way to do artificial respiration here in two feet of water, and they were still too far from the bank for it to be of any practical use.
In desperation, he pulled Hardcastle's body back against his; with a silent apology to the judge for what he was about to do, he braced his arms around him, one hand wrapped tightly around the other, and then brought both up sharply into Hardcastle's diaphragm. There was an immediate reaction from Hardcastle, a sudden gasp of pain, and then he took a quick sharp breath and began coughing helplessly, McCormick gently leaning him forward as brown and tainted water came streaming from his mouth into the equally muddy river below.
As Hardcastle's coughing slowly began to let up, McCormick felt like he had lived an eternity in those few minutes. His relief was short-lived, though, as the judge suddenly gave a deep groan and doubled over in such agony that he landed sideways against McCormick, almost knocking him over into the water. Hardcastle's eyes were squeezed shut, his arms wrapped tightly across his belly, and he could not speak, nor even acknowledge that he knew McCormick was there, still holding him securely with one arm tight across his back.
That was all McCormick could do for him, as spasm after spasm wracked the judge's body, accompanied by a series of animal-like gruntings and deep, anguished moanings – the first truly unrestrained sounds of pain he had heard from Hardcastle since this entire ordeal began. Then, gradually, the spasms eased, until the judge finally lay quiet against McCormick's side, his breathing slowly evening out as he trembled from the intense cold.
McCormick watched as Hardcastle's eyes sluggishly opened to half-slits, the awaking of a man who has beyond doubt reached the end of his rope and can pull himself no farther. Therefore, it was a comforting surprise to see the judge search out his face, the lackluster eyes meeting his with a tired smile. Hardcastle licked his lips, then said in a raspy voice that was little more than a whisper, "Hey there, kiddo."
"Hey," McCormick replied softly, unable to trust his voice to say any more. Reaction was setting in now, and his own trembling was as much due to shock as to the frigid temperature. His head, so mercifully free of pain for the last hour or so, had resumed its hypnotically rhythmic throbbing, and he could feel a rising nausea; he thought it likely that he would be sick himself, and very soon indeed.
Hardcastle was glancing around dispassionately, although McCormick had the distinct impression that he wasn't actually comprehending all that much. "I guess we made it, huh?"
McCormick looked behind them, at the expanse of water still separating them from the bank, and answered in a subdued voice, "I guess you could say that, but we still got a long way to go."
"So what now?" There was a slightly bracing note to Hardcastle's voice; obviously the dullness of McCormick's reply had not been lost on him.
McCormick tucked in his chin, hating the answer he had to give. "Well, we have to get clear of this tree, cross about five feet of water, and climb up a steep, rocky-looking bank." He studied the judge's white face. "You think you can handle that?"
"I said I wouldn't give up," Hardcastle answered, although his doubts were clearly written across his face. He tried to struggle away from McCormick, but the arm across his back tightened, forcing him to remain where he was.
"Hang on, I think we can spare a minute or two." McCormick gave the judge a reluctant grin. "Maybe you're in pretty good shape, Kemosabe, but I'm afraid ol' Tonto's gotta have a break."
"Okay," Hardcastle agreed with revealing promptness, relaxing again with a sigh. They were both silent for several minutes, watching the river rushing past them at an alarming speed. Then Hardcastle said suddenly, in the same raspy voice, "You know, McCormick, you might wanna learn to be a little more, ah, articulate when you talk to God. I expect He can handle sentences a little longer than two or three words just fine."
McCormick stared at him in perplexity. "Hardcase, what on earth are you talking about?"
"Well, kiddo," Hardcastle answered, and somehow a twinkle managed to peep out from his pain-dimmed eyes, "I think you got 'Oh, God', 'Please, God', and 'Dear God' down pat by now, and I gotta admit, this time you made a little breakthrough with 'Oh, please, dear God'. Next time, though, maybe you can add a verse or two to go with the chorus."
McCormick's blush was easily seen against his wan complexion. Now that Hardcastle mentioned it, he did seem to recall a more-or-less constant stream of heaven-directed commentary, starting from the time Hardcastle had careened so violently into that sunken tree. Still, he honestly had no recollection of his actual words; trust Hardcastle to be listening at a time when anyone else would have been absorbed in a world of suffering all his own. McCormick laughed a little self-consciously. "Judge, I sincerely hope there won't be a next time, but I'll work on it, okay? I don't know why I need to fix what's not broken, though, seems to me I usually get the answer I'm asking for anyway."
