Asadi couldn’t keep his mind from racing as he searched around the old drill site for anything to help him endure the cold. With the pain in his ankle intensifying, there was a temptation to sit and rest. But a lack of movement would only make things worse. Needing a shelter from the wind, he found a canvas tarp covering some machinery that he could use for a roof.
On the periphery of the oil pad was a discarded five-gallon bucket full of sour-smelling deer corn. He dumped the contents and used the container to dig and move snow. In a matter of minutes, Asadi had constructed his lean-to behind a solid caliche berm, piling up powder and packing it down to make a three-sided structure, just large enough to fit inside.
He’d read lots of online articles and watched plenty of YouTube videos on primitive fire-starting methods but had never actually done it himself. And the idea of learning on the fly while he was freezing and injured didn’t exactly sound like fun. But with a pile of old tumbleweeds and a dead mesquite tree nearby, he at least had the materials to give it a shot.
As Asadi bolstered the shelter’s side walls, his mind drifted to other problems. The most pressing was Savanah. Despite the fact that they wouldn’t be out there in the first place had Duke not sent the horses running, he kept beating himself up about the crash. Asadi knew she wouldn’t blame him for the accident, but it wouldn’t stop him from blaming himself.
Going downhill fast, he took a momentary break from his snow scooping and sucked in a couple of breaths. Pulling himself together, Asadi finished up the walls of his shelter and draped the tarp over the top. After tamping down the sides, he crawled inside and almost immediately felt relief from the cold and the howling wind. Again came a temptation to sit and rest, but the longer he sat there the harder it was to move. Not only was his body starting to tighten but his throbbing ankle continued to swell. A little more time and it might not take any weight at all.
Promising himself he would return to convalesce once a fire was built, Asadi slid his foot back to the ground and crawled outside of his burrow. With the immediate whap of the icy gale, his first inclination was to climb back inside. But his need for a fire wasn’t only for fighting off the cold; it was to send out a distress signal. Nighttime rescuers would need help finding him.
Aside from that, the long trek over the sandhills had left him with a dry mouth and burning throat, and while he wasn’t nearly to the point of dehydration, the idea of melting a little snow to quench his thirst and warm his insides sounded like heaven. For that though he needed fire, and for a fire, he needed a spark. He had plenty of kindling but no catalyst to produce a flame.
Spying some equipment in the corner of the drill site, cordoned off by a wall of corrugated tin, Asadi ducked into the headwind and dashed toward the barrier. In the glow of the floodlight, he studied the massive engine with its jumble of piping, cylinders, and wires. He groped along the icy hunk of iron, feeling its edges for anything that would help, but unfortunately came up bust.
Turning back toward his shelter, Asadi contemplated retreat, fairly certain that he could survive the night without a fire if worse came to worst. But it didn’t rule out frostbite. His hands and toes were already growing numb. A little while longer and he wouldn’t feel them at all.
Another glance around and he noticed a toolbox at the base of an elevated diesel tank adjacent to the motor. Fighting the urge to wish for a miracle, Asadi darted to the metal chest and opened the lid. To his disappointment there was nothing of any real worth to him or anyone else but a ratchet set, ball-peen hammer, and set of jumper cables. He dumped out the contents and rummaged through the mess, hoping to find something among the junk he could use.
Asadi had just tossed the lines aside when a thought came to mind. Among the many things Butch had taught him on the ranch, truck and tractor maintenance was at the top of the list. From fixing flat tires, to changing the oil, he had pretty much done it all. Thankfully, among those skills was how to charge a dead battery from a live one.
Asadi grabbed the jumper cables and dragged them over to the motor, fixing the positive and negative teeth to the posts. With a little prayer that his experiment would work, he held his breath, brought the two clamps together, touched the ends, and they crackled and sparked. After setting the cables on the ground, he grabbed the empty toolbox and filled it with kindling.
Splintered boards from a broken crate were added to the mix of mesquite limbs and dry Russian thistle. As the cherry on top, he opened the drainage spout beneath the fuel tank and let it soak the tinder. What Asadi had also learned from Butch was that gasoline explodes and diesel burns. He didn’t want to go overboard with his accelerant but definitely wanted enough to catch the flame in case he only got one shot with a battery that might be at the end of its life.
His heart racing with both anticipation and a little dread, Asadi dragged the metal box over to the cables, picked them up, and positioned them right on the top. Just as before, he touched the ends together, but nothing happened. He connected them again. Same thing.
Then again and again, but there was still no click or a spark.
A loud exhale of frustration, and Asadi banged the prongs rapidly until suddenly an orange licking flame leapt from the container into the air. Although the blaze wasn’t large enough to scorch him, the sudden flash and whoosh sent him stumbling away, hands blocking his face.
After a quick pat-down to make sure he wasn’t burning alive, Asadi staggered forward, amazed by the fact that he’d actually made fire. It was a move that in all reality was a miracle. Or as Butch would’ve put it: “straight off of MacGyver.” Whoever the heck that was.