Mayhem was breaking out all over the mesa top, and the lieutenant, believing discretion the better part of valor at this point, given thirty armed Apaches in front of him, jerked his reins hard right, bent over his saddle, and spurred his horse to the rear of his dragoons, now engaged in a pitch battle with the Apache warriors.
At the same time, Kit Carson was swinging into the saddle of his pinto and then immediately sliding completely off the saddle and hanging on the pinto's neck in classic Indian-style to make as small of a target as possible as he urged his horse to the protection of the line of dragoons who were now charging past Carson in the opposite direction, firing at the kneeling Apaches who were also firing at the charging dragoons.
The mesa was a pandemonium of sounds and sights — war whoops from the Apaches and shouts from the dragoons intermingled with gunfire and the phffffft sound of bullets in the air and the twanging of ricochets.
The first rush of the dragoons had taken them past the kneeling Apaches and near to the bluff-edge where they wheeled around, but were suddenly at a disadvantage. To continue to use the single-shot Sharps, each dragoon would have to open the rifle's breech, open his ammunition pouch, grab a paper-wrapped .52 caliber cartridge from the pouch, insert the cartridge into the breech, close the breech, and place a new percussion cap on the nipple, aim, and fire.
Although a dragoon, trained as an infantryman, could reload and shoot the Model 1851 Sharps five to six times per minute when on the ground, to accomplish the same reloading task on a nervous and twitching horse in the heat and confusion of battle was too time consuming.
So, after the initial rush through the kneeling Apaches, most of the dragoons realized that their rifle was not the weapon to use to continue the fight — the lieutenant's early order to display the rifles failed to take into account their disadvantage in a close quarters firefight when there would be a need to reload quickly.
Most of the dragoons took precious time — and several paid for that time with their life or a wound — to replace their rifles in their scabbards, and instead draw their .44 caliber Colt Dragoon, six-shot revolvers or their Model 1840 Dragoon Sabers and charge back, firing and slashing away through the few remaining Apaches who had not otherwise scattered.
During the mêlée, Kevin saw eight or ten dragoons fall from their horses, obviously killed or wounded. He also saw an equal number of Apaches sprawled motionless or writhing in the dirt of the mesa top.
In a matter of less than three minutes, the battle was over, climaxed by a dragoon giving the coup de grâce to a several times wounded White Wolf; the remaining Apaches long gone over the riverside of the mesa to their horses hidden in the Rio Chama bosque below.
~~~
The acrid-sweet smell and bluish haze of gun smoke settled over the mesa.
Given the noise of gunfire, shouts of attack, cries of pain, and the general chaos of battle moments before, the mesa was now strangely quiet.
Kevin was shocked by what he had seen. He turned to say something to Corporal Yates, but the corporal disintegrated — seemed simply to melt — before Kevin's eyes.
Kevin turned to face Curt, but Curt and his horse were receding into the distance, floating in mid-air and becoming ever smaller.
Kevin then experienced the sensation of spirally down, down, down, into a black bottomless vortex. He felt nothing. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Then the falling and swirling slowed and came to a halt. He felt suspended in a space of nothingness.
Far, far off in the distance was a pinpoint of light. Kevin seemed to be drawing closer and closer to the light. In milliseconds, light surrounded Kevin.
Kevin tried to open his eyes to see the light, but try as he might, his eyes would not open.
It was at that moment that Kevin heard and recognized a familiar voice, "Kevin… Kevin… Can you hear me?"
"Dad…?"
And then blackness returned.
Chapter Twelve
The Hospital
"Kevin… Kevin… Can you hear me?"
Kevin lay comatose on the hospital bed on the eighteenth day of his hospitalization as his father held his hand and repeated the plea for what seemed like the ten-thousandth time since that heart-wrenching morning when he saw his son for the first time after eight hours of emergency surgery — surgery that lasted into the early morning hours.
Chapter Thirteen
The Accident
Standing more than twenty feet up the rock face at the cave entrance, Curt had, in a sickening moment of realization of what was about to happen, watched in horror as he saw Kevin simultaneously lose his handhold as his foot slipped on that same narrow ledge that had bedeviled Curt minutes before.
