Her heart felt like it was coming out of her throat, and she tightened her grip on Dyma as the white wolf left the elk, took a few paces into the swift-flowing water, and stopped there. Alert. Assured, like it knew exactly what it was doing. The brown wolf stood behind it and waited. It was huge.
Jennifer said, her voice low, “Dyma. Back up. Keep going. Back up.”
She could hear Dyma doing it. She tried to do it herself, but she couldn’t, because she wasn’t in the ski tracks anymore.
Never mind. She’d stand here. Dyma had better be backing up. She’d better be going.
The wolves didn’t move, and they didn’t growl. They just stood there, heads high, ears pricked. Absolute focus.
The white wolf was still in front. Its eyes looked bright, not dark, and they were staring straight at her. Could a wolf have blue eyes? That was what they looked like, and they were fixed on her face.
The hair stood up on her arms, the back of her neck. She stopped breathing.
Five or six seconds more, and the white wolf turned and went back to the elk. And the spell was broken.
Dyma said, “Mom?” Her voice was small, and she was too close. She hadn’t backed up nearly far enough. “We should get out of here.”
“Yes,” Jennifer said. “Go. I’ll be right behind you, but don’t wait for me. If anything happens, don’t wait. Keep going.” Her whole body was shaking, and at the same time, she felt like she could do anything. She got herself turned around and into the tracks again, and she didn’t fall down. She didn’t look back, and she kept up with Dyma. Around the corner. Out of sight of the wolves. She was trembling, wondering if she’d hear the pad of their paws, knowing that she wouldn’t. Not on the snow. They’d be silent. She wouldn’t know until the wolf was on her.
She didn’t turn around to look, because she’d fall if she did, and anyway, what good would it do? If they came for her, though, she’d fight. She’d distract them, keep them focused on her. She skied on and on, breathing hard, her thighs burning, and thought, Thank God Dyma’s ahead of me. Keep skiing, baby girl. Keep skiing..
She didn’t draw an easy breath until they were back on the main trail. And then she didn’t draw it for long.
6
Failing at Flowing
The shadows were getting longer and the air was getting colder, if that was even possible, but Harlan was still skiing. He’d fallen on his ass a few times, sure, trying the steep stuff with the quick turns and all, possibly at an earlier point along his learning curve than was wise, but balance was his life. Now, the sky was clouding over, the first tiny specks of dry snow were falling, and he was following Owen, who looked like he’d shape-shifted from bison mode, his padded jacket making him appear even more massive, a rime of frost decorating his hat and beard.
They were doing the easy part, heading through the flat expanse of Geyser Basin and back to a fire and a beer when Owen got off the track to skirt a herd of elk, which a family of four was busily photographing. The elk sure knew they weren’t going to get shot out here, because they weren’t one bit excited about the attention. Saving their energy to run from the wolves, from what Harlan had heard.
Owen was speeding up all of a sudden, though, so Harlan caught up and said, “You’re like the horse smelling the stable. Relax. It’s not like the beer’s going to get warm while we’re out here, or we’re going to miss the dance party. All I’ve got going on is a book on the bedside table.”
Owen said, “Those assholes are going to get somebody hurt.”
A group of snowmobiles perched on the snow ahead of them like squat, fat bugs. Five or six of them, their riders off the machines and crowded around something. Harlan saw a couple kids and a few adults, then realized what they were looking at. An enormous bull bison, solitary and majestic, his heavy, fleecy coat dusted with snow, was grazing about fifteen yards from the group, pausing occasionally to sweep the deep snow aside with his huge, blocky head.
The bull looked like Marble Hill Ranch #11’s big brother. Its chest was massive, and its horns were wicked, sticking straight up at the tops, the better to gore you with.
What the hell were those idiots thinking? They were way too close.
Owen started doing a sort of skating motion with his skis, leaning into it. It always surprised you how fast Owen could move. Harlan put some effort into it, copied Owen’s movements, and kept up.
They got closer, and the bison started shaking his head, then danced a few steps forward toward his admirers and back again, his tail flicking from side to side. Harlan might know even less about bison than he did about cattle, but he doubted the bull was inviting the crowd to join him in an interpretive dance.
Owen had started to shout, was skating faster than ever, when another pair of skiers appeared from out of the trees near the snowmobilers. They were moving quickly, too, but a little clumsily, especially the one bringing up the rear. Two women who needed to get out of there fast, because Harlan could see what was going on now. The snowmobile group had one of the kids posed maybe five yards from the bison and were taking pictures. One of the adults waved an arm, gesturing the kid to move in more, as the kid glanced nervously at the huge animal, then back at the adults again.
Harlan thought, You’re kidding me. The only thing they hadn’t done was actually try to set the kid on the animal’s back. The kid wasn’t even wearing his helmet. Harlan put more power into his step as Owen shouted, “Get back! Get away! You’re too close!” and veered around behind the group. The other two skiers were doing the same, practically on a collision course.
The photographers turned to look at them, and one of the adults, the one who’d been waving at the kid, yelled, “We got this. It’s fine.”
The other skiers were closer now, and Harlan could see their faces. It was the woman in the rear who had him looking twice. Her face was white except for a nose reddened by cold and sporting a scattering of freckles, and she looked tenser and more shocked than he’d have expected. She and the other skier were moving away from the bison, though. They were fine.
The guy who’d shouted at Owen now yelled something at the kid, and everybody started heading back to their machines, starting them up again with a roar. Which was good, and Harlan saw Owen’s shoulders relaxing with relief
That was when the bull put his head down and charged. He feinted at one of the machines, then headed for another, twisting and turning like he was coming out of a rodeo chute, and the group shouted and scattered and ran.
The bull kept on. He was headed straight toward the kid who’d been posing, who was scrambling onto his seat, helmet-less, trying frantically to start his machine with clumsy mittened hands.
Harlan forgot that he didn’t know how to ski. He didn’t look to see where Owen was or what he was doing. He skied straight at the bull, waving his arms and shouting, and he could hear Owen shouting, too. The bull jumped to one side, then shook his head, lowered it, turned in a circle, and aimed his big body at the kid’s snowmobile again. The kid got the engine running at last, and the snowmobile leaped forward as fast as the kid could floor it.
Right at the woman with the freckles.
Harlan didn’t think. He dove like he was going for the end zone, caught her on the chest, and knocked her out of the way just as the snowmobile shot by, an inch from his skis. His last image was of the boy’s head turning towards him. His eyes were stretched wide, his mouth open, saying something. Saying, probably, “Sorry.”