Ground Money (23 page)

“You did all right, Gabe—you got us through it.”

To his mind, Sidney did it by telling Gabe how to approach the rapids. And then it was the raft all by itself, because there was no way he could pull against a current like that. But as he had told Jo earlier, what’s a vacation without a little excitement?

Sidney took them through the next plunging swirl of water, dangerous not so much from the gradient but from the twisting passages between gigantic rocks that strained the river into half a dozen narrow channels. Then it was Jo’s turn over a series of shelving steps that bumped and quivered the raft and scraped the cloth bottom with ominous humps. They landed for lunch and a half-mile walk up a narrowing gulch to a high, scooped-out cliff of pink sandstone. Hallway up, a band of darker red formed a stripe across the clean face, and above that, another two hundred feet of looming rock, they could see brush and piñon fringing the abrupt ledge.

“Look up there,” said Sidney. “Over there by that little crack.”

High in the smooth face of the rock, they made out faint Indian carvings, the clearest an eagle with wings outspread and each feather marked by a careful, precise, shallow chip.

“That’s really beautiful,” said Jo. “It’s so lifelike.”

“Not too many people know about this one. I don’t even think the rancher knows about it. It’s a box canyon—the only way in is a deer trail up at the far end, and even the deer are scared to use it.”

Wager brushed at the flies that had homed in on them as soon as they left the water and started through the thick growth of willow and chokecherry. A few ragged cottonwoods gave a little shade, but the only escape from the airless heat was here at the foot of the cliff, in the rock’s shadowed coolness. Except for the petroglyph, no sign of any other human marked the wavering lip of stone that arced around them on three sides, and in the silence, if he listened hard enough, he might hear the click of the Indian’s stone tools still echoing. “Are there a lot of gulches like this along the river?”

“Sure, but most of them you can get into and out of from the mesa. The ranchers farm the big ones, if they can get water to them. I like these little ones, though. Some of them you can only see if you fly over.”

“How do you think he climbed up there?” asked Jo.

“I figure the ground was higher then. Unless he stood on a slab that broke off and made that rubble there.”

“Does anybody know what tribe it was?”

“They’re just called the old ones—the Anasazi. They were long gone before the Utes or the Navajo came.”

She gazed at the pale pattern on the rock’s sheltered face. “And that’s all that’s left.”

The cottonwood trees, a hundred years older than any of the three, rustled slightly as a stray breeze swirled down from the mesa, and Wager wondered how many generations of those trees had grown and died since the Anasazi stood here and decided—or was told by a spirit—to leave this mark of his people’s passing. In a way, that small chiseled pattern seemed like a caress across the stone and spoke more deeply than any of the steel-and-concrete buildings of Denver that weighed faceless and cold above dwarfed pedestrians. Here, though he and Jo were tiny specks at the foot of a cliff that seemed to be perpetually falling over them, their domination was by a kind of calm absorption into earth and sky. In the city was no absorption, only conflict and finally erasure.

In silence, they wandered back to the beach to finish lunch and poke among the rocks and sandbars on this side of the river. Wager tried a few casts with the rod and reel, but Sidney said the only fish he was likely to catch in this stretch were cats, and he needed dough balls for that. “There’s some trout, but with the water this high and dirty …”

It was time to go anyway. Already the sun was westering, and now the east walls of the canyon brought out their hues of pink and red. They drifted past corners and buttresses of stone that hinted of standing gods or half-formed faces, and gargoyles who looked blindly down on the tiny raft sliding past their feet. Long stretches of water settled into smooth drowsiness, and they were in and out of the raft as the heat sank into stone and began to breathe over the river. A pebbled cliff of crumbling rock marked a series of ancient riverbeds, and Sidney tied up to show them the fossilized shells imbedded in hardened sand between the rounded stones of the layers. Farther down, they stopped for a side trip up a small crack in the earth where a stream of icy water scoured across gray marl in a series of low waterfalls that formed pools of clear, icy water. By the time the shadows of the western bluffs covered the river and relieved them of the sun, they were nearing the campground.

“That’s the start of T Bar M property.” Sidney pointed to a freshly painted sign staked between two rocks above the high-water mark. It read “Private Property—Keep Off—Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.”