Curt shouted, "No!" and he went numb in unbelief as he saw Kevin fall backward and hit the hard ground some twelve feet below at the base of the rock with an audible whomp and a puff of dusty gravel. Kevin landed on his back; Curt saw Kevin's head snap back with the force of the fall and smack the ground hard, the John Deere cap falling askew.
Curt immediately knew that Kevin was hurt and hurt badly because Kevin neither moved nor moaned.
"Kevin! Kevin! You okay?" shouted Curt as he scrambled with both a sense of urgency and a sense of extra care down the face of the rock — it would do neither of them any good if he, too, was hurt, he instinctively knew.
In a matter of seconds, Curt was kneeling at Kevin's side. Kevin's eyes were closed; his breathing shallow; his coloring, pale. A small amount of blood trickled from Kevin's nose and from his right ear.
Curt evaluated Kevin's condition quickly. In a strange way, Curt seemed to transition into another emotional gear — a feeling that he was outside himself, watching another person attend to his friend.
Curt remembered basic first aid from his Boy Scout days: stop the bleeding; protect the wound; prevent shock. With that knowledge, Curt gently raised Kevin's head to see if there was a wound at the back of Kevin's head. Yes, there was a wound — Kevin's hair was matted with blood but the bleeding from the back of Kevin's head was minimal. However, Curt's concerned reached a new level when he saw that the ground where Kevin's head had struck was less gravel than it was unforgiving solid rock — with a smattering of blood on the pebbly gray and black surface.
Curt gently lowered Kevin's head.
Curt unsnapped his canteen cover and removed his handkerchief from his back pocket. Removing the canteen and unscrewing the cap, Curt wetted the handkerchief and mopped Kevin's brow.
"Kevin! Kevin! Wake up! Can you hear me? Kevin? Kevin?"
But Kevin remained motionless, eyes closed.
Suddenly, Kevin mumbled something that sounded to Curt like a name — it sounded like "Lou Tenant" and then Kevin, becoming increasingly agitated, said, "H-o-r-s-e-s…" drawn out and slowly. Then he said, "Funny feather," and then something that sounded to Curt like "Oh, malady," before Kevin's words trailed off with unintelligible mumbling and he became silent.
Curt noted Kevin's shallow, albeit, rhythmic breathing, but Curt also sensed the situation with his friend was dire. Curt wetted the handkerchief one more time, folded it in quarters, and raised Kevin's head and placed the handkerchief on the rock to act as best of a cushion as Curt could fashion at the moment. He then gently lowered Kevin's head.
The day turned suddenly darker as a near-black cloud obscured the sun. The splat of dozens of giant raindrops added to Curt's anxiety; however, within seconds, the rain stopped and the sun reemerged, but the afternoon was waning and more rain could come, and within hours, it would be dark.
Curt needed to make decisions quickly and he sensed that each decision carried the weight of life and death for Kevin.
Curt silently prayed for Kevin and guidance and wisdom for himself.
Although the weather had been typically moderate at their estimated eight-thousand foot elevation with temperatures in the upper sixties, Curt knew that as the sun began to set, the mountain would turn cold with nighttime temperatures in the
upper forties.
With that knowledge and the need to prevent Kevin from going into shock, Curt took off his nylon windbreaker draped it over Kevin's upper body. Next, Curt rummaged in both day-hiking backpacks and removed their respective plastic raincoats — the $1.99 specials the two had bought at the Walmart sporting goods section the previous Saturday. Curt thought, How ironic. On Saturday when we were at the army surplus store, we considered buying the heavy, rubberized military ponchos, but then thought better of it because of the weight, settling instead for the Walmart lightweight plastic raincoats. Now I could use a poncho.
Curt draped first one and then the other raincoat over Kevin, covering him from the neck down. Curt quickly tucked the excess plastic gently under Kevin to keep the raincoats secured from any potential wind gusts and to keep Kevin as dry as possible if it rained.