They spent a few more peaceful moments at rest, during which McCormick noted a slight reddening above the horizon to the east, although the sky was still quite overcast. He watched the clouds as they began to take on a rose-tinted hue, then he looked down at Hardcastle and said regretfully, "It's time, Kemosabe."
Hardcastle lay still for a second more, then forced himself to sit up on his own steam, despite the icy cold water that came halfway up his chest. Glancing impatiently at McCormick and sounding almost like himself, he rasped, "C'mon, kiddo, we don't have all day."
McCormick clambered to his knees, one hand hanging on to the tree branch for balance, and without warning he felt his face turning green. Next thing he knew, he was crouched down at the far end of the trunk, toward the roots, and he was retching into the river, his own diaphragm contracting painfully as it sought to expel what few sad scraps remained of his last meal, the burger he had eaten back in Vallejo such an incredibly long time ago.
Then he huddled there in the shallower water, one hand braced unsteadily against a twisted root, as he forced saliva into his mouth and spit it out in an effort to wash the sour taste from his mouth. It came to him that neither he nor Hardcastle had drunk anything at all – unless you counted the river water the judge had taken in a few minutes ago – since their stop at Burger King the night before, and subconsciously he added dehydration to his ever-lengthening list of things that were a constant worry, but about which he could do nothing.
"McCormick? You okay, kid?" Hardcastle's voice was weak, but no less anxious for that, and McCormick knew that he must rise and keep going for both their sakes, no matter how much he wanted to lie down in that cold numbing water, suspended in some timeless place where the pain no longer existed and the hard decisions were no longer his to make.
"I'm okay," he finally replied to Hardcastle, wearily dragging himself to his feet. "Let's go." Then, catching Hardcastle's outstretched hand, he pulled him up as gently as he could, and together they crawled over the twig-laden branch to the water on the far side. As McCormick lowered the judge back down into the water, he was relieved to discover that the river was only about four or five feet deep at this point, and the current not nearly as strong, thanks to that submerged tree, although it was still a force to be reckoned with. He jumped in beside Hardcastle, and slowly they made their way toward where the riverbank rose only a foot or two above the water.
It appeared that at one time in the far distant past, this really had been a substantial river rather than a rain-swollen stream, and during that time it had cut for itself a very deep and forbidding riverbed. As a result, the water shoaled very little, with the river maintaining its depth right up to its steep banks. The two men struggled across its uncompromising mass, their feet losing purchase time and again on the loose sandy soil of the river bottom. By the time they came up against the riverbank, they were both almost helpless with exhaustion, Hardcastle leaning so heavily against McCormick that his head was barely above water.
McCormick's heart sank to his knees as he surveyed the next obstacle. The bank itself was solid rock, offering very few handholds or footholds, and as the river stood at about five feet at this point, he had no idea how he was to hoist the judge up to the top. To make matters worse, there was an attitude of tenseness about Hardcastle, a rigidity to his movements, which seemed to indicate the imminent onset of yet another serious wave of cramping.
Overcome with the conviction that time was finally running out for them, McCormick looked around, and leaving Hardcastle to lean against the embankment, he slogged his way through the water back to the downed tree. Pulling as hard as his weary arms would let him, he managed to break off a large portion of the branch that, while relatively thin, was nearly twice as long as he was tall. Then, dragging the broken branch after him, he came back and with difficulty propped it up against the bank.
"Here you go, Kemosabe. Instant ladder." McCormick looked at it dubiously. "Or it would be if we could get rid of some of those extra twigs and stuff."
"Wait a minute." Hardcastle groped in his pants pocket, and pulled out his pocketknife. "Here."
"Yeah, that'll help." McCormick started hacking away with the woefully tiny knife blade, and eventually he was able to display his creation with pride, saying, "Voila. Almost instant ladder."
Hardcastle eyed the branch skeptically. "McCormick, do you really think that thing is gonna hold?"
"Judge, if all it does is hang in there long enough to get you halfway over that bank, I will be a happy man. And if it holds on long enough to get me up too, I'll be a really happy man."
The look on Hardcastle's face wasn't exactly hopeful, but he nevertheless allowed McCormick to help him to his homemade ladder. But as he lifted his foot to the apex of the lowest limb, he suddenly fell back hard against McCormick, his face grimacing at the sudden acute pain, his fingers turning white as he clung to the branch. He could say nothing, the intensity of the pain making him mute, but his expression was eloquent for all that.