Ahead, the canyon walls widened only slightly to leave a tangle of growth and steep, rocky talus that offered no safe beach for the raft or level place to camp. Whenever the bluffs behind the river opened to indicate a feeder gulch or a pocket, a posted sign ordered people away. Finally, where the east wall turned back in a wide gap to meet another large canyon, a sign said “Camping.” Sidney turned the raft around and rowed hard across the channel, drifting them in at an angle toward the sloping dirt.

The raft nudged ashore, and Wager splashed through the shallow water to anchor the line to a whitened tree trunk tossed high into the grass. Together, the three of them hauled the raft high up the bank and Sidney secured it with a second line—“The river might go up another foot overnight”—and they began unloading the rubber sacks and boxes. Sidney baited a couple of drop lines and flung them far out into the channel—“Fresh catfish for breakfast, guaranteed”—and Wager and Jo found a stunted piñon growing out of the soft sand and spread their groundcloth and dumped the sleeping bags. By the time twilight thickened into darkness, the breeze was heavy with the fragrance of roasting meat and Sidney was rummaging through the ice chest for the evening’s salad. Half-buried under the coals, a mound of foil-wrapped potatoes slowly baked, and Wager and Jo had opened a bottle of wine and were leaning against a still-warm sandbank to watch the silent river sweep by. Its pale surface reflected the sky’s final glow, and rings and noiseless boils and eddies and tiny flickering whirlpools spawned by the strong current etched black lines on the smooth water and glided swiftly past.

“Lord, that food smells good,” said Jo. “I’m starving.”

Wager’s mouth felt wet with hunger, too, and wine didn’t soften it as beer did. But the aroma of cooking wasn’t what had been on his mind as he gazed at the flowing water. “It’s been a good day, Jo. I’ve really enjoyed this day. I’ve enjoyed being with you.”

A smile crinkled at the corner of her eyes. “Better than being a cop?”

“No. I like being a cop. So do you. Maybe I’m enjoying this more because I know we’ll go back.”

She turned to peer at him through the dusk and started to say something that had a laugh in it. Then stopped. Finally she said simply, “I’ve enjoyed it too.”

“Hey—suppertime! Come and get it or I’ll throw it out!”

Sidney’s call interrupted their long kiss, and Wager gave a little groan.

“Was that your stomach or mine?” asked Jo.

“It was me. But it wasn’t my stomach—I think that gave up an hour ago.”

“Mine hasn’t—come on, last one gets the smallest steak!”

They ate sitting around a fire of driftwood, the smoke rising out of the glare of flames to disappear against the wide strip of stars marking the canyon walls.

“Do you want some help with the tent?” asked Wager. “Or don’t we need one?”

“We can rig a fly if it rains. But this time of year, the only thing’s a few thunderstorms, and not many of them. They can be exciting—a lot of wind and lightning and it comes down like crazy for a little while. But we’re not likely to be hit with one.” He waved his arm at the surrounding darkness. “Sleep wherever you want—we’re the only ones here tonight.”

“What’s that over there?” Jo pointed through the brush at a dim glow that rose and fell against a talus of large boulders.

“That must be one of the ranch hands. They come down to see who’s camped and collect the landing fee.”

The bobbing glow grew stronger, and in a few minutes they heard the grind of a vehicle geared low against the rutted trail leading up canyon. A pair of headlights swung from behind a shoulder of rock to rupture the night and bleach the tangle of limbs and shrubs as it mashed toward them. A moment later the lights and engine died and they heard the sound of boots crackle in the dry grass.

“Evening, Sid.”

“Hello, John—how about a beer?”

“Sure.” Sanchez moved into the firelight, his eyes lingering on Jo’s bare legs before turning to Wager and blinking with surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Wager smiled. “Just enjoying my vacation.”

“Here you go.” Sid tossed him a cold one from the ice chest. “Not too many people along the river today.”

Sanchez twisted the Coors in his hand and flipped the tab up, a tiny spurt of foam hissing toward the fire. “There’ll be plenty before summer’s out. Looks like it’s still rising.”

They talked briefly about the river and what lay downstream, Sidney asking about Boulder Field especially. John’s glance kept drifting toward Wager, his dark eyes masking any expression.

“It was running thirteen thousand this morning. It’s probably about thirteen five, now.”

“That much?” said John. “It might get as high as last year—wash all you river rats clean to Utah.”

“Wait till that dam goes in. We’ll be running the river all year round.”

“I reckon I can wait.”

“How’d you do up at Grand Junction?” asked Wager.

