Intro

Elbows up on the bar, he's hunched forward just enough to see the table of cowboys without turning in their direction. Six of 'em, drunk enough to be happy but not enough to be mean. For fifteen minutes he's watched them as he slowly sips the glass of beer bought with his last dollar. They laugh in that easy way you have when you're in charge.

He knows what he has to do and his heart beats fast because of it. But he's not afraid; he's ready. He smoked his last joint that afternoon and with it severed his connection to that life. It's over; he's clean again. With his hair cut short, he knows what he looks like: a kid--cute as a bug's ear his Uncle Buck would say--with a smile that can get him what he needs anywhere anytime. Being in Jackson Hole makes no difference, a tableful of drunk cowboys makes no difference. He can do it.

He swings off the bar stool and carrying his beer in his hand walks slowly to the table. He stops, standing motionless until one of the men looks up. "Hi," he says, "I was just wondering if you guys knew anybody that needed a hard hand."

They look at him. Then they look at each other. Neither their mouths nor their faces speak. The loud bar noises accentuate the silence at the table.

Finally a cowboy--a small man but his hat's large and bent in ways that make you know he's very big inside--says, "A hard hand?" He mimics without malice, "Do we know anybody needs a hard hand? Is that what you said? Where you from boy?"

"Georgia. I'm from Georgia."

"They all talk like that down in Georgia?" the same man asks in a careful tone.

Giving the man his best smile, the boy answers, "I reckon." Then he rushes, "What I hoped was I could get a job. I was going to Nebraska to work the wheat fields but a fellow gave me a ride said I'd missed haring time out there and said maybe I could get some work up in Jackson Hole Wyoming so I came up but I'm broke now and I figured maybe y'all know somebody haring." Out of breath, he waits.

The small man looks from the boy to the other men. They offer no change of expression. Even with their distant mien, the absence of any sense of impending conflict makes the mood seem easy, light, and the boy knows he's close.

With livestock breeder's eyes, the small man examines him, then concludes, "You mighty skinny. Can you work?"

"I was raised on a farm. Worked all my life. I can work hard as any man. And I plan to gain some weight."

"Can you drive a truck?"

"Yessir, I can drive anything's got wheels."

"You drunk?"

"Nossir, ain't had but one beer." He pauses, then adds in excuse, "Didn't have no more money."

They all grin. A different one speaks: he is older than the small man but presents his comment to the small man as a suggestion to be entertained by the boss, "We got to get the big truck back out to camp. Arlo's drunk and Herb's in jail. After we go get Herb, we need somebody to drive the truck."

The small man looks at the boy. "Think you could do it?"

"Yessir, I could."

"Well, pull up a chair. My name's Pinky, this here's Bill, this is Martin, this is Bragg, this is Mac, and this is James."

The boy circles the table shaking hands, making sure his grip is strong. "My name's Chip," he announces.

The mood instantly changes. The loud-talking Saturday night cowboy bar senses an outsider. All expression vanishes from the men's faces. Pinky repeats in a flat tone, "Chip."

Looking him straight in the eye, the boy grins and answers, "Aw, well, it's not really. My name's really Robert James Abernathy. They got to calling me Chip caused I played poker so much when I was in the service. You could call me Bob. Don't matter."

"Hell, Chip'll do. Sit down Chip." They all grin as they move to make room for another chair at the table.

******************************* 

The two and a half ton flatbed bucks and groans as Chip roars down the narrow dirt road, straining with all his senses trying to keep the lights of the pickup ahead in sight. His own lights on bright do little to penetrate the forest around them. Beside him, Bill seems unconcerned and only offers an occasional comment, "If you lose him, I don't know the way back to camp," or, "If you keep it in second, you'll burn out the transmission."

Since leaving the bar, events have begun to blur for the boy. Everybody seems to know what to do except him. They tell him nothing about their plans. Somebody says, "Go with Bill," and Chip follows. They get in a vehicle, drive for awhile, pick up somebody else whose name the boy immediately forgets, then drive some more. Finally, they unload Chip and Bill at the big truck. Bill is about twenty-five but carries himself like a much older man. He has an air of quiet intelligence about him and answers the boy's unspoken question by saying, "State Patrol got my license."

Then they drive in convoy. Three pickups full of cowboys and him trailing behind. The trucks stop at City Hall. Pinky goes in and emerges fifteen minutes later half carrying and half dragging a tall old man who looks drained of all content, liquid or otherwise. A false perception because, crossing the street, Pinky suddenly twists his burden so the old man's face points toward the pavement. A most impressive two quart eruption ensues.

