Hitch Barlow was a tall, bone-thin young man who worked with nails in his teeth and carpenter tools in his hands, when he was not sighting along the barrel of a big-bore rifle at a buck deer or floating line, leader, tippet and a fly across pebbles at the head of a Montana fishing hole.
Easing his battered, green Ford pickup to a stop on Grizzly Avenue in West Yellowstone, the 25-year-old stared out the side window at hordes of people moving along the boardwalk, swore and mumbled, “Damn tourists,” got out and went into the post office to get his mail.
Granny Jenson, the sole postal employee for about as long as mail had been coming to Montana, was a gnarled, short-tempered, skinny little woman whose age was never revealed, but could range from 60 to near 100, depending on how a person viewed the wrinkles on her face. With a voice that hissed and cut like snakes and broken glass, she simply acknowledged his presence with a nod and “Mornin’.”
Knowing to step lightly into a conversation with her lest he set off a tirade of verbal abuses, Hitch smiled and said, “Morning, Granny,” and figured that was sufficient – see how she reacted before asking for his mail.
Without reply or glance, she thrust mail across the counter and spat a stream of tobacco juice into a red coffee can behind the counter that leant well with the sparse decor of the place.
Encouraged that she was well into her chew, which calmed and pleased her, Hitch spoke again. ‘What’s all the commotion by the park gate? Never saw so many lawmen and park rangers in one place.”
She spit again to clear her mouth, rearranged her false teeth with her tongue, and hissed, “You ain’t heard? Ten-year-old autistic boy wandered from a group of boys like him two days back. Big search on – folks runnin’ around shoutin’, cussin’ and accusin’ each other for it. Keith took to trailin’ the boy an’ then lost ‘im when he waded into Specimen Creek. But hell, Keith couldn’t find his nose ‘less it itched or was dribblin’.”
Hitch studied her for a moment, a frown building across his handsome face, shook his head and sighed.
“Who’s responsible for him?”
“Now how the hell would I know? Idiots that brought them boys fer five days of hikin’, campin’ an’ causin’ trouble’ ‘ud be my bet. They followed the creek for a spell, I reckon, looking to see if he got hung up in tree roots and drowned. Old Sheriff Weed sed they stomped near ten mile in both directions.”
“They look for buzzards Circling?”
“Yep. Bear probably got ‘im, drug ‘im off an’ et’ ‘im. When you reckon on gettin’ hitched?” Granny tended to throw folks off guard after dog-cussing them about this or that by shifting subjects about as fast as she sorted mail, which was damn quick.
“When I find the right girl that’s as pretty as you are . . . a woman who knows how to hold a rifle steady on an elk, gut, cut, cook wild game, clean a house and fly fish.”
Suddenly she grinned and said, “Then I got just the gal. FBI agent whose runnin’ the search – pretty little thing, she is. Don’t know her cookin’ an’ cleanin’ skills, but she said she can shoot wild game an’ fly fish .”
“And she’s probably cross-eyed, pug-nosed, bow-legged, weighs 300 pounds and is five feet tall in hobnail boots.”
“Bet I’m not,” came a reply from a lady standing near the door.
Hitch whirled around, color creeping into his cheeks. He looked back at Granny who was chuckling, swore and stammered, “I think I just got set up.”
“What you did was put your foot in your mouth, tallboy,” the young lady said.
“Honey, you want, I can slit his belly … you salt ‘im, and we’ll throw ‘im to the wolves an’ bears.”
“Ouch! Sorry,” Hitch said backing away, so awed by her beauty and poise that he felt a trembling sensation deep in his gut.
“Or I could just shoot him,” she smiled sweetly. I’m told you’re a tracker. Can you help us?”
“No. Keith Olson’s the park ranger, and he’s better than me. And he’s being paid to do that.”
“Keith’s the one who found and then lost the boy’s tracks,” the lady said, stepping forward, offering her hand. “Kathy Clark.”
“Hitch Barlow,” he said, as he took her hand and held on, hoping she didn’t feel him shaking. “I declare, you’ve got the prettiest blue eyes I ever saw. Miss or Ms?”
