Ten Little Bloodhounds (18 page)

I stood over his pack and explained how to sheath the machete, and held the pack while he slipped it on his shoulders and buckled it around his waist.

“How much does this thing weigh?”

“Properly packed, thirty-two pounds. It now holds a little less, and mine a little more.”

“Taking it easy on a beginner?”

“Not at all. I haven’t explained about the machete. It’s your job to hack us an opening if necessary, and to mark the trail going in. They will have to move in heavy machinery to dig out the plane and haul it out of here.

“Since I know where I’m going, I’ll try to lead us in the way of least resistance. Coming back we can change the markings, if we slipped up and marked a more difficult route entering. I don’t want to have to come back and lead them in, possibly meeting the colonel. I have no desire to cross his path again.”

“I don’t blame you there.”

“I’m going to ask you to back the van into this road, because backing a van isn’t something I excel in. I back like a snake, I’m afraid, all over the road. I jumped ahead of myself, you’ll have to remove your backpack to be able to sit behind the wheel, sorry.”

I was, at first, not about to admit I had a weakness to this pilot, but I had second thoughts when I viewed the road up close. If I backed into a ditch, I would look even sillier, and cost us lost time in getting it out.

I stood by the packs holding an impatient Stanley
and watched him roar smoothly backward, showing off his manly skill of expert control. I wrinkled my nose with envy. He made it look so damned easy.

When he returned, I swung my pack up and fastened it. I let him put his on unaided. I’d teach him to show off. I demonstrated reaching over my shoulder and pulling out the machete from its sheath on the pack with a smooth motion, then skillfully returned it. I made him practice, with four miserable tries, before he halfway completed the maneuver with any success. I was satisfied. We were even.

I slid the rifle from its sheath and ejected eighteen magnum-jacketed hollow point rounds onto the hardpan. I inspected the barrel and it was clean. I squatted and fed them back into the magazine as I counted. Donnie Ray had a habit of taking the rifle out behind the lumber sheds and shooting woods rats. Sometimes he forgot to clean and replace a full load.

“That’s only for snakes, huh?”

“I use the heaviest load available for this rifle. Aimed correctly, it will stop a snake, deer, bear, wild boar, alligator, and man.”

“And how many of the species have you shot?”

He was only asking an idle question, and I should have given him an inaccurate answer. I have but one excuse. The devil made me do it.

“All of the above,” I said softly, and walked away.

E
van caught up with me. “I’m sorry, did I say something to offend you?”

“Of course not,
my
answer offended me. I sounded as if I was bragging about shooting a man. I wasn’t. I shot him because he killed a wonderful dog. This caused a distraction that possibly saved four lives, and one of them was mine. I’m the one who should be apologizing. Forgive me for answering flippantly.”

“Hey, no sweat. Are we okay?”

“We’re okay, but we have to go back and get our water bottles.”

We hooked them to our belts, and he followed me when I went to lock the van and pocket the keys. I glanced around.

“Is the van hidden well enough?” He was now on the side of caution. Good.

“It can’t be seen from the road. It should be fine. Are you ready?” I’d noticed he was doing some tugging on his backpack shoulder straps.

“Ready. Just trying to distribute the weight more evenly.”

“Let’s do it.”

At the first tree in the row I halted and pointed toward it.

“Remove the bark on this side only. Head-high, and down for about a foot. Don’t cut too deep, just enough to expose the wood.”

He began to cautiously chip away the rough bark. I watched for a while, and decided he needed to be shown how to do it quicker.

“Let me,” I said, walking forward and grasping the sharp machete. I took four swings and had cut a sufficient amount of rough bark that it would be noticeable.

We were walking westward, with the sun on our backs. The temperature was rising and the dew on the foliage would soon dry. These were planted trees we were passing, and the undergrowth had been burnt within the past year. Our forward movement was not hampered by thick brush.

We made fairly good time for the next twenty minutes.

Sweat was running freely down our faces, and I could feel it trickling down my thighs in the airless atmosphere inside the rescue suit. The temperature had risen. It was about seventy-five degrees already, I guessed.