Bill offers commentary, "Herb's drunk. All he does is puke and fight when he gets drunk. Ain't worth a shit at either one."

Chip laughs, "Hell he pukes good."

Bill laughs and Chip feels accepted.

Which is exactly the opposite of the way he feels now. He raves silently, "How they expect me to keep up? This truck won't go that fast! Why won't they slow down? Why didn't they send somebody with me who knows the way to camp? How do I get it in fourth gear? What am I doing here?"

The truck roars down the short straightaways, then careening through a maze of turns, staccato backfires in a throaty grumble of unmufflered complaint. They are in the bigwoods now. Anything resembling a maintained highway is long behind and the longer they drive the less anything resembles a road at all. The trees form a stout coffin to the sides of the convoy and canopy the road like an indigo shroud. As the headlights bounce eery shadows in front of them, a way opens through the trees, then closes to blackness as they enter, only to open in time to let the lead truck through. Chip flashes an image of them coming to a crashing halt like a stack of hungup dogs.

Instead they burst into a large, treeless meadow. And pick up speed. Gritting his teeth, Chip stomps the accelarator and eases closer to the pickup ahead, which pickup for no apparent reason locks his brakes. Standing on his own brakes, Chip whirls the steering wheel as far as it will go to the right and manages to clear the stopped pickup but does not manage to avoid a large campfire located in front of a tent. Quickly putting the vehicle in reverse, Chip backs off the fire.

Nobody seems to notice. The men emerge from their trucks like strangers arriving for work at a job they've been doing so long every action is done on automatic pilot. Pinky tells Bill, "Take Herb to his tent. Don't put him in his sleeping bag; he'll piss it. Rest of you, I'll see in the morning."

The men walk away without a word, leaving Chip standing alone. "Uh, Pinky. Uh, what should I do?"

Pinky stops, removes his hat and rubs his hand across his hair. He sighs, then asks, "You got any gear?"

"I got my suitcase. Had it outside at the bar."

"I mean do you have a sleeping bag?"

"Well, not really."

"Do you have any blankets?"

"Not really."

"Well what do you have?"

"Just some clothes and stuff."

"Okay, see where Bob took Herb? You sleep in that tent. Use Herb's sleeping bag." With a grin he adds, "He ain't pissed it in weeks."

"Won't Herb mind?"

"Herb won't mind nothing 'til about noon tomorrow. Just get some sleep and I'll take you to meet Dan in the morning." He pauses then adds, "You did all right."

*************************** 

He senses it the next morning in the cooktent: a coolness, a watchfulness. Now that everyone is sober they obviously have some questions about this stranger they brought in. Chip tries to defuse the tension by being quiet and studiously polite. He determines to give no one a reason to question his presence because he wants the job bad.

His desire had built steadily from the moment he saw the men in the bar. By breakfast he is hooked.

He doesn't understand why he wants to stay. He ponders the question as he silently eats his breakfast. There are some obvious explanations. Living in a tent at the base of Grand Teton Mountain resembles natural perfection. Sticking his head out of the tent that morning, he literally flinces when he sees the mountain. Nothing has prepared him for it. Flat land all around, the few hills he encounters around Jackson Hole give no hint that a massive, glacier-covered monolith would suddenly thrust itself a mile straight up into the sky. He bows his head as if the memory is too heavy to hold. And thinks about being a cowboy. Even though the image has to fight its way past other more current ideals of american manhood like drug cops and other beefy hero types, he finds the image of the cowboy standing stolidly at the edge of his consciousness.

But he knows that's not the reason he wants the job, not really. It's something more, something he does not understand, something he feels. It's hard to find words for it. He projects his mind inward like CATSCAN. It's a sense of...that's what it is: a sense of necessity. He needs the job; he needs the job as much as he's ever needed anything. Like needing to have sex with a beautiful girl who needs him just as much. That kind of need.

He does everything but stand up and bow when Dan Robertson enters the cooktent. Nobody needs to tell him Dan is the boss. He communicates the fact with every nuance of his bearing, demeanor and voice. Pinky glances at Chip, then explains to Dan what happened the night before and concludes, "So we needed somebody to drive the flatbed out here and he came along. Said he could work. Course, it's up to you; I didn't make him any promises.

Dan locks the boy in his gaze, nods a greeting, and asks, "You willing to work?"

"Yessir, I'll earn my pay. I can work good as anybody."

