Snow Day				December 9, 1997

	John T. McIntyre, M.D., still, after all these years, known as 
Trapper to most of his friends and staff at San Francisco Memorial 
Hospital, breezed into the office he hadn’t seen for more than a month, 
and stopped when he discovered two familiar figures parked at opposite 
ends of his big comfortable couch.  He smiled to himself in private 
amusement at seeing those two slumped in reflecting poses, because 
otherwise they were a study in contrasts.
	The crumpled surgical greens and wild black curls belonged to 
“Gonzo” Gates, Trapper’s most promising protege in the Surgical 
Department.  He lived the life of Riley in a battered trailer he called 
the Titanic that was generally parked in the hospital lot.  Opinionated 
but generous, Gonzo had matched Trapper so well in temperament and talent 
it was already hard to remember how he had gotten along without him.
	The neatly pressed lab coat, and the straight dishwater brown hair 
belonged to Stanley Riverside II, the youngest Chief of Emergency Services 
in any hospital in the country.  It was frequently assumed that Stanley 
had gotten that position because his father was the president of the board 
of directors for the hospital, but the longer Trapper had known the 
Riversides per et fils, the more he had become convinced that Stanley had 
gotten as far as he had in spite of his paternal parent rather than 
because of him.  The classic poor little rich kid, Stanley had always had 
everything he wanted but affection, but his quirks didn’t stop him from 
being a fine doctor.
	For these two, who didn’t always see eye to eye, to both be crashed 
in Trapper’s office argued that something had happened last night, and 
Trapper began to wish he had bothered to turn on the news when he’d gotten 
in, but it was too late to worry about it now.
	He made his way over to his desk and settled down, still careful of 
the surgical scars that had given him an unexpected vacation.  He’d been 
hit by a car, just before Thanksgiving, and Stanley and Gonzo were largely 
responsible for having put the pieces back together.  Now it was the 
beginning of January, and with one more weekend to rest up before he had 
to come back to work, Trapper had decided he was tired of Hawaii and had 
come back to spend a few days in the mountains with an old friend.  He’d 
stopped off at the hospital to see how much paperwork had piled up, and to 
reassure his colleagues, but he hadn’t expected to find them in his 
office.  He looked the pair of them over fondly, noting the blue smudges 
under their eyes, and pulled the first pile of paper to the middle of the 
desk.  Might as well take the chance to catch up on a few things while he 
was here.
	He had gotten through two piles of requisitions when a door banged 
down the hall, startling both of his somnolent guests into consciousness.  
They blinked at him, and then erupted from the couch in surprise.
	“Trapper!” Gonzo exclaimed, grabbing him by the hand and giving him 
a quick hug across the shoulders.  “What are you doing here? We thought 
you were still in Hawaii!“	
	Stanley bounced on his heels, just as excited, but he was blocked by 
the bulk of the desk from doing much more that.  “Good morning, John.  
It’s wonderful to have you back.”
	“Good morning, Stanley, Gonzo.  I’m not really back.  I just stopped 
off to see how the place is holding together without me.  You two are here 
awfully early this morning.”
	“Never left last night,” Stanley admitted, flushing a little.  
“There was a messy accident between a bus and a chemical truck last night, 
and since I was still in my office catching up on some paperwork...”
	“3 DOA’s, 17 critical cases, 15 severe, and 12 minor injured,” Gonzo 
put in hastily, knowing that Trapper was still concerned about Stanley 
overworking after a recent incident.  “And all of them contaminated with 
PCBs.”
	“Gates was kind enough to help out,” Stanley said formally, his face 
sobering at the reminder, “since Baker is still on vacation and Izbecki 
called in sick.”
	“You must’ve had every doctor in the building down here,” Trapper 
said.  
	“Just about,” Gonzo said.  “It was worse than New Year’s Eve.”
	“And it still wasn’t enough,” Stanley said, sinking into one of the 
chairs and running a hand unhappily over the stubble on his chin.	
	Trapper looked and saw that Gonzo was just as upset before he asked 
the question that he didn’t want the answer to.  “How many did you lose?”
	“Four,” Gonzo said.
	“Five,” Stanley corrected.  “The pierced lung,” he added when Gonzo 
looked to him.
	“Shit.” Gonzo sat back down on the couch, leaned on one elbow and 
jammed a hand into his hair.  Stanley slumped down into his chair.  
Trapper pulled off his glasses and looked at them thoughtfully.  Each man 
held silent, facing yet again the uncomfortable truth of how little 
sometimes all his efforts would avail.
	“I suppose I could have...” Trapper started, but Gonzo stopped him.
	“I don’t think it would have made a difference, Trapper.  They 
didn’t even get cut out of the bus until nearly ninety minutes after the 
accident.” Gonzo shook his head.  “And besides, you’re supposed to be 
convalescing.”
	“That’s right,” Stanley said.  “And I thought you got Arnold to pay 
for an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii.”
	“I did,” Trapper said.  “But I’ve got a friend who invited me up for 
a weekend in the mountains a long time ago, and I was getting tired of 
pineapples.”
	“You’re not going to try skiing are you?” Gonzo asked, alarmed.  “I 
do good work, but it hasn’t been all that long yet.”
	“No, no skiing,” Trapper laughed.  Just then the door opened.
	“Hey, Trapper.” A tall balding man in Forest Service uniform stuck 
his head in the door.
	“Mike!” Trapper exclaimed, rising to his feet and waving him to the 
spare chair.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you this early.  Gonzo, Stanley, 
this is Mike Houlihan, Mike this is Gonzo Gates and this is Stanley 
Riverside the second.”
	Gonzo shook hands with an interested eye.  “You must be the guy who 
invited Trapper up to his cabin for the weekend.  He’s been telling us 
he’s going to have a nice quiet weekend, right Trap?”
	“Something like that,” Trap laughed, and aimed Mike at Stanley.
	Stanley had been waiting for his handshake by studying the broad, 
honest face under the fringe of blond hair.  “Houlihan....  weren’t you in 
here with a depressed skull fracture about six years ago?”
	“That’s right,” Mike said, grinning.  “I got kicked by a moose.  
Wait -- I remember you.  Aren’t you the doctor who kept me from going to 
sleep by telling me stories about his father?”
	“You remember!” Stanley smiled with simple delight, “That’s 
wonderful! Injuries like that so often cause memory loss.”
	“Thanks to you and Trapper,” Houlihan said.  “I don’t even have 
headaches from it.  How is your father doing, by the way? After all those 
stories, I feel like I know him.”
	“He’s fine,” Stanley said, brightening as usual at the chance to 
talk about his favorite subject.  “He just left for New Zealand yesterday, 
as a matter of fact.”
	Gonzo frowned.  “Wait a minute, Stan.  Wasn’t this the weekend you 
and your dad were going to go down to Palm Springs together?” Trapper 
remembered Stanley mentioning the trip, too, in one of his letters, and 
guessed that he knew why Stanley had been doing paperwork late yesterday.
	“Well, yes.” Stanley said, hesitating only a moment before years of 
experience helped him over the difficulty.  “It was business.  You know.  
Urgent.  I’m sure dad was very disappointed.”
	Mike Houlihan promptly proved that he really did remember the 
stories Stanley had told him.  He glanced at Trapper for permission and 
then said, “Look, if your weekend plans have fallen through, why don’t you 
join Trapper and me up at the cabin.  It’s a beautiful spot.  You too, Dr. 
Gates,” he added, seeing Stanley’s hesitation and Gonzo’s wistfulness.  
“You can sleep for two days if you want to, or come down and swap lies 
with me and John, whichever you prefer.  But it’s quiet, and the stars at 
night are so bright you’ll feel like you can reach out and grab a handful 
of them.”
	“We’re on duty tomorrow,” Stanley protested, but weakly.
	“So come up after your shift.” Trapper said.  “Look, Baker’ll be 
back tomorrow evening and neither one of you is scheduled again until 
Tuesday.  We could all come down together on Monday afternoon and that 
would save Mike the trip.”
	“I’ve got enough food up there to feed an army,” Mike added.  “And 
plenty of bed space.”
	“Just bring up some extra beer,” Trapper said.  
	“Well,” Stanley began, “it’s nice of you to want me to come.  But I 
just don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
	“I was about to drag Trapper over to Murphy’s with me right now,” 
Mike said.  “Why don’t you tag along and get what you need.”
	“I’ve got everything I need,” Gonzo said seeing that Trapper looked 
pretty happy with the idea of having two gatecrashers join the party.  “Go 
on, Stan.  Jackpot and I can hold down the fort for now, and if anyone 
needs to beep you it’s only about three blocks.”
	“Well...” Stanley bit his lip, thinking.  “I guess it can’t do any 
harm.”
 	They paused in Stanley’s office long enough for him to get his 
overcoat, and then set off.  Murphy’s was only a few blocks away.  A 
venerable institution, the outfitters had everything imaginable for the 
outdoorsman and Trapper and Mike watched in amusement as Stanley drifted 
over to the racks of nifty camper gadgets.  “Look, John! They’ve got cups 
that fold!”
	“That’s right, Stan.” Trapper headed over to the clothing, while 
Mike went back to the climbing equipment.  He pulled out long johns and 
socks for himself, and, after a moment of hesitation, the same, plus a 
blue chamois shirt and gray wool pants for Stanley.  He hoped he had the 
sizes right.  Stanley had lost some weight while Trapper had been in 
Hawaii.  By the time he got back to the front of the store, Stanley had an 
armful of little packets.  
	“Look, there’s a metal match, and a compass, and a signaling mirror, 
and a folding cup, and one of those space blankets like they use in the 
ambulances, and a little first aid kit, and a little sewing kit, and a 
thermometer that hangs from your zipper tab.”
	“Stan, we’re only going to be up there for three days,” Trapper 
said, and regretted it when the enthusiasm went out of his friend’s eyes.  
“But get them anyway.  I’ll show you how everything works when we get up 
there, and you’ll have them for next summer, when I take you fishing.”
	Stanley lit up again.  “Fishing? Really? My dad has a fishing lodge 
up in Alberta, but I’ve never been there.”
	Trapper wasn’t surprised, but he held his tongue.  “Look, you’ll 
need a jackknife for the metal match, and some triple-ought steel wool.  
They’re over at the counter.” 
	“A jackknife.” Stanley had never had one of those, either, Trapper 
guessed from the look on his face.  But he’d wanted one.  After some 
debate he settled for a Swiss Army knife with slightly fewer gadgets than 
the biggest one; and the salesman settled into the happy task of talking 
him into buying a parka with a dozen pockets, a woolen ski mask, special 
long woolen mittens and gaiters to go over the clutter boots that Trapper 
insisted he should try on.  They got a nylon stuff bag for the clothing, 
and at the last minute, Stanley added a pair of snowshoes to the pile.  
“Just in case,” he said with a sheepish grin, to Trapper’s look.
	“Just in case,” Trapper agreed, laughing, now that he saw that 
Stanley knew he was buying toys just for the sake of having toys.  “Mike 
can teach you how to use them, can’t you Mike?”
	“Of course I can,” Houlihan said, piling ropes and hardware onto the 
counter to pay for them.  “And I’ll teach you too, you old ski bum.  
Everyone ought to know how to use snowshoes.”

	“Snowshoes?” Gonzo exclaimed with delayed disbelief once they were 
safe in Trapper’s office after Stanley had shown off his new equipment to 
the staff in ER.  “And that parka looks heavy enough to be something from 
an Admiral Peary expedition.”
	“It’ll be heavier before Stan’s through with it,” Trapper said, 
explaining about the gadgets Stanley had chosen.  “And the pockets that 
don’t have gadgets will probably have chocolate bars and gorp.”
	“Gorp? Where did Stanley ever learn about Good Old Raisins and 
Peanuts?”
	“Well he was in ROTC, at least for a while, until his father raised 
an objection to it.  But I think it was the sales guy at Murphy’s who gave 
him the recipe.”
	Gonzo shook his head, laughing.  “You never can tell what Stanley 
will do next, can you?”
	“On the contrary, I think I can predict what he’ll do tomorrow 
pretty accurately.  He’ll bring the extra clothing I told him to bring, 
set everything up, and then back out of the trip -- unless you make sure 
he doesn’t.”
	"Why would he back out? You've got him looking forward to it."
 	"Yes, but it isn't the sort of thing Stanley Sr. would expect him to 
do.  And Stanley Jr. is used to working away his disappointments, not 
relaxing."
 	"True," Gonzo conceded.
 	"So, since I'm going on ahead tonight, I'm depending on you to make 
sure that Stanley gets there."
 	"I get it.  No Stanley, no Gonzo.  Don't worry, Trap.  I'll get him 
up there if I have to tie him in behind the beer.  Where is the cabin, 
anyway?"
 	"Just south of Mendocino Pass."
 	"Oh, I've been there.  Do you mean the Ranger station? The one a 
couple of miles below tree line?"
 	"That's the one."
 	"No problem.  We'll be there with bells on."
 	And they would, Trapper was sure, given Gonzo's notorious charm.  
There were very few people on staff who could resist it, and Stanley 
wasn't one of them.  He watched Gonzo leave and flipped his calendar open 
to the last page.  "Remember - June - Take Stanley Fishing," he wrote so 
he wouldn't forget.  He knew Stan would remember.

 	Friday morning dawned foggy and chilly, and Gonzo ducked back into 
the Titanic for a sweater before starting across the lot to the hospital 
entrance.  Halfway there, he saw Stanley pulling into his parking space, 
so he waited.
 	Stanley, parked, picked up a bundle from the seat next to him, bit 
his lip, put it down, picked it up again, put it down again...  Gonzo came 
to the rescue by tapping on the passenger window.  Stanley jumped, but 
smiled when he saw who it was and hit the automatic window control to 
lower the glass.  "Oh, good morning, Gates."
 	"Hi, Stanley.  Is that your stuff for the cabin?"
 	"Mmm.  Yes.  Turtlenecks and sweaters, John said.  And pajamas and a 
robe.  And a shaving kit, of course."
 	"Sounds like you thought of everything," Gonzo said, taking hold of 
the bundle cheerfully.  "I'll stash it in the jeep.  That'll save you the 
trouble of carrying it in just to carry it out again."
 	"That's not necessary," Stanley protested faintly, but Gonzo ignored 
him and put the bag into the jeep anyway.  The best way around Stanley, as 
far as Gonzo was concerned, was to go ahead and do what you had planned 
doing regardless.  He came back to join Stanley for the walk inside.
	“I’m really looking forward to this, aren’t you, Stan? A chance to 
get out of town, and enjoy some peace and quiet doesn’t show up every 
week.”
	“The radio said something about snow at the higher elevations,” 
Stanley offered uncertainly.  
	“That’s great!” Gonzo said with relentless enthusiasm.  “It will 
give you a chance to try out those new webs you found at Murphy’s.”
	As they reached the front desk, Nurse Cato, supervisor of the night 
shift nurses, was briefing the incoming shift.  She looked up from her 
clipboard at Stanley.  “Are you back already, Dr. Riverside? I thought you 
were going to go home and get some sleep.”
“That was hours ago,” Stanley said, gathering his dignity hastily.  
“Good morning, Miss Brancusi, Mrs. Shoop.  Is there anything that needs my 
attention, Miss Cato?”
	“No, Doctor.  It’s been quiet since you left.”
	“Thank you.  I’ll be in my office, then.”
	Gonzo waited until the door had closed on Stanley’s pride before 
asking Cato.  “What time did he go home?”
	“Oh it was about two, I think, when I chased him out.  But I think 
he had had a nap on the couch in the doctor’s lounge earlier in the 
evening.”
	“Why was here? Did Izbecki call in sick again?”
	“No.  Izbecki came in drunk again.  Dr. Riverside took him home, and 
then he came back to make sure that Peterson and Wilder would have a 
backup if they needed one.  Fortunately, Dr. Baker came in too a little 
after midnight.”
	“Did I hear someone take my name in vain?”
 	"Hey, Tim," Gonzo said, turning to see Tim Baker, night supervisor 
for Emergency Services, hobbling up to the desk.  The cane and the 
bandaged foot were new additions, and Gonzo inquired of them with a raised 
eyebrow.
 	"Kicked a suitcase in the dark last night," Baker explained.  "Broke 
my big toe.  And when I came in here for an x-ray, I found the place had 
fallen apart without me so I stayed.  Is Dr. Riverside here?" he asked 
Cato.
 	"In his office."
 	"I'll check in with him and then go home and get some sleep.  Come 
on, Gonzo, you can escort me, and fill me in on all the gossip." 
 	"I'll do better than that," Gonzo said, collaring a wheelchair and 
presenting it for Baker to sit in.  He waited until they had started 
before he asked.  "What's going on with Izbecki?"
 	"He's been beating himself up over losing a patient.  It's all 
right.  Stanley sicced Dr. Sandler on him last night, and I'll be keeping 
an eye on him, so don't noise it all over the place.  We all hit rough 
patches."
 	"It's not going to keep Stanley from coming with me tonight is it?"
 	Baker snorted.  "Naw.  I've got eight residents who are trying to 
pile up extra hours so that they can take some time at Christmas -- and 
I'd made sure I was going to have Collins and Madwezi on call before I 
left, since I thought Stanley was going on that big trip with Riverside 
Senior this weekend.  What happened to that anyway?"
 	"Riverside Senior went to New Zealand."
 	"Typical.  I just can't like that man.  Thanks for the ride, Gonz.  
I'll be sure to come in a little early tonight to help you pry Stanley out 
of his office."
 	"Thanks, Tim."
 
Mike picked up the heavy cast iron lid and gave the chili in the big 
old Dutch oven another quick stir before bringing up the spoon for a quick 
taste.  “Almost warm enough.” He tossed the spoon into the sink and put 
the lid back on.  “We should be able to eat in fifteen minutes or so.”
	“How many times have you reheated that stuff?” Trapper asked, 
laughing, because he had watched Mike bring the pot in frozen solid from 
the back porch an hour earlier.
	“Only a few.  There’s still plenty in the pot.”
	“When you make it in five gallon batches, I expect it lasts a 
while,” Trapper agreed, his eyes twinkling.
	Mike laughed back.  “I get into the habit in the summertime when I 
never know when a smoke chaser is going to wander in, looking for a meal 
after fighting a spot fire for two days.  Those boys can go through five 
gallons of chili real quick.”
	“I expect so.”
	“Besides, it’s just as good, better even, the next day.  Your 
friends both like chili, don’t they?”
	“Gonzo does, and I know Stanley goes to Mexican restaurants pretty 
often.  I wanted to thank you for inviting him up, by the way.  With his 
father in New Zealand, he would have probably stayed in ER all weekend.  
He’ll get a real kick out of this place.  You saw him in Murphy’s.”
	“Aw, I figured it was better for your blood pressure.  I could tell 
you were worried about him.  And I remember some of the crap he told me 
about his father.  Has his old man ever given him a break?"
 	"Only broken promises.  I have to admit, though, watching the two 
Stanleys has made a real difference in how I get on with my own kids."
 	"Oh?"
 	"Yeah.  Whenever I have a conflict I ask myself, what would Stanley 
Riverside Senior do? And then I make damn sure I do something else.  But 
Stan’s a good doctor – and a good friend.  Emergency work’s not very 
glamorous, or profitable, but I’ve had a hell of a lot of patients who 
would never have made it as far as the operating table if Stan hadn’t kept 
them alive long enough to get there. And he’s a sharp diagnostician. He’s 
the one who spotted the lung problem I was having after the accident, you 
know, even though it was Gonzo who did the work.  The only real problem I 
have with him these days is getting him to take a break."
	“Well, we’ll make sure that he has a good time this weekend.  I can 
even introduce him to Mehitabel.  From a safe distance that is.”
	“Who’s Mehitabel?”
	“The moose who kicked me.  She’s in the herd up on Big Snow...” Mike 
paused.  “Did you hear that?”
	Trapper listened.  “Gunfire.”
	“Poachers.  Rats.  I’m going to have to go out there, John.” Mike 
shoved the pot onto the back of the stove.  “Do you want to wait here, or 
are you up to a short snowmobile ride?”
	“If I can try to surf, I can ride a snowmobile.  It’ll be hours yet 
before Stan and Gonzo get here.  Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”
	“I doubt it.  The poachers will probably be long gone.  I’m just 
going up to make casts of their tracks before the snow covers them up.  
Last time we caught these guys, the judge claimed we didn’t have enough 
physical evidence and let them slide, so we’re trying to get as much as we 
can.”
	“You know who the poachers are? Can’t you stop them?”
	“Not without a little cooperation from the legal system.” Mike 
pulled on his coat and hat.  “Come on.  This time of day and weather like 
this, the deer will have been down by Carson’s meadow.  We’ll take the 
snowmobiles.” He paused long enough to call the District office of the 
Forest Service on the radio, and report where they were going, and then 
led Trapper out to the shed.  Trapper followed, happy and excited.  The 
snow was coming down in gentle swirls, and the light was fading, but the 
snowmobiles were equipped with brilliant headlamps, and Mike seemed pretty 
confident as he filled the gearbox with plaster of Paris and arcane jars 
and cans.  In a very few minutes, they were on their way, with Trapper 
riding rear guard while Houlihan led the way.  


**end revised section**
	“Look, Gates, I’m waiting to get some results back from the lab,” 
Stanley said, not looking up from his clipboard.  “Why don’t you just go 
on up there without me.  Enjoy yourself.”
	“Because Trapper will be seriously disappointed if you stiff him, 
Stan.  He told me that he was really glad you’d be able to come up.  
Besides, Houlihan invited you -- I was just the afterthought.” Gonzo took 
the clipboard and dropped it into Baker’s hands and put the package of 
long underwear into Stanley’s.  “Here.  Why don’t you change into the new 
clothes you got from Murphy’s? The heater on the jeep isn’t as reliable as 
it could be.  I’ll finish tossing my gear into the back and then I’ll meet 
you at the door.  We can get started before it gets really dark.”
	“But...”
	“Go on, Stanley,” Baker said.  “We’ve got things covered here.”
	“Izbecki?”
	“Here, and sober.”
	“Well, then, I suppose it’s all right.” Stanley conceded fretfully, 
and began to pull off his lab coat.  Baker and Gonzo left the office 
hastily.
	“All right.  That gives me a five-minute window before he changes 
his mind again.  Jackpot!” he called to the young man putting on his 
winter coat and ready to leave.  “Did you get the beer?”
	“It’s in the jeep.  And the pretzels, too.”
	“And here are the sandwiches and sodas you asked for,” Gloria 
Brancusi said, handing him a paper bag.  
	“Thanks.  If we have to stop for supper we’ll never get out of 
here.” Gonzo took the bag, blew her a kiss and headed for the Titanic at a 
trot.  It was still drizzling, and from the light he guessed that the sun 
would be setting soon.  Once in the trailer, he dug through the drawers 
for a pair of heavy corduroys and a thick turtleneck, grateful for the 
shower he had already grabbed in the surgeons' dressing room.  He hadn't 
had time to pack at lunchtime, the way he had planned to, not with two 
emergency surgeries thrown on top of the three he had scheduled.  It 
hadn't gotten as bad as the meatball surgery he remembered from 'Nam -- 
not even as bad as Wednesday night, for that matter -- but it had still 
made for an awfully hectic day.  He hoped that Stanley wouldn't waffle 
again.  It wasn't entirely fair of Trap to expect him to take on that 
responsibility too.  But then again, Trapper wasn't above maneuvering 
Stanley into a position to help Gonzo now and then, so he wasn't going to 
grumble.  Not with a chance to get out of town like this one! He started 
stuffing extra clothes into his duffel bag, wincing when he saw that the 
laces on his combat boots had broken.  Put 'em in the bag; buy laces on 
the way up.  He jammed his feet back into his sneakers and tugged on a 
sweater and his duffel coat.  Hat.  Gloves.  Was he forgetting anything? 
Oh yes, the sandwiches and sodas.  He banged out the trailer door and gave 
it a quick check to be sure it was locked before glancing at his watch.  
Six minutes flat.  Not bad.
 	Stanley was waiting by the jeep, holding the bag from Murphy's in 
one hand, and the snowshoes awkwardly under the other arm.  He looked 
stiff and uncertain in his new clothes, like a kid being sent away to a 
distant relation.  He made the effort to pick up his chin when Gonzo 
reached him though, and made a little bow.  "How do I look?"
 	 "Like you're ready for anything," Gonzo answered.  He opened the 
back and stashed his gear on top of the case of beer.  Stanley did the 
same, settling the snowshoes in carefully.  “How do the new threads feel?”
	“Very comfortable,” Stanley admitted.  “And warm.”
	“The more layers the better,” Gonzo averred, climbing in and leaning 
over to unlock the passenger door.  He passed the bag of sandwiches to 
Stanley when he got in.  “Dinner.  Or at least something to tide us over 
for a while.  Do you want to go up on I-5 or 101?”
	“What difference does it make?”
“On 101 we avoid Oakland, and the traffic.  It means a few extra 
miles up at the end of the trip, because we’ll have to swing over to I-5 
and come south again to get to the right road, but timewise I’d guess it’s 
probably six of one, half a dozen of the other.”
	“It doesn’t matter to me,” Stanley said, absently, investigating the 
bag.  The warm smell of meatballs wafted up to his nose.  “How are you 
going to manage to eat?”
	“With the traffic on the bridges? We’ll be sitting still long enough 
for a three course meal.”

	Trapper pulled his snowmobile up next to Houlihan's and cut off the 
motor.  The headlights showed the trampled snow, and a great smear of red.  
“This must be the place.”
	“Yep.  They’re messy bastards.” Mike got off the snowmobile and 
started forward, then stopped, and checked something on the ground.  “Uh-
oh.  John, keep your eyes open.  This is cougar sign.”
“Cougar?” Trapper checked the trees quickly.  “I thought we heard 
shots?”
	“We did.  The tracks are all mixed up, but I see deer, human and 
cat.  The deer ran off that way.  The cougar went after them, and the 
human...  I think we’d better follow this.  Grab the flashlight out of the 
kit, will you?”
	A hundred yards along, they found the poacher.  He’d gotten the 
worst end of his meeting with the cougar, but he was alive.  Trapper 
looked at the great lacerations and found himself taking charge.  “We need 
to get him down to a hospital as soon as possible.  Can you call up a 
chopper?”
	“At night? In snow?  Dream on.  Can you keep him from bleeding to 
death?”
	“I’ll try.”
	“Good.  I’ll go back and get a stretcher and the Jimmy.  Then we can 
get him down to the fire road.  You’ll be all right here?”
	“Leave the flashlight.”
	“Got it.”

Darkness had really settled in by the time they got clear of the 
city traffic, and the white lines defined the road in front of the jeep as 
they flashed by.  Gonzo had been able to eat not one, but two sandwiches 
sitting in traffic jams, and he rotated his shoulders gratefully, mentally 
stretching out to the welcome space to maneuver.  They were definitely on 
the way now.
	Stanley, who was wearing more layers than were strictly necessary, 
blinked sleepily at the windshield wipers as they made their hypnotic trip 
back and forth across the glass.  He’d stuffed himself on sandwiches too, 
and now a yawn escaped him.  “Why don’t you catch a few Z’s?” Gonzo 
suggested, pleased that the minor subterfuge of warmth and food had worked 
it’s magic on Stan.  “That way you’ll be fresher if I need you to switch 
over.”
	“All right.” Stanley closed his eyes.  He knew he was being managed, 
but he didn’t have the energy to resent it, and besides, there was 
something pleasant about suspecting that John had “leaned” on Gates for 
the sake of having the company of Stanley Riverside II for a weekend.  
John wanted him, and that was a good thought to take with him into the 
soft cotton wool of sleep.

