Bargamin Creek, swollen by the severe winter snow melt, roared over fallen logs, coming hard and fast off the north side of the mountain range that lined most of the Salmon River canyon. A steep path followed the creek north into the Bitterroot Wilderness, eventually leading to Hell’s Half Acre in the east and Moose Ridge in the west.
From the entrance to the creek, the beach at Bargamin extended fifty yards, much of it covered by egg-shaped rocks. That was where Quinn and Ruby camped with the party of dories. From eddies, the guides had retrieved a black rubber bag with sleeping gear and food plus three rocket boxes. Without their raft, however, Ruby and Quinn were stranded. They were sure to be susceptible to inquiry, forced to travel overland or hitch a ride downstream or wait for the rangers at Corn Creek to be notified of their marooned condition.
The guides cleaned and bandaged Quinn’s cut. They fed them dinner and breakfast. After a night of rest, Quinn’s headache and bruises were only dull throbs. He and Ruby conferred. They decided to walk up the Bargamin trail into the mountains and make camp away from river traffic until their food ran out.
As soon as they left the beach behind, their spirits rose. Shaded by ponderosa and fir, lined with wildflowers and huckleberry, the trail followed the creek. When they needed to cool off, like river otters, they plunged into the water. For a couple of hours, with only the sound of birds, the rushing water, and the rhythm of their own footsteps, the primordial world was their own.
“Hey!” a voice whistled.
A few yards off the trail was a young woman, hardly more than a child, seated on a log, fanning a toddler on her lap.
“Sick,” she reported, beckoning them closer.
Ruby ran to the creek, dipped her bandanna in the water, and patted the child’s face.
“Sick with what?” Quinn asked.
“God’s will,” she said, raising her eyes to the sky. “Three days with fever.”
Quinn scanned the trail, the woods, the mountains in the distance, her waist-long braids, her vest and homemade skirt, her weathered work boots.
“Did you walk here?” he asked.
“I carried him off,” she said.
The child swung his arms at his mother’s chest.
“There, there,” she soothed, hugging his head. “I got to find a doctor.”
“Where’s a doctor?” Quinn glanced around.
“Truth told, I have no idea,” she said.
Quinn unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it by the log. “Put him down,” he said.
“I got to hold him. I’m the only thing that keeps him from flying off to God.”
Ruby rummaged through their supplies for crackers and dry apples. She boiled water for tea.
“I’m Hazel Jenkins,” she said. “This is Lucas Jenkins. We both very thankful.”
Lucas’s lips sputtered but there was no saliva. He cried but there were no tears. His face was white and splotched, his breath erratic. Hazel wet her finger in a cup of stream water and stuck it in his mouth. At first, he sucked ferociously, then spat up.
“There, there, there,” she said.
“We can make camp here,” Ruby said. “It’s going to rain. You might slip on the trail. You might drop Lucas. Tomorrow, we can help you.” She took Hazel’s arm. “We’ll stay together and take turns watching him tonight.”
Quinn strung up a plastic tarp and staked it with willow branches. Under the tarp, he and Ruby put up his father’s Army tent. Rain splattered through the trees onto the nylon roof. Wind rattled the trees. The gray sky darkened. The temperature turned brisk. The three sat huddled, quiet and dry, watching Lucas.