Page 83 of River Ride

Tammy fumbled for the door handle on the passenger side and with a little pressure, the door opened.

In the pitch dark, she couldn’t see that the sidestep had been torn right off the truck. As soon as she opened the door, with the precarious angle the truck was on, she fell out.

A little squeal escaped her lips as she dropped several feet through the blackness and hit the ground hard.

She rolled and rolled farther down the steep embankment until a big boulder stopped her dead and knocked the wind out of her.

So dark, Tammy couldn’t see a thing. Off in the distance miles away, she thought she saw lights but she could’ve been seeing stars after hitting the boulder so hard.

Looking for something closer to focus on, there was nothing but a faint flicker she could see through the trees. It had to be atleast a mile away, but it was her only chance of getting help.

She crawled on her hands and knees along the bottom of the ravine towards the light. The ground was rough and stoney and wet in places.

Tammy crawled through muck and mud. Sticks poked into her hands and arms cutting her up. Slimy grass and thorny bushes made her shiver but she kept going.

She crawled for what seemed like hours, stopping to rest and then crawling a bit farther. No idea how far away from the truck she was when she heard voices and a lot of noise far behind her.

The Fire and Rescue guys were coming down the mountain to see if there was anybody in the truck they could save.

Trouble was, when they found no driver, they’d begin searching even harder. That’s the way they’d handle a similar situation in her sheriff’s office back in Montana.

The light became a little brighter as she got closer, but she was tired. All her strength was used up and she knew she couldn’t make it.

“I’m going to die here.”

She closed her eyes and gave in to the blackness.

Watson Cabin. Great Smokies. North Carolina.

Willy-John Watson sat on his porch with a Mason jar of moonshine in his hand. He wasn’t a big drinker but didn’t mind a drink at night to help him sleep.

Beautiful warm evening and he played his banjo for a bit and then put it aside just to enjoy the weather. A bit of a breeze picked up and something on the wind roused George and Gracie, his two faithful hounds.

Walker/Blue Tick cross they were the best coon hunters for miles around. Fierce hunters. Willy-John had been offered ten times what they were worth, but he’d never sell them. Why would he? They were his family.

You don’t sell family.

The dogs woke up when that light breeze hit their sensitive noses. They snapped to attention and ran down off the porch.

“Where y’all going in the dark?” asked Willy. He got up off his wooden chair, went into the kitchen and came out with his shotgun. “I’d better come with y’all.”

Willy trudged along following the sound of the dogs tonguing. They were definitely onto something. Then they stopped baying and Willy knew they found what they were looking for.

The coon would be up the tree waiting for him, or if it was a rabbit, they’d have it ripped apart when he caught up to them.

He trudged on for another quarter mile and found them. Not a rabbit or a coon. Nope. They were lying beside a girl.

“What you got there?”

Willy didn’t have a flashlight with him, and he couldn’t see her face clearly, but in the moonlight he could plainly see she was covered in blood. Smelled of it too, and that’s the scent the dogs had picked up.

Fresh blood.

“Uh huh.”

Willy knelt down and put two fingers on the girl’s neck. “She ain’t dead, doggies. But close to it. Nice work. Now we have to get her back to the cabin.”

Looking over his shoulder, he figured they’d come at least a half mile. Be a bitch dragging her back home.

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