	The clinic in Willow was tiny, and the equipment looked like army 
surplus, but at least they had plenty of O-neg on hand, and the nurse who 
had opened the door knew her way around the block.  Trapper scrubbed at 
the little sink and pulled on some gloves.  “Mike, can you round up 
another doctor?”
	“Doc’s down in Sacramento tonight,” the nurse said.  “His god-
daughter’s wedding.  You can knock on Steve’s door, though.  He’s always 
glad to help.”
	“Right.” Houlihan went out the door.
	Trapper began to work.  “Who’s Steve?”
	“Steve Jackson.  He’s our vet.”
	“A vet?”
	“And ex-medic.  Navy.  He knows anesthesia, too.  I’m Terry 
Hancock.”
	“John McIntyre.  Trapper.  We’ll have to take care of the chest 
first.  Let’s get some blood into him and these clothes off of him and see 
what we can do.”

	The coastal rain had long since given way to high country snow, but 
the fall wasn’t too heavy, and the wind was gentle when Gonzo reached the 
pass road.  He pulled up and let the motor idle while he reviewed his 
mental map.  He had expected to have to cut over to I-5 on this road, and 
curve around to come to the pass road from the other side, but the gate 
here was open, and the road sign didn’t have the “closed for winter” 
placard in place.  Maybe they had decided to keep it open this year.  It 
looked like someone had gone up it earlier, although the tracks were 
disappearing under snow.  And if this road were open, it would take 40 
miles off the trip.  Gonzo had to admit he was already getting tired.  He 
glanced over, but Stanley was still curled up like a hibernating hedgehog, 
and not available for consultation.
	Fifty miles by the major roads, call it an hour and a half in these 
conditions.  Ten miles by the pass road, even in these conditions, 
couldn’t be worse than an hour, and he was probably looking at something 
closer to twenty minutes; as it was only the first five miles that were 
really steep.  He put the jeep into low gear and turned onto the hard 
packed snow of the pass road.  If it seemed bad, he’d stop and put on the 
chains.
	Twenty minutes later he hadn’t even reached the summit of the pass, 
and he was beginning to feel like a fool.  The pass road, which rose 
rapidly in a series of switchbacks on this side, was dotted with fallen 
rocks, and icy under the camouflage of new snow.  And to make things 
worse, he had driven into the cloud layer.  He inched the jeep forward, 
trying to see.  It wasn’t working very well.  “Stan.  Stan, wake up.”
	“Hmmm.” Stanley uncurled and looked out the window.  A frown 
appeared between his eyes.  “Where are we?”
	“Mendocino Pass.  About eight miles from the cabin.  Stan, I can’t 
see the edge of the road through this, and I can’t find any place to turn 
around and go back down.  Can you get out and walk point?”
	Stan craned his neck as he looked out, trying to assess the 
conditions.  “I suppose so.  Just give me a moment.” He leaned over the 
back and fumbled in his bag, coming up with the gaiters, gloves, and hat 
from Murphy’s.  Gonzo put the jeep into Park and rested his forehead 
against the wheel for a moment, swallowing his impatience.  Stanley was 
only being sensible by taking precautions.  Come to think of it, putting 
on some more winter gear might be appropriate for the jeep too.  
	“Do you know how to put on chains?” He asked Stanley.
	“Only in theory,” Stanley said.  “Shouldn’t you put on better shoes 
before you get out of the car?” he asked, surprised, when Gonzo opened the 
door to get out.
	Gonzo, moving fast, had already stepped into snow that had packed 
itself immediately into his sneakers.  “Too late.  I’ll change them in a 
minute.  Here, give me a hand with the chains.” 
	Stanley finished adjusting the gaiters and put on his gloves before 
he got out.  He could see that Gonzo was worried and tired, but that 
didn’t justify ignoring simple precautions.  Hypothermia was nothing to 
fool around with.  Still, they did have the heater in the jeep, so Stanley 
decided not to say anything.  Gonzo did have a lot more experience with 
this sort of thing, and he probably knew more about what constituted a 
reasonable risk.
	Putting on chains proved to be a fiddly process, and involved a lot 
more lying down on the snow and crawling under the car than Stanley had 
suspected from the instruction booklet back in the trunk of his own car.  
He did the left side while Gonzo did the right, and they both came up 
covered in snow from neck to knee.  Stan was pleased to note that his 
parka brushed off more easily than Gates’ duffel coat.  
	“Get it off your pants, too, Stan.  The dryer you stay, the warmer.”
	“Shouldn’t you change your socks then?” Stan asked, following Gonzo 
back to the front of the car.
	Gonzo got into the driver’s seat and reached over to the glove box 
to pull out the flashlight.  “I should,” he said, “And I will before I 
switch into my boots.  But I want to get a little farther along first.  
Just keep me away from the edge, okay, Stan? And when you get tired, let 
me know so we can switch off.” He turned on the flashlight.  “Up and down 
means straight ahead slow.  Side to side means stop.  Circles which are 
going left at the top mean go left and going right at the top means go 
right.  The bigger the circle the wider the turn.  All right?”
	“Up and down come, side to side stop, circle left or circle right, 
the bigger the wider.  Right.” Stanley adjusted his hat and gloves and 
then took a careful hold of the flashlight.  “And if you need me to come 
back to the jeep, blink the headlights.”
	“Got it.”
	That agreed, Stanley went into the snow, careful to keep himself 
within the range of the jeep’s lights, and careful too, to watch for the 
edge of the road.  He estimated visibility at fewer than five yards, and 
the lights didn’t cut much farther than that.  The snow underfoot was deep 
and slippery, and even walking carefully he felt as if he might slip at 
any moment.  The road was too narrow to turn around, he realized, 
beginning to appreciate Gonzo’s difficulties as they reached the first 
hairpin turn.  Stanley got cautious, checking for rocks and drop-offs 
before summoning the jeep a few feet forward at a time.  After a long 
time, he realized that the ground under his feet was no longer climbing.  
He waved Gonzo to a halt and went back to the jeep.
	“What is it?” Gonzo asked, red-eyed from staring through the fog for 
the dim circle of the flashlight.
	“I think we’ve reached the top of the pass.  Do you want me to do 
anything different on the downhill side?”
	Gonzo shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  Aren’t you getting cold?”
	“A little.  It’s strange.  I thought we would be on the very top, 
but there’s still a mountainside over to our right.”
	“The pass road cuts over a saddle between two high mountains.  It’s 
real pretty in the summertime.  Look, why don’t you climb in for a little 
bit and warm up before we start down?”
	Stanley looked at Gonzo and decided that the man needed a break from 
driving just as much as Stanley needed a chance to rest from pushing 
through the snow.  “All right.  Do we have enough gas to let the motor 
run?”
	“Gas...” Gonzo checked the dial and sucked in through his teeth.  
“About an eighth of a tank.  Maybe I should cut it off for a while.  The 
engine’s been working a lot harder than usual between all this snow and 
trying to keep it in gear with the brake on so I won’t slide back.  Climb 
in anyway.  With two of us in here it won’t cool off too fast.”
	Stanley nodded and brushed himself off before getting into the 
passenger seat.  For a minute or two they both sat quietly, listening to 
the motor pinging as the metal began to cool.  It was wonderful to just 
sit still, even in the fug of wet wool from Gonzo’s socks, and Stanley put 
his head back and tried not to think about the twinges of his thigh 
muscles.  In looking or distractions, he put his hand in his coat pocket 
and found the Hershey stash.  Stanley was just about to offer Gonzo a 
chocolate bar when an ominous thudding noise on the mountainside brought 
both heads up.  Gonzo reached for the ignition, but it was too late.  A 
fall of rocks bounced into the jeep.  Most of them were small, but one 
smashed the window just behind Stanley, and the biggest of all landed on 
the hood and deformed it utterly.
	“Aaaahhh!” They had both cried out without realizing it, but when 
the clatter of smaller rocks stopped they uncurled their arms from around 
their ears tentatively.
	“You all right?”
	“Yes.  Are you?”
	“Yeah.  Maybe we should get out of here.”
	“Maybe?” Stanley’s voice cracked with strain.  He grabbed the 
flashlight and started getting ready to get out again, darting nervous 
glances up the cloud-shrouded mountain.
	Gonzo turned the key, but the motor just made an ugly sound and 
died.  “If we can get out of here.” He started to open his door, and was 
surprised when Stanley caught his arm.
	“Boots, Gates.  With no heater, we can’t afford wet feet.”
	“Stanley!” Gonzo said exasperatedly.  “We can’t afford to get buried 
under an avalanche, either.” But he knew Stan was right and reached back 
for his duffel.
	Stanley, indignant about being yelled at, but placated by Gonzo’s 
actions, pulled on his gloves.  “I’ll start clearing off the hood.” He 
clambered out and started.  Most of the rocks were easy to move, but the 
biggest one was too heavy, and had to wait until Gonzo, booted, gloved, 
and ski mask hiding everything but his eyes, came to help.  Between them, 
they got it off.  The hood sprung into the air, a weird shape that would 
block the driver’s vision, but they were more interested in the damage to 
the engine for the moment.
	Stanley held the flashlight while Gonzo investigated.  “I don’t 
think it’s too bad.  There’s a dent in the radiator and the air filter’s 
shot, but everything else looks like it’s pretty close to where it should 
be.  With luck, the engine should run.  Stan, why don’t you start it up, 
and I’ll see if I can figure out what made that noise.”
	“Right.” Stan handed over the flashlight and went around to the 
driver’s seat.  He couldn’t see anything through the windshield, so he 
rolled down the window.  “Are you ready?”
	“Ready!” came back the muffled reply.
Stan turned the key and the engine responded with a grinding noise 
that settled briefly into a happier growl before suddenly shrieking with 
mechanical death agonies and a noise that he would have called a clank if 
it hadn’t been so very loud.  The entire jeep jerked with the strength of 
it, and as the engine died, Stanley could hear the sloughing of snow and 
rocks on the slopes nearby over the fwoosh of steam escaping the broken 
radiator.  
	“Gates!” Even as Stanley was flinging open the car door he could 
hear Gates beginning to make the animal whimpering noises of a man in 
pain.  The headlights were gone, but he saw the flashlight on the ground 
and picked it up.  Every so often a small rock would clatter past from the 
mountain, and he tried not to think about what would happen if a larger 
one came down.  He found Gonzo five feet back from the bumper, his clothes 
steaming, and his hands beginning to scrabble at his face.  Stanley 
grabbed his arms and held them down.  “Gates, hold still.  Let me take a 
look at it.” It was awkward, trying to use the flashlight and keep Gonzo 
from making things worse.  He ended up half-sitting on the man, pinning 
his arms down.  The ski mask, like the rest of Gonzo from the waist up on 
the front, was soaked with what seemed to be a mixture of radiator water, 
antifreeze, and oil, and, by the smell, windshield-washing fluid.  Stanley 
carefully worked it off, tucking the flashlight under one armpit so that 
he would have both hands free.  Under the mask, Gonzo’s face looked like 
it had been sunburned, but the unprotected area around his eyes was 
already beginning to blister, and God only knew how many different 
chemicals had gotten under the lids.
	“It hurts.” Gonzo was beginning to be more coherent, and Stanley 
hoped that he would listen.  
	“Gonzo -- I have to get something from the car.  Can you stay here 
and not touch your face? Do you promise? Don’t touch your face.”
	“It hurts.  Stan, my eyes...” Gonzo was breathing like he’d been in 
a race, and his pulse rattled in his throat under Stanley’s touch.
	“Don’t touch them, Here.” He put Gonzo’s hands into the pockets of 
the duffel coat.  “Stay like that.  I’ll be right back.  Don’t touch your 
face.”
	“Don’t touch.” Gonzo managed, although he had screwed up his face 
against the pain.  “Hurry.”
	Stan hurried back to the jeep.  The can on the back held gasoline.  
No good.  He plowed through the gear in the back and came up with a half-
bottle of spring water.  Not enough.  And snow would irritate the burns.  
Then he had an idea.
	Gonzo held onto the cloth of his pockets with desperate strength, 
trying to keep himself from scraping off the pain of his eyes.  He had a 
fragmentary memory of bending over the engine, but he wasn’t really sure 
what had happened.  He knew it hurt.  And the doctor part of him knew that 
he shouldn’t rub at his eyes, but if Stanley didn’t come back soon...
	“This is going to sting a bit,” Stanley’s voice was so close Gonzo 
jumped.  He hadn’t heard him come back.  He heard the pop and hiss of a 
beer can, though, and almost opened his eyes to look.
	“Beer?”
	“There isn’t enough water to flush out your eyes.  I’ve got about 
half a liter to finish up with, but for the moment this will have to do.” 
Stanley hadn’t waited to explain, he had just seated himself next to 
Gonzo, with one leg across his torso to keep the injured man from moving, 
and started to pour out the can over the contaminated eyes.  Sting it did, 
and Gonzo was surprised when Stanley’s hand firmly covered the mouth he 
had opened to yell.  It wasn’t until Stanley had to use both hands to open 
up a second can that Gonzo could speak.
	“That hurts, Stan!”
	“I know.  But every loud noise brings down more rocks.”
	“Give me something to bite on, then.” Sting or not, the beer seemed 
to be helping the fire go out.  Gonzo felt something woolen placed next to 
his lips and bit into it as Stanley began pouring out the next beer.  
Adrenaline was making him feel a little better -- more able to put up with 
the pain -- and he heard clearly when rocks came down.  One slough of snow 
even pushed at his feet, and he pushed out the mitten with his tongue.  
“Stan, we’re going to have to get out of here.”
	“I know.  But this can’t wait, Gates.  Not if you want to be able to 
see anything for the rest of your life.” Stan pried open one of the 
eyelids, poured more beer.  “We’re almost done.”
	They weren’t of course.  It took another ten minutes, and the rest 
of the beer before Stanley was satisfied that Gonzo’s eyes were clear of 
the chemicals, and then he rinsed with the water and bandaged Gonzo’s face 
with the bandages from his little pocket first aid kit.  He helped Gonzo 
sit up then, and checked for any other damage.  There was surprisingly 
little, other than a bruised feeling from falling.  His mittens had saved 
his hands, and the ski mask had saved most of his face.  Gonzo had a 
feeling he’d gotten off lucky.
	Stan got Gonzo onto his feet and led him back to the jeep, seating 
him on the passenger side where the wheel didn’t complicate things.  Then 
Stan went around and sat on the driver’s seat and tried not to panic.  He 
had been okay while he was taking care of Gonzo.  Emergency medicine was 
his specialty after all, and while he still wanted Gonzo to see an 
opthomalogist as soon as possible, he was pretty sure that he had been 
able to save his friend’s vision.  His good looks, too, no doubt.  But 
when it came to avalanches, Stanley knew that he was in terra incognito.  
He just couldn’t assess the risks of staying here or trying to walk out, 
and he was scared.  He remembered how hard it had been, walking ahead of 
the jeep on the way up the road, and he didn’t think it was going to be 
any easier for two of them.  But he just didn’t know.  He hoped Gates had 
a clear head.
	“How far are we from the cabin?”
	“A little over seven miles.” Gonzo answered.  “Is it my imagination, 
or is the wind picking up?”
	“It’s picking up.  The fog is getting thinner, too.” Stanley 
realized that Gonzo’s hair was dripping beer, and he dug around in the 
back for a towel.  “Here, dry off a little.”
	“Thanks.” Gonzo accepted the towel.  “We’ve got problems, Stan.” 
Gonzo probably thought that he was speaking normally, but Stanley could 
tell his voice was half an octave too high.  “Usually, the best advice is 
to stay with the car, but I’ve got the feeling that we’re right under the 
slide path, and if the wind picks up, sooner or later that’s probably 
going to go.  And I don’t think there’s any chance of the engine working.”
	“There’s a metal thing hanging out of the fender on one side.” 
Stanley said.  “And all of the oil and stuff has leaked out.”
	“Gas too?”
	“Gas too.  Which means it probably wouldn’t be safe to stay in here 
even if we weren’t about to be buried under a million tons of snow and 
rocks.”
	“Not to mention that with broken windows, the jeep isn’t a very good 
shelter.  All of which means we’ll have to walk out.”
	“Can you use the snowshoes?” 
	Gonzo frowned.  “I’m not sure.  I’ve only seen them used, rather 
than actually used them.  It’s not the same thing.  And we only have one 
pair.”
	“Yes, but I think they would still be less tiring than wading 
through the snow.” Stanley said, beginning to stuff as many things as he 
could find that he thought might be useful into his bag and Gonzo’s 
duffel.  “Do you think you can carry a bag?”
	“Sure.  I’m a little shaky, but it’s not bad.”
	“I can’t tell what to take and what to leave.  What about a piece of 
plastic?”
	“How big?”
	“About half the size of a blanket.”
	“Take it.”
	“The lug wrench?”
	“Leave it.”
	“A soda bottle?”
	“Does it have a screw-on top?”
	“Yes.”
	“Take it.  We can fill it with snow and then carry it under our 
coats to melt the snow into water.” Gonzo resisted the urge to press 
against his bandaged eyes.  “Do we have any aspirin with us?”
	“No.  Not unless there’s some in the glove box.” Stanley started to 
look, and then paused, listening.  He reached across Gonzo and opened the 
door suddenly, stuffing a bag into Gonzo’s arms.  “We have to go.”
	Gonzo had to work desperately to keep on his feet as Stanley pulled 
the other bag from the Jeep and grabbed him by one arm.  They were 
walking, then running, and then falling and scrabbling back onto their 
feet, and behind him he could hear the building thunder as half the 
mountainside shifted it’s position.  Stanley was behind him then, guiding 
him as rocks and snow twisted away from under his feet and banged into his 
legs.  They were knocked down again, and Gonzo found himself in the lee of 
a big rock, where he curled tight around the bag in his arms and wished 
desperately that he could see.  “Stanley!” he shouted over the roar.  But 
there was no answer.
	The wave of sound passed, and he could hear again.  “Stan?” he 
called more softly this time, not wanting to precipitate another fall.  
“Stan, where are you?” He started to try to feel his way out of the little 
hollow that had formed in the lee of the rock.  “Stan!” He was beginning 
to be frightened now.  “Stanley!”
	“I’m down here.” Stanley didn’t sound very happy, but Gonzo felt a 
wave of relief.  “Are you all right, Gates?”
	“A little more banged up.  How about you?”
	“I lost hold of the bag.” Stanley’s voice had an all-too-familiar 
note of self-reproach.  “And the snowshoes.”
	Gonzo sighed, relief mixing with exasperation.  Stanley fussing was 
better than Stanley hurt, although neither prospect was much fun to think 
about with his face throbbing the way it was.  Gonzo needed Stanley, or 
he’d never get off this mountain, and the petulant voice wasn’t very 
reassuring.
	“...down my neck! I thought the whole idea of a parka was to 
<I>not</I> get snow down your neck! And I’ve got snow in my pants, right 
up both legs...”
	Gonzo tried to make his voice both commanding and reassuring.  “Pull 
up your socks, Stan.”
	“They’ve got snow in them, too.”
	“Stan!” Gonzo didn’t have the patience.  “I can’t come down there 
and get you.  I can’t even tell where you are.” There was an abrupt 
silence.  Gonzo could almost see Stanley swallowing his panic at the 
reminder that Gonzo was injured and he resolved to take advantage of the 
situation at every opportunity.  The silence went on though, and finally 
he said, “Stan?”
	“I’m coming.” It wasn’t a happy statement, but at least it was 
followed by the sound of someone scrambling awkwardly along the snowy 
slope.  “Just give me a minute.  I want to see if I can’t find the bag.”
	“We can look for it in the morning,” Gonzo said.  “Just get up here.  
I’ve got the bag I was carrying, and you should get into something dry.”
	“You mean we’re going to have to spend the night here?”
	“Maybe.  I don’t know.  But if the slide has already gone down then 
there isn’t anything above us to fall, so this should be as safe a place 
as any.  And my face hurts, and I feel kind of shaky.” Gonzo admitted, 
feeling around for the bag he had been carrying.  “Besides, Trapper should 
be beginning to wonder what’s keeping us by now.”

	“How much longer do you think, Trapper?”
	“An hour.  Two.  And then we should probably take him down to a 
hospital that has enough staff to keep a watch on him.” Trapper bit back a 
yawn under the surgical mask.
	“Okay, I’ll call District and tell them.” Houlihan said.  “What 
about you? Are you getting tired? I could call up to the cabin.  Your 
friends should be there by now.”
	“Oh, man, I forgot all about them.”
	“I left a note when I went back for the stretcher.  Said not to 
expect us till morning.” Mike propped himself against the doorjamb.  “If 
you could use the help, I’m sure they’d come.”
	“By now they will have eaten and gone to bed,” Trapper said.  “It’s 
tempting, but I’m sure that we can handle this.  And I know that they’ll 
have been tired.  Let 'em sleep.”
	“Wish I could do the same.” Mike said unhappily.  “Oh, well.  The 
paperwork will keep me awake.”

	Stanley listened to Gonzo’s steady breathing and wondered how the 
man could possibly have gone to sleep.  Didn’t he know that people froze 
to death under conditions like these? Certainly, Gonzo had done his best 
to be helpful in the building of the snow wall that they had built to cut 
off some of the wind from the little hollow where they were both curled up 
to wait out the night, but even exhaustion didn’t seem to be enough to 
turn off the racing thoughts in Stanley’s head.  Gonzo had known about 
building the wall, and putting the plastic sheet underneath for protection 
from the snow.  Gonzo had known about layering the remaining clothes from 
the bag, and melting the water in the soda bottle by body heat too.  
Stanley had insisted that Gonzo wear the remaining ski mask and gloves, to 
protect his burns from the weather, but it had been Gonzo who had 
suggested that Stanley cut off the sleeve of a turtleneck for makeshift 
gloves, and had gotten Stanley to pull the zipper all the way up the hood, 
to form a narrow tunnel of warmth in front of his face.  And Gonzo had 
explained how they had to curl up together and use the bag and extra 
clothes as covers to conserve warmth.  But once they had gotten settled he 
had gone blithely to sleep.  Stanley wanted Gonzo to be awake, thinking 
about ways to get them off of this horrible mountain and to John, who 
would forgive them losing him the jeep in gratitude for their safety.  It 
wasn’t as if Stanley knew what to do about being lost in the wilderness.  
	He swallowed back a lump of sudden anger.  Gates would go and get 
himself hurt, just when Stanley needed him.  And it wasn’t as if Stanley 
had come out of that avalanche unscathed.  His arm burned where the bag 
strap had scraped it’s way off, and there was a lump on the back of his 
head that was too tender to touch, and his stomach hurt and his legs 
hurt...
	Gonzo made a sleepy noise and shifted, then whimpered and pulled his 
arms up to his face.  Stanley, remembering how much burns hurt, and how 
delicate they were, carefully eased the arms back down and made reassuring 
comments until Gonzo’s breathing steadied again.
	Maybe it was a good idea to sleep, after all.  It would make morning 
come faster.  And in the morning, John would come, and rescue them both.  
Stanley started trying to build a picture of John arriving on a 
snowmobile, with hot chocolate and marshmallows in a little thermos in the 
trunk.  He nudged a little closer around Gonzo and closed his eyes.  Hot 
chocolate, marshmallows, and whipped cream.