Evan was audibly panting and taking constant swipes at the mosquitoes and gnats. They weren’t too
worrisome for me, but he seemed to have a cloud of the critters hovering around his head like a cloud.

“You forgot what I told you yesterday, I bet. Did you wash your hair this morning, and omit any grooming product that has a scent? What was it you used, a creme rinse? Styling gel? Hair oil?”

“Yeah.” He was too busy to elaborate.

I giggled. “You have a swarm of devotees who just love the way you smell.”

He didn’t answer. I looked around, but there were no eucalyptus bushes handy, so his relief from flying insects would have to wait. Stanley was thoroughly enjoying himself. He pranced around bushes and through the tall grass like a champion. Head held high, tail aloft, he moved briskly and hated to slow his pace for us. His nose was testing the almost nonexistent breeze. He was in doggie heaven.

When he strayed from due west, I would tug him back into the general line I was taking into the swamp to reach my special tree. It was odd that, even dead for years, the tree was serving a function for humans. It had given me comfort on a long lonely night and could be the beacon that led us to Evan’s plane, if it was the same tree. The tree he described was like my tree, but it would be quite a coincidence if our two trees were one and the same. We would have to wait and see.

I didn’t call a halt for another thirty minutes. I was pushing while we were on level ground with fairly easy going. The terrain would become dense on uneven ground as we penetrated deeper into the mire. Its earlier inhabitants, the Seminole Indians, called it “the Land of the Trembling Earth.” We butchered the spelling in the
translation into English, and it can still be found in the history books spelled seven different ways. The government in its infinite wisdom decreed it should be spelled Okefenokee, and uses this version on all maps, but a lot of historians still disagree.

I called a halt at 10:00
A.M.
Evan slumped to the ground and leaned against a tree without removing his backpack. I helped him remove it without him having to get up.

“Did you have any breakfast?” I inquired as I reached into my pack.

He shook his head, as if it took too much effort to voice a no. He still had his winged escorts. His face was blotched with red spots where the tiny sand flies had zinged him. These lumps were hard to see, since his whole face and neck were an alarming red.

“Drink more water,” I urged. “Are you all right?”

“Are you sure,” he panted, trying to suck in oxygen, “that
this
is all you ever wanted to do since you were a kid?”

“Absolutely,” I said, amused.

Evan gave me a weak grimace.

“You’re out of your mind.”

I laughed, and held out a foil-wrapped package. “I have here a frozen biscuit and sausage that has thawed to the perfect temperature for an epicurean’s palate.”

“Which means?”

“You won’t break a tooth. Eat it, it’ll give you strength, put some food in your stomach so you won’t get nauseous from the heat and exertion.”

“Twenty-four hours’ bed rest would do the same.” He was regaining a normal breathing pattern, but hadn’t touched his food.

I felt the gentle pressure of a large paw on my thigh.

Stanley was sitting less than a foot away, eyeing my biscuit.

“This is people food,” I informed him. I leaned on my elbow and unzipped a slash pocket on my hip. I fed him two pieces of dried deer jerky. He inhaled both of them without a token chomp. “That was dog food.” I took a bite of biscuit and looked away, chewing. The pressure of his paw increased.

“Remove the paw,” I ordered, sounding stern. He picked it up, but only so he’d have leverage to nudge me more insistently.

“Bad dog,” I scolded. He gave a body quiver and a pitiful whine.

“If I give you one bite, will you behave?” His answer was to scoot his rear end six inches closer in anticipation.

I broke off a bite of biscuit and he opened his mouth.

“Hold!” He sat still as a statue with the biscuit on his tongue.

After an eternity of four seconds, I said, “Eat.” He swallowed the morsel politely.

“See how well he minds me?”

“Which one of you did you say was trained?” Evan inquired with a straight face.

“Eat,” I replied with mock indignation.

“I can’t,” he admitted. “I’d choke on food right now. I’m feeling that nausea you mentioned.”

I leaned over and inspected his face. He was still too hot for me to see if his red face was a rising temperature and if the bumps were swelling. “You’re not allergic to sand fly bites, are you?”

“Not that I know about,” he answered, stifling a huge yawn. “Any chance of a short nap?”