“OK. Jimmy got some money, anyway.”

“Is your next rodeo around here? Maybe we’ll be able to make it.”

The light flickered his face into shadow, turning the dark hat brim a dull orange over his eyes. “We’ll be in Denver next weekend. There’s a Mountain States regional we’ll be going to.” He tipped the can against the sky. “How long you staying with the Volkers?”

Wager shrugged. “Another week or so. We’re in no hurry. There’s a lot of country we haven’t seen yet.”

“Jimmy told me you came by the ranch. Sorry to miss you.”

“Right. Me too. Why don’t you come to the Volkers’ sometime? We’re staying at their hunting cabin, the one on the creek below the ranch house. Know it?”

“Never been there.”

“It’s easy to find. Come on by—we’ll have a drink for you.”

“Maybe I will.” He crushed the thin metal between his fingers and tossed it onto the sand beside the fire. “Thanks for the beer, Sid.”

They watched the jeep back and turn, its brake light flashing brightly, then bouncing away into the darkness.

“You two know each other well, Gabe?”

“I knew his father. I’ve just met John and his brother.”

“Jimmy’s all right—he’s a good guy. A good rodeo rider, too.”

“What’s wrong with John?”

“Wrong? Nothing, he’s OK. He gets kind of hard-nosed, sometimes—likes to act like this big bad cowboy, especially when there’s women in the party. But he’s really OK when you get to know him.”

“Do you see much of them?”

“Only along here. I guess they patrol every night. Either Jimmy or John comes by every time I bring a party through, anyway.”

“Do they patrol the other canyons, too?”

“I guess if they saw a fire they’d take a look. But there’s half a dozen landings, and it could take all night to check each one—you have to drive way around to get in and out of them. And some you can’t drive to at all—the small ones.” A grin flashed orange against the firelight. “I made dry camp in a couple of them. If you go after dark and don’t light a fire, there’s no way they’re going to know you’re there.”

An all-night patrol would explain why Jimmy was sleeping when Jo and Wager had visited the ranch. And it naturally raised the question why: Why would anyone want to spend that much time and effort making certain that no one camped on his land? The obvious answer was that the owner was hiding something, and that brought Wager around to the question what.

“Hey—you still with us?” Jo tilted a final glass of wine from the bottle and handed it to him. “I thought you almost forgot about being a cop today. I did.”

“Almost,” said Wager.

“And then came Big Bad John.”

He asked Sidney, “Can you walk to the other landings from here?”

“Some of them. It depends on the river. If it’s low, sure. But most of the rafting’s over by the time it gets that low. In water like this, you might make it, but there are some pretty steep cuts you have to cross.” He started gathering the tin plates and utensils. They scraped the garbage into a watertight bucket and sealed the lid against animals. With river water heated over the fire in a five-gallon can, they washed the dishes, and then they hauled the raft another few feet up the bank and tightened the lines once more. “It may rise, it may not; but it sure would be embarrassing to wake up tomorrow without a raft.” Then they secured the rest of the scattered gear against wind or rain, and Sidney, surrendering to his yawns, unrolled his groundcloth and sleeping bag.

Jo and Wager found theirs in the dark and spread them over the soft sand. They lay together feeling each other’s warmth against the chilling night as the fire gradually died to embers. Above, the river of stars gleamed with the crispness of a moonless night; a hundred yards away, they could hear the almost silent whisper of the ceaseless water. Across the stream, high on the opposite bluff, an owl hooted its furry call, and from the canyon where John had driven came the brief high-pitched shriek of a rabbit caught by some feeding animal. Jo stirred briefly in his arms at the sound, and then her breathing became deep and regular again.

W
AGER WOKE TO
the rhythmic clack of a hand pump and the smell of frying fish. They were still in shade, but across the canyon the uppermost ledge already caught the sun and turned yellow and orange and pale gray against the blue of morning. Sidney had built up the fire and hauled in the lines to skin the catfish and lay slabs of cornmeal-crusted meat in hot grease; now he straddled the bow of the raft and worked a hand pump hooked to one of the tubes. Beside Wager, Jo’s tousled hair sprouted out of her sleeping bag, and she lay motionless. Wager shrugged into the cold air and tugged on his cut-off jeans and a sweatshirt still warm from his pillow sack; his tennis shoes were damp yet, but the cold wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. After splashing his face with river water, he asked Sidney what he could do to help.