Ghost Horses Page 8

  Suddenly, all the air and light seemed to disappear out of the room as a chill spread from Jack’s chest all the way through his body. His father was going to invite Ethan along. On his trip! “No—Dad—you can’t—”

  “Jack, be quiet. I’m not talking to you. Ethan, would you like to join us?”

  With his eyes still glued to the floor, Ethan shook his head no.

  “Let me rephrase. Ethan, you are going to accompany Jack and me on a marvelous hike into the Zion Narrows. You two are going to work this out, and I’m going to keep you together until you do. This can be as hard or as easy as you’d like it to be. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Ethan said softly.

  “Jack?”

  Jack couldn’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he nodded.

  “Good. Then we all understand one another. Now we’re going down to eat in the dining room, and then I want the two of you to come into my room to pack. You will be civil to each other. You will be respectful. Or you will”—Steven narrowed his eyes as he looked from one to the other—“be very sorry!”

  At breakfast, Olivia told them, “I got a phone call early this morning from Art. Just a little before dawn, he and Gus were able to trap some mustangs at the water hole. One was the white stallion who ran into us last night, another is a mature white mare, plus they caught a couple of others from the herd.”

  Jack just nodded. He had problems of his own to worry about.

  “Summer and Ashley and I are going to drive there this morning to take a look at the mustangs he trapped.”

  His hopes rising, Jack said, “So Ethan can go with you.”

  “Jack!” his father warned, pointing a fork in Jack’s direction. “You know what the plan is. End of discussion. Now finish your scrambled eggs. You’ll need a good meal under your belt for our hike.”

  On the way upstairs after breakfast, Steven told Jack, “I want you to come into my room. We have about an hour’s work before we can leave.”

  “What kind of work?” Jack asked.

  “We’re going to hike the Zion Narrows, remember? That means we’ll be wading through the Virgin River for a couple of miles. The water won’t be all that deep, but there are holes and drop-offs where it’ll come up as high as your chest. We need to seal everything in plastic freezer bags to keep our stuff from getting soaked.”

  Jack was surprised when he saw all the things Steven had spread out on his bed: In addition to the freezer bags, there were a bunch of wooden matches stuck into a film canister; a pocket knife; three pairs of thick socks; three sweatshirts; a box of Band-aids; half a dozen granola bars; six one-pint bottles of water; six wrapped sandwiches, with a bunch of little plastic packs of ketchup and mustard that Steven must have bought at the coffee shop; plus a trio of four-inch-diameter, M&M-dotted sugar cookies, individually packaged in plastic wrappers that said “Grandma’s Best.”

  “Do we have to carry all that?” Jack asked. “I thought we were only going for half a day. That’s enough stuff for a week!”

  “You’re a Boy Scout. You ought to know you need to ‘be prepared,’” Steven answered. “This is no wimpy hike we’re going on. The Narrows can be difficult, not to mention potentially dangerous. Now go call Ethan, and we’ll pack this stuff into our backpacks.”

  As usual, Ethan found something to object to. “You want me to carry that backpack?” he protested. “It’s purple! It’s for a girl.”

  “You’re right, it’s Ashley’s,” Steven answered.

  “No way! I ain’t gonna—” Ethan began.

  Jack could tell his dad was in a no-fooling-around mode when he said, “Why? Because it has pink straps? It won’t kill you to carry it.”

  “It’s the only other backpack we have,” Jack snapped. “If you don’t like it, tough. You can always stay here.”

  “Maybe I will!”

  “Jack, no arguing, remember? Ethan, as far as using Ashley’s backpack—yes, you’re gonna.” Softening a little, Steven said, “Listen, Ethan, the worst thing that could happen would be for someone to see you carrying that girly backpack and then go back to the Wind River Reservation and tell it to all the guys you hang out with. So how many people do you think you’ll run across today who will recognize you and squeal on you back at the reservation?”

  “None,” Ethan answered grudgingly.

  “Correct. So start packing. And Jack, double-seal your camera.”