“Miss, but don’t get any ideas, tall boy,” she laughed again while pulling her hand away.
Hitch’s face got serious, his voice almost urgent – wanting to know. “Was he carrying a pack, coat, food, sleeping bag, survival kit, anything like that?”
“Counselors were helping the boys put on their packs for a hike when he disappeared,” Kathy said. “He had his, but I didn’t ask about what was in it.”
“Somebody should have asked,” Hitch said with a touch of anger in his voice. “Anyone without food and warm clothing in this country doesn’t stand much of a chance. Weather can change quickly around here.”
”You’re right. I should have asked,” Kathy said. “What made him wander off?”
“Loud noises, the bus, someone staring at him, colors, a smell, anything. He got a name?”
“Earl Jonathan Rollins is the name I was given.”
Mumbling as he brushed past Kathy, she heard him say, “That’s enough,” and then watched him climb into a truck and drive off.
She looked at Granny. ”What was that all about?”
“Hitch got a way about ‘im; strong, silent type, stands out in a crowded room, tough as buffalo hide, but gentle, too. Lady gets him, she’ll know she got the best, way I figure. Knew his daddy – damn good man, he was. Boy’s the same.”
At home, Hitch grabbed his already-filled pack, stuck in some dried fruit, nuts and packaged food, grabbed his fly rod, .308 Remington, a .40-caliber revolver in a Velcro holster and belt and was back in the truck heading toward the North West Yellowstone entrance.
About a mile from the park, he pulled into a turn out that led to the Gallatin River and used his cell phone to call the park service headquarters. “Can you patch me through to Keith Olson, please?” He waited.
“Keith here.”
“Keith, it’s Hitch. Can you tell me about where you saw the boy’s tracks before they disappeared?”
“You going after him?”
“Maybe, but don’t tell anyone.”
“I picked up his prints about a mile from the bus near the northwest end of the park off Highway 191 and lost them when he entered Specimen Creek. Tracked along the creek in both directions, both sides, but couldn’t find them again.”
”Thanks. Talk to you when I get back.”
Moving Swiftly, he found Jonathan’s tracks west of the Gallatin in remote, wild country outside the park trailing north. The boy’s trail meandered like Hitch knew it would. Jonathan had no concept that he was lost, and therefore no fear, and was obviously enjoying the quiet and the many sights, colors and shapes that were all new to him.
On the second evening, Jonathan’s fourth day, Hitch glassed the boy no more than 200 yards away lying in his red sleeping bag in the middle of a meadow. Hitch crept close, made a dry camp, no fire, and was up before dawn moving toward the boy. Hitch stopped about 50 yards away, broke out his cook kit and proceeded to make a breakfast of bacon, biscuits and coffee, taking his time – quiet.
In time, Hitch was aware of Jonathan looking at him as he cooked, but did not look back. He would frighten the boy if he did. He got out two paper plates, put slices of cooked bacon and three biscuits together on one plate, the same on another; careful not to let the bacon touch the biscuits, for that was something some autistic children don’t like – different foods touching. He carried both plates to a rock near the boy, still not looking at him, poured two cups of coffee and said, “I’ve got powdered cream and packets of sugar, if you’d like some.”
Fluttering his hands and murmuring, Jonathan did not respond, so Hitch got packets and poured cream and sugar into his cup, stirred it and took a sip. “Makes it sweeter and milder,” and glanced as Jonathan opened a packet of both, spilling some as they went into his cup, and then drank. Jonathan had chosen the plate with separated biscuits and bacon.
Hitch smiled; he’d learned something. He sat down with his back turned and ate slowly, enjoying the quiet and scenery. When done, he stood and looked at the sky, grinned, stretched out his arms and spun around in morning breeze that had kicked up, and began laughing. “I love doing this when it’s windy,” he said, his eyes drifting quickly across Jonathan’s face, then spinning away again.
At his next glance, Jonathan had set down his empty plate and cup, and was spinning too, his arms spread wide, a grin plastered across his face.
Shouting and laughing, Hitch spoke. “My name’s Hitch Barlow. What’s yours?”
