The Chief walked toward the stranded Chinook, pleasantly aware of the apprehension that her approach caused the men gathered around the open engine cowling.
“Well?” she said.
“Soon, Chief. But…”
The word hung in the cold, damp air like a broken promise. “But what?” she asked.
“But it could easily happen again. No point getting mad at me or anyone, Chief. Just that these machines need proper servicing, and all the facilities are fucked.”
“I understand that. You know that I always seek the very best, but I am aware of the boundary between the difficult and the impossible.”
The man nodded. “Sure, Chief. We’ll be in the air in about twenty minutes from now. Any idea of the weather ahead?”
Margaret Tabor sighed. “Doesn’t look good,” she replied. “I’d say snow followed by some more snow with a lot more snow to come along after that. And then there’s a risk of some snow.”
THEY HAD AGREED to a rough signal code using the double headlights and brake lights of the tractors to communicate with each other. But there was no way that anyone in the horse trailers could speak to the drivers. Henderson McGill had come up with the idea of a length of baling cord attached to the belt of whoever happened to be at the wheel.
An hour or so after leaving the bloated butchery of the commune, Paul felt the cord pulled tight. He slowed down, flicking the light toggle to warn Jim in the front tractor, then pulled to a halt in the windswept center of the blacktop, throwing the vehicle out of gear.
He opened the flimsy plastic door, eyes squinting against the icy wind, and swung down into the road. He saw Jeanne’s anxious face in the door of the trailer. “What is it, Ma?”
The first vehicle had stopped, and Nanci and Carrie both jumped out of the rear of the horse trailer.
“It’s Sukie. She’s really, really sick.” And the woman started to weep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Twice during that snowy night, the little girl stopped breathing. In the early hours of the twenty-third of December, at a quarter after two and again at half-past four.
Paul and Jocelyn had both gone to sleep in the front wagon, while Carrie Princip had offered to spend the night with the remaining McGills, to do anything she could to help the struggling Sukie.
The fever seemed to be rising, and the child had been stricken with uncontrollable diarrhea that had a particularly foul smell. There had been nests of small red spots on her neck and chest, and her tongue was dried-up, crusted and black.
“It seems she’s worse in the night and then not quite so bad every morning,” said Jeanne.
Paul McGill had brought out a half-dozen small camping lamps from the silent commune, and two of them gave enough flickering light for Carrie to be able to examine the girl. Sukie’s stomach was swollen and she was restless, sometimes suffering severe coughing fits.
“Can’t we do anything?” asked Mac, sitting wrapped in blankets at the far end of the big horse trailer, looking like an elderly reservation Sioux, his breath misting out all around him in the chilly air.
“We can try to bring the fever down a little. We need some wet cold cloths,” Carrie said. When they wrapped the small girl in the wet cloths, she moaned but seemed mostly unaware, sunk into a near-comatose state.
But it wasn’t enough to forestall the life-threatening danger.
The first time, between two and two-thirty, they had been gathered around, watching the little chest rise and fall, beads of sweat standing out on the pallid brow. Then Sukie gave a juddering cry, her back arching.
And stopped breathing.
“Oh, my God, not my baby, too!” cried Mac, hands clawing at nothing.
Carrie reacted quickly.
She pinched the child’s nose between finger and thumb, lowering her mouth and starting resuscitation, using her other hand to press firmly and rhythmically over Sukie’s breastbone.
“You’ll catch whatever—” started Jeanne McGill, then managed to check herself.
That first time, it was easy to get the battling heart to pump again.
The second time it took longer.