	Stanley woke suddenly, to find himself still in the nightmare.  He 
held on to Gonzo a little tighter as he waited for his own heart to stop 
racing, grateful to feel the expansion of Gonzo’s ribs within his arms.  
At least that part of the dream had been false.  But his legs were so cold 
he wasn’t sure he could feel his feet, and the lump on his head throbbed 
with renewed pain when he tried to shift position.  To add to his 
discomfort, the pressure on his bladder was growing in insistence by the 
minute.  He brought his watch to the front of the parka hood tunnel and 
fumbled with the switch till he had it lit.  A little past six a.m.  And 
still dark.  Although not as dark as it had been, he realized, recognizing 
the shape of his own arm.  Carefully, he began to work his way into a 
sitting position, tucking the clothes that fell away from him against 
Gonzo’s back and legs to keep him warm.  He got to his knees then, and 
unzipped the hood enough to look around for a sheltered place to take care 
of his kidneys.  
	It was beautiful.
	The clouds were gone.  The wind was still brisk, but he barely 
noticed it against his face as he looked out over an alien planet.  Fold 
after fold of mountain fell away from him, down to the Central Valley, 
where a few pinpricks of light marked towns.  And beyond that dark area he 
could see the gleaming ghosts of the Sierra Nevada, peak after peak 
shrouded in sparkling snow.  And above the mountains, the sky was full of 
stars.  It was starlight that let him see, and moonlight from the full 
moon setting somewhere back of the mountain behind him that had lit the 
snow on the distant peaks.  Even as he watched the moonlight faded, but 
the stars merely shone the brighter, and the great sweep of the Milky Way 
shimmered over the shadowed hills.  Shooting stars flashed across the 
display now and again.  Stanley had never seen anything like it in his 
life.  
	He might have knelt there, looking at the stars for longer, but 
Gonzo suddenly twitched and made an unhappy, querying noise.
	“It’s all right,” Stanley said, quickly, putting a hand on Gonzo’s 
shoulder.  “I’m still here.”
	“Stan? What? Oh, yeah...  I remember.” Gonzo sat up and tugged 
fretfully at the ski mask.  “My face hurts.”
	“Let me take a look at it,” Stan dug the flashlight out of his 
pocket and then helped Gonzo with the mask.  The bandages underneath were 
slightly askew, and the stink of stale beer wafted from Gonzo’s hair, but 
there didn’t seem to be any new damage.  “Is the wool irritating the 
burns?”
	“I can’t tell.  It itches, but mostly it just burns.” Gonzo tugged 
off one mitten and brought up his hand to touch his face tentatively.  “I 
wish we had something to use to irrigate it.”
	Stanley checked the soda bottle that he had put in another parka 
pocket.  “The snow in the bottle has melted, we can use that.  But we 
can’t leave your face wet.  The wind’s gotten quite cold.” 
	Gonzo frowned.  “No.  That wouldn’t help, I guess.  I’ll just have 
to put up with it.” 
	“Maybe after the sun has come up we can try it.” Stanley said.  “How 
do you feel otherwise?”
	“Stiff.  My feet are cold.  And I have to take a leak.”
	The logistics of biology took up the next few minutes, but 
eventually Stan got Gonzo back into the nest of clothes in the hollow, and 
positioned himself for sleep again.  But sleep wouldn’t come.  Finally he 
said, “Gates?”
	“Yeah, Stan.” Gonzo couldn’t sleep either.
	“I can’t feel my feet.”
	“Is the circulation cut off?” Gonzo asked.  “How many pairs of socks 
do you have on?”
	“Two.  Thin ones and thick ones.  That’s right, isn’t it?”
	“Yes.  How about the gaiters? Are the strings too tight?”
	“I can get a finger under them.”
	“Then it’s just the cold.  Sorry, Stan.  If we had a way to build a 
fire that might help, but until then you’ll just have to wrap them in the 
bag and hope.”
	“Aren’t your feet cold?”
	“Everything’s cold but my face,” Gonzo admitted.  “But I can still 
tell my toes are there.  I just can’t believe I...  that we’re stuck up 
here like this.”
	“Neither can I,” Stanley said.  “If only I hadn’t stopped to rest.  
We could have gotten past those rocks before they ever fell.”
	“Cut it out, Stan,” Gonzo said crankily.  “This isn’t your fault.  
You didn’t decide to take the pass road.  And it’s not Trapper’s fault for 
wanting us to come, or Houlihan’s fault for inviting us, or even your 
father’s fault for stiffing you and running off to New Zealand.  It just 
happened.  Okay? Sometimes things just happen.  People get tired and 
stupid and things happen.”
	Stanley stewed over the aspersion cast on his father for a minute or 
two before he realized whom Gonzo had omitted from his list.  And he 
realized, too, that the deep breaths Gonzo was taking were the next thing 
to sobbing.  He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally found the words.  
“What about the pass road, Gates?”
He was trying to sound neutral, but it came out peevish, and Gonzo twisted 
himself into a ball, as far away from Stanley as he could get in the 
narrow space.  “All right, it’s my fault.  I screwed up!” he shouted, 
through what was beginning to really be sobbing now.  “Is that what you 
wanted to hear, Stan? I made a stupid decision and got myself blinded for 
life and it’s <i>not</i> your fault, okay?”
	Stanley blinked nervously at the hedgehogged surgeon, trying to 
figure out which part of Gonzo’s pain needed dealing with first.  “You’re 
not going to be blind for life, Gates,” he said, with all the certainty he 
could put into his voice.  “You’re not even going to be blind for a week.  
The damage simply wasn’t that significant.”
	“How would you know?” Gonzo turned so fast his forehead almost 
collided with Stanley’s nose.
	“Because it’s my job! And I’m good at it!” Stanley couldn’t help but 
be indignant.  “I’d like to get you to an ophthalmologist, certainly, but 
it’s the burns on your eyelids that are causing you pain right now.  Your 
eyes will be fine.  Now, explain to me about the pass road.”
	Gonzo sagged a little.  “Why do you always do that, Stan? Why do you 
always pick at people when they’ve made a mistake? No wonder nobody likes 
you.”
	That hurt.  Stanley wrapped his arms around himself and scooted back 
against the snow wall.  “I’m a supervisor.  I have to know what went wrong 
in order to prevent it from happening again.  We have people’s lives in 
our hands.  They depend on us.  And I can’t <i>do</i> anything about a 
problem when I don’t understand why it’s a problem.” He bit his lip and 
carefully dried the one tear that had escaped with his sleeve.  Gates 
couldn’t see it, but it still wasn’t a good thing to have a wet face in 
this cold.  “And right now I don’t know why the pass road was a stupid 
decision.  You didn’t know that there was going to be a fog, or an 
avalanche.”
	Gonzo curled himself up against the opposite wall, and put his arms 
on his knees and his head in his arms.  He was very still for a long time, 
and Stanley thought that maybe he had gone to sleep.  But then he spoke.
	“Are you sure? About my eyes?”
	“Yes.” Stanley said, because he was.  “The sclera were clean, and 
there was no cloudiness on the retina in either eye.  Some inflammation, 
yes, and the tear ducts will need to be checked, but the irritation of the 
eyeball itself was minor.  Judging by the burns on the exterior eyelid, I 
would say that you were able to close your eyes against almost all of the 
liquid which hit you.” It was easier to fall into medical terminology.  
The ground was surer there.
	Gonzo was quiet again for a while.  Then he lifted his head.  “The 
pass road,” he said, quietly, “is usually closed in winter.  From the 
junction where I turned, the main roads would have taken us another fifty 
miles, while the pass road would take only ten.  The gate was open.  It 
didn’t look like it had been plowed lately, but I saw tracks, and I 
figured the jeep could make it.  But I only saw the tracks for the first 
half a mile or so.  And then, when I hit the fog, I should have given up 
and backed down.  But I was already on the switchbacks by then.  And I was 
so sure I could just stay near the mountain, but I couldn’t see it.  
That’s why I woke you up.  And now I’m not sure.  It wasn’t plowed.  Maybe 
the gate wasn’t supposed to be open.  And even if we had gone by the main 
roads, we were coming the long way.  Trap’s going to have expected us to 
have come up by I-5.  Even if he’s got every cop in the state out by now, 
they’re not looking in the right place.”		
	“That’s not so bad,” Stanley got out, past the knot of panic in his 
throat.  “It just means ...  umm...  it means...  we’ve got to...  umm...  
I don’t know what it means! What do we have to do now?”
	“It means you’re going to have to walk out and get help.” Gonzo 
said.  
	“Me? By myself?” Stanley’s voice cracked.  “You mean alone?”
	“It’s only about seven miles.  And it’s not like we’re lost in the 
woods, all you have to do is stay on the road and you’ll come to the 
ranger station.”
	“If it’s that easy we can both do it.”
	“I can’t see, Stan.  I’d just be in the way.”
	“I don’t know anything about mountains! Or deep snow! You’re the one 
who knew about building a wall and making a bed.  You’re the one who knew 
about melting snow in the bottle.  And there’s only one bottle, Gates.  
You need liquids with those burns, and walking through snow is exercise 
and that means dehydration without water.  And besides, what happens if a 
bear comes along or a wolf or something?  If you can’t see them, how are 
you going to get away? I think splitting up would be the worst possible 
thing we could do.”
	Gonzo began to laugh.  He couldn’t help himself.  “The bears are 
hibernating, Stan.  And I don’t think there’re any wolves.  But you’re 
right, we probably shouldn’t split up.”
	The tension began to ease in Stanley’s shoulders and he smiled, even 
though he knew it wouldn’t be seen.  “Of course I’m right.  And I’m cold, 
too.  Can we stop fighting and go back to sleep now?”
	Gonzo nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah, we can.” He eased himself back down 
onto the plastic, and held open his arms, “Come here, Stan.  It’s your 
turn to have a warm backside and a cold stomach.”
	Stanley dusted the snow off his coat before he positioned himself 
inside the curve of Gonzo’s body, piling the clothing over both their legs 
before he settled.  He was a little surprised when Gonzo put his arms 
around him, but he was too cold, and too tired, to stay self-conscious 
about it for long.  He had almost drowsed off when Gonzo gave a funny 
little sigh and said, “Stan? What I said about nobody liking you.  It’s 
not true.”
	“I know,” Stanley said, with sleepy certainty. “John likes me.  Most 
of the time.”
	“Me too.” Gonzo sounded like he was almost asleep himself.  “Most of 
the time.”

	The poacher, with more stitches than a crazy quilt, was in an 
ambulance on the way down to Sacramento, with a patrol car full of State 
Troopers as escort, but fortunately, Houlihan’s supervisor had appeared to 
take over the paperwork.  The district ranger had thanked Trapper for all 
of his help, and then, with the judgment of a man who has seen exhaustion 
before, aimed him into the passenger seat and told Mike to take the day 
off.  Trapper had propped his head against the shoulder belt in the hope 
of a few minutes of sleep as Mike drove back up to the ranger station, but 
the snow packed roads were too uncertain for drowsing, and he gave it up 
after yet another spectacular bump jarred him upright again.  “Are we 
there yet, Mommy?”
	“Five minutes,” Mike said.  “Then we sleep.”
	“Are all your weekends this much fun?” Trapper asked, scratching at 
his beard and trying to decide if he was too tired for a shower.
	“Oh, yeah.” Mike said, equably.  “Poachers.  Lost kids.  Lost 
parents.  Hippies.  You know, the forest takes care of itself just fine.  
It’s the people who need rangers.”
	Trapper shook his head.  The stars were fading out rapidly, he 
noticed, and the sky was transforming itself into blueness.  Trees that 
had been black shadows began to have limbs and needles, and a chickadee 
appeared briefly outside his window as they passed, it’s feather fluffed 
out and it’s eyes sleepy.  They reached the ranger station sign and Mike 
signaled for the turnoff automatically as they went up the drive.  He had 
parked in front of the shed before Trapper realized that there was no 
other car in the parking area.
	“That’s funny.” He said.  “Gonzo and Stan should be here by now.”
	Mike turned off the engine and blinked at the empty space where the 
jeep should be.  “Hmm.  Are you sure they knew the right place to come?”
	“Gonzo said he knew the area.  And this is the only station just 
south of Mendocino pass, right?”
	“Right.” Mike shrugged and got out of the car.  “Maybe there’s a 
message on the machine.”
	“You’ve got an answering machine?” Trapper asked, surprised.  “Up 
here?”
	“Sure -- even the folks in the boonies hear about nifty new toys 
eventually, y’know.” 
	The cabin smelt like slightly scorched chili, and Mike went off to 
deal with it while Trapper checked the machine.  The blinking light 
reassured him, but when he hit the playback button it turned out to be the 
nurse from the clinic in Willow, telling him that he had left his glasses 
on the sink ledge.  “Damn!”
	“What is it? Are they hurt?” Mike came out from the kitchen at the 
exclamation, looking concerned.
	“I don’t know.  They haven’t called.  And I left my blasted glasses 
in Willow.” Trapper flung himself into a chair and bit his knuckles, 
trying to decide how much of the unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach 
was no sleep and no dinner, and how much was plain old worry.  “Mike, can 
I use the phone?”
	“Sure.”
	“It’s long distance.”
	“Everything is long distance from here, John.  Go ahead.  The Forest 
Service can send you a bill.”
	Trapper had to reach the length of his arm to keep the phone dial in 
focus, which irritated him, but he knew the number he was dialing.  
	“San Francisco Memorial - Emergency.”
	“Ernie?”
	“Is that you, John? How’s the vacation? Don’t tell me you’re getting 
up this early to go fishing.” Shoop sounded like she had actually had a 
chance to drink her coffee already.
	“This time of year?  Not likely.  Ernie, listen.  Did Stan and Gonzo 
start up here last night?”
	“Sure.  Snowshoes and all.  They left right after shift.” A note of 
concern crept into her voice.  “Why? Aren’t they there yet?”
	“No.  Did they take the jeep or the Titanic?”
	“The jeep.  Gonzo said you’d given him the keys.”
	“Here, let me give you this number.  I want you to try beeping them.  
And then call me back and let me know what happens.”
	“I’ll call back in fifteen minutes,” Shoop promised, and he heard 
the click of the receiver.
	He put the phone back on the cradle.  “They started for here last 
night after shift.  That’s more than twelve hours ago, Mike.”
	“Any chance they changed their minds?” Mike said, putting a bowl of 
chili and a spoon into Trapper’s hands.  “Here, eat something.  You need 
it.”
	“Without calling?” Trapper took the bowl gratefully.  “I doubt it.  
Besides, once Gonzo got Stan into the car I think he’d head out of town as 
quickly as possible, just to get clear of the traffic.”
	Mike settled into the opposite chair with his own meal.  “So 
something must have happened.  Is the car in good shape, do you know?”
	“It’s my jeep.  And I had a tune up just before Thanksgiving.” 
Trapper answered.
	“Do you have chains?” Mike asked, his voice taking on the timbre 
that Trapper recognized from thousands of diagnostic interviews with 
patients.  He wasn’t entirely happy to be on the receiving end of it.
	“Yes.  I don’t think it’s the car, Mike.  I hope it is, but I 
honestly doubt it.” He shook his head.  “Do we have to do the third 
degree?”
	Mike smiled a little, but it was a sad smile.  “John, finding lost 
people is something I’ve done a lot of.  And I’ve learned, over the years, 
that the trick to it isn’t sending out a thousand men, or calling in the 
National Guard.  It’s narrowing the search.  One way to do that is to 
explore the possibilities, to find out how the lost person thinks in a 
crisis, what kind of equipment they have, all the kinds of details that 
help us look in the right places.”
	“Unfortunately,” Trapper said, “What I’m worried about it that the 
most likely possibility is that they got into an accident.” He turned the 
spoon in the bowl, keeping his voice even.  “The only reason I can think 
of that neither one of them would call, is because neither one of them 
can.  The right place to look might turn out to be the morgue."
 	"It's natural enough to think that." Mike conceded.  "But, 
realistically, it's not the only possibility.  I've known people to turn 
up safe and sound under the most unlikely circumstances.  We just have to 
keep on using our heads.  That's all."
 	"I guess, so." Trapper said.  "Maybe Ernie will call back and 
everything will have turned out to be all right."
 	"And if it isn't, I'll call the State Patrol on the radio and we'll 
get a run down on last night's accidents.  I've got a friend in 
Headquarters who's good about that sort of thing." 
 	They finished eating and Mike wrote down a description of the jeep 
and the two men while they waited for the phone to ring.  It was nearer 
twenty minutes than fifteen when the first jangle startled Trapper.
	Mike answered it.  “Mendocino South Ranger Station.”
	“Is Trapper there?” Ernie’s voice was audible from across the table.  
Trapper reached for the receiver.
	“Yes, Ernie?”
	“No response to the beepers.  Gloria thought you should know that 
Dr. Riverside is wearing the clothes he bought at Murphy’s, and Gonzo is 
wearing black pants and his green duffel coat.  They had a bag of 
sandwiches when they left the hospital, so it isn’t very likely that they 
stopped for dinner.  And Jackpot says to tell you that he bought the beer, 
so they didn’t have to stop for that either.”
“Thanks, Ernie,” Trapper said, unhappily.  “Can you do me a favor 
and check with the police in town? Mike has a friend on the state patrol 
we’re going to check with from up here.”
	“I can do that, certainly.” Ernie sounded equally unhappy.  “John, 
you should know that Gonzo did seven surgeries yesterday, and Dr. 
Riverside was in late the night before last.  They might have stopped to 
rest for a while.”
	“I hope so.  Call me if you hear anything.”
	“And you do the same.”
	Trapper said goodbye absently and hung up.  “That tears it.  Even if 
Stan backed out at the last minute, he would have responded to his beeper 
if he were in town.  We’ll have to start looking.”

	Even after he knew that the light wasn’t getting any brighter, 
Stanley kept his eyes closed and rested, waiting for Gonzo to stir, and 
hoping that the ache in his head would go away.  He wasn’t warm, but he 
had reached a sort of stasis, where the cold didn’t seem to bother him as 
much, and he had slept, if lightly.  If only the bump on his head would 
stop hurting, he would be able to face the day.  He tried to imagine what 
it would be like, but it was too alien a prospect.  When he was young, his 
father had never considered taking him along on winter outings, and by the 
time he was old enough to afford his own choices, he had chosen to spend 
his time on his studies, and his medical career.  He still remembered the 
sixth grade career day where he had made up his mind.  The principal had 
gotten up to make a speech, and had begun with “Every father wants his son 
to grow up to be a doctor.” The man had meant it as a lead in to the realm 
of other possibilities, Stanley knew vaguely, but he had barely heard the 
rest of the lecture.  At twelve, one of the few adults he had trusted to 
listen was Dr. Craymore, his pediatrician, who had never failed to ease 
the terror of an asthma attack, and whose crisp lab coat and confident 
authority had fascinated the boy.  He had sent Stanley an otoscope when he 
graduated from med school.
	“Urf.” Gonzo made a noise and put a hand up to his face.  “Ouch.”
	Stanley sat up and turned to see.  “Does it hurt?”
	“Not any more than it did last night,” Gonzo grumbled, pulling 
himself up as well.  “Is the sun up, yet?”
	“Yes.  And there’s not a cloud in the sky.” Stanley wasn’t going to 
be diverted.  “Here, let’s get the mask off for a minute so I can take a 
look.” 
	“Don’t be an old woman, Stan,” Gonzo fussed, but he submitted to the 
examination anyway.  The damage was about as bad as Stanley had thought, 
although daylight showed some minor blistering that hadn’t been visible by 
flashlight on Gonzo’s chin and nose.  Under the bandages, the blisters 
looked awful, fat with fluid and so large that one ran into another.  
Stanley didn’t think it would be safe to try to lift the swollen lids to 
check on the eye damage, not until some of the blisters eased at any rate, 
and said so.  Gonzo winced.  “They feel pretty bad,” he agreed.  “I wish 
we had something to put on them.”
	“Sorry.” Stanley found some fresh gauze pads in the first aid kit, 
and carefully re-bandaged the damaged area.  “This kit is pretty 
primitive.  But there is acetaminophen,” he discovered.  “That might 
help.”
	“I’ll take it,” Gonzo said gratefully.
	Stanley got out the water bottle, and was a little dismayed to find 
that it had a skin of ice on top of the water.  He shook it to break the 
ice and then put the pills into Gonzo’s one hand and the bottle into the 
other.  “Careful.  The water’s very cold.  There’s ice in it.”
	Gonzo knocked back the medicine and took a swallow.  He shuddered at 
the water.  “Thanks for the warning.”
	“I don’t understand,” Stanley said.  “It was all melted last night.”
“Maybe the temperature’s gone down.  Cloud cover warms things up in 
the wintertime.  Can you see our breaths?”
	“Yes,” Stanley said, and then remembered.  “Hang on, I’ve got a 
thermometer here somewhere.” He went through pockets till he found the 
packet.  “It’s supposed to hang on the zipper tab, but I haven’t attached 
it yet.” It came out of the plastic easily and he turned it to read it.  
The indicator line was sinking as it adjusted from the warmth of his 
pocket.  “Fifteen degrees,” he read off, when it seemed to stop.  
	Gonzo bit his lip.  “That’s pretty cold, Stan.  Have you got a scarf 
or a mask or something to breathe through?”
	“I can find something,” Stanley frowned.  “That’s to prevent lung 
damage, isn’t it?”
	“Right.” Gonzo pulled the ski mask back on, adjusting it carefully 
by touch.  “What happened to my mask?”
	“It was full of oil and things,” Stanley said.  “I just left it on 
the ground.”
	“Maybe it’s still there.” 
	Stanley looked over the top of the snow wall at the jumble of snow 
and rocks they had barely escaped and felt his stomach lurch.  “No.” It 
came out as a squeak; “I don’t think so.” There was no sign of the jeep at 
all.  Snow had poured off the side of the mountain onto the saddle, and 
although the bulk of it seemed to have gone off to the north, the way 
they’d come up, enough had come south, near where they were sitting, to 
spill over onto this slope too.  He looked down slope, and realized that 
he had come to a stop the night before barely four feet from a drop off.  
If he had walked the wrong direction in the fog, if the snow had carried 
him farther, or if he had pushed Gonzo past the shelter of the rock, they 
both would have ended up falling at least a hundred feet down the steep 
slope.  The nearness of their escape hit him like a blow to his already 
unsteady stomach, and he had to hastily pull back the parka hood to keep 
it clean as he lost what little was left of his supper.
	He felt Gonzo’s hands on his shoulders, steadying him, and was 
grateful.  With little in his stomach, the heaving didn’t last long, and 
he accepted the bottle Gonzo handed him.  “Sorry.”
	“Are you all right?” Gonzo sounded worried.  Stanley realized that 
Gonzo <i>was</i> worried.  He was dependent on Stanley’s eyes to get them 
both off the mountain.  
	“I hate heights,” he managed, weakly.  “I couldn’t see how far down 
was, last night.”
	“You’re shivering,” Gonzo said.  “Take it easy on that cold water.”
	Stanley nodded his head, which was pounding from the effort, and 
then realized Gonzo couldn’t see that.  “I will.” It wasn’t easy to pull 
himself together, but the bandages under Gonzo’s ski mask were an 
incentive he couldn’t ignore.  He made himself breathe more slowly, and 
put his hood back on as he watched Gonzo fumbling around, trying to find 
the clothes they had used for blankets and stuff them back into the bag.  
When he felt like he could move without trembling, and talk with a normal 
voice, he went to help.  “Here, you can put this one in there too.”
	Gonzo accepted the handful of cloth.  “How do you feel?”
	“Embarrassed mostly,” Stan said, deciding that Gonzo didn’t need to 
hear about how the bump on his head was aching.  If you had to lean on a 
prop, you wanted it to be sound; and Gonzo was pretty much stuck with 
leaning on Stan.  “I’ll be all right.  Move back a little, I need to get 
the plastic.” Gonzo moved clear and Stanley pulled up the plastic, 
brushing off the snow as he folded it to go into the bag.  Everything they 
had was in the bag, now, and it still drooped sadly, the painted “Gates, 
George A., US Army” faded, but visible in the bright sunlight.  He found 
the strap and hooked it.  “All right.  We’re ready.”
	“Let me carry the bag,” Gonzo said.  “You’ll have to break trail.  
Are you sure you’re okay?”
	“I’m not staying here,” Stanley replied.  He got to his feet and 
helped Gonzo stand and adjust the bag.  Then he stood in front of the 
blind surgeon and waited till Gonzo got a good grip on the back of his 
parka.  “What is it you’re supposed to say when you start out? Wagons ho?”
	Gonzo’s voice had a grin in it.  “No, you’re supposed to say, 
'mush’.  Come on Nanook, let’s go.”
	“Mush!” Stanley agreed, and they began.

	 “Nothing,” Mike said, putting down the receiver and coming back 
over to the kitchen table where Trapper was leaning over a map of 
California.  “You can check off the Arbuckle police, too.  The police 
chief in Dunningham has been covering for Arbuckle this week while the 
chief in Arbuckle is out with kidney stones.”
	“No one saw them come through?”
	“It’s not likely, not on the interstate.  If they’d stopped for a 
cup of coffee, maybe that would be remembered, but just driving through?” 
Mike shook his head.  
	“What about snowplow drivers?” Trapper asked, reaching for glasses 
that weren’t there and then turning the gesture into scratching his nose.  
“They might remember something.”
	Mike shrugged.  “It won’t hurt to call the DPW, I guess.”
	The radio made a rude noise that startled both of them, and then 
settled into a scratchy voice.  “Mendocino North to Mendocino South.”
	Mike went to answer it.  “Mendocino South, what’s up, Ray?”
	“I hear you caught the Big Bad Wolf last night.”
	“That’s a Roger,” Mike said, with satisfaction.  “He tried to tangle 
with that big mountain cat.  Any luck on the Three Little Pigs?”
	“Negative.” The distant voice sounded resigned about the lack of 
success.  “They were playing yesterday, while I was up at Saddle Camp 
fixing last week’s damage.  You’d better check your campsites.”
	“I’ll do that.  Thanks for the warning.” Mike signed off and so did 
the distant voice.  He came back to the table, shaking his head.  “Just 
what I needed to hear.”
	“Three Little Pigs?” Trapper asked.
	“Vandals.  We’ve been having a problem with signs pulled down, locks 
cut, tables sawed in half, all that kind of crap.  We’re not really sure 
how many people are involved, but it’s probably high school kids.  We get 
a rash of vandalism every so often.  It’s usually a summer problem, but 
this year...” he shrugged.  “More of your tax dollars going to waste.”
	“How long will it take you to check the camp grounds?” Trapper 
asked, realizing that Mike was hesitating.
	Houlihan grimaced.  “Couple of hours,” he estimated.  “At least, to 
look at the likely ones.  These jokers use a four-wheel drive, and so far, 
they’ve stayed off the foot trails.  But I’d be an idiot to go the rounds 
on ten minutes of sleep.  Whatever’s busted will just have to stay that 
way for a day or so.”
	“Can you do that?”
	Houlihan shrugged.  “Except for some winter campers down in Linger 
Longer, the forest is pretty quiet this weekend.”
	“Other than mountain lions, poachers and vandals.”
	“Yeah.” Mike slumped into his chair.  “Not to mention missing 
persons.  And I promised you a nice relaxing weekend.”
	“Look,” Trapper said.  “Why don’t you go catch forty winks.  I’ll 
mind the phone, and the radio, and if I need you I’ll wake you up.  There 
isn’t much more we can do about Gonzo and Stanley except for calling the 
DPW.”
	Mike shook his head.  “No, you should take first nap.  You were 
working all night, and all I was doing was paperwork.”
	Trapper dug out a quarter.  “Flip you for it?”
	Mike bit back a yawn, but nodded.  “Heads.”

	Gonzo felt his feet going out from under him again and tried to let 
go of Stanley’s coat in time to avoid pulling the other man down on top of 
him.  He hadn’t the last time, and the collision had knocked the breath 
out of both of them.  He had limited success.  As he hit the snow with 
knee and hip and elbow, he heard Stanley landing too, but at least this 
time they weren’t one on top of the other.  “Sorry,” Gonzo said.
	“‘S all right,” Stanley sounded winded.  “‘S a chance to sit down.”
	Content not to have to move right away, Gonzo hitched himself around 
until he was in a comfortable sitting position on the slanted snow bank.  
The road had been covered in more than one place by slides, and 
negotiating them was taking more energy than he had to spare.  He held 
onto his knees to keep his hands away from his face and tried to reckon 
their odds.  Less than ten miles, but in knee-deep snow, very little 
water, no food.  He felt himself frown, thoughtfully.  “Hey, Stan?”
	“Hmm?”
	“I don’t suppose you actually brought any gorp with you?”
	“Raisins and peanuts? No.  I thought about it.” Stanley was 
recovering his breath gradually, but he still spoke in short sentences.  
“I have chocolate bars.”
	“You have chocolate?” Gonzo said, amazed.  “Why didn’t you say so?”
	“I forgot.” Gonzo heard the slithery sound of Stan’s parka and the 
snap of a pocket flap before he heard the happy crinkle of candy wrapper.  
“Hold out your hand,” Stanley said.
	Gonzo tugged off a mitten to receive the squares of candy.  “Bless 
you,” he said, “My blood sugar had just about hit the basement.” The 
chocolate tasted perfect, so sweet and cold his fillings tingled, but 
warming gratefully against his tongue.  Gonzo let it melt down his throat, 
so that it would feel like he was getting more of it.  He accepted a 
second chunk from Stanley, and finished it, too.  “Thanks.”
	“I’ve got two more bars,” Stanley said.  “But I’m not sure if we 
should eat them now or later.”
	“Later,” Gonzo said reluctantly.  “Unless you’ve got something else 
edible stashed away.”
	“I’m sorry.”
	“Hey,” Gonzo said, detecting a note of discouragement in Stanley’s 
voice.  “Don’t kick yourself.  You brought more food than I did.”
	“Well,” Stanley said, a little more cheerfully, “you brought the 
beer.”
	Gonzo laughed.  “Now all we need is a TV and a football game.”
	“Oh, no,” Stanley sounded like he was getting to his feet.  “I 
remember what you looked like after that football team ran over you.  
Let’s watch hockey.” Gonzo felt Stanley’s hand, and let himself be pulled 
upright.
	“Naah,” Gonzo took hold of the parka again, and let Stanley start 
the slow process of finding a way across the snow.  “That’s too cold.  How 
about soccer?”