“Earl Jonathan Rollins,” the boy shouted back. Standing still now, and looking off toward distant mountains where huge thunderheads were boiling up, Hitch spoke again. ‘Where do you live, Jonathan?”
Flapping his hands again in the air, he said, ‘Well, uh, Portland, Oregon. Ah, where do you live?”
Pointing north, Hitch said, “Not too far from here in a cabin near the Gallatin River. It’s about fifteen miles north of the town of West Yellowstone where the white bus is parked that brought you. Do you like living in Portland?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so … too many people, bad colors, um, yellow and brown, uh, loud noises and tall buildings make me dizzy, uh, and cars and busses smell awful, um, and make my head hurt.” He stopped talking for a moment. “Umm, I think I don’t want to talk anymore.”
Hitch stopped, smiled and said, “Okay.” Looking at Jonathan directly for the first time, Hitch wondered how smart he was. What level of math, science, music skills or something else did Jonathan possess? He gathered plates and cups, stuffed them in his pack while looking around and said, “When I was little, I lived in a place called Seattle, Washington, and hated it.”
Jonathan went off a-ways and was mumbling to himself, laughing, moving his hands and then curled up on the ground.
Hitch shouted, “Have you ever fished for trout, Jonathan?” Hitch took out his fly rod, assembled it and went through the motion of casting to Jonathan’s delight. He had to get the boy up and moving.
Jonathan rose, moved in and touched it, but didn’t speak, and Hitch knew the boy didn’t know anything about fishing. “Would you like to learn what fishing is all about?” He needed to get the boy headed in the right direction without frightening him.
Mumbling to himself and fluttering his hands again, Jonathan looked at the rifle and handgun Hitch wore.
“Umm, I think I need to go now.”
“Sure. If we head that way,” Hitch pointed, “we’ll run into the Gallatin River, and I can show you how fly fishing is done. Would you like that?”
“I don’t like to be touched,” Jonathan said, as Hitch helped him pack his sleeping bag.
“I know. What if I hold out my left hand with my fingers spread, and you hold out your left hand with your fingers spread, and we touch hands. It will be a sign of trust between us – our sign, our secret. Is that okay?”
“Umm. Yes, I guess.” And they touched hands, Hitch not looking directly at Jonathan, but smiling, and Jonathan smiling back.
They camped that night about three miles from the Gallatin after a day of nearly 12 miles, as Jonathan explored, waved the fly rod around and talked to himself, all of which produced lumps in Hitch’s throat – memories of his little brother Terry. Hitch wondered which of his facial features had Jonathan identified with, looked at, for autistic people look at things completely different.
They woke to hard rain and a flat, gray sky that hung close to the ground. Donning rain gear, Jonathan was soon spinning about laughing, slapping his hands together, and talking to the rain and himself, his arms fluttering. “Umm, I like it when it rains hard,” he laughed, “um, white noise everywhere, which is like silence, but not empty.”
Tears were mixed with rain as Hitch spoke, “Me too.” This ten-year-old boy was someone to save, get out of Portland where he was scared all the time, Hitch thought, as he went about building a crude shelter and stoking up a fire for warmth.
That afternoon the rain moved south, the sky cleared, the sun came out and Hitch showed Jonathan how to flyfish. “If you catch one, would you like to eat it?”
Jonathan did not speak as he immediately tangled the fly line around his legs. His first casts were clumsy, but slowly he got a rhythm as he allowed Hitch to move his arm back and forth.
“When you catch one, I’ll clean and cook it, and if you don’t like it, that’s okay. At least you’ll know what a trout feels like on the end of a line . . . and looks like when it’s cleaned and cooked.”
Jonathan never spoke, but soon had a 15-inch rainbow on his line, and almost lost it as he squealed and jumped about, not touching it. Hitch’s long knife and cooking utensils seemed to fascinate him. When the trout was cooked, he tried a bite and proceeded to eat it all. “I think I like it, umm, I want another one.”
Hitch laughed. “Sure, but you’ll have to catch it first.”
Three fish later, with Jonathan’s appetite satisfied and his interest gone, they crossed the Gallatin and hiked toward Hitch’s truck. “Would you like to see my home,” Hitch asked. “I can take you there in my truck and then bring you back to the white bus.”