His heart races because of the lie. He has no real experience to base his boast on. It is a statement of commitment, not of fact. He's raised on a farm, true enough, but he's never done a full day's work at anything harder than sitting at a desk in a classroom. He's worked in spurts around the farm, an hour here, an hour there, has broken a sweat on occasion; but work, real work, that's something else.

Dan seems to sense the boy's inexperience and makes no attempt to hide his skepticism. "We got enough deadwood around here as it is. We damn sure don't need anymore. Specially not one that eats as much as you do."

The men in the cooktent laugh. Without realizing it, while the introductions were going on and the explanations being offered, Chip finished two plates of bacon and eggs and potatoes and is working on his third. Dan continues, "Never seen a skinny fellow eat like you do."

Embarrassed, but not enough to push his plate away, Chip replies, "I need to gain some weight."

When he says it, his heart again speeds up. The memories that flash in his mind's eye have no place in a tent full of cowboys deep in the heart of cowboy country. Like a projector stuck in frenetic fastforward, Chip sees himself tap tap tap the bulb on a homemade syringe and sees the needle draw blood that registers in the mixture of methedrine and water in the kit. He quickly shakes his head to drive away the image. He rushes an addendum. "I promise you I'll earn my keep."

There is a long pause as Dan considers his decision. Two cowboys cough, another drags his hand across his head like he's wringing out water. All are a study in minding your own business. Finally Dan concludes, "Okay, you go with me today. We'll talk about your pay after we've had a chance to see what you can do." Then, without pausing, Dan turns to Pinky, "So what happened last night? How come Herb was in jail?"

As Pinky answers, Chip silently exults as if Dan's decision has altered the balance of power in the universe in his favor.

Pinky tells Dan, "Drunk. On the street. Lem Traylor, that new deputy, told him to get off the street and Herb tried to get in the squad car with him to beat his ass."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told the Chief you'd be in with his fine sometime this week."

Dan looks around the tent, "Where's the sorry sonabitch now?"

The man named Arlo answers, "He's still getting his beauty rest."

The rest of the men except Dan laugh, then finally even he grins as he says, "All right let's go to work."

But Chip knows. Nobody else might feel it, but he knows. He is filled with certainty, the certainty of destiny.

******************************

At first it is easy: Chip rides on the back of the flatbed; Dan drives up to a pile of cans stacked high and disorderly; Chip jumps down, loads the cans on the truck; jumps back on, and they drive to another pile. The cans are empty. Even though they are heavyweight, government issue five-gallon gasoline cans, they weigh only two or three pounds apiece. Grab two in each hand, toss 'em on the truck 'til they're all up there; hop up on the truck, stack them neatly in rows four cans high; then drive to the next stack. Nothing to it. Adrenalin is flowing, he is twenty years old, and his mind is made up to be a working man.

By the time they arrive at the fourth pile of jumbled empty cans Chip wonders when they'll be stopping for lunch. "Dan, what time you got?" he asks in a tone designed to show he is just making idle conversation.

Dan looks at his watch, "Eight thirty two."

"Eight thirty two," Chip silently intones.

Two piles later Chip is feeling panicky. The pace is making him wonder if his body can continue to function. Danger signals are coming fast and sure: sweat pours, breath rasps in his throat, ears whine in subjective alarm, heart thunks in a sporadic rhythm that can be nothing other than a symptom of impending attack.

"Dan. Got the time?"

Resting comfortably in the cab of the truck with his arm propped on the rolled-down window, Dan glances at his watch and answers, "Eight forty-nine. How you doing back there?"

"Fine. Doing just fine. Beautiful country out here, ain't it."

"Ummm, huhh," Dan replies.

Gradually a pattern emerges. His flesh rebels: using every device available to panic him, his flesh screams, rants and raves like a grizzly trapped and tortured; then, some door of pain closing, his body works for a short period without threat of panic; then, like a mutinous slave, his flesh again roars for relief. The pattern continues until the truck is finally loaded with cans.

Chip enters the cab and sits his body down. The sigh that emerges comes from an agreement between mind and body that is rare among humans.

"Now what, Dan?" Chip asks, feeling confident that a restful break in the routine is assured.

"Oh, we'll drop these off at the loading dock and pick up full ones. It's not far. We'll get it done before lunch." Dan turns to watch Chip's reaction.

His body throws up invisible hands and threatens to resign; but all Dan sees is Chip smile and nod.