  It was past 10:00 by the time they’d hiked to the top of the paved trail that ended at The Narrows. Steven paused before a large wooden sign that read: “ALL NARROW CANYONS ARE POTENTIALLY HAZARDOUS. FLASH FLOODS, COLD WATER, AND STRONG CURRENTS PRESENT REAL DANGERS THAT CAN BE LIFE-THREATENING. YOUR SAFETY DEPENDS ON YOUR OWN GOOD JUDGMENT, ADEQUATE PREPARATION, AND CONSTANT ATTENTION. BY ENTERING A NARROW CANYON, YOU ARE ASSUMING A RISK.”

  For a long moment, Steven stayed silent. Then he said, “Well, I think we’re prepared, and I hope I’m using good judgment taking you kids on this hike. But we’ll have to be really careful.” He pointed to a pile of sticks about five feet long and two fingers thick stacked together on the ground. “OK, grab one,” he said.

  “What are they?” Jack asked.

  “Walking sticks. A guy at the lodge told me not to bother buying any because people leave them here when they’ve finished hiking The Narrows. We borrow them, use them, and return them to this place for the next hikers.”

  “Why do we need to carry sticks?” Ethan wanted to know.

  “To keep our balance. The river bottom is slippery. The sticks are like having a third leg.”

  From that point on there was no more paved trail or path of any kind—they waded right into the river. All three of them wore tennis shoes, shorts, and T-shirts and carried backpacks—Ethan still glowering because his was purple.

  The Narrows was narrow, for sure. The high, red slickrock walls were so close together that only a thin blue strip of sky could be seen overhead. Wading became tricky; their tennis shoes slipped on the rocks in the riverbed, which made their ankles turn a lot. Jack wished he’d worn his hiking boots, even though it would have meant getting them soaked. Lacing them high would have guarded his ankles. He knew why he’d had to wear sneakers, and why Steven was wearing his, too—it was because Ethan didn’t have any hiking boots. In Steven’s mind, it wouldn’t have been fair for Jack and Steven to be better equipped than Ethan. Jack had been about to argue about wearing his boots when his mother put her hand on his shoulder. Her soft eyes had searched his as she said, “Jack, your father and I are trying to smooth out the troubles between you and Ethan. I’m asking you to please try. Please?”

  So Jack was trying to be halfway civil. It was more for himself, really, since he couldn’t let Ethan ruin this day. Not one this important.

  Only a hundred yards from the end of the paved trail, the water level had risen from ankle deep to hip deep—at least for Steven. Since the boys weren’t as tall, the water reached all the way to their ribs before the river became shallower again. The current wasn’t strong enough to bother them, but they definitely felt it pushing against their legs. And the water felt cold.

  Each step stirred up sand and gravel from the river bottom; Jack’s shoes were beginning to fill with the stuff. He really wanted to sit down and empty the sand out of his shoes, but there was no place close by to sit. No riverbank, no pile of rocks to climb on, only sheer, slick canyon walls. Both Jack and his dad had slung their cameras on straps around their necks, and they stopped often to take pictures—straight up!

  “Wow, Dad, did you get that shot? It’s great!” Jack tried to sound extra enthusiastic since Ethan didn’t have a camera, and he was still mad enough to try to needle Ethan wherever he could. Craning back, Jack hit the button on his camera again and again. The view was nothing short of incredible.

  “Try to frame the sky with the walls,” his father instructed. Jack bent backward even farther; he liked the sensation of standing still in the river and slowly, slowly raising his g
aze, from the base of the sheer-walled, orange-colored gorge—up and up and up even higher—till his eyes reached the very top of the cliffs. The sight was dizzying. It made him feel like he was going to topple over backward.

  Two more hours would have to pass before the sun would stand directly over them, warm enough to dry them partway. Only at midday would they be able to see the sun itself—the rest of the time it was hidden by the high, shadowed, nearly vertical canyon walls. The water was about 60 degrees—real chilly—and in his wet clothes Jack was beginning to feel uncomfortable. To get a chance to rest, he called out, “Dad, did you know your backpack strap isn’t fastened around your chest? Wait up for a minute, and I’ll fix it for you.”