"C'mon, Judge, you can do this," McCormick said insistently, stepping around to face Hardcastle, his own countenance a stark white mask. "Please, Judge. I'll push you up as far as I can, and by then you oughta be able to crawl out on the ground. Please, let's don't quit now, with a stupid seven-foot piece of rock stopping us." There was a determined desperation in his face, saying louder than words that if Hardcastle couldn't make the effort, then they'd both drown in five feet of water, because there was no way he was leaving without him.
Hardcastle closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the branch for a minute, trying to marshal his resources, then he straightened and nodded resignedly. Before McCormick could even move to help him, Hardcastle was on the branch and climbing, pausing to take a deep breath before every step, his face so tight with strain that his cheekbones stood out in clear relief, and the sweat that popped across his forehead trickled down his face like rain.
Hardcastle made it almost to the top before he stopped, one hand clinging to the branch while the other groped for a handhold on the brown grass that covered the top of the riverbank itself. McCormick made no sound, just maintained a steady grip on the judge's ankle to remind him that he was not alone, that if they did not succeed this time, they would try again. All of a sudden, as though even the thought of doing this again was not an option, Hardcastle made one last, gasping scramble for the top.
And then, finally, he was over, lying on his back against the grassy surface, his chest heaving as he fought to fill his empty lungs, desperate for air despite the pain that pierced both his ribs and his gut. McCormick could see nothing from his position down below, although he could hear the judge's gasping for breath. Suddenly, to his alarm, all movement from atop the riverbank ceased, and an ominous silence ensued. Then, to the accompaniment of a few displaced pebbles, a limp hand slid over the edge of the embankment to dangle loosely just above McCormick's head.
"Judge?" called McCormick nervously, reaching up to grasp that cold unresponsive hand. He yelled a little louder, his voice edged in alarm, his grip on the judge's hand tightening. "Judge, answer me!"
But there was no reply, and McCormick knew Hardcastle must have passed out, or worse. He had not allowed himself to think beyond the moment, about what must be happening there within the judge's battered body, or how his hard impact with the submerged tree might have caused further damage to internal organs already seriously compromised. Suddenly he knew he had to get up there and see what was going on, he had to go for help, he had to do something.
And then McCormick was climbing up the branch, almost missing footholds in his haste, and finally he was there, his feet still on the branch while his hand reached out for Hardcastle – and then the branch began to swing away from the embankment, its sandy foundation dissolving out into the river's flow. McCormick made a frantic grab for the bank as the branch teetered uncertainly, but his actions only caused the slender limb to sway more violently. Unable to hold McCormick's weight, the branch suddenly broke in two, and he found himself being catapulted back into the water, past the submerged tree, the stronger current pulling him directly into that area where the deeper water flowed.
The last thing McCormick saw as he sank helplessly beneath the water's churning surface was a brief glimpse of Hardcastle on the embankment. His motionless body lay framed by the scrub and willows that grew wild nearby, and his hand still dangled limply over the water, as though to rescue his drowning friend from the treacherous and unforgiving river that had taken him captive once more.
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Using up almost his last reserves of strength, McCormick came up spluttering and fought his way back to the embankment, but the current had already taken him almost fifty yards from his original location, and he knew he could never make his way that far back upstream. Reaching with frantic fingers for a handhold, he caught hold of a small bush that was stubbornly surviving in a small pocket of dirt set directly in the rock. Clinging to the bush with one hand, he felt all around, but except for the small gap where the bush grew, the rock was practically sheer, offering no means at all of escape.
The water was significantly deeper here, dangerously so, too shallow for McCormick to tread water easily, yet too deep for him to stand or to even get a good foothold. In fact, the entire riverbed seemed covered in loose sand that shifted with every passage of current, so that just as he thought he had found a hillock of soil to raise him higher, it would disintegrate beneath the toes of his bare feet. He thought about just letting go and allowing the current to take him further downstream, perhaps to where the riverbank was not so steep. But the current was so strong, he doubted he would be able to free himself again from its grip. The chances that he would instead be swept beneath the river's surface and summarily drowned were too high, the risks too great for the possible benefits to be gained, and he dismissed the idea without a second thought.
All McCormick could do was hang on for dear life to the bush, praying passionately that it wouldn't let him down as the bridge, and the broken branch, and even Hardcastle had all done. He was increasingly aware of the relentless, pulsating pain in his head, but as he clung to the little bush, and as the sand kept disappearing from beneath his feet, and as the current of the river tossed him again and again against the hard embankment, a song began to go round and round in his mind in time to the persistent throbbing. He paid scant attention until the words began to take shape in his mind, and he remembered ...