At the loading dock the two cans in each hand are full and, instead of weighing three pounds each, weigh forty-one pounds each. Which adds up to eighty-two pounds per hand multiplied by ninety-one because that is how many times Chip has to walk back and forth to load the truck with the filled cans. After only four solo trips with the loaded cans, Dan joins him without comment. It is clear to both of them that help must be forthcoming if they are to be loaded inside a week.

Lunch consists of two sandwiches and a canteen of water consumed on the back of the truck. "What's in these cans, Dan?" Chip asks about half-way through his second sandwich.

"Poison." Dan replies.

Since Dan rarely smiles and has been consistent in maintaining his distance all day, Chip is surprised at the joke.

He laughs and says, "No really, what's in them?"

Dan raises his eyebrows. He is a big man who clearly is not amused when people question his declarations. "Poison," he repeats in a tone designed to warn challengers.

Chip slowly grasps the fact that the cans he has been carrying contain poison. It is not an easy connection to make. His flesh simply does not want to hear it. Too much of the liquid has spilled for said flesh to now be informed that the liquid in question fits the classification "poison."

"What kind of poison, Dan?"

"Bug tree poison. That's what we do. Didn't anybody tell you? We spray bug trees. Pine Beetles. We kill 'em."

"And this is what we use to kill them." Chip states in the flat tones used by one who has just been informed of a malignancy. Without looking at the cans towering behind him on the flatbed, Chip gestures toward them as he continues, "And my job is to load and unload them."

"You're a sharp fellow," Dan replies with a slight hint of humor in his voice, "You might make it after all."

********************************

Chip slowly wakes up. As usual, the first sound he hears is Herb forcing air into a respiratory system utterly destroyed by a lifetime of seriously committed alcohol abuse. The old man is fearsome in his sleep. His sleepsounds can be duplicated by heavy earth moving equipment in contest with a recalcitrant brick wall only if the machines are operated at full throttle. Chip slowly opens his eyes and peers across the tent at Herb. Herb lies on a bunk on the other side of an idle woodburning stove. Even in June, water outside freezes in Wyoming, so Chip's breath provides a hazy atmosphere through which to view Herb.

For four days the routine has been the same. Chip awakens and lies motionless listening to Herb unknowingly lecture on the evils of alcohol abuse. Suddenly he feels his body. No matter where his mind scans, the answer is the same--utter destruction. Not a muscle, not a nerve, not a sinew has escaped absolute destruction. Death, pain, terror, horrow, and the holocost embodied: this is the message his mind receives. For a few minutes Chip lies there and slowly tries to convince his body that things are not as bad as they seem. Sure my muscles are sore, he reasons to himself. Hard work never killed anybody. It's just a matter of getting up, loosening up, warming up. I've made it four days. I'm eating good. No reason I shouldn't be getting stronger. Just a matter of time 'til I won't be sore anymore. Just a matter of time.

Then, very slowly, Chip moves some part of his body, like a hand. Okay, look at that. I don't think it's as sore as yesterday. Then an arm. Uhhh, not bad, not bad. Pain, but bearable. Then a leg. No, not the leg. Too soon. The head. Twist those neck muscles. Ummmmmm. Ummmmm."

"What you doing? Whacking your dog?"

"And a pleasant good morning to you too, Herb."

Herb erupts a grand mucus finale, then barks, "Man can't sleep with you moaning like you got something to complain about. We took you in here. Don't know nothing about you. And you acting like you some kind of special big-time cheese shit or something. Don't think I ain't on to you. All of us are. We're on to you."

Since the first time Herb speaks to Chip, this is the tone he chooses. Chip has no clue why Herb is his enemy, but enemy he clearly is. As politely as he knows how, Chip tries to defuse Herb's antagonism. Nothing works. And Herb's attitude toward him is influencing the other men. Even Pinky, who, from the first, is the friendliest man on the crew, withdraws at supper the night before. When Herb scolds him about all the food he is eating Pinky sits silently with the others. And when Chip gets up to go back to the tent, Pinky asks him why he always leaves the tent after supper instead of staying around and drinking a few beers like the rest of them.

Chip knows he should stay and do it. But there is something frightening about the prospect of sitting around getting drunk with these men. Alcohol always makes him talkative, makes him brag. If they ever get a hint of where he is coming from, he knows he is finished.

Already they suspect something. They don't know what. But they know there is something about him that doesn't fit the image he tries to project. They know he is something other than the good ol' Georgia boy just come from the farm.

Now fully awake, Herb digs in, certain that he's right. He picks his nose as he talks--a leisurely chore, one he obviously takes pleasure in. "I don't know why you stay here. Don't nobody want you. You don't belong here and you know it." Herb says it without emphasis, like it is common knowledge. "Why don't you just get outta here?"