	“Is that Dr. McIntyre?”
	“Yes.” Trapper tucked the phone against his shoulder and looked for 
a place to put down his coffee.
“I’m Lt. Bristow, of the Sacramento P.D.  Have you found your missing men, 
yet?”
	“Not yet,” Trapper said.  “Have you got any news for me?”
	“Nothing good I’m afraid.” The voice on the other end of the line 
sounded reluctant, and a little uncertain.  “We’ve got a John Doe at 
County General who might -- and I have to emphasize this, might -- be 
George Gates.”
	“Might?” Trapper reached for a pencil.  “What do you mean, might?”
	“Well, the guy was found in a dumpster.  Looks like he hid himself 
there after someone tried to kick him to death.  No wallet, no coat; hell, 
no shoes.  I can tell you that he has curly black hair, and is about the 
right height, but his own mother wouldn’t be able to I.D. him from three 
feet away.  I was able to get a print from his left pinky, but the rest of 
his hands are in such bad shape that I couldn’t even touch them.”
	Trapper winced.  A surgeon’s hands were his livelihood.
	“What’s the prognosis?”
	“Bad.” Bristow didn’t bother to cushion it.  “The doctors here say 
he’s got less than a thirty percent chance of surviving.”
	“Do you want me to come down?”
	“That’s up to you, Doctor.  But what I’d really like is for you to 
tell me if there’s any chance that Gates’ fingerprints might be on file 
somewhere.  If we get a positive I.D. it’ll help us figure out what the 
hell happened.”
	Trapper knew that he should know the answer that Bristow was looking 
for, but he couldn’t get his brain to stop painting a picture of Gonzo 
lying in ICU with massive injuries.  Fatal injuries.  He had seen the 
victims of beatings before, and he knew all too well what was involved.  
“Umm.  Not at the hospital.  They have thumbprints, but not the rest of 
the hand.  And I don’t think he’s ever been arrested.”
	“Military?” Lt. Bristow asked.
	“Yes.  He was in the Army, the Medical Corps -- Vietnam.  His middle 
name is Alonzo.”
	“I’ll get on to the DOD,” the cop sounded impatient to get off the 
line.
	“Let me know what you find out,” Trapper insisted.
	“Are you going to be at this number?”
	“Yes,” Trapper said, making the decision.  There were too many 
people who were supposed to call him back here, and Mike was still asleep.  
“What are you doing about Stanley?”
	“The other missing man?” Bristow made a frustrated noise.  “I don’t 
know what to tell you.  I’ll pump up the APB, make it priority across the 
state.  You don’t think he’d do something like...”
	“Not on the worst day of his life,” Trapper interrupted.  “Stanley’s 
not that kind of person.”
	“Don’t get me wrong, I’m just looking at possibilities.” Bristow 
said brusquely.  “From what I’ve got here, your friends weren’t even 
supposed to <i>be</i> in Sacramento, much less in the district where we 
found our man.  It’s still possible that he isn’t Gates.”
	“But if he is, then something must have happened to Stan, too,” 
Trapper pointed out.  “His father’s rich.  You might be looking at a 
kidnapping.”
	Bristow said something very rude.  “All right, all right.  I’ll call 
the feds as soon as I get off the line with the Army.  You’d better stay 
by the phone, ‘cause they’re sure to want more details.”
	“Right.  And I’ll call Stanley’s house and let them know to call you 
if they hear anything.” Trapper got off the line with Bristow and dialed 
without hanging up the receiver.  The maid who answered the phone claimed 
not to know anything about either Stanley Riverside’s location, and 
Trapper left Bristow’s number with misgivings.  He pushed down on the 
button and scowled at the phone, and then dialed again.
	“San Francisco Memorial -- Emergency,”
	“Gloria, it’s Trapper.  How busy is it down there?”
	“Not too bad.  We’re drowning in residents, thanks to Dr. Baker.  
Have you heard from Gonzo or Dr. Riverside?”
	“No,” Trapper answered; grateful that she had asked it that way and 
he could be honest.  “Can you get Ernie on the line for me?”
	“Sure.”
	He waited for a minute before he heard the click of the line, “All 
right, I’ve got it,” Ernie’s voice said, somewhere away from the receiver 
and there was another click as the main desk phone was hung up.  “Yes, 
John?”
	“Are you back in the office?”
	“Yes.  Gloria thought you sounded like you had something important 
to talk about.”
	Trapper shook his head; so much for not worrying everyone.  “I do.  
Any chance you can drive over to Sacramento County General to identify a 
John Doe?”
	“Oh, John.  Which one? How badly hurt?” Ernie’s rich voice trembled 
a little.
	“Gonzo.  And critical.” Trapper knew he sounded bleak, knew Ernie 
would pick up on it.  “I’d rather you went than anyone else.  Arnold 
hasn’t got the stomach for it, and Jackpot’s just a kid.  And I’ve got to 
stay here by the phone in case the FBI calls.”
	“The FBI?”
	“It could be a kidnapping.  Stanley wasn’t with him, Ernie, and 
<i>I</i> can’t think of any other reason for him to disappear like this.  
Not if Gonzo...  It just doesn’t make sense.”
	“Are they sure it’s Gonzo?” Ernie asked, grabbing for straw.
	“No.  But the general description matches.  I need to know, Ernie.”
	“I understand,” Ernie said.  “Who did you talk to?”
“Lt. Bristow, Sacramento police.” He gave her the number.
	“I’ve got it.  I’ll call you as soon as I know,” she promised.  “Try 
not to worry.”
	“Thanks, Ern,” he said.  “And Ernie?”
	“Yes, John?”
	“Drive carefully.  Please.”

	“...Green bottles, hanging on the wall.  Seven green bottles, 
hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, come on, Stanley, sing with 
me, if one green bottle, should accidentally fall...”
	“There would be six green bottles, hanging on the wall.” Stanley 
chorused dutifully.  It was hard to sing and walk, but he had seen the 
logic of it, when Gonzo had said that they would do better to keep their 
pace slow enough for conversation.  It was a runner’s trick, a way of 
pacing a long run, the only problem being that they had run out of safe 
conversational topics pretty quickly.  Surprisingly, though, they knew a 
lot of the same songs.  Mitch Miller songs, and television themes made 
sense, but it surprised Stanley to find out that camp counselors taught 
the same songs all over the country.  If only his head didn’t hurt and he 
could feel his feet, he could almost enjoy this.
	Behind him, Gonzo faltered and stopped.  “Darn it.  Stan?”
	Stan made himself stop moving.  He turned around carefully, trying 
not to change the plane his head was in.  That was the easiest way to keep 
the pounding from getting worse.  “What is it? Are you tired?”
	“Something’s not right with my left boot.” Gonzo picked it up, and 
tried to stand stork fashion while he felt for the problem, but ended up 
sitting in the snow anyway.  
	“The lace is broken.” Stanley observed.
	Gonzo shrugged.  “The knot must’ve come undone.  And I am tired.  
Can we stop for a while?”
	“I guess so.” Stanley looked around for a dryer place to sit, didn’t 
see one.  “Maybe we should sit on the plastic this time.”
	“Yeah.  I’m getting snow in my pants.” Gonzo fought himself back up, 
and dug around in the duffel bag for the plastic sheet.  He managed to lay 
it out pretty straight.  “There.”
	Stanley, who had been standing still with his eyes closed, made a 
noise of acknowledgement and opened one eye long enough to ease himself 
down onto the plastic.  “That’s better,” he said.
	“You all right?” Gonzo asked.
	“I’m tired.” Stanley conceded.  “And the sun’s real bright on the 
snow.” That was true enough, and it wouldn’t get Gonzo too worried.
	Gonzo stopped fiddling with his bootlace and said something rude.  
“Sorry, Stan, I forgot all about that.  Does it make your head hurt? Are 
your eyes watering?”
	“Now what have I done wrong?” So much for not worrying Gonzo.  
Stanley’s unhappiness made a knot in his throat.  He had been trying so 
hard.
	“It’s not your fault, Stan.” Gonzo tried to pat Stan on the shoulder 
and missed.  “Look, have you got sunglasses on you?”
	“No.” Stan got out past the knot.
	“Me neither.  We’ll rig something up.  It’s easy.  And you can take 
some of the acetaminophen for the headache.”
	“What do I need sunglasses for?” Stanley asked.  It came out whiny, 
even to his own ears, and he flushed with embarrassment.
	Gonzo found his shoulder this time.  “To prevent snow blindness, 
Stan.  It’s going to be really miserable if neither one of us can see.”
	“Oh.” Stan absorbed that.  “Well, my head hurts, but my eyes aren’t 
watering.  The hood keeps most of the light out.  I don’t think it’s that 
bad yet.”
	“Well, I wish I could check your eyes.” Gonzo felt of the bandages 
on his own eyes, fretfully.
	“I can do that,” Stanley said, feeling in his pockets.
	“You’ve got a mirror?”
	“A signal mirror.  Only there hasn’t been anyone to signal.” He 
found it and pulled it out of the package.  “What am I looking for?”
	“Redness of the rims or sclera, build up of tear residue, puffiness 
of the lids, anything like that.”
	“Well, they’re a little bloodshot, but not any worse than they were 
on Thursday morning,” Stan reported.  They looked worried, too, but he 
figured Gonzo didn’t need to know that.
	Gonzo relaxed.  “Good.” He settled back down.  “I’m sorry I didn’t 
think of it earlier.”
	“That’s all right.” Stanley put the mirror away and pulled out the 
first aid kit.  He took a couple of the pills and a swig of water from the 
bottle, and then looked over to Gonzo, who had taken off his mittens to 
tie new knots in his bootlaces.  “How’s your face?”
	“It hurts.” Gonzo said shortly.  “Part of me just wants to pull the 
ski mask off and lie face down in the snow.”
	“That sounds cold.”
	“But after a while it would be numb, and numb sounds really good 
right now.” Gonzo sighed.  “Oh, well.  Things could be worse.”
	“I just wish John would hurry up and look for us here,” Stanley 
said.  “Or that I hadn’t lost those snow shoes.  I’m tired of wading 
through snow.”
	“I wish I had put those pretzels into my duffel bag,” Gonzo said.  
“Or that snow was edible.”
	“I wish I had gotten those electric socks.”
	“I wish we had skis.  Or even a toboggan.”
	Stanley frowned, thinking.  “We have the plastic.  Wouldn’t it slide 
on the snow?”
	Gonzo shrugged.  “I guess so.  If we had a place where we could 
slide.  It would have to be pretty steep.”
	“Well, there’re still two more switchbacks, and there’s all that 
snow in between.  If we could slide down on the avalanche path, we could 
probably save half a mile of walking, or more.” Stanley was beginning to 
feel like he had had a good idea.  He was terribly tired of walking, and 
he could remember sledding one time when he was a small boy on a school 
outing.  It had been fun.
	“The avalanche path? Stan, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
	“You said it last night,” Stanley reminded Gonzo.  “Once the 
avalanche has let loose, all the snow’s on the bottom.  It’s not like it’s 
going to slide again.”
	Gonzo cocked his head to one side, calculating something he didn’t 
share with Stan.  “Well, it depends on if there’re a lot of rocks,” he 
conceded finally.  “And we should have sticks, so that if we start going 
too fast we can use them for brakes.”
	“I can get sticks,” Stanley said.  “And there aren’t many rocks.  I 
was looking down it the last time we crossed, and I remember thinking how 
smooth the snow looked.”
	Gonzo nodded, reluctantly.  “Are you sure there’re two switchbacks 
left? How far have we come?”
	Stanley started to tilt his head back to look up the mountain, and 
stopped when it made the ache start up again.  “About three-quarters of a 
mile,” he estimated.  “But we should make better time once we get down to 
where the road doesn’t have avalanche fallout all over it every so often.”
	Gonzo finished knotting his lace and pulled his mittens from his 
pocket.  “It doesn’t sound like a great plan, but at least it’s a plan.  
Let’s try it.”
	It didn’t take a lot of preparation.  They walked back to the slide 
area and Stanley went to the side of the road to cut sticks from the 
bushes.  Then they lay the plastic down and sat on it, Stanley in front, 
Gonzo behind, holding him around the waist.  Stanley tucked the end of the 
plastic up over his legs and said, “Ready?”
	“As I’m ever going to be,” Gonzo said.
	Stanley looked down the slope, fighting misgivings.  It was a lot 
farther to the bottom than any sled run, but that was the whole point.  He 
wouldn’t have to climb back up, and if this worked, they wouldn’t have to 
walk nearly so far.  “Okay.” He started scooting forward, with Gonzo 
working to keep up.  Gradually, the slope took over, and the plastic began 
to slide.  “Hang on!”
	It was exhilarating, at first.  The wind on his face was cold, and 
the snow was lumpier under his seat than he had expected, but they were 
moving so fast that the smaller lumps hardly mattered.  Stanley found 
himself yelling, and heard the echo of Gonzo’s shout muffled against his 
back.  Faster and faster they went, with snow spraying up around them, and 
the road and trees looming below.  Stanley tried to lean and steer toward 
the road instead of the trees, and for a moment it seemed to work, but 
then he realized that they weren’t quite on the right line.  “Brake!” he 
shouted.
	Gonzo had to let go of Stanley’s waist to use his stick brake, and 
they hit a bump that cracked their heads together and then knocked them 
bodily apart.  Stanley found himself spinning, and flattened himself out 
desperately, trying to regain control.  The plastic trapped his legs, 
preventing him from using his heels, and the stick flew out of his grasp, 
so he grabbed at the snow with his hands, rolling onto his stomach to get 
a better grip.  He caught a glimpse of Gonzo’s foot, and tried to grab for 
it, but missed.  Another bump set him rolling wildly, He could see snow 
and sky change places, once, twice, again, and then suddenly the spindly 
arms of a willow bush reached out and snagged him to a halt.  There was a 
long and terrible silence as Stanley struggled to regain his sense of up 
and down, and then Gonzo’s voice came to him, tremulous with disbelief.
	“I’m alive.”
	Stanley felt his own disbelief bloom into a wild gratitude at the 
reprieve.  “So am I.” 
	“Good.” Gonzo said.  “That’s good.” And then he began to laugh.
	Stanley couldn’t help but laugh too, although he made himself sit up 
and start working free of the bush.  He could see Gonzo now, sprawled on 
the apron of snow, shaking with what was either hysteria or relief.  
Stanley’s own internal systems were bucking for hysteria, but he couldn’t 
afford it until he was sure that Gonzo was all right.
	His parka had torn, but only on the outermost layer, and the bump on 
his head still hurt, and Stanley knew that he had acquired an entirely new 
set of scratches and bruises.  His legs were so cold it was hard to tell 
if any of the bruises were serious, and he decided not to look.  He got 
the laces of his gaiters untangled from the thin branches and stood up to 
go over to Gonzo.
	It didn’t work.
	When the wave of dark dizziness passed, he found himself on hands 
and knees, clutching the snow as if that would help.  His stomach roiled, 
and he concentrated on not being sick, remembering all too well how much 
it had hurt earlier.  Even the hair on his head was complaining, and he 
admitted to himself that even if he hadn’t been concussed earlier, he 
probably was now.  The sound of Gonzo’s laughter had eased into weak 
giggles so abruptly Stanley knew that he had probably blacked out for a 
few seconds.  He bit his lip and tried standing again, very carefully.  It 
took a minute - literally a minute, but he made it.  Cautiously, he made 
his way over to Gonzo, who was sitting up now, with his arms tucked 
against his belly and his ski mask askew.  Stanley eased himself down to a 
sitting position next to the surgeon and reached out to touch the shaking 
shoulders.  
	“Are you all right?”
	Gonzo made a visible effort to stop laughing.  “You’ve got a hard 
head, Stan.  I hit my face on the back of it and it hurts. And my gut 
hurts from laughing.  And I think I just gave up roller coasters.  But 
mostly I’m okay.  How about you?”
	“A little dizzy from rolling,” Stanley answered.  “And I ran into a 
bush.  But nothing’s broken.” He began helping Gonzo get off the ski mask 
to check on the damage.  It didn’t look good.  The bandages over Gonzo’s 
eyes were wet from broken blisters, and he had a nasty bruise forming on 
one cheekbone.  Stanley’s own bruises throbbed with sympathy.  “This is 
going to hurt a little,” he warned, and pulled off his makeshift mittens 
to make it easier to work off the bandages.  
	It hurt a lot, to judge from Gonzo’s expression, and Stanley’s hands 
were so clumsy from the cold he couldn’t ease the process very much.  The 
blisters, most of them anyway, had burst, and the raw flesh looked tender 
and painful.  Stanley hunted through the first aid kit for the antibiotic 
salve.  By the time he finished applying it, Gonzo was shaking like the 
leaves on the nearby aspen.  “You’re getting shocky,” Stanley said, as he 
found the last of the gauze pads and put them into place.  “We’re going to 
have to get you warmer, “ Stanley looked around at the unfriendly 
wilderness.  “Somehow.”

	The phone rang again, and Trapper gave up and brought the whole 
coffeepot out from the kitchen.  “Mendocino South Ranger Station,” he 
said, tucking the receiver between his ear and his shoulder so he would 
have both hands free to pour the coffee.
	“I’m trying to reach John McIntyre?”
	“Speaking.”
	“My name is Pat Flaherty; I’m with the San Francisco office of the 
Federal Bureau of Investigations.  I’ve been talking to Lt. Bristow in 
Sacramento, and I just wanted to confirm some points with you.  Is the 
Stanley Riverside you’re looking for any relation to Stanley Riverside the 
businessman?”
	“His son,” Trapper said, grateful that the agent seemed to know that 
much at least.
	“Ayuh, that’s rich enough.” The New England voice paused for a 
moment, and Trapper heard the scratching of a pen.  “And what makes you 
think this might be a kidnapping? Has there been a ransom note?”
	“No, no ransom note.  To be frank, I’m hoping that it’s a kidnapping 
because that would give us a better chance of not finding Stanley dead in 
a dumpster or alley somewhere.”
	“Well, now, we’re not even sure yet that the fellow they found up in 
Sacramento is George Gates, yet.  Don’t you think that you’re leaping to 
conclusions here?”
	“Look, Mr. Flaherty,” Trapper said testily.  “I know all about the 
value of time.  Sometimes you’ve got to start action on the basis of a 
guess, because if you wait for all the proof to come in you’ve lost your 
best chance of saving the patient.  We’re not talking about a pair of 
irresponsible kids missing, we’re talking about two grown men, doctors, 
who are at least fifteen hours overdue, with no report of an accident, and 
a strong possibility that at least one of them has been kicked nearly to 
death.  You know how rich Riverside Senior is.  Don’t you think it’s 
possible that whoever hurt Gonzo might have recognized that Stanley’s 
worth more to them alive? Don’t you think you ought to at least try to 
find out if that’s what’s happened?”
	“Take it easy, Doctor.  I didn’t say I wasn’t going to start 
investigating, I’m just trying to find somewhere to start.  Has anyone 
threatened either man, that you know of?”
	Trapper spent the next twenty minutes answering questions, letting 
the cup of coffee go cold as he described his friends’ lives and foibles 
to the unresponsive agent.  It was very frustrating.  Flaherty seemed to 
be asking questions from a script that had nothing to do with anything in 
Trapper’s experience.  Very seldom did the agent ask Trapper to elaborate 
on anything, and the items that did seem to interest him formed an 
offensive pattern.  Trapper tried to hang onto his temper.
	“Yes, Stanley did have a nervous breakdown earlier this year, but it 
was very mild.  Yes, he was arrested for drunken driving, but it was just 
exhaustion; and no, I don’t believe that he would hurt Dr. Gates, no 
matter how tired he was.  For one thing, Stanley wouldn’t resort to 
violence without tremendous provocation, and for another, if they did get 
into a fight, Gonzo would win.”
 	“Do you think that Gates would start a fight?”
	“No.  I think they started up to the cabin, and something happened 
to them.  Or someone.  I know both of them pretty well, and believe me, 
whatever happened to Gonzo, Stanley didn’t do it.”
	
	“I’m sorry.”
	“It’s all right, Stan.” Gonzo shifted position a little, and sighed.  
“I think we were both getting stupid from the cold.  It’s not your fault.”
	“Well, I could have steered better,” Stanley mumbled, and settled 
the parka more carefully around Gonzo.  He had made a cocoon, with the 
plastic sheet as outside, and their coats and the clothes from the bags as 
cushioning, with both of them at the center.  And he had found the space 
blanket in the torn parka pocket, which helped reflect the heat back to 
the pair of them.  It would have been pretty useless to wrap Gonzo without 
something warm, and Stanley was the only warm thing on the mountainside.  
The only problem was that now Stanley was almost warm, and he wanted 
desperately to go to sleep.  Which he couldn’t, not with his head 
throbbing the way it was.  And he couldn’t figure out whether or not to 
tell Gonzo about it.  "I'm just no good at this," Stanley concluded 
mournfully.
 	 "No good at what?" Gonzo asked.
 	"Outdoor stuff.  Dad always says I should just stick to playing 
doctor anyway."
 	"He would," Gonzo said sourly.  "Look, Stanley, how many times have 
you ever had the <i>chance</i> to do outdoor stuff?"
 	"Well, I did go to camp when I was a kid."
 	"That's summertime, Stan.  And besides, it depends on what kind of 
camp it was.  I mean, some camps have lots of outdoor stuff and other 
camps don't.  I went to one camp one year where all we ever did was swim 
in the lake and make junk out of pine cones and plastic laces."
 	"I liked making things," Stanley said.  "I made a wallet for my dad 
once.  There were little hammers and dies to make patterns in the leather.  
And I liked making lanyards.  I could work on them even when I was sitting 
in the nurse's cabin."
 	"Why would you be in the nurse's cabin?"
 	"Asthma," Stanley shrugged.  "They still thought that exercise was 
bad for it back then.  I wasn't allowed to go on hikes or stuff, so I had 
to wait in the nurse's cabin a lot with Hubert DeGroot and Murray 
Feinster.  They had asthma too."
 	"The only time I had to go to the nurse was when I had poison ivy," 
Gonzo said.  "Mind you, I was pretty good at finding poison ivy.  There 
was one summer I had so much calamine lotion on me the other kids started 
calling me 'Pinky'."
 	"Really?" Stanley had a hard time picturing it.  "Did you mind?"
 	"I hated it," Gonzo's voice still held a little of that long ago 
indignation.  "But they were bigger than me, so I just had to grin and 
bear it.  I was only nine."
 	"They called me 'Stinky'," Stanley said.
	“That’s pretty lousy,” Gonzo said.  
	“Well, they called Hubert ‘the Gook’ and Murray got stuck with 
‘Little Boy Blue’ because he went cyanotic one time when the counselors 
didn’t want to listen.  I hate nicknames.”
	“Well, there aren’t any nursery rhymes about anybody named Stanley,” 
Gonzo pointed out.  “By the time I started calling myself ‘Gonzo’, I was 
so sick of hearing ‘Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,’ I was ready to punch 
somebody.”
	“Well, the girls don’t cry when you kiss them now,” Stanley said, 
ready to switch topics if it meant not thinking about three skinny 
outsiders sitting on a splintery bench, watching the rest of the kids 
playing.
	Gonzo shrugged.  “Hey, you know what they say; practice makes 
perfect.”
	“That’s what dad says,” Stanley said.  “I’ve never been able to 
understand it.  It’s like he doesn’t feel anything.  When I was with 
Carson, she was all I could think about.  I wanted to marry her, I really 
did.  But she said no.  Even after I asked her the second time.”
	Gonzo stiffened a little, listening more carefully.  “Your dad 
doesn’t feel anything?” he repeated.
	“I guess not.  It’s not like he ever stays with any one girl for 
very long.  Sometimes I think that when my mom ran away it made him not 
trust women or something like that.  Like he just wants to blot out 
anything that has to do with her.  Even...  even pictures and stuff.” 
Stanley fidgeted with a flap of cloth.  “I’m never going to forget Carson, 
I don’t even want to.  I mean she was the first girl who ever...”
	“Stan, you’re babbling,” Gonzo said firmly.  “What’s wrong? Where 
are you hurt?”
	“I’ve got a concussion,” Stanley’s innate honesty answered before 
his censors could come back on line.  “I mean...well...  probably anyway.  
It hurts like a concussion.”
	“Stan! Why didn’t you tell me?”
	“I didn’t want you to worry.  You can’t do anything about it, and I 
thought it would just make things worse.” Stanley said unhappily.  “I’m 
sorry.  I can’t do anything right.”
	“Oh, don’t get all upset about it,” Gonzo said exasperatedly.  “It’s 
not like you did it deliberately.  It’s just one more thing to have to 
deal with, that’s all.”
	“But...but...”
	“How bad is it? Can you describe the symptoms? Any blurred vision or 
hemiplegia?” Gonzo put on his best bedside manner.
	“Not severe,” Stanley said, responding to the medical terminology.  
“There’s pain, of course, and some light sensitivity.  And I’ve got a 
fairly large contusion on the back of my head, just over the lambda 
fontenelle.  Some nausea, and dizziness, but I can keep them under control 
if I move slowly.  But I’m afraid to go to sleep, and I can’t tell if the 
numbness in my extremities is from the concussion or the cold.”
	“Did this happen last night or just now?” Gonzo asked, remembering 
how Stanley had thrown up earlier in the morning.
	“Well, I hit it last night, but it wasn’t too bad, just a bump and a 
headache mostly.  But now it’s worse.” Stanley was too miserable to 
pretend that he was all right now, and he felt the familiar tightness of 
failure in his chest.  “I’m sorry, Gates.  I meant to take care of you.”
	“Who says you haven’t?” Gonzo exclaimed, surprised.  “Stanley 
Riverside, if you haven’t been taking care of me since last night, then 
I’d like to know who the hell has been bandaging my eyes, leading me down 
a mountain, and keeping me from dying of shock.”
	“But I’ve never done any of this before! I’m just faking it!” 
Stanley exclaimed.
	“Well, so am I!” Gonzo’s voice was nearly as high as Stanley’s was.  
“I’ve never been blind before.  I’ve never had an avalanche dumped on my 
car or been stranded in the backside of nowhere.  Every other time I’ve 
ever been in the woods somebody has known exactly where to come looking 
for me if I get in trouble, and I’ve never gotten into trouble worse than 
a couple of bee stings and a broken arm.  Of course I’m faking it.  I’m 
just glad I’m not alone.”
	There was a very long silence while Stanley absorbed that.  Finally 
he said, very quietly, “I thought you would be unhappy enough, having to 
lean on me.  I didn’t want you to think I was a broken stick.”
	“Stan, you’re not a stick, you’re a friend.  And I’m not unhappy 
about depending on you, because I know that I can.”
	“But that’s just it,” Stanley protested.  “What if I black out? What 
if I start getting incoherent?”
	“I’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” Gonzo said.  “But in the 
meantime, I think we should start walking again.  Unless you’ve seen 
helicopters or planes searching that I haven’t heard.”
	“No.  I wish I had.” Stanley started the process of sitting up and 
repacking the bag.  “Do you think John is ever going to find us?”
	“He’ll find us.  But if we’re at the bottom of the switchbacks we’ve 
only got about three and a half miles to the end of the pass road, and 
after that it should be plowed all the way to the cabin.  Think what a 
surprise it would be for us to walk in.” Gonzo sat up and tried to help 
with the packing.
	“I suppose so,” Stanley said.  “John must be very worried by now.”
	