“Um, listen, I don’t know you, and I’m not supposed to go with strangers,” Jonathan said.”
I know, but I’m not a stranger now.” Hitch held out his left hand, fingers spread. “Do you trust me?”
Jonathan’s left hand touched Hitch’s. “Umm, Yes, I guess. I, uh, I think so,” His tone of voice almost matching Hitch’s.
“Then I promise I’ll show you where I live, and bring you back to the bus when you want to go.”
Jonathan liked Hitch’s border-collie, Freckles, and Freckles sensed his difference, but followed as Jonathan wandered all over the yard, through the cabin looking and touching things, down to the river and back at least a dozen times, Hitch following too, until finally after supper, as darkness fell, Jonathan curled up on a throw-rug on the floor in a corner and went to sleep with a wool blanket covering him.
Hitch called Keith. “Can you find the FBI agent and put her on?”
“Hitch, did you find the boy?”
“Keith, let me talk to the pretty lady, then she can tell you what I said.”
“You found him, didn’t you? Damn that’s good. Hang on, we’re all here eating a late supper.”
“Hitch?” She sounded tired. “Keith said you might have found Jonathan.”
Hitch’s heart soared at the sound of her voice. “How’s my blue-eyed, beautiful lady?”
“Hitch!”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“What if I found Jonathan and wanted to keep him with me – raise him?”
She gasped. “You did find him, didn’t you? Oh Hitch, that’s wonderful. Is he alright?”
“Answer my question.”
“Hitch, we know that he was abandoned. There was a name-tag on his shirt when he was found, but an investigation turned up nothing,” she said. “There would have to be court procedures. You’d be scrutinized to see if you could care for him. He’d have to go back to Portland until a decision was made, I suppose. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, but I can’t go with that. If he had parents who loved him, he wouldn’t be in a home. They left him . . . couldn’t or didn’t want to care for him. It happens. When he wakes up, I’m going to ask him if he’d like to stay with me and Freckles.”
“You’re going way too fast for me. Who’s Freckles?”
“A border collie. If he says yes, and then he’s taken from me and put on the bus, he won’t believe me again, and I’ll lose the trust we’ve built up, and lose him.”
“Why are you trying to do this, Hitch?”
His voice got quiet. “I had a little brother who had autism and died.”
“Oh Hitch. How did he die?”
There was a long pause, and when Hitch spoke, his voice trembled. “I was supposed to be watching him for mom and dad, but he slipped away and got hit by a car.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen. Terry was nine.”
“Was it your fault?”
“The police and my parents said no. A drunk driver ran up over the curb hitting and killing him, but if I had been there, maybe I could have done something.”
“I don’t believe that, and know you don’t either. If you were there, your parents might have lost two sons, not one.”
He did not answer.
“Hitch. Are you alright? You sound different.”
“I don’t know, but Jonathan and I hit it off, and I know how to take care of him. He doesn’t understand love like we do – mother and father, but he’s comfortable if he knows he can trust someone: me. He’s got wonderful social skills. All autistic children see everything differently than you and I. Being autistic is like sitting on an uneven chair while someone has replaced your clothes with what feels like coarse sandpaper wrapped around you, the lights flicker on and off, and all you hear is static, all you smell is rotten fish, and all of that’s going on in your head all the time. And you’re supposed to learn, respond and fit in. This is where he belongs, not Portland – this beautiful, remote country where he can run and play and laugh in the rain and explore, and not be afraid.”
“What will happen to him when you’re working or have to leave him?”
“I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I know it’s right. I can feel it in my heart. When my parents died, they left a sizeable estate – enough to solve those kinds of problems.”
“Hitch, you need to bring him to West Yellowstone tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk about it with the people who run the home.”
“No. You talk to them. They can make calls, and you call your people, then we’ll meet and talk. There’s one other thing, I can’t seem to get a certain tall, shapely, auburn-haired, blue-eyed beautiful FBI agent out of my mind. What do you think of Montana, the tiny town of West Yellowstone, a border collie named Freckles and a tall boy?”
“Hitch!”