  Steven answered, “I left it unfastened on purpose. If I step into a deep hole, like up to my neck, the pack’ll float so the water won’t rush into it as much. If I had it strapped around me, it’d get dunked. Whoa! Like now!” Steven yelled. Not only had he stepped into a hole, he’d tripped into it face first. But even as he fell, he threw up his arms, holding the camera high, managing to keep it from getting wet. The fall jolted his hiking stick out of his hand. It drifted slowly down river.

  Ethan started to laugh—the first time Jack had ever heard Ethan Ingawanup laughing out loud. “Yaaah!” Steven yelled, floundering as he hauled himself to his feet. “Hey, grab my stick! It’s coming right at you. See it?” Gesturing toward the stick made him veer off balance, and he fell once more into the water, this time bottom first, with his backpack floating behind him. Only his head, and his arm holding up the camera, stuck up above the water’s surface. He looked like a submerged Statue of Liberty.

  Ethan was practically bent over laughing, and Jack felt irritation surge through him. What right did Ethan have to mock Jack’s father, especially after the way Steven was always taking Ethan’s side against Jack, always standing up for him, always telling everyone to be so nice to poor little underprivileged Ethan. “Knock it off!” Jack snarled.

  “Hey, it’s as much your fault as mine,” Ethan answered, still snorting with hilarity. “That’s why it’s so funny. You made it happen.”

  “My fault? I wasn’t even near him!”

  “You did the Ghost Dance.” Ethan’s mirth was starting to subside. “It’s really working.”

  “Ghost Dance? What are you talking about?”

  “Sure,” Ethan answered, now perfectly serious. “Think about all those creepy things that have been happening to your family. Not like your father slipping in the river right now—that’s nothing. But the rocks falling yesterday, and the mustang nearly stomping your sister last night. You said it was my fault. Maybe you’re right. But you helped.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  Steven had waded up to them now. He’d heard what Ethan was saying, and asked him, “You think the Ghost Dance caused those accidents?”

  “Do I think?” Ethan didn’t answer that, but he said, “The Shoshone used to believe in it—a hundred years ago. Maybe some still do. They danced the Ghost Dance to make white people go away. What’s so great about it right now is”—Ethan began to laugh again, but it was not a pleasant sound as he pointed a finger at Jack—“like, what cracks me up is that Jack and Ashley danced the Ghost Dance, too, and it’s supposed to get rid of white people. Like them! You danced to get rid of yourselves.”

  Steven said nothing, but his jaw began to work, and his fist clenched slightly. He just stared at Ethan, who stared right back, his stone-person expression in place again. Finally Steven said, “The trail map shows a sandbar around the bend from here. I think it’s a good time for us to stop and eat.”

  So Steven was going to let it go. Again. Jack mulled it over, deciding that the superstition about the Ghost Dance wasn’t what bothered him—he didn’t believe in stuff like that. He didn’t think Ethan did, either, since Ethan wouldn’t answer either yes or no when Steven asked him straight out.

  It was Ethan’s attitude that made Jack burn. That kid had the biggest and baddest attitude Jack had ever come across. Jack was ready to spit out an insult, but Steven was giving him a don’t-make–a-big-deal-out-of-this look, so Jack had to hold it in. One more item to add to the long rap sheet of offenses by Ethan Ingawanup.

  Rocks aren’t the most comfortable things to sit on, but the air was warm, the sandwiches tasted great, and no one else was around. Just three guys—two blond, one Native American. Two fatherless, one lucky enough to have a father who cared so much, both about his own son and about all fatherless children, no matter what punky jerks they turned out to be.

  Above them, the rock walls were streaked with dark zebra stripes from minerals that had leached out of the surface over thousands of years. Since no one was talking—just chewing—it was quiet enough to hear the splashing of the Virgin River as it veered around the rocks that studded its bed, and the faint twitter of birds on the cliffs so high overhead, and another sound much fainter, so far away that Jack wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. Thunder, maybe, but far, far in the distance. It didn’t repeat, so he didn’t mention it to his father.

  “When you guys are finished,” Steven said, “we’ll hike up past Orderville Canyon. The water gets deeper there, and the walls get really close together, so it might be tricky to take pictures. I’m going to put away my camera for now.” He began sealing his dry bag around his camera and flash attachment.

  Heading north, they trekked back into the river again.