“Slim and none,” I answered absentmindedly. I was reviewing the skimpy files in my brain regarding medical abnormalities I had gleaned from the annual Red Cross first aid course I took every year in the high school cafeteria. I knew CPR, how to splint a broken leg, and the proper way to hold an infant, but my knowledge of anaphylactic shock was nonexistent. I was surprised that I could recall the name. I thought it meant a violent reaction to bee or insect bites, but I wasn’t even sure about that, much less how to treat it.

I vaguely remembered some of the symptoms: swelling, fever, and inability to swallow. With studied casualness, I leaned close, searching his face intently.

“Swallow for me, and tell me what you feel.”

He stared at me, alarmed. “What’s wrong with you?”

I gave him a hollow laugh. “Please try swallowing,” I insisted. “Does your throat feel scratchy and constricted? Do your bites itch or your tongue feel thick and bloated?”

“Jo Beth, do you feel all right? You’re beginning to scare me.” His eyes widened and he sat up straighter and assumed an attentive expression.

“Answer me, you turkey!” I yelled, losing it. “I’m worried witless that I have hauled you out here miles from medical help and you’re having a violent reaction to your sand fly bites. Answer my damn questions!”

“You think that I … I thought you might start foaming at the mouth any minute!” He collapsed on his side, shaking with laughter. “If you could have seen your face! You were looking at me like a lovesick cow!” He howled.

“I was a worried-sick basket-case sick cow, you ninny. It’s not funny, Evan. Knock it off.”

I was too relieved to be angry. The adrenaline rush from my fear was already dissipating from my system. I was thankful that he had only been pooped from the unaccustomed exercise and not ill. I wouldn’t be vindictive and march him till he dropped. I would let him rest again when we stopped to eat lunch.

I watched him with amusement as he tried to feed Stanley his sausage and biscuit. Stanley stared at the tempting food and didn’t move a muscle.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear. He eagerly scoffed up the whole biscuit and gulped it down.

“Why wouldn’t he eat for me?” Evan asked.

“One of the dogs was fed a hot dog laced with LSD during a search of a bar for drugs a while back. We immediately began training all the others not to accept food from anyone but the trainers.”

“What did you whisper in his ear?”

“I told him in my opinion it wasn’t poisoned, but he would have to decide for himself.”

“Really?”

“Nah, I just said eat. You notice I didn’t have to repeat the command.”

We resumed our trek. The trees and high growth closed in on us, and slowed our progress to a snail’s space. We had to blaze more trees more often. Evan seemed to get his second wind, and kept up with Stanley and me without grumbling. Maybe it was testosterone or he felt bad about thinking I was bonkers. Whatever the reason, I was thankful.

I decided we’d better stop and eat before we both fell over in a dead faint from lack of food. I’d had half a biscuit and Evan hadn’t eaten anything. We worked our way around a small slough and approached a fairly
large shallow creek covered with green scum. It was about thirty yards wide. I scanned the bank on both sides quickly and studied the small canals of crisscrossed clear waterways, and decided we’d eat on a small rise in the clearing under some trees about twenty yards to our right.

“Let’s eat over there,” I said, pointing, and started walking toward the trees. I heard a small splash, and I whirled in alarm. Evan was not behind me. He had waded out several feet in the stagnant water, and was clearing an area free of the scum.

“Be there in a second, I’m gonna wash the gunk out of my hair,” he called out to me.

I began running as I reached back and jerked out the rifle. It felt like I was running silently in slow motion. I clicked off the safety and positioned it chest high and held it with both hands. Finally I was standing on the bank.

“Evan,” I hissed as quietly as I could. “Listen to me. Walk toward me. Don’t splash. Drag your feet. Do it now!”

I saw him straighten in my peripheral vision. My eyes were frantically searching the banks for any sign of movement.

“What’s wrong?”

I saw a log slide into the water from the far shallow bank.

“Get out of the water! Run!”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the log, to see if he knew what was happening, but I didn’t hear any noise. I risked a quick glance. He was staring across the creek looking in the direction I had been, and was frozen with fear.