	“Is that lunch I smell?” Mike came out of the bathroom, still drying 
his face with a towel.  
	“It’s just the chili,” Trapper said, setting out bowls and spoons.  
“I was getting to the point where I couldn’t drink any more coffee without 
something in my stomach.”
	Mike nodded and settled himself into one of the chairs, eyeing his 
houseguest shrewdly.  “You don’t look like you’ve gotten any definite 
word, but something’s got you by the short hairs.  What’s happened?”
	Trapper’s mouth twisted, “Well, I may have the FBI hunting down 
Stanley for Gonzo’s murder, which has me a little bugged, but other than 
that it’s been a pretty lousy morning.  How are you?”
	Mike got up, went to the cupboard, and came back with a bottle of 
scotch and a small glass.  He poured a couple of fingers into it and 
handed it to Trapper.  “Here.  I’m not going to let you get drunk, but a 
quick jolt might help.” He waited until Trapper had knocked back the 
liquor before he settled back into his chair again.  “Now, why would the 
FBI be involved, and what makes you think that Gonzo’s been murdered?”
	“Almost murdered,” Trapper said, when he was sure his voice would 
sound more normal.  “The Sacramento P.D. found a man in a dumpster who 
fits -- at least, might fit -- Gonzo’s description.  And there’s no sign 
of Stan or the jeep.  I thought a kidnapping, maybe, or a robbery -- Gonzo 
would fight back.  But the FBI agent I talked to seemed to think that 
Stanley flipped out, just because he had a little nervous breakdown a 
while back.” Trapper rubbed at his face, “And the longer I sit here trying 
not to think about the idea the more reasonable it seems.  But it’s nuts.  
Stanley wouldn’t hurt Gonzo.  Not to the point of nearly killing him.  I 
don’t think he could if he wanted to.”
	“How do they get along, mostly?”
	Trapper thought about it.  “Pretty well.  When Gonzo first came I 
think Stan kind of resented him, and Gonzo thought Stan was an officious 
jerk, but they know each other better these days.  I mean, Stanley got 
accused of maltreating a patient, and Gonzo went to a lot of trouble to 
clear his name.  Mind you, Gonzo was the one who thought Stan might have 
messed up in the first place.” Trapper bit his knuckles.  “Stan can be a 
real pain.  He’s fussy, and sometimes he is an officious jerk, but he can 
also be incredibly generous.  And I’ve never known him to hold a grudge.  
He got conned by a couple of old ladies, his old nanny and a friend of 
hers, into thinking that the friend was his real mother.  And Stanley 
wants someone to love so much he fell right for it.  Hook, line and 
sinker.  I’ve never seen him so happy.  Naturally, the whole thing fell 
apart.  They rooked him for twenty grand, and when Stanley figured out 
that he’d been taken he was really crushed, but did he hold a grudge? Not 
Stan.  They bought this little diner, and he goes out and eats there at 
least once a week, just to talk to them.  The nanny’s got cancer, and 
Stan’s paying all her medical bills on the QT.  Now does that sound like a 
man who would beat someone -- kick someone -- nearly to death?”
	“Nope,” Mike said simply, getting the chili pot and dishing some 
into each bowl.  “What about Gates? Would someone want to beat him up 
besides Stanley?”
	Trapper snorted.  “Not lately.  He’s been a little more discreet 
since the paternity suit and the sexual misconduct accusation.”
	Mike raised an eyebrow.  “I take it he’s a ladies’ man, then?”
	“Oh, yes.  Gonzo makes the most of bachelorhood.  If it weren’t for 
the simple fact that he works every damn bit as hard as he plays and more 
he’d cause more trouble than he’s worth.  Mind you, he doesn’t poach, and 
he doesn’t push, and he’s fallen off the deep end once or twice but it’s 
never worked out.  I don’t know anyone he’s upset lately, but he can be 
obstinate and opinionated, and tactless, so he’s certainly gotten people 
ticked off at him.  Sometimes seriously.” Trapper shook his head.  “But 
not Stan.  I mean, not seriously.  Gonzo might irritate Stan sometimes, 
but all he ever has to do is pour on the charm, and Stanley always 
forgives him.”
	“I think,” Mike said, “that you’ve been having to entertain ugly 
possibilities all morning, and so now, when you’re tired, you’re starting 
to let your imagination get the better of you.  Go lie down for a while, 
and I’ll mind the phones.”
	“But...” Trapper started to protest.
	“If something definite comes up, I’ll wake you,” Mike promised.  
“But the deal was that I would take a nap and then you would, remember?”
	Trapper sighed.  “I suppose you’re right.”
	“I know I am.” Mike took the bowls to the sink and turned on the 
water.  “People start jumping to wild conclusions when they haven’t had 
any sleep, John.  They make poor decisions.  We need to prevent that.  The 
one thing that will make things even worse is if we stop thinking 
clearly.”

	“Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul,” Gonzo sang hoarsely, 
“With a corncob hat and button pipe and two eyes made out of coal.”
	“I don’t think that’s the right words,” Stanley interrupted 
crankily.  “It’s a button nose.  And corncobs are too little for hats.”
	“So let’s sing something different, then,” Gonzo agreed, amiably.  
He was pleased that Stan had noticed the mix-up.  It’s not easy to test 
someone’s coherence when they’re walking behind you.
	“I’m tired of singing,” Stanley said.  “And your voice is going.” 
	“Well, I’m thirsty,” Gonzo admitted.  “Is there any water in the 
bottle?”
	“I dunno.  Hold still.” Stanley fumbled through his pockets and came 
up with the bottle.  “Oh, bother.”
	“Oh, bother, what?”
	“I forgot to put more snow in it.” Stanley bent down to stuff the 
bottle with snow and lost his balance, going down on one knee.  “Ow.”
	“Maybe we should stop for a while,” Gonzo said.  “I’m pretty tired.”
	“I thought we were going to try to get to the cabin before I black 
out or something,” Stanley said, fighting his way back onto his feet.  “If 
we can just get to the plowed part, you can find your way along it with a 
stick.”
	“Yeah, well, I’m too tired to keep on walking until I’ve had some 
rest.  We can eat another chocolate bar, if you have one.”
	“I’ve got one.” Stanley didn’t sound like he cared much for the 
idea.  “Well, if you think we should stop, there’s a bunch of rocks near 
the side of the road that might be a good place to sit out of the wind.”
	“Lead on, MacDuff,” Gonzo said, and let Stanley take the lead for 
the short distance to the rocks.  They found some low ones to pad with 
plastic and clothes and sit on, and Stanley dug out the space blanket to 
wrap around Gonzo.  “Thanks, Stan,” Gonzo said, and tucked the blanket a 
little closer before holding his hands out to an imaginary campfire.
	“What are you doing?”
	“Pretending we’ve got a fire.  Trying to think warm thoughts.” Gonzo 
shuffled his feet a little.  “I’m getting colder, I think, and I’m not 
sure what we can do about it.  I wish I had a lighter.”
	Stanley shrugged.  “I’ve got a metal match, but I don’t know how to 
use it.  And the only thing we could burn is the clothes from the bag.”
	Gonzo nodded agreement, and huddled into the blanket.  Then his 
brain analyzed the words again and he sat up.  “What do you mean all we 
could burn is the clothes in the bag?”
	“Well, they’re the only things that are dry.  All the trees have 
snow all over them.  Not that I could cut down a tree with a jackknife.”
	“But there are pine trees, aren’t there? I mean, I can smell them.”
	“Certainly.  But I don’t think they would be any easier to cut 
down.”
	“But isn’t there squaw wood?” Gonzo asked.  “We could burn squaw 
wood.”
	“What kind of tree is squaw wood?” Stanley asked.  “I’ve never heard 
of it.”
	“Squaw wood isn’t a tree.  It’s the dead stuff that’s still on the 
tree under the green part on some kinds of evergreens.  It’s almost always 
dry, so the squaws would collect it for kindling when it rained -- at 
least, that’s what I got told at camp.” Gonzo fussed with the ski mask, “I 
wish I could just show you.”
	“Well, don’t,” Stanley said.  “We don’t have any more gauze pads, 
and I don’t want your face to get infected.” He looked around at the trees 
wearily.  “I see some of it.  But even if I build a fire, won’t it melt 
into the snow?”
	“Not if you build it on a rock,” Gonzo said, feeling pleased with 
himself for thinking of it.  “And if we make a lot of smoke, then somebody 
might notice and come to see where it’s coming from.”
	“That would be good.” Stanley tugged the candy bar from his pocket 
and dumped it into Gonzo’s hands.  “You eat that while I get some wood.” 
He dumped the clothes out of the bag in order to have something to carry 
the wood in and got up.  “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
	“Stan?” Gonzo called as he started away.  “Keep talking or singing, 
will you? I’m not sure I want to sit here all by myself in the dark.”
	“All right,” Stan said, looking back at the forlorn huddle and 
feeling protective again.  “Is whistling okay?”
	“Yeah, whistling’s fine.” Gonzo said unhappily.  Stanley had been 
right about not mentioning the concussion earlier, Gonzo realized, because 
it did make things worse for Gonzo to have to sit alone and wait for Stan 
to do something when he was all knotted up, listening to see if Stanley 
would collapse.  He wanted to rip the bandages off of his eyes and see for 
himself what was happening, and he would, too, if Stanley blacked out.  
But until then all he could do was sit and wait.  And eat the candy bar.  
That would be a good distraction.
	Stanley waded through the snow to the nearest spruce tree, and was 
surprised to discover that the dead wood broke off easily in his hands.  
It really was quite easy, although most of the sticks were so small that 
even when he had gotten everything he could reach it made almost no 
difference to the shape of the bag hanging on his shoulder.  He started 
for the next tree, whistling “The Bridge Over the River Kwai” in short 
bursts of notes.  The trees smelled good, and the work was easy, and it 
was hard to keep track of why he as doing it.  He was surprised to hear 
Gonzo calling “Stan! Stan! Come back!” as he was surprised to discover 
that the bag was almost full.
	“I’m coming!” Stanley shouted, and turned around to follow his own 
trail through the snow.  He had come a fair distance, he realized, and 
downhill, since he had to climb back toward the flash of color that was 
Gonzo.  He took one of the bigger sticks to use as a cane and made his way 
up the shallow slope.  
	As he came clear of the trees, he paused to look over at Gonzo, and 
saw a long, tan shape huddled at the top of the rocks near the road.  Like 
icy water, adrenaline washed away the fuzziness in his head.  It was a 
lion.
	“No!” Stanley breathed, too frightened for a moment to move.  The 
big cat was crouched half a dozen feet behind Gonzo, who was blessedly 
unaware of his danger.  From where Stanley stood he could see a long red 
welt along the cat’s ear and shoulder, but whatever had happened, it 
hadn’t impaired the cat’s hunting technique.  It was staring over Gonzo at 
Stan now, measuring him with yellow eyes.	
	It was, quite possibly, the longest minute of Stanley’s life, and a 
terrible clairvoyance swept over him.  The cat could easily maim them 
both, or even kill them, and leave behind almost nothing for anyone to 
find.  He imagined the curved claws ripping like scalpels through Gonzo’s 
back, and the fangs meeting in the blinded man’s neck, while he, Stanley, 
stood helpless to prevent it; saw himself running away, and being pursued 
by the nightmare, to fall, and die, or reach safety and live forever 
tormented by what he had witnessed.
	The cat was still staring.  Stanley let himself sink toward the 
snow, gathered two handfuls and pushed them together into a tight ball.  
He was almost ready when Gonzo’s patience ran out.
	“Stan? Stan, if you don’t answer me I’m going to take off this stuff 
and come find you!”
	The cougar recoiled and snarled, surprised by Gonzo’s shout.  It 
forgot about Stan and raised a claw-studded paw to swipe at the wounded 
man it had hoped to make dinner.  Then Stanley’s snowball hit it in the 
face, and it screamed with rage.
	“Leave him alone!” Stanley screamed, running toward the rocks, the 
bag bouncing on his shoulder as he waved the stick he had been using as a 
cane.
	Gonzo, who had had no clue about the cat, curled up and put his 
hands over his head, finding the ground and huddling while he yelled.
	The cat was still shaking its head free of the snow and had half 
decided to forget about humans, who made loud noises and stung when 
Stanley got up close enough to throw the stick at it.  The piece of pine 
hit the bullet burn from the night before and the cougar leaped sideways 
and away.  Better to leave before something went bang.
	Stanley had thrown the stick and was trying to swing the bag up as a 
weapon when the cat seemed to give up and run away, so he dropped the bag 
and went to his knees, making snowballs and throwing them in the direction 
of the retreating tail, and yelling every curse word he had ever heard in 
the Emergency Room after it.  He only stopped when Gonzo found him and 
grabbed his arms and hung on.
	“Stanley! Stanley! What was it? Stan?” Gonzo gave up trying to get 
sense out of Stanley and pulled off his ski mask.  He was working on the 
bandages when Stanley gave a great hiccuping wail and caught his hand.
	“No! It will all be for nothing if you do that! I’ve got to get you 
back to John in one piece, I’ve got to; he needs you.  He’ll never forgive 
me if I do it wrong.  They never forgive you if you do it wrong, it 
doesn’t matter how much you do right, you don’t understand.  The lion can 
eat me, I’m not important, nobody even knows I’m alive, but I’ve got to 
protect you and make sure your hands are all right, you’re a surgeon, 
you’ve got to have hands and eyes,” Stanley was babbling.
	“Lion?” Gonzo asked, trying to pull out the important parts.  
“Stanley, was that a lion?”
	“Uh-huh,” Gonzo didn’t need to see Stanley’s hapless nod, he could 
hear it in his voice.  “It had big claws and a long tail.  A mountain 
lion.” Stanley began to rock back and forth, “It was a lion, a real lion, 
and it had these big claws...”
	Gonzo didn’t know what to do first.  A mountain lion was seriously 
bad news, but Stanley was falling into pieces.  He tried to get more sense 
out of Stan.
	”Where did the lion go, Stanley?” he asked, very clearly.
	“It ran away.  I threw a snowball at it and it ran away.” 
	“Can you see it now?”
	“No...” Stanley’s voice cracked a little.  “But I don’t know how to 
keep it from coming back.”
	“Did you bring the wood?”
	“Wood?”
	“The wood, Stan.  Mountain lions are afraid of fire.”	
	“Right.  Fire.  That’s good.  I’ll make a fire.” Stanley seemed to 
steady a little with a definite task in hand, but his voice was still high 
and he was breathing way too hard for Gonzo’s peace of mind.
	“Remember you’ve got to build it on a rock,” Gonzo said, resigning 
himself to giving detailed directions.  He’d much rather take off the 
stupid bandages, and live with the consequences, but after trying it this 
time he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t just be risking his own eyesight, 
he’d also be snapping the last thread that was letting Stanley function at 
all.  For Gonzo’s safety, Stanley would keep on trying, and fighting, 
Gonzo realized.  But if Stanley stopped having a ‘patient’ to care for, he 
was likely to fall apart entirely.  And Gonzo knew that, blindness aside, 
he himself was no condition to be able to drag the pair of them the rest 
of the way.  He was too tired, too cold, and in too much pain.  He needed 
Stanley.  “Do you have any small stuff, like grass or cloth for tinder?”
	“Tinder?” Stanley had pulled them both upright, and was working his 
way back to the rocks.  “No.  I have a metal match, and a jackknife and 
steel wool.  John said I needed steel wool, but I don’t know why.  “
	Gonzo sighed with relief.  “Because it burns, Stan.  It makes it 
easier to start a fire.”
	“Good,” Stan said.  “It’s better if it’s easy.”

	“John? The phone is Ernie.  Do you want to take it?”
	John pulled himself up to a sitting position and blinked 
uncertainly.  “Ernie?”
	“Yes.  She says it’s important.”
	“I’m coming.”
	It took him a couple of minutes, though, to sort out which parts of 
the nightmare had been in his dreaming and which parts had been from the 
morning.  He pulled on his pants and went out to the phone.
	“McIntyre.”
	“John, it’s Ernie.  I’m here in Sacramento, and it isn’t Gonzo.  He 
was in surgery so I couldn’t get a good look until just now, but I’m sure 
it isn’t him.”
	Trapper fumbled for a chair and sat.  “It isn’t Gonzo? You’re sure?”
	“Very sure,” her voice was rich with the satisfaction of it.  “I’m 
going to call Lt. Bristow as soon as I get off of the line with you and 
tell him so.”
	“Good.  Good, you do that Ernie.” Trapper handed the phone back to 
Mike and put his head down on the table, trying to think.
	Mike took the phone and reassured Ernie that Trapper was fine, just 
tired, and that they would call the hospital with any news, and remind 
them to page her, if necessary.  At last he hung up and went to the 
kitchen, returning with a cup of strong, sweet, milky tea.
	“Drink that,” he ordered, and waited until Trapper obeyed before he 
took a seat.
	Trapper, surprised by both the bitterness of the strong tea and the 
syrupy sweetness of what seemed like six spoonfuls at least of sugar, 
managed to get it down before he asked, “What is that stuff?”
	“Smokechaser tea.” Mike studied him carefully.  “You looked like you 
needed a boost.”
	“We’re back at square one,” Trapper pointed out.  “No sign of them.  
It’s been nearly 24 hours, Mike.”
	“Yes, it has,” Mike said.  “But we’re not at square one by any 
means.  We’ve eliminated an awful lot of ground, John.  I know it sounds 
like a negative result, but we’re still getting closer.  And you said that 
Gonzo knows this area.  They aren’t on any of the major roads, but we 
haven’t started with the minor roads yet, not seriously.  Is he the kind 
of man who would take a short cut over rough roads?”
	“Yes,” Trapper said.  “And he’s driven the jeep enough to have a 
pretty realistic notion of its limits.”
	“Right,” Mike said, and spread out a map of the local area.  “I’ll 
call Ray and ask him to give us a hand.  We can check the most likely 
roads into the forest first, and then go from there.”
“All right,” Trapper said, trying to dredge up a little hope.  “But I wish 
we had...”
	The phone rang again, interrupting his thought, and he reached for 
it.  “Mendocino South, Ranger Station.”
	“Is that Dr. McIntyre?”
	“Yes.”
	“Flaherty, of the FBI.  We’ve got a lead on your missing men.”
	“You do?” Trapper nearly fell out of his chair with surprise.  “What 
is it? Where?”
	“In Santa Rosa, last night, about 6:30, Gates -- or someone 
pretending to be Gates -- used a gas credit card in a little service 
station just off of highway 101.  He bought gas and asked about bootlaces, 
although the attendant says they didn’t have any.  From the description we 
got, both men were in the car, and no one else was with them.  It doesn’t 
sound much like a kidnapping, at this point, but the attendant did say 
that there was a black sedan that stopped almost right after them and 
pulled out the same time they did.  He thought it was just a coincidence, 
though, said nobody in either car seemed excited or scared.”
	“Mr. Flaherty, that’s the first clue anyone’s found.  And I’m truly 
grateful.  But I have to tell you, one of the nurses from my hospital went 
over to Sacramento, and she doesn’t think that the man there is Gates 
after all.  I may have you chasing a wild goose with that kidnap idea.”
	“Ayuh.  No ransom note, no call.  I’d expect one or the other by now 
if it were.  But we’ll keep the APB in action till you’ve found ‘em.  It 
can’t do any harm.”
	Trapper thanked the man again, profusely, and said goodbye.
	“What’s up?” Mike asked.
	“They were in Santa Rosa last night.  Highway 101.”
	“Would they do that? Go the long way, I mean?”
	“Gonzo would, if it meant avoiding the traffic.  And Stanley would 
trust his judgment.” Trapper leaned over the map.  “Now we just have to 
figure out what he would have done to make up the time.”

	“Well, I can smell something burning, anyway,” Gonzo said, patting 
Stan on the back.  “You’re making progress.”
	“It just won’t burn,” Stanley fretted.  “I’ve tried and tried, and 
all I get is a few sparks.”
	“Maybe the kindling isn’t small enough,” Gonzo said.  “You’ve got to 
start with the littlest stuff first.”
	“I’m just useless.  I don’t know anything practical.  I don’t know 
anything but doctor stuff,” Stanley started to turn away, and Gonzo had to 
keep a hold of him.  
	“Stan, why don’t you let me try feeling the tinder and the kindling, 
to see if it’s small enough.  That way you’ll know you’re doing it right,” 
Gonzo suggested.
	“I just don’t know anything about it,” Stanley said again, but Gonzo 
could hear and feel him gathering up bits and pieces for Gonzo to touch.  
	Gonzo tugged off his mittens and held out his hands, and Stanley 
poured a handful of torn up rags into them.  “This is the tinder.”
	“Right,” Gonzo said, but he had almost forgotten the fire.  When 
Stanley’s hands had brushed his, they had been dry.  Dry and hot.  Far too 
warm, in fact, for a man who had been trying to light a fire barehanded 
for twenty minutes in 25 degree weather.  Gonzo thought about trying to 
feel Stanley’s forehead, but decided against it.  Stanley feverish was 
bad.  Stanley trying to cope with the possibility of a subcranial hematoma 
might be worse.  It wasn’t the best idea in the world to try to reason 
with someone who was starting to bleed into the brain.
	“Is it small enough?” Stan asked.
	“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine.  Stick it onto the fire and see if that 
helps.” Gonzo said.
	Stan took the rags, and Gonzo thought he detected more clumsiness 
from the right hand than the left.  Hemiplegia would be another really bad 
sign, but Gonzo wasn’t sure how to test for it.  His mind raced 
frantically as he tried to think through his options.  He couldn’t leave 
Stanley here and try to go for help, even without the mountain lion, he’d 
be risking letting Stanley slip into a coma.  And he couldn’t send Stanley 
on alone -- Stanley wouldn’t go.  If they tried to go on together, he’d be 
putting more stress on Stan’s injuries, not to mention his own.  If they 
stayed here and holed up, waiting for rescue they’d be stressed too, and 
it might take a lot longer for Trapper to come looking here than it would 
take to walk out.  Gonzo flipped a mental coin.
	“Stan?”
	“Hmm? It’s just sitting there, Gates.”
	“No, I was just wondering if you felt up to walking some more.  The 
fire’s not working.  We should just get out of here before the lion comes 
back.”
	“I guess,” Stanley didn’t sound enthusiastic, but he didn’t protest 
either.  “If you say so.”
	“Give me a hand up then,” Gonzo said, holding up his hands.
	Stanley stood, very carefully, and took Gonzo’s hands in his own, 
pulling harder with his left when his right didn’t seem to get a very good 
grip.  “Your hands are cold.”
	“I’ll put my gloves back on,” Gonzo said, unhappy at the 
confirmation of his diagnosis.  He did so and then turned so that Stan 
could hold onto his shoulders from the back.  “Just steer me onto the 
road, and keep me out of the trees.  I’ll do the rest, okay, Stan?”
	“Okay.” Stan tried not to lean too much onto Gonzo; Gonzo was hurt 
after all; and they started along the road.
	Behind them, the embers which had been blocked from the wind by 
Gonzo and Stanley’s own bodies, freshened and glowed as the breeze reached 
them, and a tiny tongue of flame touched the shredded underwear that 
Stanley had dropped over the twigs.
	
	“They could have come into the area half a dozen ways,” Trapper 
concluded.  “Can’t we try to get a chopper up, now?”
	“Might be our best bet.  Ray’s got a license, and he can get access 
to the chopper they keep at district within an hour.  Let me give him a 
quick buzz.” Mike went over to the radio and flipped a switch on the 
microphone.  “Mendocino South to Mendocino North, over.”
	There was a short pause, and then the speaker crackled.  “Mendocino 
North here.  What’s up, Mike?”
	“Can you pop over to district and grab the whirlybird for a quick 
looksee at the roads coming into the forest? We’ve got a jeep gone missing 
and two doctors in it.”
	“This the fellows you’ve been beating the bushes for all day?”
	“Yep.  Last known position was Santa Clara at 6:30 p.m.  The driver 
knows the area though, and might have tried coming in on one of the 
campground roads.  I’m going to go down and look, but it would be faster 
if you got the bird.”
	“Sure, I can grab it.  Say again, your party is missing since 6:30 
Papa Mike yesterday?”
	“That is correct.” Houlihan looked over to Trapper and shrugged.
	There was a short silence, and then Ray came back on the air.  “Any 
chance your party might try to take the pass road if the gate was open?”
	“Stand by.” The ranger turned to Trapper.  “Would Gates take a road 
that he knows is usually closed in winter if he saw that the gate was 
open?”
	“How many miles would it save?” Trapper asked, after a moment of 
thought.
	“Forty three,” Houlihan answered.
	Trapper tried to imagine himself in Gonzo’s shoes, knowing that the 
jeep was in good shape, and seeing a barrier he expected to face fall 
away; and being tired into the bargain.  “It’s possible.  Likely, even.  
Why?”
	Mike didn’t take the time to answer him.  “Ray, that’s a yes.  Was 
the gate open?”
	“Roger.  And the sign hasn’t been replaced yet.  I’m still working 
on the new one.  Those damn vandals...”
	“Well if they broke down on the pass, we’ll just take the 
snowmobiles up and get them,” Mike said, reasonably.
	“Haven’t you been outside yet this morning, yet, Mike?”
	“Negative.  What’s wrong, Ray?”
	“The pass slid last night.  That whole big cirque went and it took 
out a hell of a lot of trees and road with it.  If your parties were on 
the pass last night they’re probably under half a damn mountain’s worth of 
snow.”
	
	“Hang onto me, Stan!” Gonzo repeated.  “Don’t just keep stopping 
like that.”
	“I’m trying,” Stanley said, in a petulant tone.  “It’s hard.  And my 
feet hurt.”
	Gonzo stopped pushing forward and turned to feel for Stanley.  The 
other man was a couple of feet back, and Gonzo could feel him swaying 
uncertainly.  Gonzo found his hand and tried leading him forward, and that 
seemed to work.  “Come on, it’s just a little further.  We’ll find Trapper 
and he’ll take care of everything.  Maybe your dad will come back from New 
Zealand, too.”
	Stanley made a little snorting sound, “Not likely.  He wouldn’t even 
come back if I were dead.  Just tell ‘em to pop me into the freezer ‘til 
it was more convenient.” Gonzo didn’t have to see to know that Stanley was 
pouting.  “He wouldn’t have to tell any of his friends.  They don’t even 
know I exist.  And he wouldn’t have to tell any of my friends ‘cause I 
don’t have any.”
	“That’s not true, Stan,” Gonzo protested.
	“But if I’m dead then you’re dead and then John won’t like me 
anyway,” Stanley concluded with the skewed logic of delirium.  “So no more 
friends.  Poof! All gone.”
	“You’ve got more friends than that,” Gonzo said.  “What about Gloria 
and Ernie and Jackpot? They like you.”
	“They do?” Stanley was surprised.  “I thought they thought that I’m 
an overbearing pompous jerk.”
	Gonzo shook his head. “You always surprise me, Stan.  Why would you 
think that?”
	“‘Cause I am one,” Stanley said as if it were perfectly reasonable.  
“I’m a supervisor.  Supervisors are like that.  Arnold’s a pompous jerk 
too, sometimes.  He’s always asking me to do stuff that nobody else wants 
to do.”
	“So why do you do it?” Gonzo asked.
	“Well, somebody’s got to.  And everybody else is doing important 
stuff.  I’m jus’ playing doctor.” The last two words came out in a 
sneering tone that Gonzo strongly suspected echoed Riverside Senior’s 
comments to his son, and Gonzo suddenly wanted to get a planet ticket to 
New Zealand so he could go and kick the man.
	He stopped and turned to face Stanley, remembering not to give in to 
the urge to shake him, and said, “Stanley Riverside, I want you to hear 
something, and I want you to remember it.  You are a damn fine doctor.  
Did you hear me? You’re not a play doctor, you’re a real doctor, and you 
have saved a lot of lives.  Including mine.  And if your father can’t 
figure that out, then he’s a fool.  Any other father on the planet would 
be proud of you.  Heck, I’m proud of you, sometimes, just because we work 
at the same hospital.  Trapper is too.”
	“But Trapper likes surgeons best,” Stanley said confusedly.  “He’s 
proud of you.”
	“He can be proud of more than one person at a time,” Gonzo said.  
“Trapper cares about you, Stan.  It would hurt him like hell to lose you.  
Now come on.  Let’s go find him.”
	“All right,” Stanley said, but instead of moving forward he quietly 
collapsed.
	“Stan!” Gonzo pulled off the ski mask and the bandages, trying to 
see what was wrong.  It was a mistake.  He couldn’t see anything more than 
light and glare and a vague dark blur that was Stan sprawled across the 
snow, and opening his eyes cracked another blister and sent fluid stinging 
across the cornea of his left eye.  He held the heels of his hands a 
couple of inches away from his re-closed eyes and swore brokenly while he 
waited for the pain to subside enough for thought.
	
