“No,” I said. “Of course not. Just … walking and talking is very comfortable. Verygemütlich.I still can’t find the correct English word for this.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” Joe said. “Comfortable, cozy, welcomed, contented …”
“Yes,” I said. “All of that. That’s how I feel, coming home. And walking in the woods with you, too. It’s been so stormy, and today is so surprisingly and happily mild. More storms will come next week, and I feel a great desire to enjoy the fine weather while we have it.”
I was chattering and knew it, but beyond another quizzical look, Joe didn’t comment. He just said, “Let’s change clothes, then, and go.”
Outside, the sun shone and the breeze rustled the leaves and sang through the redwoods. The air smelled of loam and freshness, and I walked ahead of Joe and let the scents and sights and sounds wash over me. We climbed a rise and looked out over the valley, at all the new development spread out below us—how quickly the population was growing!—and I said, “I have something important to discuss with you.”
“I thought so,” Joe said, calm as always. “Shoot.”
“I—I’m very happy with you,” I said, walking down the trail ahead of him. “Even though you fill your rucksack for a simple walk in the woods the same way you’d have done in the Army. It isn’t raining today, yet you still have two ponchos! And a first-aid kit, and two canteens, and food. I’ve begun to feel that we really ought to have an emergency sometime, as hard as you’ve prepared for it.”
“Well,” Joe said from behind me, “I’ve always said—” Then there was a noise. Not a scream; it was worse than that. A terrible noise, a sort of muffled cry.
I whirled. And froze.
My brain didn’t want to register what I saw. Joe was on his stomach on the ground, fighting to rise. And over him was a tawny thing like a cat. A verylargecat.
It was a mountain lion, and it had Joe’s head in its jaws. Joe was shouting, “Marguerite! Run!”
What I did next was pure instinct, and pure rage. I didn’t remember what the rules were for mountain lions. I didn’t even think of that. I was grabbing a huge branch knocked down by the storm, and then I was charging. Screaming. Flailing.
When my stick—nearly a log—made contact with the cat’s head, it flinched, but it didn’t let go of Joe. So I hit it some more. Head, shoulders, ribs. I hit that cougar everyplace I could reach, screaming like a madwoman all the while. Joe was still gasping something, probably “Run!” again, but I couldn’t hear him over my own screams. I jabbed the end of the log with all my might against the cat’s face. I raised the log with both hands and brought it down on the top of its head, and when that didn’t work, I swung it like a bat.
It worked. The mountain lion let go. Its muzzle was a mask of blood, its long fangs stained red as it crouched and snarled, its tail lashing. It still stood over Joe, like he was its kill, and I couldn’t let that happen. Iwouldn’tlet that happen.
So I kept charging. I kept screaming. I kept waving the log, then connected hard with the cat’s face again, and it yelped. I screamed, “Raus! Raus! Du Monster! Ich bring dich um!”Unaware that I was speaking German, filled with the strength and rage of ten.
The cat bunched its muscles as if to spring. Joe said, “Marguerite—” It was a gasp, but I couldn’t look at him. I kept charging. I kept hitting.
The cat backed away.
I charged it again. I kept yelling. I kept swinging my log.
It turned around and vanished into the trees. I saw a tawny shape moving, and then I didn’t see it at all.
Joe.I needed to get him out of here. I ran to him, praying harder than I’d ever prayed in my life.Please, God,was all I could think.Please, God. Please.
“Joe,” I said when I got to him. “Joe. Get up. Darling, get up.” Begging him, now, as I’d begged God. Crouching before him, getting my hands under his shoulders, sobbing with effort and fear. How could I possibly lift him? How could I leave him? What should I do?
“I’m … OK.” The words were thready, but they were there. A patch of his scalp hung loose, I realized with horror, and when he pushed himself up, the blood streamed down his face. “Help me … up.”
I did. I got under him and put my shoulder under his, and then I straightened my legs. He got his feet under him and rose, staggering. I was still sobbing, still talking. Saying his name.
“Marguerite,” he said on a gasp. “You need to … calm down.”
“Calm … down? Calmdown?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Put your … arm around my waist. I can’t really … see. We need to get out of here.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I will do this. I am here. I have you. Come on.”
Of the next twenty or thirty minutes, I remember chiefly the effort. Nearly staggering under Joe’s weight, I walked ondoggedly, and as for Joe? His feet kept moving without cease. He said, at one point, “Not the … worst thing. At least I’m not … shot.” I tried to laugh at that, but I couldn’t. My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t unstick my lips. Another time, he said, “Head wounds always … bleed. That’s all it is. S-surface.”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. It’s blood, that’s all. We can bleed and survive, both of us. We can survive. Keep walking. We’ll both keep walking.”
“You … bet.” His voice was growing fainter, and the blood was everywhere, hot and thick and wet and coppery-smelling. “Marching. Like the Army. Got to keep … marching.”