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Daytona Beach on a Saturday morning, very early indeed, with the sun just a rose-colored glow above the gentle Atlantic swell in the distance. McCormick and Corlette had plans to meet some friends for a late breakfast before heading to the speedway for the Busch race, and so McCormick had made an extra effort to beat E.J. to the bathroom. Leaving his roommate to complete his shaving in peace, McCormick took himself off to the hotel restaurant to indulge in a few solitary moments with a cup of coffee and a rare chance to watch the sun rising over a different ocean than the one to which he was accustomed.
McCormick had brought his coffee with him as he left the restaurant, sipping it as he wandered past the various conference rooms on his way to the beachside door and the brisk sea breeze beyond, when a burst of music came straight at him from the opened door to his right, almost causing him to spill his coffee in his surprise. Astonished, he stopped and peeked in at the rows upon rows of folding chairs that crossed the meeting room, a podium set up at the far end. He was amazed to see that, even at such an early hour, each and every chair was occupied, with a man in blue jeans standing behind the podium, enthusiastically waving his hand in time to the music provided by a middle-aged woman sitting at a piano to his right.
McCormick stood and listened to the song they were singing, trying to identify the vaguely familiar strains. Some Protestant song, he thought; he seemed to remember it from numerous prison church services ... On Christ, the Solid Rock, I stand, all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand ... As he watched, the song ended, and another man assumed the podium and began to speak.
McCormick turned away just as a desk clerk, one of the prettier ones, walked by and paused to smile at his bemusement. "You'd be surprised how many church groups come here for the races," she explained in a soft Southern accent, "and part of the package for this bunch was that they'd get a meeting room early each morning for their worship services. It's amazing how many of them show up at six a.m., even people from the other motels and hotels on the beach." She chuckled. "It's like they say, different strokes for different folks. One set wants whiskey and women delivered to their rooms in the dead of night, while another set wants an early wake-up call so they won't miss church."
The clerk smiled again, gazing through the door at the people who were now flipping through their hymnals, apparently gearing up for another song, and she added, "I think it's kinda nice myself. You know, I hear even some of the big-shot drivers are trying to get up something like it for the racing folks. If I were a racer, driving the speeds they do, I'd want a chance to talk to God before I went out on that track, too!" She glanced back at the wall clock hanging over the check-in counter at the far end of the hallway. "Gosh, I didn't realize it was so late. I gotta go. Nice talkin' with you." Then she was gone, long blond hair swinging across her shoulders as she trotted briskly toward the counter.
"Yeah, me too," McCormick answered absently, taking a sip of his coffee, and as he continued out the glass doors toward the beach, his last thought on the subject was that it would be kind of nice for the racing people to have some sort of church to go to on race day Sundays – because, just like there weren't supposed to be any atheists in foxholes, any racer who pretended he didn't find himself saying a prayer or two at some point or another during a race was doing nothing but lying to himself. He grinned a little as he made his way through the sea oats toward the sun-touched waves: if anyone should know the truth of that, he should ...
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... and now, here in an unknown river, close to drowning, with the best friend he had ever had dying not fifty yards away, the words of the song came back to him with a vengeance. Solid rocks and sinking sand. Boy, did he ever know something about sinking sand, as most of his existence had been spent in trying repeatedly to climb his way up, only to have the sand under his feet give way time and time again. And that other solid rock, the mortal, flesh-and-blood one who had provided the foundation on which he had been rebuilding his life for the last three years, was crumbling away for good back on that riverbank upstream.
McCormick had been working his way back toward the faith slowly but surely, after nearly a lifetime of turmoil and doubt, but he wondered if he could get there in time to survive this latest disaster in the making. But like Hardcastle before him, he figured there was no time like the present to tie up a few loose ends, and so, as he clung exhaustedly to that staunch little bush, his body bruised from being constantly slammed against the unyielding rock, he did just as he had told Hardcastle he would do not an hour ago. He finally began making some sincere and much needed conversation with the Solid Rock of the song, and this time he made sure he used sentences longer than one or two words.
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McCormick's eyes snapped open at the realization that he had almost gone to sleep. His fingers were still gripping the bush, but they had long since grown numb, and he could feel nothing at all. The sandy soil that shifted beneath his feet seemed to be eroding away at an even faster rate, and soon it would be only the bush keeping him from being swept off to a certain fate downstream.