	“Avalanche rods, snowshoes, emergency medical kit, sleeping bags, 2 
Stokes stretchers, rope and climbing gear, headlamps, helmets, ice picks, 
crampons, primus stove, water, food, and you’ve got on your long underwear 
and heavy boots, right?” Houlihan looked up from the pile of gear he had 
assembled on the living room floor, strapped neatly into the Stokes 
stretchers -- light aluminum stretchers designed for mountain rescue.  “We 
may be up there into the night.”
	“I’m ready,” Trapper said grimly.
	“Ray’s going to take the chopper to check the other roads into the 
park, but the pass road is ours.  It’ll take an hour for district to get 
anyone else up here, so we’ll do the initial survey.  Here, attach this to 
your coat, and when we get up to the avalanche area, all you’ll have to do 
is string it out behind you.”
	Trapper looked at the long orange nylon ribbon with mixed emotions.  
If only Stanley and Gonzo had avalanche cords, the odds of finding them 
before the spring thaw would be....  He killed the thought.  Time enough 
to give up when they had made the effort first.
	Houlihan took the front end of the stacked stretchers and Trapper 
caught a hold of the back.  “Are we taking the snowmobiles?”
	“Yes, the Jimmy would never make it if we have to go up where the 
avalanche has crossed the road.” Houlihan answered.  He set a course 
straight for the shed, but Trapper, following behind, looked over his 
shoulder at the mountain.  And stopped.
	“Mike, Mike, look! Isn’t that smoke?” The thin gray wisp rising from 
the trees was too low to be mist or fog, not on a cloudless day like this 
one.
	Mike stopped too and looked, and his face showed surprise for one 
unguarded moment.  “Yes! Yes, please God, this may be a rescue after all.  
Come on, Trapper!”
	They ran for the shed, and got out the snowmobile that Houlihan had 
put away last night.  The other mobile was still in the back of the Jimmy, 
and it took a frustrating five minutes to place the ramps and work it free 
and refuel it.  Trapper was ready to climb on, but Mike explained that 
they needed to add towed sleds behind the snowmobiles, in case they had to 
try to bring back stretchers.
 "Just because they've managed to start a fire going, doesn't mean they're 
in good shape," he warned.
 	"I know, I know," Trapper growled.  "I was in Korea, I know how bad 
cold injuries can get and I've kept up with the research.  I just wish I 
knew how long that fire's been burning while we've been sitting inside 
like a couple of lumps on a log."
 	Mike shook his head, "Yeah, I know.  Put that hook down and wrap the 
wire and we're set.  Have you ever gone fast over new snow on one of these 
things?"
 	"Yes."
 	"Good." Mike climbed aboard the lead 'mobile and gunned the engine.  
"Honk if you want me to slow down!" he shouted over his shoulder as he 
pulled his goggles into place.
 	"Not bloody likely!" Trapper shouted back, getting his own engine 
started.
 	They peeled out of the yard, taking the hard packed snow of the road 
like a race track, and pushing the snowmobiles to top speed while the 
engines were still complaining about being run cold.  A couple of miles up 
the road Mike turned off and went around a locked rail gate and paused to 
take another look for the smoke.
 	Trapper pulled up alongside him.  "What's up?"
 	"Trying to figure whether to bushwhack straight for the smoke or go 
by the road.  Faster to bushwhack, but safer by the road." Mike said.
 	Trapper weighed his impatience against his good sense.  "The road."
 	"Right." 
 	A mile.  Two miles.  Trapper was beginning to wish they'd cut cross-
country when Mike suddenly pulled up to a halt.  The question on Trapper's 
lips died when he pulled up alongside.  There were footprints in the snow, 
coming in a wobbly line down the road and then wandering off of the road 
into a meadow.  Trapper followed the line of tracks across the open space 
and his heart jumped into his throat when he saw a patch of bright blue 
and a patch of green on the ground near the edge of the trees.  He pointed 
and Mike nodded.  In a minute, the snowmobiles had carried them across the 
expanse.
 	For Gonzo, the growling of the motors sounded at first like the 
growling of a big cat, and he pulled himself up to a sitting position and 
tried to protect Stanley's inert form with his own body and hung on, 
waiting for the claws and teeth to strike.  
Trapper, seeing Gonzo curled protectively over Stan, felt a wave of 
adrenaline wash over him.  He could see Gonzo moving at least, but there 
was blood on the snow.  He cut off the engine of the snowmobile and jumped 
into the knee-deep snow, wading quickly over and putting a hand on Gonzo's 
shoulder.  "Gonzo! Gonzo! Are you all right?"
 	"Trapper?" Gonzo did look up then, with a face that looked like raw 
hamburger from the nose up.  "Look out for the lion."
 	"Lion?" Mike, who had gotten to them by then, repeated.  "You ran 
into the lion?"
 	"Stanley chased it away," Gonzo said, peering through eyes that were 
inflamed and half closed by swelling.  "Who's that?"
	"It's Mike Houlihan," Trapper said.  "What's wrong with Stan, 
Gonzo?"
 	"He hit his head." Gonzo reached out and Trapper took his hand, 
"You're really here."
	“Yeah, we’re really here,” Trapper reassured him, trying to gauge 
the damage to Gonzo’s face and eyes.  It looked frightening, but he 
couldn’t see any deep damage on the skin.
	“Just don’t faint on us yet,” Mike said sternly.  
	“I’m not going to faint,” he protested, although he was standing at 
an angle.  “Trapper, Stan’s got a fever.  And he kept saying his feet were 
cold, but just before he passed out he said they hurt.  His right side is 
weaker than the left, and he was really talking wild.  He said his father 
didn’t care enough about him to come back for the funeral.  I think he hit 
his head the first time last night, but he didn’t tell me about it till a 
couple of hours ago, and ever since then he’s been getting worse fast.  He 
went into convulsions after he passed out.  It’s probably a subdural 
hematoma.  I did what I could, but I can’t see well enough to tell if I 
did it right.  I might have just made things worse.”
	“Okay, Gonzo.  Now I’ll take a look at Stanley, and you give Mike 
here a chance to assess you.”
	“Right,” Mike said.  ““Here, let me give you a look see while 
Trapper takes a look at your buddy, there.” He took Gonzo’s hand from 
Trapper and pulled the man to his feet to half-walk, half-carry him over 
to the snowmobiles, “Now, tell me what happened, and what you can see.”
	“I got burned when the engine blew up,” Gonzo said, as if that were 
an explanation.  “Stanley poured all the beer over them, but my eyes still 
aren’t working right.  I can only see blurs of light and darkness, and it 
hurts to open them.”
	Trapper kept half an ear on Mike and Gonzo, but found himself 
pleasantly surprised by the ranger’s expertise -- it let him concentrate 
on Stanley.  And he wasn’t happy with what he found.  Stanley was 
awkwardly spasmed, his muscles taut on one side, and his breathing was 
harsh in his throat.  His pulse was thready, his wrist fever hot, and 
there were signs of frost nip on his hands.  Trapper peeled off the parka 
hood and the effluvium of blood hit his nose and throat like a slap in the 
face.  Gonzo had stuffed his shirt into the hood; it was soaked in blood, 
and under the coat, Stanley’s hair was sticky where his scalp had been cut 
open and Gonzo had tried to cut a burr hole through his skull with an 
inadequate tool.  The blood was still flowing.  “Mike.”
	“Yeah?” Mike was just putting the finishing touches on bandaging 
Gonzo’s face.
	“Can we get a chopper in here? One rigged for stretchers? “
	“Sure, the chopper Ray’s heating up is rigged for stretchers.  Let 
me give district a buzz.” Mike unlimbered the radio from the pouch on his 
belt.  “Houlihan to district.”
	“District.  Go ahead, Houlihan.”
	“We’ve found ‘em, district, alive but injured.  Tell Ray to come to 
the meadow on bend three of the South Pass road, ready to fly 
for...standby district.” He let up the key and asked Trapper, “Do you want 
to go to your hospital or to something nearer?”
	“How long to San Francisco?”
	“Forty minutes to an hour,” Mike estimated.
	Trapper shook his head.  “No good.  How long to the clinic in 
Willows?”
	“Ten minutes, tops.”
	“Make it Willows,” Trapper said.
	Mike nodded and keyed the radio again.  “District, advise Ray we 
will need to fly to Willows Clinic.  And tell Willows we’re bringing in a 
chemical burn case and a severe head injury.  We’re still assessing cold 
damage.”
	“Roger,” District said.  “Be advised Ray says the chopper will be 
there in 12 to 18 minutes.  Get ‘em bagged and you can fly right out.”
	“Understood.”
	“Can I get a phone patch on that thing?” Trapper asked, finding a 
dressing for Stan’s head in the first aid kit.
	“Sure.” Mike handed him the handset.  “I’ll wrap up his head.”
	“Not too tightly.  Pressure on the brain would be bad.” Trapper 
handed over the dressing and made himself concentrate on the radio.  
“District, this is Dr. McIntyre.  Can you get me a phone patch to San 
Francisco Memorial Hospital? I need to speak to Arnold Slocum.” He gave 
them the number and waited.
	“No problem, Doctor.  Just stand by one.” After a long minute, the 
radio crackled.  “All right, Mr. Slocum, go ahead.”
	“Trapper? Trapper, what’s going on? Are they all right?” Arnold 
sounded like he was worried, but his obtuseness lit the ragged end of 
Trapper’s fuse.
	“No, Arnold, they are not all right,” he growled.  “They had a damn 
mountain fall on them.  Now write this down.  I want you to get a chopper 
in the air, stat.  On that chopper you will have a neurosurgeon and at 
least six units of whole blood, Stanley’s type.  I think it’s O-neg, but 
the lab will know, he donates often enough.  Tell the neuro to bring 
whatever they need to handle a subdural or epidural hematoma, and plenty 
of sutures because I went through every damn inch of silk up here last 
night.  If you can find an ophthalmological specialist throw him on board 
too, and tell him chemical burns, but the priority is the neurosurgeon.  
Send ‘em to the clinic in Willows.  I’ll have started the craniotomy by 
the time they get there.”
	“Can’t you just fly back here?” Arnold asked.
	“Stanley would be dead by then,” Trapper said flatly.  “Gonzo’s eyes 
can wait, but I’m not sure the hypothermia can.  Just do it, Arnold.”
	“Let me make sure I’ve got it right,” Arnold conceded.  “Chopper, 
neuro, ready for subdural or epidural hematoma, six units Stanley’s type, 
opto ready for chemical burns.  Send them to Willows clinic, stat.  
Anything else?”
	“An EEG.  I don’t remember seeing one up here.”
	“Got it.” Arnold might fuss sometimes, but he could be direct when 
circumstances required it.  “Call me when you get the chance.”
	There was a click, and District came back on the air.  “Any more 
calls, Dr. McIntyre?”
	“Not right now.  How soon for that chopper?”
	“He just lifted off.  District out.”
	“Is he that bad?” Gonzo, who had been listening from his position 
near the snowmobile, asked.  “He was walking just a little while ago.” The 
alarm in his voice was grating.  “I thought I got to him in time!”
	“I can’t tell without getting in there,” Trapper said.  “He’s still 
bleeding like a stuck pig.  No, don’t try to get up,” he added when Gonzo 
tried to do just that.  “You’ll only get in the way.  Mike and I can 
handle it.”
	“Right,” Gonzo managed to get out, but Trapper had already gone to 
get the stretchers from the towed sled.  Gonzo stayed put, but he listened 
anxiously as Trapper and Houlihan maneuvered Stanley into the sleeping bag 
and the stretcher.  It wasn’t right! Stanley’s condition had deteriorated 
so quickly! Gonzo knew that head wounds had a way of going sour suddenly, 
and he had been forcing Stanley to exert himself, but it just wasn’t fair 
for Stanley to be so desperately endangered when rescue was so close.  
Especially after Gonzo had taken the Swiss army knife to ...  Gonzo 
crossed his fingers.  “Come on, Stanley.  You made it this far, just hang 
on a little longer.” 
	With Stanley tucked into the warm bag and his head braced against 
bumping, Trapper and Houlihan turned their attention to Gonzo.  
	He was crying.
	Trapper, surprised, looked at Mike to see if he knew what was wrong, 
and Mike gave a little shake of his head and said, “It’s okay,” in a very 
low voice.  “We see this in rescue work all the time.  People hold 
themselves together for days and then fall apart the minute they can let 
someone else take over.  It’s pretty normal.  Don’t give him a hard time, 
just talk to him normally so he has a reason to pull himself back 
together.”
	“Right.” Trapper got the second sleeping bag and advanced on his 
protege.  “All right, Gonzo, your turn.  We’ve got to bundle you up for 
the chopper ride.  Mike tells me that they’ve got stretcher rigs, but 
they’re on the outside, and you’ll need the protection.” 
	Gonzo’s shoulders shook all the harder.  “Did I kill him, Trapper?”
	Trapper took a deep breath, making himself sound calm, “No, Gonzo.  
You didn’t hurt him.  He’ll be all right.  We’ve got him tucked away like 
a caterpillar in a cocoon.  And now it’s your turn.  Just pick up your 
feet a little.” Between them, Trapper and Mike persuaded Gonzo into the 
bag and then picked him up and strapped him into the stretcher bodily.
	They were just finishing tucking the last straps when they heard the 
chopper approaching.  Trapper looked up and found that he still knew how 
to lead the sound with his eyes just right.  For a moment his memory 
overlaid the Forest Service green with army green and he brought up his 
hand to shield his eyes from the down blast of the rotors the way he 
remembered doing it years before.  At least this time he wasn’t going to 
have to operate in a tent, but he suddenly wished he had Dago Red around 
to put in a fix.
 	“I’m getting too old for this,” he told himself under the rattle of 
the slowing blades as the helicopter settled near the middle of the 
meadow.  But he took one end of Gonzo’s stretcher while Mike grabbed the 
other and they plunged quickly through the snow to the stretcher rack.
	The pilot unfolded himself from the doorway and waved them off while 
he secured the first stretcher.  Trapper ran back for Stanley, and Mike 
followed.  While they were still adjusting their grips on the cold metal 
of the stretcher, Mike said, “You can ride in with Ray.  I’ve got to go 
check on that smoke, and get the snowmobiles under cover for the night, 
but I’ll come down to Willows later.”
	“Right,” Trapper acknowledged as they made the bent over run.  They 
got the stretcher to the second rack and Ray appeared to help fasten it 
down.  Trapper and Mike, momentarily extraneous, stepped back, and Trapper 
stuck out a hand.  “Thanks!”
	“Just take good care of them.  And next time I’ll invite you all up 
in the summertime!” Mike shook his hand and then darted away from the 
chopper, back to the snowmobiles while Trapper climbed into the passenger 
seat.  
	Ray, satisfied that both stretchers were secure, folded himself back 
into the pilot’s seat and waved an upraised thumb at Mike, who waved back 
at the chopper and crouched down behind the snowmobile for protection from 
the wind.  Trapper was still getting his own harness fastened when the 
engine whined and the chopper lifted off.
	For Gonzo, swaddled and strapped down, the trip had a nightmarish 
quality that he would never quite forget.  His face burned under the new 
bandages and he could feel his pulse pounding wherever the straps were 
tight.  The engine roar reminded him all too clearly of the sound of the 
avalanche coming down, and he wanted more than anything to be able to pull 
his arms clear of the straps and cover his head against the darkness and 
the noise and the tug of the wind against his body.  His mind had divided 
itself into parts, like a chorus whose members had all decided to sing 
different solos, and he remembered Nam, slid down the mountain on plastic 
again, and relived the nightmare of trying to punch a hole through 
Stanley’s skull by touch with nothing to work with but a Swiss army knife.  
And yet, all the while one corner of his mind was celebrating because 
Trapper had come and found them, just as Gonzo knew he would.
	Trapper, who had ten minutes to remember everything he could about 
concussions, subdural hematomas and the surgical procedure for relieving 
bleeding against the brain, found himself contemplating an unacceptable 
future.  If Gonzo’s eyes didn’t heal, he’d never be able to work as a 
surgeon again.  If Stanley died...  Trapper shook off that image.  Stanley 
wasn’t going to die, Trapper told himself.  Not if Trapper’s skill and 
strength had anything to do with it.  The real threat was brain damage, 
and all the complications that involved.  Paralysis, aphasia, memory loss; 
even with therapy, most of the possibilities would leave Stanley too 
uncertain of his decision making abilities to stay in Emergency medicine, 
and some would leave him unable to practice medicine regardless.  Trapper 
tried to think of what Stanley would do if he couldn’t be a doctor, and 
realized that all of Stanley’s best qualities were tied so tightly to his 
identity as a doctor that what would be left was nothing but a shell.  
	Trapper took a deep breath and looked at his own hands, remembering 
other surgeries he had done, successful surgeries, and made himself calm 
down.  Think about the bones, the blood, and the brain, not the patient, 
if you want steady hands.  The posterior cranium is composed of ...  And 
the chopper blades pounded in his ears like the vanguard of a nightmare 
army, reminding him of all the times when skill and strength had not been 
enough.  ...beneath which lie the menenges, the best known of which is the 
dura mater...
	Ray tapped his knee and signaled him to look out, and Trapper 
realized that they were coming into a landing in the parking lot at 
Willows.  The clinic was three blocks down the road, but the lot there was 
too small.  He could see Terry and Steve from the night before, standing 
next to a tall, white-haired man that he didn’t recognize, and a handful 
of high school kids clustered behind them.  Across the way, a county 
deputy was riding herd on a passel of smaller kids, and Trapper could see 
adults peering out through windows to see what was happening.  As soon as 
the chopper touched down, the white-haired man led his contingent over, 
stooping under the swirling blades like an old hand.
	Ray tapped Trapper’s shoulder before he got out.  “I’ve got to go 
back up to base,” he shouted over the engine.  “There’s just enough 
daylight and word is more snow before midnight.  Take good care of ‘em, 
and tell Mike to let me know what happens, okay?”
	“Okay,” Trapper agreed readily, and shook the pilot’s hand.  “Thanks 
for the lift.”
	“Anytime!”
	The high school kids appeared to be the stretcher-bearers for the 
hike up to the clinic, and to judge by the way they took position while 
Terry and Steve undid the hookups, they had practiced this before.  By the 
time Trapper had clambered out of the chopper, they were already on the 
way, with Terry riding herd on Stanley’s stretcher while Steve strode 
along next to the team bearing Gonzo.  The white-haired man had waited to 
shake Trapper’s hand and lead him out of the way as the chopper lifted 
off.
	“I’m Doc Elliott,” he said, when the noise had abated a little.  
“Jim.” He was younger than Trapper had thought from the hair, late forties 
at most, with a long craggy face and a ready grin.  “You must be John 
McIntyre.  Terry’s been telling me about you.” They followed along in the 
wake of the stretchers and Trapper found himself working to keep up.
	“Trapper,” he said, introducing himself briefly.  “Is there any 
chance you’ve got surgical experience? I’ve only had two hours sleep in 
the past 36 and I could use some back up for some skull burrs and a 
craniotomy.”
	“I’m not primarily a surgeon,” Elliott said, “but out here there 
isn’t always time to wait for the experts and I’ve done half a dozen of 
the things.  Successfully, too, which is what counts.”
	Trapper relaxed a little bit.  Dr. Elliott had both the confidence 
and experience that he wanted the most in a case like this, and it made 
Stanley’s prospects a lot brighter.  “Glad to hear it.  I’ve done a lot of 
them over the years, but lately that’s the sort of thing we have a staff 
neurosurgeon to deal with.  So don’t be shy about speaking up.  Especially 
if you know anything about cold injury complications.”
	Elliott grinned, “In that area I’ve had more practice than I want.  
We’ve got the tubs running already.  But I understand you’ve got another 
surgeon on the way up from town.”
	“Hopefully,” Trapper said.  “But the sooner we get in there, the 
better Stan’s chances.”
	The stretcher-bearers had reached the clinic and turned inside, and 
Trapper was grateful to follow them into the warmth.  Terry and Steve had 
been joined by another, rather elderly, nurse and a young scarecrow of a 
man with a stiff new EMT badge on his sweater, and the four of them were 
working in teams to begin unwrapping Stanley and Gonzo.  The high school 
kids began filing out, and Doc stopped the tallest girl on the way out.  
“Get some cars lined up around the parking lot with their lights on, will 
you, Jenny? There’s another chopper coming; no patients this time, but 
probably a doctor and some equipment to bring up the hill, and I’d like 
them to land safely.”
	“We’ve got you covered, Doc.  Just let us know what happens,” the 
girl said, and waved her compatriots out the door.  
	“I will,” Doc promised, closing the door behind them.  He turned and 
started stripping off gloves and coat.  “Dr. McIntyre, this is Mollie, and 
that one over there is Gary.  He just finished his EMT course last week, 
top of the class, and Mollie’s been taking care of folks up here since 
1945, so we’ve got both education and experience on our side.”
	“I’m Trapper,” he said, “and these are Gonzo Gates and Stanley 
Riverside,” he waved a hand to indicate which was which.  “They started up 
here last night and got caught by an avalanche up on Mendocino pass, 
probably a little after nine o’clock.  How they got out from under it, I 
don’t know.  Gonzo told us that his face got burned by a car engine 
explosion, and Stanley’s got a subdural or epidural hematoma which has 
been worsening rapidly over the course of the past hour or so.  There are 
probably other injuries as well, so keep an eye open as you go.  You 
should also remember that both of them are doctors, so be careful what you 
discuss when they can hear you.  I need vitals, a CBC, and urinalysis on 
both of them, and a skull series on Stan.  I’m going to do a craniotomy, 
by which time, with any luck, a neurosurgeon from San Francisco Memorial 
ought to be arriving to do the tricky part.”
	“We can get things started, all right, except we’ll have to go with 
plasma instead of whole blood,” Doc Elliott said.  “Your glasses are back 
in the washroom, still.  And there are spare sets of whites back there, if 
you want to get warmed up with a quick shower.  It’ll take us at least 
five minutes to get his head shaved and the x-rays ready, and it might 
help you feel more awake.”
	“True,” Trapper said, although he found himself reluctant to leave 
Gonzo and Stanley to strangers.  “Yell if you need me faster.”
	By the time Trapper had cleaned up and got back, Gonzo was soaking 
in a long shallow tub with a backboard supporting his head and shoulders 
above the water.  He had a thermometer stuck in his mouth and a small 
towel covering what modesty required, but that was all except for light 
bandaging and Trapper had a clear view of the pattern of the bruises and 
scrapes that covered him from head to foot.
	“Hell, he does look like a mountain fell on him,” Trapper exclaimed.  
	“Looks to me like he fell off a mountain,” Mollie said, from her 
position at Gonzo’s head, monitoring his temperature as she gradually 
warmed the water.  “It’s the other one looks like the mountain fell on 
him.  They’ve got him down the hall getting some x-rays of his skull for 
you to work from,” she added, indicating the direction with a nod of her 
head.
	Gonzo made a sound of protest around the thermometer and Trapper 
caught back his impatience and stopped by the tub to talk to the injured 
man.  “What is it, Gonzo?” he asked, nodding to Mollie to take the 
thermometer out for a minute.
	“Where are we?”
	“A town called Willows.  I’m going to operate on Stan, and you’re 
going to cooperate and keep quiet until an ophthalmologist can get here 
and check your eyes.” Trapper patted his shoulder where it wasn’t quite as 
bruised.  He’d have to finish scrubbing before he started on Stan anyway.  
“And if you don’t cooperate I’ll have Mollie here give you something to 
take your mind off things.”
	“I can’t keep it on anything anyway,” Gonzo said.  “I feel awful, 
Trapper.  My face is going to fall off and I wish it would hurry up and do 
it.”
	In this light, the blisters and broken blisters on Gonzo’s face 
didn’t look any better than they had on the mountain.  Trapper reviewed 
the different painkillers in his head.  “Mollie, have you got any 
percocet?”
	“We certainly do.  Half a pill to start with?”
“Yes, and if it hasn’t helped in an hour, give him the rest of it 
unless the ophthalmologist has gotten here and says not to.”
	“Yes, Doctor,” Mollie said and pulled out the key to the dispensary.  
While she went to get the pill, Trapper stayed with Gonzo to keep an eye 
on him.
	“That’ll help,” Gonzo said.  “Percocet will help.” Then, as if the 
topic had reminded him, he said, “Trapper, I think Stanley took some 
acetaminophen, but I don’t know for sure.  He had a headache.”
	“Do you remember when, Gonzo?”
	“Feels like days ago.  At least three hours, though.  It was before 
we tried to slide down the mountain.”
	“You tried to slide down the mountain? Whose bright idea was that?” 
Trapper could hardly believe his ears.
	“It was sort of mutual,” Gonzo said.  “It was taking such a long 
time to walk down, and I knew you wouldn’t be looking in the right place.  
We tried to make it out on our own.  We really tried.”
	“I know you tried,” Trapper said, wishing that Mollie would hurry up 
with the percocet.  He was too tired to be soothing for very long.  Right 
now he just wanted to take Gonzo by the shoulders and shake some sense 
into him.  “You just about made it too.  Only about three miles to go.”
	“We tried,” Gonzo repeated.  “And Stanley, he just kept going and 
going.  He didn’t tell me he was hurt, Trapper.  He just kept on trying to 
get me to you.  We really tried.” Gonzo was beginning to shake with 
reaction, and Trapper looked around for a sheet or something to cover him 
when he heard the outer door of the clinic opening.
	“Back here!” he called, hoping it was the neuro.  
	“John?” came Ernie’s voice.
	Trapper took the three long strides that brought him to the doorway 
and found Ernie standing in the entrance hall, still holding her purse in 
her hand.  “Ernie? What are you doing here? I thought you were in 
Sacramento!”
	“I had a feeling...” she said uncertainly, her dark eyes wide with 
worry.  “I just thought I should come.  And that deputy told me that they 
brought two patients in by helicopter a few minutes ago.  Are they badly 
hurt?”
	“Bad enough,” Trapper started to say, but he glanced over his 
shoulder and saw that Gonzo was trying to lever himself out of the tub.  
“Gonzo, you idiot!” he roared, “Hold still!”
	Ernie unbuttoned her coat hastily as she followed Trapper into the 
treatment room.  Between them, they got Gonzo settled back into the water.  
Mollie had come too, at the sound of Trapper’s shout, and she nodded 
approval as Ernie coaxed Gonzo into accepting the thermometer again.
	“Friend of yours?” she asked Trapper.
	“Mollie, this is Ernie Shoop.  She’s the best scrub nurse in San 
Francisco.” Trapper said, unable to keep the relief of having Ernie around 
to help out of his voice.  “Ernie this is Mollie.”
	“Mahoney.” Mollie pulled a sheet from the cabinet and handed it to 
Ernie and they began to spread it over Gonzo like they had worked together 
for years.  “Fort Dix, 53-54.  And I was at the 5063rd while the pair of 
you were at the double Natural.  I thought I remembered the name McIntyre 
from that football game, but I couldn’t be sure.” 
	“Old home week,” Ernie said.  “No, Gonzo, honey, don’t try to use 
that hand, it’s coming up blisters.”
	“The only thing we need now is for Hawkeye Pierce or Father Mulcahy 
to turn up,” Trapper said.  “His feet are blistering too.”
	“Blisters are good,” Mollie said, “they mean the frostbite didn’t go 
very deep.”
	“Trapper?” Terry leaned in the door.  “We need you.  He’s 
convulsing.”
	Trapper wanted to kick himself for getting distracted by Gonzo and 
Ernie, but settled for swearing.  “On my way.  Ernie, get scrubbed! I’m 
going to need you in there.”
	Ernie watched Trapper vanish down the short hallway, and made 
herself stay outwardly calm as she stripped off coat and sweater and 
deposited them in a corner.  “What happened to Stanley?”
	“Head injury,” Mollie said shortly.  “The sinks are to your left, 
and there are clean whites in the ladies lounge, if you want them.”
	“Thank you,” Ernie started to go and then paused.  “Mollie, is there 
a priest in this town?”

