Fury - Part 3
(Desperate Straits)
Summer found her traveling south through what was once known as the Collegiate range (according to the maps in her vest pocket). It had been three years since her mother was killed. She still had occasional nightmares about that. During that winter she was completely alone and very frightened. The following spring she had met up with a man who seemed nice enough at the time. It wasn’t long, though, before she discovered his real intent. Enduring his lusts in exchange for survival seemed small cost, but eventually it was he who paid the ultimate price. Killing seemed to come so easy now. It was almost second nature. She thought of these things as she worked her way along the old highway east of Mt. Princeton. She and her mother had spent a winter up on the lower slopes near a hot spring. Perhaps it would be a good place to return to. Hefting her pack, she turned aside and worked her way up the small valley towards the spring.
She wanted a good, safe place to pass the winter. It was probably best to try and find other people to winter with as well, she would be giving birth around December by her calculations. She wasn’t at all sure she could make it by herself under those circumstances. The springs were abandoned when she finally reached them. At first glance things didn’t seem to have changed much here since she and her mother had wintered in the old dilapidated lodge. The roof had collapsed at the rear of the building, but most of it was still intact. She closed off the exposed portion as well as she could and picked a room for herself.
The next two months were fairly uneventful. She hunted, cured meat, gathered herbs and roots. Winter would be harsh in the mountains and food scarce. In October, a week after the first snowfall, she was out tracking a deer on the eastern slopes. It was getting harder and harder for her to maneuver her growing body around the timberland. This would likely be her last chance to get fresh meat. The deer was just down the slope from her, maybe a hundred yards away. She inched closer carefully, little by little. When she felt she was close enough, she stepped one foot up onto a fallen tree trunk to help steady the rifle, took careful aim, squeezed the trigger. The deer jumped, ran a few paces, stumbled, dropped to the ground and lay still.
Thrilled with her skill, and the prospect of fresh meat, she jumped onto the fallen tree to make her way down to her kill. The log shifted, turned, and she found herself tumbling down the slope until her left leg caught in a crevice between two small boulders. The pain was horrible, nauseating. That was nothing compared to the fear that followed. Her leg was obviously broken. She pulled it from between the rocks, screaming as the agony shot up her leg. Looking at it, the gravity of her situation became dreadfully clear. Her jeans were soaked with blood from just below the left knee. She cut the pants leg with her belt knife and winced at the sight of her leg. She took off her pack, opened it, and began to rummage around inside. She pulled out several rawhide strips and laid them on the rock beside her. She rummaged around her for some good sized sticks, braced them on either side of her damaged leg, and holding her breath against the pain, bound the rawhide around the sticks, pulling them as tight as she could stand to. Between gasping sobs, she lashed one after another around her leg and the splints. Then she lay back to catch her breath and think over her situation.
There was no way she could get to the deer and bring it back to the springs. It would be a miracle if she could get back herself. Lying back and looking at the grey October sky, she wondered how far away she was, and how long it would take to get home. She emptied the shells from her rifle and used it to get to her feet. Then, using the rifle as a crutch, she began hobbling back northwest towards the lodge. That night, still about a mile from home, she spent the night beneath a shallow overhang. Towards morning the snow began to fall, and by daylight there was 3 inches on the ground. Shivering uncontrollably, she lurched to her feet, gathered up her rifle-crutch, and started off.
By mid-afternoon she had reached the lodge. The snow had been steady all morning, tapering off slightly around noon, but now it was coming down harder than ever. There was already 6 or 7 inches on the ground. The interior of the lodge was an icebox. She eased herself down near the fireplace in her room and worked on building a fire. Her hands were trembling terribly and she had the devil’s own time of getting a flame to catch, but after a while, she succeeded. It was growing dark outside, and she was completely exhausted. Her leg needed attention badly, but she just wanted to rest, a few minutes, then she would tend her wounds. Just a few minutes….. just a few ……
She awoke the next day around mid morning shivering violently. The fire had burned itself out hours before. She wrapped herself in her bedroll hoping to get warm enough to ease the chills. After fifteen minutes or so she felt confident enough to try to make another fire. It took several tries to get the kindling to light: her hands shook so badly that the matches went out long before they came close to the shaved wood. Finally she had a small blaze going. Huddling in front of it, she wondered if this might not be the end of the road for her. Her stock of firewood was pretty low and she would have to go out and try to collect more somehow.
After dozing again for a while, she mustered up enough strength to hobble out, fill a pot with snow, and set it on the fire. She untied the rawhide lacings around her makeshift splint and spread the cut leg of her jeans, wincing at the pain and stifling sobs. The flesh around the wound was an angry red. Rummaging in her pack she took out a large pouch. She set that beside her and began to pull several smaller pouches and vials from it. Finding the ones she wanted, she poured a small amount of oil into a small bowl and added a small measured amount of dried St. John's Wort and mixed them together. She set this mixture aside, carefully removed the pot of now hot water from the fire and began washing the wound. When she was finished, she spread the St. John's Wort mixture over it and bound it up with torn strips of cloth. Then she re-splinted the leg. Lying back, exhausted, she gazed into the fire and thought of what the future might hold in store now.
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