For the first time, he really understood how Hardcastle had felt earlier. He was so cold, so dreadfully tired, so ready to give up, and he knew it was only a matter of time before either the bush gave out or his grip did. But where there was life, there was hope; wasn't that what they said? So his face set determinedly, and he decided to give it one last try, one final attempt to climb out of this watery grave, away from this constantly shifting sand beneath him, onto that solid surface that rose so tantalizingly close before him. And he prayed that, just one more time, God might listen to his pleading and respond accordingly.
Aware that this was probably it as far as the bush was concerned, McCormick knew that there was no turning back. He looked up into the sky one last time above the distant hills, only to see that the clouds were gone, the sun shining low in the eastern sky. Bobbing in the water for a few seconds, he took a few deep breaths and clung for a few last moments to that stout little bush. Pulling himself inward and gathering up what remnants of strength he had left, he allowed himself to sink deeper in the water, his feet searching futilely for purchase against that sandy bottom. And then, holding tight to the bush with one hand, he pushed as hard as he could against the river's resistance and made one last desperate, heartrendingly gallant lunge up toward the edge of the riverbank, the equally gallant small bush providing his only real leverage.
As expected, the bush pulled free under the strain, dropping away from his grasp down into the current, as McCormick made a frantic grab with the other hand, his fingers barely latching onto a minute crack in the rock face. Clinging desperately to that fragile handhold, he pawed frenetically with his free hand against that hard, blank surface, reaching, reaching, his fingertips just brushing the top of the riverbank, but there was nothing there to catch hold of, nothing at all, dear God, there's nothing there ...
And then a fist like iron grabbed his wrist, gripping it tightly, and he was being pulled slowly, oh so slowly, upwards.
McCormick was too tired, his mind too full of pain and fear, to feel more than a slight shock at this unexpected phenomenon. He tried to help as best he could, wrapping his own frozen hand tightly around that unknown wrist. His other hand, with its torn, bleeding fingernails, tried to maintain its tenuous hold on that tiny little crack in the otherwise impenetrable rock wall, and his bare feet searched for toeholds beneath the surface of the water.
And soon – none too soon – he could feel that iron fist pulling him over the edge of the bank. He was able to bring his other hand up and take a secure grasp on something that turned out to be the exposed root of a nearby willow tree. And then he was up and over, collapsed on the ground, well away from the edge, trying to catch his breath. His eyes were closed, both his head and his heart were pounding like jackhammers, and it was all he could do to keep from weeping helplessly at the incredible relief he felt.
All was silent in that little valley – all silent, that is, except for the sounds of the river, and the singing of the birds overhead, and the wind sighing through the sparse foliage of the willow trees that lined the riverbank. And then McCormick thought about his rescuer. He opened his eyes to find him lying right there within reach, face down, as limp and lifeless as he had been when McCormick had been forcibly plucked from his side all those long minutes ago. Only now, the marble face that was turned slightly to one side showed a peaceful serenity, as though he were only sleeping, and the lines of pain had faded almost to nothing.
McCormick just lay there, staring, unable to move, unable to think, paralyzed in the moment, before reaching out to touch the cold arm that lay awkwardly twisted near him. He swallowed, holding back his tears of pain and exhaustion and grief, because Hardcastle wouldn't have wanted him to cry. People like him and Hardcastle, they were stronger than that, they faced the world with clear eyes and determined faces, and they kept their hearts to themselves – even when those hearts were breaking into so many tiny pieces, making those grains of sand in the river seem like boulders by comparison.
With painful slowness, he rose to his knees and carefully turned Hardcastle's body onto its back, and then, propping himself against the willow tree, he pulled the judge's head and shoulders sideways onto his lap, cradling carefully against his chest that cherished head with its snowy white crown. He looked down into that cold, tranquil countenance, saying with a bitterness born of sorrow and shock, "So, Hardcase, you got what you wanted after all – damn you."
Then he began stroking Hardcastle's hair gently, over and over again, as though the steady repetition could somehow brush away the terrible reality, and he whispered softly, "I didn't mean that. Oh, God, please, I didn't mean that ..." And deep beneath the pounding that had increased four-fold in his own head, his mind began to form long-forgotten words, intertwined with other stray thoughts ... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ... all other ground is sinking sand ...
Gradually McCormick's hand slowed its motion, sliding down to lay loosely against Hardcastle's shoulder, his head dropping to one side until it came to rest solidly against a lower branch of the willow tree. And he never acknowledged the voices that called faintly from the other side of the river, nor saw the boat that began crossing the flooded stream, its oars pulled by arms both strong and capable. He never heard the words that were softly spoken to him as his hand was gently removed from the judge's shoulder.
And he never saw the river again.