	Trapper had made the incision, and was fussing with a primitive 
drill when Ernie got into the room that they were using as an operating 
theater.  She paused a moment to settle her stomach.  They had propped 
Stanley on his stomach, with his torso supported by a thick layer of 
blankets while his feet and hands trailed in pans of water.  Trapper and 
Dr. Elliott were working at Stanley’s head, while Terry passed instruments 
and Gary carefully worked on the frost-damaged extremities and renewed the 
hot water bottles that were bringing Stanley’s core temperature back up to 
something reasonable, and Steve sat working the anesthesia.
	Ernie made her way to Terry.  “Where do you want me?”
	“Here,” Terry gave her the tray.  “You pass the silverware while I 
work with Gary.  It’ll help if we can get his temperature stabilized.”
	“Right.” Ernie took up her position.  It was her first chance to get 
a good look at the damage, and she was appalled.  Stanley’s face was puffy 
with fluid and he had the ‘raccoon mask’ of bruising that indicated 
serious cerebral hemorrhaging.  Most of the back of his head was purple 
with subcutaneous bleeding as well, and past Trapper’s shoulder she could 
see the jagged edges of a hole right through the bone.  The x-rays on the 
light box weren’t reassuring, except in that there was no sign of whatever 
had pierced the skull.  The blood coming out was dark and viscous.  Ernie 
guessed that Stanley could have been bleeding into the brain since last 
night and her heart sank.  This was not good.
	“Shit!” Trapper exclaimed, pulling away the drill as another 
fountain of blood started up.  “Suction!”
	“I’ve got it,” Dr. Elliott said.
	“John, wait,” Ernie said, as Trapper tried to start the next burr 
before the blood was cleared away.  “You’re tired and you’re rushing 
things and that’s not going to help.”
Trapper glared at her over his glasses, “He’s short on time.”
	She made herself look calmly back.  “Which is why he can’t afford 
for you to make mistakes.  Go more slowly, or let someone else handle the 
drill.”
	“I am more used to its quirks,” Elliott pointed out.
	Trapper made an impatient noise, but his basic pragmatism and 
honesty were stronger than his worry.  “All right.  I’ll handle the 
suction.” He handed the drill to Elliott.  “Three sponges, Ernie.”
 	They worked carefully.  Elliott made a pattern of five burr holes, 
which Trapper connected with cuts so as to lift out a section of bone.  
Blood poured out, some of it bright arterial flow, and Ernie was helping 
Trapper try to find the source of the bleeding when she heard lots of 
voices outside the room.  Terry went out, and returned almost immediately.  
“They’re here!” She had a unit of blood in her hand and she came over to 
hook it to Stanley’s IV.
	“Who’s here?” Ernie asked.
	“I told Slocum to send up a neurosurgeon,” Trapper said, “Clamp.  I 
don’t know which one.”
	“Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Carson 
Whittaker, the beautiful micro vascular surgeon who had so very nearly 
scandalized the entire hospital bureaucracy when it was discovered that 
she had gotten her medical school money by hooking, strode into the room, 
settling the green sterile gown into place and tucking her hair under a 
surgeon’s cap.  “That’s Gonzo out there.”
	“And it’s Stanley in here,” Trapper said.  “Get scrubbed.  Did you 
bring your surgical kit?”
	“The chopper pilot’s got it in the next room, along with the rest of 
the blood.” She spotted the sink and started scrubbing right away.  “If 
someone wouldn’t mind...”
	“I’ll get it.” Gary volunteered, blushing under his mask as he went.  
Carson had that affect on young men, sometimes.
	Ernie let herself breathe a little more easily.  Carson would be 
just starting her shift this time of night, and far more alert than 
Trapper would.  And more blood would make up for all of the stuff that 
Stanley was losing.  
	“So what did happen?” Carson asked as she scrubbed.
	“I don’t know,” Trapper said.  “Not exactly.  We think they got 
caught by an avalanche last night.  Gonzo got burned somehow, and Stanley 
took a hit in the head.  They were trying to walk their way down to the 
cabin when Stanley passed out, and Gonzo tried to do a burr hole blind.” 
So that was why Stanley had had that hole in his skull! Ernie shuddered.  
To do major surgery, on a friend, without being able to see, struck her as 
the worst kind of nightmare.  Trapper went on.  “We brought them here by 
chopper so I could go in and take some of the pressure off his brain.  He 
was convulsing, and his pulse was all over the place.”
	“It’s steadier now,” Steve said.  “And his blood pressure is 
starting to stabilize too.”
	“Well, that’s good anyway,” Carson said.  “I take it you’ve already 
cracked open the skull for me.”
	“I didn’t want to waste any more time than I had to.  There’s 
frostbite and hypothermia to complicate things.” Trapper found held up a 
hand.  “Hemostat.”
	“His temperature has been fluctuating between 93 and 100, but we’ve 
held steady at 97 for about four minutes,” Terry said.
	“Here’s the surgical kit,” Gary said, coming back inside.  “It’s in 
sealed bags, does that mean it’s already sterile?”
	“Yes,” Ernie said.  “Terry, could you take over for me while I get 
it all set up?”
	“Not in these gloves.”
	“I’ll stevedore,” Dr. Elliott said, taking Ernie’s position.  “It’ll 
give me a better view.”
	By the time Ernie had the surgical trays ready, Dr. Whittaker was 
ready to go in.  Trapper ceded her the hot seat with a shudder of relief.  
Ernie caught the involuntary movement and nodded him to one side.  
“Trapper, why don’t you go and see to Gonzo and then get some rest.  
Unless Dr. Whittaker needs you.”
	“Dr. Whittaker needs elbow room,” that worthy said with absent 
concentration.  “It’s not like we can all reach through one two inch wide 
hole at the same time.  Go on, Trapper.  Gonzo sounded like he was 
hurting.”
	“If you’re sure.”
	“You’ve already done the grunt work, let me do what I do best and 
don’t worry about it.  Stanley’s a lot tougher than he thinks he is.”
	Trapper felt like he was being shoved aside, but he was too tired to 
argue, and now that he didn’t actually have his hands full of Stanley’s 
cerebrum, they were shaking.  “All right.” He went down to the other 
treatment room, where Mollie had gotten Gonzo out of the water and onto a 
treatment table, wrapped up in blankets.  The chopper pilot was standing 
in a corner, watching uncertainly while the elderly nurse used a 
hypodermic to drain a blister before she slathered it with some kind of 
clear ointment.
	Trapper watched for a minute too.  “What is that, Mollie?”
	“Aloe,” she said.  “We’ve had good luck with it.”
	Gonzo’s head swung toward the sound of Trapper’s voice.  “Trapper?” 
he said at a pained pitch.  “Can I have more percocet? I keep telling her 
I’m a doctor and I can subscribe it, but she won’t give me any.”
	Trapper took a deep breath and sent out messengers for his wandering 
wits.  “Uh...  Umm.  How much has he had?”
	“The full dose,” Mollie said.  “But frostbite is pretty painful as 
it thaws.  I didn’t want to disturb you in the middle of surgery, though.”
	“I wouldn’t have thanked you.” Trapper tried to remember the limits 
on the drug, but couldn’t make the details come clear.  “Have you got a 
copy of the PDR?”
	“In Doc’s office.” While she went to get it, Trapper looked over to 
the pilot.  “Didn’t Slocum send an ophthalmologist?”
	“He said to tell you that there wasn’t one readily available.  It 
would have meant another thirty minutes.” The pilot shrugged.  “There’s a 
big storm front moving in and I don’t think I could have landed up here 
much later.  Speaking of which, I’ve got to either fly out or start to 
tuck things down within the next ten minutes.  I can stay,” he warned, 
“but if the winds get real high, my bird is likely to get tossed around to 
the point of being pretty damn useless.”
	“Go on home,” Trapper said.  “I’d rather have the chopper in one 
piece in case we need it tomorrow.”
	The pilot left promptly, and Mollie came back with the PDR opened to 
the page on percocet.  Trapper started to read, trying to calculate 
Gonzo’s weight versus the maximum possible dose.  “Another half a pill,” 
he decided.  “And then the last half once you’ve finished treating him so 
he can sleep.” Just mentioning sleep was dangerous.  Trapper tried to 
suppress a yawn and nearly cracked his jaw with the effort.
	“I’ll take care of it,” Mollie said, retrieving the heavy volume and 
steering Trapper into a chair.  “You just supervise.”
	“Right.” Trapper said, letting his eyes close for a minute.  “I’ll 
do that.”


	Trapper curled himself tighter into his parka, trying to keep warm, 
but the wind was getting past canvas and sleeping bag and the parka wasn’t 
much of a defense.  He could hear it howling over the snores from 
Hawkeye’s cot and the cursing from Duke’s, and he wished that someone 
would crank the stove higher.  Where was Ho-Jon? What was the point of 
sending a kid to college when he couldn’t keep the tent warm? Only this 
wasn’t the swamp, it was post-op, because he could hear some nurses 
talking about the patients.  He tried to open his eyes, to find them and 
tell them that it was too cold in here for wounded men, but he couldn’t 
seem to move.  He listened helplessly.
	“...the drainage should ease off in an hour or so.  Keep an eye on 
his blood pressure though.  With any luck he should start to come to any 
minute now.”
	“Come on, honey,” it was Ernie’s voice, and Trapper’s dreams slipped 
on through time.  “Come on.  It’s time to wake up for a little while.”
	Standing in the corridor of San Francisco Memorial, watching as 
Ernie and Stanley worked over Gonzo, administering oxygen and coaxing him 
back from propane gas poisoning, fretting because he would have to hold 
off on a delicate operation.  Trapper waited for Gonzo to wake, but the 
tableau had gone still and distant, and the snow was coming down in hard 
rattling pellets on the tent roof over his head.
	“He’s going to be in a lot of pain,” a voice pointed out.  
“Frostbite can be miserable when it first thaws.  Why not let him sleep?”
	“Because the EEG can’t tell me what I need to know.” That was Carson 
Whittaker.  What was she doing in Korea? Maybe she could help the Peterson 
kid.  Open your eyes, Trapper.  Open your eyes.
	“Come on, Stanley.  Just open your eyes a little.  I need to check 
the pupils.” 
	“I’ve got to go mind the store,” the strange voice said, “but if you 
need me, I’ll be at the front counter doing paperwork.”
	“Thanks, Terry.  We should be able to handle it from here,” Carson 
said.  “Trapper and Gonzo are both out like lights, anyway, so it’s just 
Stanley we have to really watch.”
	I’m not sleeping, it’s just that I sat down for a minute in the mess 
tent and I’ve forgotten how to open my eyes.
	“Was that Slocum on the phone?” Ernie asked.
	“Yes, and I gave him a piece of my mind.  Do you know he shoved me 
onto that chopper without telling me that it was Stanley who was hurt? And 
I still don’t know what the four of you were doing up here in the 
boondocks.”
	“Trapper came up to visit a forest ranger friend, and Gonzo and 
Stanley were to join him, but something went wrong and they disappeared 
for hours.  Didn’t anyone in the hospital tell you?
	“I never got out of the parking lot.  Arnold saw me getting out of 
my car and hustled me onto that chopper before I had a chance to argue.  
But I wish he’d told me it was Stanley.  I would have been a little 
prepared that way.  How did you get here?”
	“I’d been in Sacramento, checking on a patient there who fit Gonzo’s 
general description, and I thought I should come up.” Ernie said.  “I knew 
you and Gonzo had gone to school together, but I didn’t realize that you 
and Stanley were friends.”
	“It’s a lot more complicated than friends,” Carson said.  “When I 
first came, I thought he was cute and we dated.  I still think he’s cute, 
really, but the very qualities that make him attractive to me made it 
impossible for us to have had much more than that one-night stand.  
Stanley wants a wife who’s going to give him 2.3 kids and a white picket 
fence to come home to.  And my career cost me too damn much to give up for 
any man.” She sighed.  “And that came between us, too.  Although Stanley 
tried awfully hard to ignore it.”
	“Ignore what?” Ernie asked.
	“You mean Gonzo’s finally learned to keep his mouth shut?” Carson 
sounded incredulous.  “I paid for med school by working as a high cost 
prostitute.”
	It’s a good thing Hot Lips isn’t listening in on this, Trapper 
thought. She hates it when the nurses sit around and gossip.
	“That’s a hard way to pay the bills,” Ernie said.
	“It paid a lot per hour, and that meant I could spend more time on 
my studies.  I didn’t even think about dating after graduation until I met 
Stanley, and he was so sweet, so innocent in some ways, that I went like a 
ton of bricks.  So we went out, and everything was lovely until he heard 
the truth about me.”
	“And when was that?”
	“The next day.  I never thought of what I had done as hurting anyone 
until then.  He looked like he’d been punched in the gut.  But he forgave 
me.  He even proposed, about a week later, but by then I’d figured out 
that I wasn’t the girl he needed.”
	“Stanley’s good at forgiving people.”
	“He’s a very generous man.” Carson said, fond with memory.
	“Really?” Ernie asked, her tone indicating more than mere kindness 
was in question.
	“Really,” Carson confirmed.  “Let me put it this way, if Stanley the 
first is half the man Stanley the second is, then it’s not really 
surprising that he spends all his time draped in blondes.”
	“I didn’t think Stanley had that kind of ...well...  experience.”
	“He doesn’t.  But there’s a lot to be said for generosity.”
	Something clattered softly and the voices moved away from Trapper.  
“It’s all right.  We’re right here.  You’ll be fine...” The reassurances 
blended into the dream of choppers and snow and Christmas carols bleating 
from the p.a.  But after a time, Trapper heard the voices again.
	“...better than I thought it would be.”
	“Stanley isn’t sick very often,” Ernie said.  “And he works out.  He 
runs, too, when the weather is good.  I guess he’s in pretty good health, 
generally speaking.”
	“And Gonzo usually bounces back pretty well from everything.”
	“Well,” Ernie temporized.  “I think it will depend on whether or not 
his eyes are all right.  Although how he got burned in the middle of all 
this snow I don’t understand.”
	“He looks to me like someone beat him up.”
	“No,” Ernie said.  “No, that he doesn’t.  But he did get a nice 
collection of bruises.  I wonder if anyone’s thought to check him for 
broken bones.”
“Trapper would have done that, wouldn’t he?”
	“There wasn’t time before he started operating on Stanley.  And when 
he came out here he fell asleep almost straight away, Mollie said.” Ernie 
sounded reluctant.  “We could wake him up and ask him.”
	“Better yet, I’ll ask Mollie,” Carson said.  “You keep an eye on 
them.”
	Carson’s footfalls faded away, and Trapper started to slip away into 
the silence.  As he reached the edge of deep sleep he heard Ernie 
distantly, saying, “I hate this part.  Sitting and waiting.  You’d all 
better be all right.  Do you hear me? You’re needed.”

	Coffee is a good thing, Ernie thought as she looked out at the snow 
tumbling lazily down past the streetlights.  The sky was only just 
starting to lighten behind the overcast.  She’d caught a nap for a couple 
of hours while Carson watched over the three men, but the arrival of Dr. 
Elliott and an snowplow driver with a sprained ankle had wakened her.  
	She took another sip and composed herself for the morning.  
Regardless of the weather, none of them were going to be able to get back 
to San Francisco in time for the morning shift.  And with snow still 
falling, there wasn’t going to be a helicopter coming to change that.  She 
would have to call.
	The phone only rang once.  “San Francisco Memorial, Dr. Jackson.”
	“Jackpot?”
	“Ernie? Gloria, it’s Ernie.  Ernie, where are you?” Jackpot asked 
excitedly.
	“I’m in Willows, with Trapper, and Gonzo and Stanley and Dr. 
Whittaker.  Didn’t she tell you?”
	“She might have told Arnold, but all he told us was that Stanley and 
Gonzo were badly hurt and Dr. Whittaker had had to operate on Stanley.  
How are they?”
	“Well, Gonzo’s got chemical burns on his face and eyes, and some 
frostbite, but he’s stable and sleeping.” She waited while Jackpot passed 
that on to Brancusi.  “Stanley had an epidural hematoma.  He’s still 
unconscious.”
	“An epidural hematoma? Oh, man.  Stanley had a head injury, Gloria.  
Did Dr. Whittaker get there in time? Is there any permanent damage?” 
Jackpot was upset, and Ernie could understand why.  Jackson was as much 
Stanley’s protege as Gonzo was Trapper’s.
	“You know how it is with head injuries, Jackpot,” she said 
carefully.  “Until he wakes up, we won’t really know the full extent of 
the damage.  But Dr. Whittaker seems optimistic.  Gonzo had already made a 
burr hole before Trapper even found them.”
	“Well, that would relieve the pressure a little,” Jackpot conceded.  
“How long till you bring them back down?”
	“I don’t know yet.  I called to let you know that we weren’t likely 
to be there anytime soon.  Can you get enough coverage?”
	“We’ll think of something.  Hang on, Gloria needs to talk to you.”
	Ernie waited for Gloria Brancusi to come on the line.  It only took 
a moment.
	“Ernie? Do you know where the original chart for the Hanlon boy is? 
We couldn’t find it yesterday after you left.”
	“Sorry,” Ernie said, feeling guilty.  “It’s in Stanley’s office, on 
the desk.  I put it down when I was talking to Trapper.”
	“That’s all right,” Gloria said.  “You had a lot to think about.  I 
made up a temporary.”
	“Good idea.  Gloria, while I’m thinking of it, see if you can’t get 
the records for Stanley and Gonzo.  It might be a good idea to have them 
on hand if we have any questions that need fast answers.”
	“I’ll do that.  Anything else?”
	“Just hold the fort.  When I know anything new I’ll call you.”
	“All right.  Bye.”
	“Good bye.” Ernie hung up the phone and tried to think.  That was 
taken care of, now what? Breakfast.  The coffee had woken up her stomach 
and she was ready for something more solid.  But what? She went back to 
the treatment room, where Terry was monitoring the patients while Carson 
dozed at the desk.  “Terry?”
	“Yes?”
	“Is there a restaurant? I’m hungry.”
	“Me too,” came a sleepy voice from Gonzo’s bed.  Ernie went over to 
see.
	“Gonzo? How do you feel?”
	“I hurt.  And my mouth tastes terrible.”
	“Here, drink this,” she gave him some water through a straw and he 
drank gratefully.  “Better?”
	“Yeah.” He shuddered suddenly and made a grab for her arm that 
missed.  She caught the wandering hand, careful to avoid the blisters.  
“Ernie? Where’s Stanley? Is he all right?”
	“He’s in the other bed, sleeping,” she said, substituting one state 
of unconsciousness for another.  “We’re keeping an eye on him.” She winced 
when she said it, but he didn’t notice the tactlessness of the remark.
	“He’s sleeping? He has a head injury.”
	“He had an operation for that last night,” Ernie said.  “Trapper did 
the craniotomy and Dr. Whittaker took care of the hematoma.  He has to 
rest now in order to recover.”
Gonzo relaxed a little.  “Trapper? And Carson? Are we back in San 
Francisco?”
	“No, we’re in a town called Willows.  Now you said you’re hungry?”
	It was the perfect distraction.  “I’ll say.  All I had to eat 
yesterday was 2 chocolate bars and some melted snow water.”
	“I’ll order some breakfasts sent over from the diner,” Terry said.  
“If you don’t mind keeping an eye on things.”
	“Not in the least,” Ernie said.
	“Eggs and bacon, please,” Gonzo said.  “I’ve been dreaming about 
eggs and bacon.”
	Ernie snorted, but she was comforted by his flippancy.  While Terry 
went off to order breakfast she settled into a chair where she could see 
both Gonzo and Stanley on the beds, and Trapper curled under a blanket on 
the gurney in the corner.  “While we wait you can help me fill in the 
charts.  When did you get hurt, anyway?”
	“I’m not sure, exactly.  About ten o'clock last....the night before 
last.  I tried to take the pass road, but some big rocks hit the jeep in 
the hood and did something to the engine.  And then when I was trying to 
figure out what was wrong the whole thing blew up in my face.”
	“It exploded?” Ernie asked, when he paused thoughtfully.
	“Well, something in there did,” Gonzo said.  “Maybe it threw a rod.  
I’m not sure.  But I got hit by hot radiator water and oil and wiper 
fluid.  If I hadn’t been wearing a ski mask it would have been even worse.  
But Stanley managed to rinse off all of the chemicals using the beer we’d 
brought up with us.”
	“He used beer? No wonder your hair smells odd.” Ernie awarded 
Stanley some ingenuity points.  Beer wasn’t the best choice, but at least 
it wasn’t an irritant.  “So he hadn’t been hurt at that point?”
	“No.” Gonzo fidgeted with the bandages on his face.  “I’m not sure 
when he got hurt.  He’d just gotten me bandaged up and we’d decided we had 
to get away from the jeep when the rest of the mountain decided to come 
down.  It was awfully close, Ernie.  We just barely made it out of the 
way, and for a couple of minutes there I didn’t even know where Stanley 
was because we got split up.  But he might have been hurt then.  He threw 
up in the morning.”
	“That doesn’t sound so good.”
	“Well, he said it was because he’d just seen over the edge, and we 
were pretty high up.  Stanley doesn’t like heights, much.” Gonzo grimaced 
under the bandages.  “I’m just not sure.  He could have gotten hurt later, 
too.  We sort of made a sled out of some plastic and slid part of the way 
down, and it got pretty bouncy.  And then later there was this mountain 
lion that he had to chase off.”
	“Stanley? Chased off a mountain lion?” She couldn’t help but sound 
incredulous.  But Gonzo had barely noticed.
	“No, that’s not right.  I already knew he was at least concussed by 
the time that happened.” Gonzo fussed with the blankets.  “But I think it 
made it worse.  Because it was after that that he passed out and went into 
convulsions.”
	“Do you know what time that was?”
	“No.  Not more than an hour before Trapper found us.  Maybe even 
less.  I took off the bandages to try to see what I could do, but I 
couldn’t really see,” Gonzo’s voice cracked.  “Stanley promised me my eyes 
would be all right, Ernie.  But I don’t think he was planning on me taking 
the bandages off so soon.”
	Time for another distraction.  “Well, we’ll know more when an 
ophthalmologist gets a chance to look at them,” Ernie said in her best 
soothing voice.  “In the meantime, I’ve got to fill in some of these 
blanks.  Do you have any allergies?”
	Gonzo didn’t take the bait.  “I could feel the bump.  And I could 
sort of see a darker place, but I couldn’t be sure,” he said, so softly 
that Ernie found herself drawn across the room to him.  “And when I was 
trying to listen to his heart I found that stupid Swiss army knife in his 
shirt pocket.  They’ve been doing trephinations since cave man days, 
practically.  It seemed like such an obvious thing to do.  But he bled so 
much!”
	“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” Ernie told him, untwisting the 
blanket from his hands and starting to cover him again.  But Gonzo pushed 
the cloth away and tried to sit up.  
	“Ernie! I could have killed him! How could I have taken that kind of 
chance with Stanley’s life?” There was no holding back the tide.  Ernie 
just gathered Gonzo into her arms and let him cry against her shoulder.  
“I shouldn’t have done it, I couldn’t sterilize anything, and my fingers 
were so cold I could hardly feel what I was doing either,” he berated 
himself until the words turned into inarticulate sobs.
	Ernie was going to wait it out, when she heard a step behind her.  
Trapper was awake, and by his eyes, the sleep had done him a world of 
good.  He put a hand on Gonzo’s shoulder and said, “Gonzo,” and the 
younger man stilled into silent surprise.
	“Trapper?” Gonzo was a hairsbreadth from the tears, but he waited 
for Trapper’s judgment.
	“If you hadn’t relieved the pressure on Stanley’s brain, he’d have 
been dead before I ever had a chance to find you,” Trapper said, very 
clearly.  “The pressure from the hematoma would have fatally interfered 
with his autonomic nervous system.  And no matter what happens, no matter 
what kind of complications we might have to live with, I want you to 
remember that.”
	“Yes, Trapper,” Gonzo said, a little shakily, but he was reassured.  
	Ernie settled him back onto the bed.  “Better?”
	“Yeah.  Except that now my kidneys are awake.  Which way is the 
bathroom?”
	“Not on those feet,” Trapper said, remembering the blisters from 
last night.  “I’m afraid it’s bedpans for you until some of that frostbite 
damage heals.”
	“I know where they are,” Ernie said, having gotten the equipment 
tour from Terry the night before.  As she went to fetch the necessary 
plasticware, she paused in surprise to note that Trapper was headed for 
the door.  “Trapper, where are you going?”
	Trapper shrugged, “Hey, he reminded me,” he said, and vanished into 
the hall.
	It was just as well, Ernie realized.  Gonzo was embarrassed enough 
already after breaking down in front of Trapper.  She took care of the 
immediate problem and got him settled back on the bed, cranking up the end 
so he could sit propped up.  By the time Trapper wandered back in with 
Terry and the breakfasts, Gonzo had pretty much gotten himself under 
control.
	“I smell food.”
	“Well, since you have to eat in here, I thought the rest of us might 
as well do the same,” Trapper said.  “I’d like to be able to keep an eye 
on Stanley.”
	“How is he?” Gonzo asked.
	“His blood pressure is 100 over 80, his pulse is 54,” Ernie said, 
having checked while Gonzo was composing himself.  “Both of which are an 
improvement over twenty minutes ago.  But we’re on the second to the last 
unit of blood Slocum sent up.”
	“Has he regained consciousness at all?” Trapper asked.
	“Well, he pulled a face when we were checking his feet this 
morning,” Terry said.  “Dr. Whittaker said that was good.” She set up a 
tray table in front of Gonzo.  “Here, eggs and bacon as ordered.  Open 
wide.”
	“I can manage,” Gonzo protested, blushing.
	“Not with the frostbite on your fingers still in the delicate 
stage,” Terry said.  “Open.”
	All of a sudden it was just too much.  Ernie said, “Excuse me,” and 
went out.  The hall was too narrow, and she went on, until she was 
standing on the porch, letting the snow flutter down onto her hair.  She 
found a broom and started sweeping.  She swept the porch clear, working 
her way down even through Terry’s packed down footprints and then started 
on the ramp.  After a time, she heard the door opening and glanced up long 
enough to see Trapper standing there.  He waited, and she bent over the 
broom again before she asked, “What kind of complications, John?”
	“Infection, another hematoma.  Gangrene from the frostbite.  
Paralysis.  Blindness.  Personality changes.  Indecisiveness.  Amnesia.” 
Trapper didn’t soften it.  She appreciated that.  Trapper was always 
honest with her.  “He still might die on us.”
	“And Gonzo? What about his hands?” Ernie swept harder.  “What about 
his eyes? If Stanley dies, Gonzo might have lost everything for nothing.”
	Trapper came down and took the broom from her, setting it back on 
the porch with one hand while he pulled her into the hug she needed with 
the other.  
	“It’s just that I haven’t gotten over the last time, yet,” Ernie 
said into his shirt.  “First we almost lose you, and now Gonzo and 
Stanley...”
	“I know, I know,” Trapper said.  “But we’ll do the best we know how 
to do.  That’s what you did when I got hurt, and I’m fine now.” He patted 
her shoulder.  “And we’ll start by having some breakfast.  The day always 
looks better with a few calories in it.”