  Steven had been correct—just as they passed Orderville Canyon, which veered off to their right, the water did get deeper, and the current pushed harder against Jack’s legs. “Ow!” he yelled.

  “What’s wrong?” his dad asked from where he was wading behind the two boys.

  “A stick hit me on the leg. Here comes another one.” Jack managed to step out of the way of the second stick borne along on the current. But a third one slammed into his shin. “Hey, that hurts! Where are all these sticks coming from?”

  “OK, stop, both of you,” Steven ordered. He peered intently into the flowing water, which was no longer as clear as it had been earlier. It looked a little muddy. Bits of sticks and other debris floated toward them. Just then, Jack heard the thunder again. This time there was no mistaking it, although it still sounded far away, and the sky overhead remained blue and cloudless.

  “That’s thunder!” Steven told them. His voice was sharp as he searched the sky intently. This time it was Ethan who gave a sharp cry. “Hey! A big stick just hit me!

  The color seemed to suddenly drain from Steven’s face. “Turn around! Quick!” he barked.

  “Why—” Jack began, but Steven cut him off with, “We gotta get out of here! Fast!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  What’s happening?” Jack yelled. The current was growing stronger.

  “Flash flood,” Steven shouted above the rushing sound of water.

  Jack felt his eyes widen with fear; he knew what a flash flood meant. People died in flash floods. All the time. “But—it’s not even raining!” Jack sputtered. “How—”

  “It rained upriver. Don’t talk—move your feet! Both of you get in front of me. Go!”

  There was no way to run in water that flowed knee high. In an unbelievably short time it came all the way up to their hips. They were moving in the same direction as the current, but as the flow grew swifter and stronger, they had to fight to keep from being knocked off their feet and swept downriver. The deeper the river, the more turbulent it became. Its waters roiled with churned-up mud and sand that scoured the backs of their legs.

  “Is this as deep as it will get? ’cause I can handle this,” Ethan yelled.

  Jack jerked his head upstream and hollered, “It’s just the beginning. Look for a ledge, a branch—anything to hold on to!”

  Without saying a word, Ethan nodded. Jack kept whipping around to see his father, and Steven kept looking back to discover what might be coming. He tried to deflect the branches and debris swept forward by the river, to keep it from hitting th
e boys, but it was like trying to stop a bombardment of gnats—swat a few, and the rest kept closing in. “Find a ledge!” he kept yelling.

  Jack scanned the sheer rock walls and saw nothing but rose-colored sandstone as smooth as tile. Nowhere to escape. Nothing to grab. It became harder and harder to stay upright.

  “Dad—the water’s getting higher!”

  “A stone just smacked my leg!” Ethan bellowed. “Man, that hurt!”

  “There’s a ledge!” Steven cried. “Move!” He had to shout because the torrent was making so much noise—branches cracking, rocks rolling and pounding against each other in that same bowling-alley racket the rocks had made tumbling down the mountain. And once again, the sound of thunder, although it was still far away.

  “Get to the ledge,” Steven kept yelling. “Hurry! The crest can come any second!”

  The crest. Jack knew that when it hit, anything in its path would be swept away in a wall of water churning with rocks and tree limbs. Anyone caught in it could drown—or get battered to death. Don’t think—just move! he commanded himself. Was it the cold water—or fear—that filled his insides with ice?

  In less than a minute they’d reached the rock ledge that jutted out over the water, like a life raft in an ocean. Jack felt a surge of hope; if they could climb on it, they’d be safe. Ethan shoved ahead of him, Steven trailed after. Only a few feet to go.

  “Come on, get up!” Steven ordered, grabbing Ethan and lifting him. Ethan clutched the ledge and pulled himself up the rest of the way. “Hurry, Jack,” Steven panted.

  “Dad—what about you?”

  Jack felt his father’s strong arms raise him out of the water. “Pull,” Steven yelled to Ethan. From above, Ethan reached down to take Jack’s hand, yanking him up.

  Gripping the ledge with his hands, Steven was ready to boost himself up when a sudden breeze swept over them, followed by the thunderous roar of debris-filled water bursting in their direction. Steven shouted, “Move back! Here comes the crest!”