forty-two:
thursday mid-day

Halfway back to her patient, walking the quiet woods and away from her roaring fire, Allison heard the distant throb. Allison knew they would see the smoke, as thick and dense as she could make it, but she headed to the open valley and watched the odd beast land.

Allison led three of the four—two men, one woman and all business—into the woods. One of the men carried a yellow plastic spine board.

The fourth, the pilot, stayed with his ship and let the engine idle, perhaps an indication that this wouldn’t take long. The whistling engine followed them into the woods like a pair of determined mosquitoes. The whine suggested it was strong enough to cause flight. The whine was macho, obnoxious, and, she knew all too well, living a lie.

Allison stood back while the three worked. Their line of work required considerable time in the zone where that slippery little thing called life was moments away from going poof, like a candle blown out by a hurricane. The medical dance among those able to hold off gale-force winds at bay was well-rehearsed and highly synchronized.

The trio pulled on blue rubber gloves that snapped and squeaked. Giant rolls of cloth and bandages emerged from silver cases and high-tech backpacks. Scissors clipped, tape creaked. A mask was slipped over the patient’s face and oxygen started to flow from a green tank the size of a Thermos. One of the men used a penlight to check the eyes, another wrapped a blood pressure cuff around an arm and started listening with a stethoscope. The scene was instantly home to colors—bright blues and yellows and dark blacks—that didn’t otherwise belong in the woods. Allison told them every detail she thought was relevant.

Suddenly they moved their patient in a well-choreographed routine and strapped him gingerly to the spine board.

She followed them back to the edge of the forest and stopped. Conversation past this point would require shouting, given the helicopter’s grinding, impatient clatter.

“You coming with?” The woman asked. She was short, trim and wiry. She was eye-to-eye with Allison and carried a seasoned gaze. “There’s room.”

“No thanks,” said Allison. “My horse.”

“Whoever called it in said you could leave your horse—they’d send somebody up for him.”

“Not going to happen,” said Allison. She might never leave a horse alone again.

“Okay,” said the woman.

“How is he?” said Allison.

The men with the stretcher had gone ahead to the helicopter.

“He needs blood and we won’t really know until we get X-rays. One more chance to come with us. You sure?”

“Positive,” said Allison. She offered a knowing smile to reinforce it, ground her boots into the earth as thanks to the sensation of solid ground.

“You did a great job,” said the woman.

“I told to him to keep fighting. Where’s he going?”

“St. Mary’s in Grand Junction,” she said. “He needs everything he can get.”

One of the others was running back toward them. He was carrying a cloth bag that looked heavy.

“Supplies for you,” he said. “Water, snacks, a sandwich. We’ve gotta go. I know the sheriff wanted information and Parks and Wildlife passed a message along, too. Sure you’ll hear from some folks.”

The soft-sided lunch cooler must have weighed ten pounds. They hustled back to the helicopter, which then roared and shook and lifted straight up and headed due west, nose tipped down like a charging bull. The thundering wake took a full minute to subside.

Allison wanted to leave quickly, too.

But couldn’t.

The fire roared like it could burn for a week.