Curt knew it was a fruitless gesture, but he pulled out his cell phone anyway and turned it on. He had no bars — no cell phone signal. He had to get help! Kevin was badly hurt. Curt sensed that Kevin could die without prompt medical help, but how could he get Kevin the help he needed? He turned off his cell phone. There was no choice — Curt knew he had to get back down the mountain as quickly as he could and as close to the highway and civilization as he could in order to get a cell phone signal and be able to call 911. Then it hit him: His GPS receiver! He couldn't call anyone, but he realized he needed to mark this location so a search and rescue team — or perhaps, yes! perhaps, a rescue helicopter! — using GPS tracking could find Kevin.
Curt retrieved his GPS receiver from his pocket and turned it on. He saw the receiver recognize six satellites. Good! Curt toggled the receiver to Mark and saw N35.4843.54 and W106.3817.19 as his location at an elevation of 8,252 feet. He entered the information as a new Waypoint. In the Waypoint's Notes, he simply entered the letter "K."
Next, Curt wanted to know how far he was from the meadow where Pastor Ken had dropped off the two what now seemed like an eternity ago; he knew he would have a cell phone signal there.
He toggled to Waypoints and scrolled to select the "Pick Up" Waypoint he had entered into his receiver on that Monday morning that held so much promise of fun and adventure but had now turned tragic. In the box on the receiver labeled From Current Location, he noted that he was 7.22 miles from where Kevin's father had dropped them off.
He selected the receiver's Map feature and a screen popped up showing Curt as an elongated triangle and the "Pick Up" destination — the pick-up meadow— as a flag. He knew from experience that the triangle would move with the apex end pointed in the direction Curt was headed. He also knew the GPS map's 7.22 miles was a straight line distance between where he was now and the Pick Up location — a straight line that he could not follow because he was obligated to stick to the trail he and Kevin had used on the first day, otherwise he could end up in a box canyon, lost, or worse, himself hurt.
He glanced at his wristwatch: 4:27PM. He quickly calculated how much time it would take for him to run the 7.22 plus miles downhill at a quick jog, knowing he had to be careful not to build up too much downhill momentum and risk a fall on any of the steeper downhill portions. I'll bet I can do it in under two hours — by seven o'clock, for sure. I have to; there is no choice. Kevin needs help now!
Curt also remembered that the sun had been setting a few minutes after 8:00PM each camping evening. Would daylight run out for rescuers? Could rescuers get to Kevin in time? In the dark?
Curt put his GPS receiver in his shirt pocket and snapped the pocket closed. He took a long drink of water out of one of his canteens — he knew he had to stay hydrated for the run. He placed his canteen back into the felt-lined cover, snapped the flaps closed, and grabbed his mini-backpack that he intended to drop at the fork in the trail as a marker.
Next, he knelt down next to his ominously still and unresponsive friend. He took Kevin's hand, and with a reassuring squeeze, said, "I'm going now to get help, my brother. Hang in there!" and then he prayed, "Dear God. Kevin loves you so much. He's badly hurt. Be with him. Keep him safe. Please keep him alive. Please give me the strength for what I need to do. In Jesus Name, I ask this. Amen."
One more reassuring squeeze and Curt gently placed Kevin's hand and arm under the layers of windbreakers and raincoats. A tear trickled down Curt's cheek. He brushed the tear away with the back of his right hand as he stood up, a look of determination on his face.
He began a brisk jog, compromising between speed, endurance, and safety.
Chapter Fourteen
Rescue
Curt broke out of the stand of Gambel oaks at the meadow trailhead where the adventure, now turned tragic, had started five days before. He dropped to one knee, unsnapped his shirt pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He turned it on. Three bars! He punched in the numbers.
"Nine One One. What is your emergency?"
Curt heard the 9-1-1 system's "beep" indicating the call was being recorded.
"My friend is hurt. We're in the Jemez Mountains."
"What is your friend's injury?"
"We were climbing a rock and he fell. He hit the ground… he hit his head on the ground… and didn't move."
"Are you with him now?"
(Beep.)
"No! No! He's way up on the mountain!"
"Where are you?"
"I'm close to Highway 4… in a meadow… I had to come down the mountain to here to get my cell phone to work… to get any bars."
"Is the meadow a large meadow?"
(Beep.)
"It's… it's about the size of a football field… maybe bigger."
"Can you be more precise about where you are right now?"