	By the time everyone, including Dr. Whittaker, Dr. Elliott, and the 
snowplow driver, who was waiting for his cast to set sufficiently hard for 
traveling, had gotten some breakfast, the sky had brightened as much as it 
was going to.  But the snow was still coming down, even though cars inched 
their way along the main street and the muted roar of plows could be heard 
from the nearby highway.  Mollie turned up in mukluks and an ancient 
parka, and she and Terry and Ernie started setting the place to rights and 
sterilizing the used equipment.  Trapper checked over Gonzo and Stanley a 
little more carefully after he’d had his morning coffee, and got Dr. 
Elliott to take a look at the frostbite and Carson to look at Stanley’s 
head.  Then they sat down to debate whether or not to try to get Stanley 
and Gonzo down to San Francisco Memorial.
	“According to the weather report, it’s going to snow until late 
afternoon,” Elliott said.  “But it’s not going to be windy, and the 
temperature’s down at the lower elevations are warm enough to turn the 
snow into rain closer to town.  The highway is right next door, and it’s 
plowed down to the pavement.”
	“I want a CAT scan on Stanley as soon as I can get one,” Carson 
said.  “But I’m not thrilled with the idea of a bumpy three hour ride in 
an ambulance.  If he’d just come to, or if his vitals would improve, I’d 
be a lot happier.  Is there any chance we could get the chopper back?”
	“I don’t know,” Trapper said.  “I can ask Arnold when I call him.  
What about Gonzo?” 	
	“Gonzo can wait,” that worthy contributed from his bed.  “You 
concentrate on Stanley, Trapper.  I’ll live.”
	“How’s the pain?” Carson asked.
	Gonzo shrugged.  “Painful.  And my hands and feet itch as well as 
hurt.”
	“Frostbite does that,” Dr. Elliott agreed.  “I’ll get Mollie to put 
some more aloe on them.  I’d recommend minimum use of the damaged areas 
for about three days.  Longer if they show any sign of infection.”
	“But he’s okay for an ambulance ride,” Trapper said.
	“Yes.  But if you can get a chopper for one you might as well fly 
back both,” Elliott pointed out.  “We’re just not equipped for extended 
intensive care, and the nearest eye specialist is in Sacramento.  It’s not 
that I mind the company...” he shrugged.
	“No, I want to get them back to San Francisco myself,” Trapper said, 
much relieved by the consensus.  “But I needed an objective opinion.  
Arnold isn’t going to want to spend the money on a chopper if he can avoid 
it.”
	“Won’t Stanley’s father pay for it?” Carson asked.
	It was Trapper’s turn to shrug.  “Probably.  But I wouldn’t bet on 
it.  He expects Stanley to cover his own expenses.” He put his glasses 
back on.  “But <i>I’m</i> covering all of the phone calls,” he said, 
looking at Elliott.  
	Dr. Elliott grinned and held up his hands, “All right,” he said.  
“I’ll send you a copy of the bill.  But don’t forget that you covered for 
me the other night.”
	“With as much talking as this is likely to take, it’ll probably come 
out even.” Trapper said sourly.  He wasn’t sure he was looking forward to 
coaxing Arnold.
	But Arnold, to Trapper’s surprise, didn’t require coaxing.
	“I’ve already talked to the pilot, and he says as long as they can 
plow the place where he landed yesterday it should be possible.”
	“That’s great, Arnold,” Trapper said, “You’ll need to get Matthews 
in, if he’s available.  And Willard, for Gonzo’s eyes.  And tell ICU we’re 
coming.  Have you gotten a hold of Stanley’s father yet?”
	“I’ve left messages at his hotel, but so far there’s been no 
response,” Arnold said, sourly.  “I understand the old goat went off on an 
excursion with some bimbo named Tookie the other day and hasn’t done more 
than send his chauffeur over to pick up a few clothes and a bottle of 
wine.”
	“Typical.  If you reach him, tell him ...  Aw, hell, Arnold, I don’t 
know what you should tell him.  Until we can get a CAT scan or Stanley 
wakes up, I’ve got no way of knowing how bad the damage is.  His chances 
of survival are better than they were last night, but I’d be lying through 
my teeth if I told you that he was out of danger.”
“Do you think Stanley needs his father to be here?” Arnold asked.
	“I think Stanley would want that, yes,” Trapper said.  “I’m just not 
sure whether or not old man Riverside cares enough about Stanley to come.”
	“He cares enough about his image,” Arnold growled.  “I’ve already 
got the press on my back about this.  If it will help I can let Riverside 
Senior know that he is going to get a lot of publicity making him look 
like a horse’s ass until he shows up.”
	Trapper snorted.  “That would probably do it.  Go ahead, then, 
Arnold.  But try not to lose your job over it.  I’m going to need your 
help getting coverage until we know if...know when Gonzo and Stan will be 
all right.”
	“Right.” There was an awkward silence.  Then Arnold said, “Well, 
I’ll get that chopper started.  See you soon, Trapper.”
	“See you soon.”
	
	They were bundling Stanley up for the helicopter trip when he 
started to talk.  At first it was just a mumble, but after a few minutes 
it got clearer.  “Gates.  Hurt.  Find Gates.” Ernie tried to reassure him, 
but Stanley didn’t seem to hear.
	“Stanley, it’s all right.  We have Gonzo safe with us.”
	“Find Gates,” Stanley repeated.  “Hurt.”
	“Here,” Gonzo said.  “Get me over closer to him.”
	Trapper grabbed the ends of the gurneys and swung them next to each 
other.  “Be careful of your hands, Gonzo.”
	“Here, you touch him and I’ll talk,” Gonzo said.  “Stanley, it’s 
Gonzo.  I’m right here.  Trapper found us Stanley.  I’m right next to 
you.”
	“Gonzo,” Stanley said,
	“Here, Stanley, I’m right here.” 
	“Hurt.” Stanley said, but he seemed to calm down a little.  “John?”
	“I’m here too, Stanley,” Trapper said.  
	Stanley quieted for a few minutes, but then he began to ask for 
Gonzo again.  It was hard, because he still wasn’t responding to voiced 
commands, although he seemed to hear it when Gonzo answered him.  They got 
him packed into the Stokes stretcher for the trip and he began a mumbled 
monologue that seemed to have something to do with asthma.
	Carson Whittaker paused to take a sip of coffee and shook her head 
with a small wry smile.  “I should have known Stanley would be a talker.”
	“A talker?” Ernie asked.  
	“As opposed to the silent type.  You never know which one you’re 
going to get when someone is in a coma.”
	“But isn’t it a good sign?”
	Carson tipped her hand in a gesture of uncertainty.  “It’s better 
than where he was, but we’re still a long way from home.  Sometimes head 
injury cases talk for days, but we lose them anyway.” She shrugged 
uncertainly.  “You’ve got your car up here, don’t you?”
	“Yes, why do you ask?”
	“Well, I’ve been thinking.  There’s nothing I can do on that 
helicopter ride better than Trapper can do it, and Mathews, who is the 
best head injury man in the state, will be waiting once they’re on the 
ground, so maybe it would be just as well if I stay here and get a little 
sleep and drive back and you can fly back with Stanley and the others.” 
Carson tipped her head and looked at Ernie from under a fringe of hair.  
“I’d be careful.”
	“Oh, that would be perfect,” Ernie said, much relieved.  “I didn’t 
want to ask, but I’d feel a lot better if I can stay with them.”
	“And I’d feel better if I didn’t have to take another helicopter 
ride,” Carson said.  “I’ve never been fond of them, and yesterday only 
reminded me of why.  Besides, I think your voice is more likely to calm 
Stanley down if he gets fractious.  Mine would probably just agitate him.”
	Ernie put a hand on her arm, comfortingly, “I doubt that.  If I know 
Stanley, he’s long forgiven any pain you might have put him through.  He’s 
good at that.”
	“Perhaps,” Carson said, with a smile tinged by bitterness.  “But if 
he hasn’t it’s likely to come out while he’s babbling.  And on the whole, 
I think I’d rather not know either way.”
	“Are you afraid he’s still angry with you, or that he isn’t?” Ernie 
asked.
	Carson Whittaker shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” She looked 
at Ernie directly now, her lips tightening into a determined line.  “There 
isn’t much point in my tearing opening old wounds, not when he needs all 
his strength just to survive.  He’s better off with the people who know 
him best.”

	By the time the chopper came, Dr. Elliott had organized his brigade 
of stretcher bearers, Mike Houlihan had arrived with Trapper’s bags, and 
Gonzo had broken down and asked for some more percocet.  He wasn’t having 
a good morning.  Every so often, he would have to reassure Stanley that he 
was all right, but the truth was that he was feeling pretty lousy.  His 
face hurt, his eyes were still frighteningly uncomfortable, and his hands 
and feet were aching and itching so much he was beginning to toy with the 
idea of amputation.  Not in a serious way, but still, the percocet helped.
	The trouble with being strapped down into a stretcher for 
transportation, unable to even watch the proceedings, was it gave Gonzo 
too much time to catalogue his symptoms.  He still felt dehydrated, in 
spite of the IV, and his bruises had magnified themselves into pools of 
achiness.  His pulse, which he could feel wherever the straps pressed, 
seemed uneven, although he was sure Ernie would have noticed anything 
really out of whack when she checked his vitals.  His eyes were the main 
worry.  He kept remembering Stanley’s promise that they would be all 
right, but he could also remember the flaring blurred patches of black and 
red and painful white that had been all he could see without the bandages.
	Gonzo knew himself to be one hell of a good surgeon.  It wasn’t 
false confidence -- he’d seen the work of mediocre surgeons and brilliant 
surgeons enough times to know the difference, and he knew himself to be 
good enough to measure favorably against most of his colleagues.  But now 
he had to face the fact that being a surgeon was the only thing he had 
ever taken the time to learn to do well enough to meet his own standards.  
What could he do as a doctor if he couldn’t see?
	Teach, maybe -- although even that wouldn’t be easy.  Even if he 
invested his nest egg, and tried to live off the proceeds, he couldn’t 
imagine spending his life playing the stock market.  And he’d have to 
start paying rent, too.  It wasn’t like he could stay in the Titanic.  He 
couldn’t drive if he couldn’t see.
	Trapper and Ernie were talking over the clamor of the chopper 
engine, but Gonzo could only catch occasional bits of the conversation.  
Something about trying to find old man Riverside.  That was better to 
think about.  There wasn’t much Gonzo could do about his own situation, 
but maybe he could help Stanley.  Somehow.  If Riverside Senior stuck to 
his usual pattern, Stanley was going to need all the support he could get.  
And Gonzo could talk, at least.  He’d get Trapper to keep him and Stanley 
in the same room.  Stanley was going to wake up scared, and it would be 
better if there was someone there for him to talk to.  

	Arnold Slocum was waiting near the helicopter pad, holding an 
umbrella to protect himself from the downpour.  Once he saw it was 
settled, he signaled for the orderlies who were waiting in the doorway, 
and led them over to the machine, crouching under the slowing blades.  
Trapper levered open the helicopter door to meet them.
	“Ernie, you stick with Gonzo,” he ordered, taking the IV’s off of 
the hook and readying himself for the dash through the rain.
	“Yes, Trapper,” she said.
	“Hey, don’t split us up!” Gonzo protested, but Trapper was already 
gone with Stanley’s stretcher.
	Arnold, having seen the first stretcher off, leaned in to help get 
Gonzo’s stretcher to the edge of the chopper, and he’d heard Gonzo’s 
protest.  “Don’t worry, Trapper asked for you two to be put in the same 
section of ICU.  But I think they’re taking Stanley to the CAT scanner 
first.”
	“Yeah, Doc,” one of the orderlies said.  “And we’re supposed to take 
you straight to ophthalmology, so hang on for the ride.”
	
	Trapper felt the muscles in his stomach beginning to relax as soon 
as the familiar smells and sounds of San Francisco Memorial enveloped him.  
Jackpot and Gloria were waiting with a gurney and an IV rack, and he hung 
up the depleted bags gratefully while they and the orderlies transferred 
Stanley from the stretcher.
	“The CAT scanner’s warmed up and waiting for you,” Jackpot said, as 
they got into motion again.  “And Dr. Mathews is on his way down from 
neuro to meet you there.  We’ve got one of the OR’s on standby in case you 
don’t like what you find, and eight units of O-neg crossmatched against 
Stanley’s last donation.”
	“The principle blood type factors are A and B, which can be found 
individually or together, but which are absent in a large portion of the 
population, who are designated as O for zero,” Stanley said quite clearly, 
and then mumbled a few more words before he fell silent again.
	Jackpot and Gloria both looked pleasantly surprised, but Trapper had 
to disillusion them.  “Good job, Jackpot.  As you can see, he’s not as 
deep in the coma as he was last night, but he doesn’t respond 
consistently, and we don’t know why, so don’t order any champagne yet.”
	“I see a lot of bruising,” Jackpot said, trying to take in the whole 
patient and not think too much about who the patient was.  “Is anything 
else broken?”
	“Dr. Elliott couldn’t find anything actually broken,” Ernie said.  
“They took a chest shot and a belly shot last night and he said it looked 
like it was mostly just very bad bruising.  His hands and feet look so bad 
because of frostbite, and that’s what caused the damage over his 
cheekbones, as well.”
	“Wonderful,” Jackpot said, unhappily.  “Frostbite’s supposed to be 
miserable to deal with.”
	“Well, from what I’ve read, the faster the blisters come up, the 
more likely the damage isn’t deep,” Trapper reassured him.  “We’ll keep an 
eye on it, though.”
	They reached the CAT scanner, and were greeted by Dr. Mathews.  
“Hello, John.  Nice to see <i>you</i> on your feet, at least.” He helped 
them shift Stanley onto the patient bed of the scanner and adjusted a 
couple of items on the bulky machine.  “Where’s Gates?”
“Ophthalmology,” Jackpot answered.
	Trapper grunted approval, and made his way for the control room, 
trying not to display the discomfort that was reminding him that it hadn’t 
been all that long since he had had surgery.  So much for getting his 
stamina back.  He’d let the orderlies shift people around for a while.  
Ernie was giving him a considering eye and he glowered at her to keep her 
from saying anything while Mathews got ready to get the scans.
	He took a full skull series, and Trapper found a chair to wait for 
the film to dry.  Jackpot was trying to look nonchalant as he leaned 
against the wall, but Gloria looked anxious, and went to hold Stanley’s 
hand while the others waited for Mathews’ verdict.  
	He stuck the films onto the lightbox and waved Trapper and Jackpot 
over to look, too.  “Hmm.  Well, I can see that there were at least two 
blows, not quite in the same place.  These must be sutures, here and here.  
And look, there’s still blood here, near the drain, and there’s a small 
hematoma here near the forehead, which is probably a bounce injury.  Did 
he lose a lot of cerebrospinal fluid from his nose and eyes?”
	“Some,” Trapper said.  “I couldn’t estimate the amount, though.  
Some of it had already been lost before I saw him.”
	Mathews tapped the lightbox with his pencil.  “I think you and Dr. 
Whittaker may have saved me some work, but it will depend on these two 
areas.  If these two areas with blood stay stable, or get smaller over 
time, the way they should, I think we can avoid more surgery.  But if they 
start to enlarge, I’ll have to risk opening up his head again.”
	“Can we take a chance on waiting? What are the risks?” Jackpot asked
	“Well, Dr. Jackson, the problem is that every time we go in there, 
we’re taking the chance of disturbing the blood vessels, some of which are 
probably weakened and liable to tear.  Most of the neurological damage 
will have already been sustained, and its permanence will depend on where, 
and how long, his brain was short of oxygen or under pressure.  If either 
of these two hematomas enlarge, then we’re looking at the possibility of 
more damage and the risk factors start to equalize.  But for now, we’re a 
lot less likely to do him harm by waiting and monitoring.  I’d say, a CAT 
scan every two hours for the moment, and make sure he’s getting plenty of 
oxygen and fluids.  Trapper, I see from the chart you’ve got him on 
antibiotics.”
	“Oh, yeah.  Gonzo did a trephination -- here -- with a jackknife, 
under unsanitary conditions.”
	“I thought Gates has eye injuries,” Mathews said.
	“He does,” Trapper said.  “He did it blind.”
	Mathews whistled his surprise.  “Remind me to ask him if he can lend 
me his rabbit’s foot next time I go to Vegas.”
	Trapper snorted his amusement.  “His or Stanley’s,” he agreed, 
looking again at the CAT scan.  “With that much luck, they can’t have used 
it all up yet.”

Gonzo was grateful for the tranquilizer that Dr. Clark up in Ophthalmology 
had given him.  It was easier to lay back and let himself get hooked up to 
the monitors with a chemical fog between himself and the conversation.  
Surgery, to open the tear ducts, with a consult from the plastic surgeons 
to make sure that the eyelids would heal correctly.  Hands were hooking 
him up to some plasma, getting the EKG buttons in the right places.  He 
recognized Ernie’s touch.  
	“Ernie? You’re coming, right?”
	“Of course I am.  Trapper told me to stay with you, didn’t he?” she 
said calmly, although he remembered vaguely that she had answered the 
question before.  It would be good to have Ernie there, but her mention of 
Trapper made him wish for more.
	“Is he still with Stanley?” The question came out before he could 
censor it.  It wasn’t a very doctorly thing to want to steal all the 
attention, and part of his mind was appalled at his own self-centeredness.
	“I think so.  Do you want him to observe too?” She asked.
	Gonzo waved the desire away as firmly as he could in the cotton 
wadding in his head.  “Selfish.  Sorry.  He has to take care of Stan.”
	“The whole hospital is taking care of Stanley,” Ernie reminded him.  
“I can ask Trapper to take some time to look in.”	
	“It’s just that I’m not sure I like being the patient,” Gonzo said, 
trying to explain what he hoped was an uncharacteristic self-centeredness.  
“It’s kind of scary.” 
	“I understand,” Ernie’s voice had an undercurrent of amusement that 
reassured him.  “Trapper will too.  He didn’t like being a patient 
either.”
	“I’m sorry I razzed him about it,” Gonzo said.  “I should have known 
better than to tempt fate.” 
	“I doubt that had anything to do with it,” Ernie said, calmly, 
finishing the last preparations.  “Now, I’ve got to scrub and call 
Trapper, so you just lie there and let the medication work, all right?”
	“All right,” Gonzo wasn’t sure it really was all right, but there 
was nothing he could do about it.  He lay still and listened to the sounds 
of pre-op around him, trying to imagine the scene.  He didn’t hear anyone 
talking about prepping Stanley for surgery and he wasn’t sure if that was 
a good thing or a bad thing.  It felt strange to be worrying about 
Stanley.  He hadn’t even liked him at first.  Of course, when Gonzo had 
first come, Stanley had been in the middle of one of his worst prestige 
seeking phases, and not especially likeable.  It drove Gonzo nuts to see 
Stanley trying to win the approval of the famous or rich patients who 
sometimes came to San Francisco Memorial.  It wasted time that could, or 
should, be spent on other patients -- although Gonzo had noticed that 
Stanley had gotten careful about checking for critical cases before he did 
anything else these days.  It just wasn’t dignified for a doctor to toady 
to people like that.  Gonzo realized that Stanley was always worst about 
currying favor when his father had been riding him, and decided that what 
Stanley really needed was to move out of that mausoleum of his father’s 
and get his own apartment.  
	Pete, the anesthesiologist, was saying something, and Gonzo swam up 
out of his drugged reverie to listen.  Oh, he was supposed to count 
backwards.  Ninety-nine.  Ninety-eight.  Ninety-seven.  Is Trapper here? 
Ernie? Ernie?

	“I’m here,” Trapper said, patiently, wondering if this time Gonzo 
would hear him.  He looked over at the other bed in the intensive care 
unit.  Stanley was talking too, although at the moment he seemed to be 
addressing someone he called ‘Fluffy.’ From the sound of it, Fluffy was 
either a childhood acquaintance or a stuffed animal, and Trapper was 
beginning to think it was the latter.  From what Stanley had described of 
his childhood, there hadn’t been anyone in it he would have tried to 
defend his mother to.  He didn’t seem to expect an answer, at least, and 
Trapper was grateful.  Gonzo was coming out from under the anaesthetic a 
little more slowly than he had expected, and there was a pile of paperwork 
waiting for him in his office.
	“Trapper?” Gonzo said again.
	“Yeah, Gonzo, I’m here.”
	“My mouth...  tastes awful.” Gonzo made a face under the bandages, 
and Trapper felt relieved.  He was getting coherent now.  
	“That’s what you get for eating and then having surgery,” Trapper 
said.  
	“‘At’s what Ernie said.” Gonzo conceded.  “But I ...  didn’t want...  
to wait.” His head turned on the pillow.  “Is that Stan?”
	“Yeah.  Do you need to throw up again?” Trapper asked, maneuvering 
the basin into place.
	“Urgl,” Gonzo said.  “Don’t talk about it.  I don’t think there’s 
anything left to go.”
	“Probably not,” Trapper said.  “Think you’re awake enough this time 
to remember that I was here?”
	“I dunno,” Gonzo said.  “Oh, man...” he pushed up and started to 
heave, painfully, and Trapper sighed and held the basin in the right 
place.  He’d need a shower anyway.  At last Gonzo subsided, and at least 
this time he didn’t slip off back into the haze.  “Gaah.  Smells as bad as 
it tastes.”
	“Would you like a sip of water?” Trapper asked him, passing the 
basin to the ICU nurse, and accepting the wet towel she had brought over.  
He wiped off Gonzo’s face and his own hands.
	“Yeah.” Gonzo said, and then shifted, restlessly.  “Why can’t I use 
my hands?”
	“They’re bandaged in foam, for protection, while you’re still 
groggy.  Your feet too.  We’re not taking chances on aggravating the frost 
damage.”
	Gonzo made a face.  “They itch,” he complained.  “Did Stanley get 
frostbite too?”
	“Yes.  His feet are in worse shape than yours.” Trapper glanced over 
to the other bed.  “His hands too.  What happened to the gloves he 
bought?”
	“He gave them to me, mine got contaminated,” Gonzo said, after a 
moment’s thought.  “But he was using some sleeves off of one of my 
turtlenecks instead.  He’s not going to lose any fingers or anything like 
that, is he?”
	“Dr. Elliott didn’t think so,” Trapper said.  “But we’ll keep an eye 
open for gangrene.  What did you do with the gloves?”
	“I lost them when I tried to operate.” Gonzo shook with another 
spasm of nausea, but he managed to contain it this time.  “Once I’d put 
them down I couldn’t find them again.  Pretty stupid, huh?”
	“The hypothermia probably didn’t help,” Trapper said, patting 
Gonzo’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry about it too much, Gonzo.  You did the 
best you could.”
	“I hope Stanley thinks so,” Gonzo said.  “When he wakes up.  He is 
going to wake up, isn’t he, Trapper?”
	“Mathews thinks so.  He’s still hemiplegic, and unresponsive, but 
the CAT scan looks good enough to avoid any more surgery for now.  We 
won’t be able to tell how permanent the damage is until he’s conscious.”
	“That’s not very reassuring.”
	Trapper shrugged.  “He’s alive, and the odds have improved that he’s 
going to stay that way,” he said.  “Considering how bad things looked 
yesterday, that’s pretty damn reassuring.” He patted Gonzo’s shoulder, 
“Concentrate on one thing at a time, Gonzo.  The best thing you can do for 
Stanley right now is to get better yourself.”
	Gonzo cocked his head, as if he were trying to look at Trapper 
through the bandages.  “We really had you worried, didn’t we? I’m sorry.  
It’s my fault for trying to take the pass road.”
	“Why did you take the pass road?” Trapper asked, curious.  “I take 
it you knew that it’s usually closed in winter.”
	“Sure.  But the sign wasn’t up, and there were tracks from another 
car or truck -- at least at first.  I thought maybe they decided it was 
easier to keep it open.  And the gate was open.” He frowned.  “Somebody 
had been using it, because the road had a sort of a packed surface under 
the new snow.  Why hadn’t the forest service taken care of the avalanche 
path if the road was open?”
	“The road wasn’t supposed to be open,” Trapper said.  “Mike told me 
they’ve been having trouble with poachers and vandals.  They’re probably 
the ones who took down the sign, and have been using the road.  It’s not 
your fault, Gonzo.  All that you wanted to do was get to the cabin a 
little faster.”
	Gonzo relaxed against the pillow.  “Yeah.  I was really looking 
forward to a nice...quiet...weekend...” his voice slowed, and Trapper 
tucked the sheet back up around him.  
	“I’ll check on you later,” he promised.  “Right now I’ve got to go 
revamp the schedule.  Titus called in sick.”
	“What happened this time?” Gonzo asked sleepily.
	“He banged his funny bone against a cabinet, and being Titus, he 
broke his elbow.”
	Gonzo smiled, but he was drifting off again.  “For a doctor, he sure 
spends a lot of time at the wrong end of a tongue depressor,” he observed.
	Trapper snorted.  “The way things have been going around here lately 
we’re all walking wounded.  Rest up, Gonz.  I’ll see you later.”

	Gonzo was beginning to feel like his stomach was going to behave 
itself for a while -- maybe -- when he heard someone approaching the bed.  
“Who’s there?” he asked.  The shoes sounded wrong for Nurse Andrews, who 
was on duty.
	“It’s Jackpot, Gonz.  I just thought I’d stop by and see how you 
were doing before I went home for the night.” The young emergency 
specialist sounded uncertain, and tired.
	“Lousy,” Gonzo said.  “Do me a favor and tell me what the readouts 
are saying on Stanley’s monitors, okay? If I’m going to worry anyway, I’d 
like to have some information to worry over.”