They rode west toward the Rockies. The mountains were scored against the vivid blue sky. An ocean of prairie land rippled southward. They had followed the winding route of a coulee, its bed cracked dry in the sun. Now they climbed through pines growing thick as quills on the high ridge known as the Porcupine Tail. Tom had smiled when he first heard the name. How different this was from his old ship. Was there any sadness left still in his heart to bail out? Very little. He felt content in this empty land of wide horizons. The next day they traced the wandering track of the Oldman River. Toward noon, they reached a canyon where the thick pelt of trees thinned a little. It was warm and they allowed the horses to amble along the river at their own pace. Stopping at a group of flat rocks for a rest Tom opened one of the saddlebags to get some oatmeal and pemmican. Silent Owl padded down to the water’s edge, looking for pools where fish might be lurking. As always, Tom felt wonder at how his companion, absorbed in his task, seemed so much part of the natural world, woven into the weft of trees, river, and fish.
Suddenly the air was shredded by sharp cries. Tom leapt to his feet and ran toward Silent Owl who pointed upstream. A bend in the river stopped them from seeing the source of the noise. Then something spun into view. Something red and sodden swirling in the water. A whimper from inside it, a flailing arm. Silent Owl unhitched a rope from one of the horses. Tom was tugging off his moccasins and shirt. “Tie it round a rock.” He tightened the knot around his waist and lowered himself into the water, gasping at the heart stopping chill. Before plunging in he scanned the flow of the current, hoping to intercept the bundle as it floated closer. But the waterlogged cloth sank under the water. He struck upstream and dived below the surface. The current buffeted him and rocks scraped the skin from his legs but he hardly noticed as he pushed on. Finally his bursting lungs forced him to surface. The rope was almost played out to its limit. Something brushed against his foot and he reached down, grabbing a leg. His numb fingers hauled the small body clear. It slumped in his arms. Holding it close he chafed its back with trembling hands. A splutter. The hands fluttered and nipped his face.
“I’m here.”
Silent Owl had waded out to a flat rock and was perched there, a bedraggled diving bird, arms outstretched. Tom floated on his back, clasping the squirming child to his chest. Almost there. He reached out but the current was too fierce and tossed him sideways. He grasped the cloth with his teeth so that he could stretch out both his arms but as he did so he was flung back against half-submerged rocks. The back of his head struck a jutting edge. He groaned as tongues of pain licked across his skull. Blackness swallowed him.