Yes. I can give you my GPS coordinates."
"Please give me those coordinates now."
"North 35.4704.57 and West 106.4043.36."
(Beep.)
The 9-1-1 operator repeated the coordinates and Curt confirmed.
"Do you have coordinates for the location of the injured party?"
"Yes. North 35.4843.54 and West 106.3817.19. Elevation 8,252 feet."
(Beep.)
The 9-1-1 operator repeated the coordinates and Curt confirmed.
"Your name, please."
"Curt. Curt Williams."
"The injured party's name?"
(Beep.)
"Kevin… Kevin Miller. We're from Albuquerque. Please hurry."
"Please stand by. Do not hang up."
About sixty seconds passed and Curt was getting anxious about the delay when the 9-1-1 operator came back on and said, "Sir, a New Mexico National Guard helicopter with a paramedic aboard should arrive at your location in approximately twenty minutes. Be prepared to board the helicopter and help direct the crew to the injured party's location. Do you understand what I have said?"
(Beep.)
"Yes. Twenty minutes. Board the helicopter. I understand. And thank you."
"You are welcomed. Good luck."
~~~
Curt would later say that he could not recall but two or three moments of his run back to the meadow where Pastor Ken had dropped off him and Kevin five days before. He said he had no conscious sensation of distance, time, or fatigue during the run. Instead, he had mentally and emotionally placed himself next to Kevin, holding Kevin's hand, praying. He would say, yes, he did remember the 9-1-1 call and the helicopter, but for the most part during the ordeal, it was as if he was outside of his normal self, and God had given him a special strength.
~~~
Curt terminated the call but left his cell phone on. He glanced at his wristwatch for the first time since arriving in the meadow. The time was 6:52PM.
He dreaded his next call but he knew he had to make it. He speed dialed Kevin's home phone number and was thankful that Kevin's father, not his mother, answered on the third ring. Curt explained what had happened and that help was on the way. Pastor Ken asked only one question: "How bad is it?" and Curt could onl
y answer truthfully, "I don't know, sir. He hit pretty hard," and then Curt said something that surprised himself because it was something he would not have said just two days ago, "We can only pray."
Pastor Ken, surprisingly calm but with a certain tightness in his voice said, "I agree. Do you know where they will take him?"
"No, I don't know, but as soon as I find out, I'll call you," and with those words Curt heard a distant whump-whump-whump of a helicopter. "I got to go. The helicopter's coming. I'll call. Pray."
"Thank you, Curt. God be with you… and Kevin."
Curt ran to the middle of the meadow and began waving his arms as the New Mexico Air National Guard Blackhawk UH-60A helicopter came into view a couple of hundred feet above the scrub juniper and piñion trees at the south end of the meadow.
Curt backed away from the center of the meadow as the Blackhawk lowered, nosed up, hovered, and then settled into a soft landing, stirring up and blowing out to the side of the rotor wash an amazing amount of dead grass, dust, and other debris.
The crew chief was standing at the large side door, motioning Curt to come aboard. Curt ran to the beckoning crew chief who gave Curt a hand and hoisted him into the craft. The crew chief plopped a helmet on Curt's head and all of a sudden the whine of the turbines and the whump-whump of the main rotor lessened and gave way to a voice inside the helmet— the crew chief's voice — directing and pointing Curt to a jumpseat next to the door.
"Buckle up," hollered the crew chief, and as Curt fumbled and figured out and finally buckled the four-point harness, he felt the vibration of the machine increase and heard even through the noise dampening helmet the turbines pitch higher and the whump-whump of the main rotor increasing. The next thing Curt knew it felt like his stomach was still on the ground as the Blackhawk leapt into the sky.
"Welcome on board, Mr. Williams. I'm Major Anderson, and I'm driving this bird. I've got the GPS coordinates for your friend. Do you think we'll be able to land there?"
"No, sir. There's no clear area where he's hurt."
"No problem, son. We'll hover and use our hoist to get him onboard. Crew Chief, ready the hoist and basket. Sergeant Zimmer, you'll go down on the hoist with the Stokes, do your paramedic thing, and get the patient in the basket for medevac. Everybody clear?"