"You ain't my boss. It ain't up to you to decide whether I stay or go. Dan hired me."

"He don't want you either. Told me so. He ain't got no use for you."

"Herb, I don't want to call you a liar but..."

Grunting furiously, Herb stampedes his body out of the bunk. Six feet separate them in the tent. Even though Herb's tortured body is almost out of the race, it is not stooped by the contest. He shakes in rage. "You calling me a liar, you..."

"Herb, I ain't calling you nothing. I just don't believe Dan..."

"Snot-nose kid come in here calling me a liar. Better know I won't take it! I might be old but I ain't dead yet."

"Herb, I ain't done nothing to you and you know it. I don't know what your problem is, but I don't need this shit. I'm bustin' my ass out there. I didn't ask to be put in this tent. I don't like you anymore'n you like me." He pauses and crosses a subconscious threshold. "I don't have to put up with this shit! I tell you what. You want me out of here? If Dan don't want me, I'll leave. I ain't gonna stay where I ain't wanted."

Clenching his teeth against the pain in his muscles, Chip rolls out of the sleeping bag spread on the ground and pulls on his boots. Since he sleeps in his clothes all he needs is his coat and he's ready to go.

"Where you going?" Herb asks belligerantly.

"I told you!" Chip snaps as he pushes back the tentflap.

Behind the largest of the six tents scattered around the clearing, Dan Robertson stands talking to Pinky. Chip crosses the clearing and stops near the two men. They ignore him until they finish their conversation. When Pinky walks away, Dan acknowledges his presence and asks, "How you doing?"

"Not too good. I reckon I'll be leaving."

Dan pauses and looks at him in quiet surprise. "Well, I wouldn't a figured that."

"It's just best, I guess."

"Why's that?"

"I don't fit in too good."

"Who said?"

"Well, Herb said, and he says the rest of the fellers agree, so I guess I best go. I ain't looking to start no trouble."

"Herb hire you?"

"No. You hired me Dan."

"You can't take it if Herb don't like you?"

"It ain't that Dan. Herb just said you didn't want me around either. It's you I don't want no trouble with. I don't give a shit what Herb thinks."

"You heard me complain about you?"

"No," Chip replies. He pauses, then: "You don't say much one way or the other."

"You think I'd tell you if I had a problem with you?"

Again Chip pauses. "I'm not sure."

"Think about it."

"Yes, you'd say something."

"Have I said anything?"

"No."

"So what's your problem?"

Chip grins, "I don't guess I got a problem."

"Don't look like it to me. Fact is I think you're doing a good job of work. Half them fellers pissed off cause they think you working as hard as you work's gonna make them look bad. You just keep it up."

"Yessir."

Chip whistles as he walks away.

****************************

Herb shuts up about him leaving. Chip never says anything about his conversation with Dan but it is clear that everyone gets the word. Not that Herb acts friendly; he just shuts up and leaves him alone.

Time passes quickly. Each day Chip goes out with Dan on the truck loading and unloading cans. Once a week they all go to a small tourist camp called Coulter Bay and use the public showers. From week to week standing in front of the mirror in the shower room, Chip watches his body react to the work and the food he is consuming in quantities that finally leave everyone speechless: plates of eggs and bacon and ham and biscuits in the morning--Dan's wife is the camp cook--sandwiches at lunch, usually elk and mayonnaise, at night more elk with potatoes and beans and more biscuits. In no more than six weeks Chip looks in the mirror in the shower room at Coulter Bay and sees a body bigger and stronger than any he's ever possessed. His chest is a man's chest, albeit short of hair, his arms are bulging with muscles, his stomach is flat and tight. He grins at himself in the mirror and can't resist winking. Arlo, standing behind him drying off, says in disgust, "Why don't you just go ahead and kiss him?" Pinky and Bill laugh.

The cowboys are easier to be with now. Not that Chip spends much time with them. Each night he still returns to his tent to read by lantern light instead of staying with them in the cook tent where they listen to Loretta on the cassette player in the truck Pinky pulls up outside.

He reasons, All they do is drink beer and tell lies. Except he knows they aren't all lies. He knows Arlo actually had been the number one saddle-bronc rider in the world for about six months ten years ago until Arlo rolled his new Cadillac coming from the rodeo in Boise and killed his best horse and busted his pelvis so bad that he couldn't ride right any more. He knows everyone of them have stories that can command a man's attention. He wants to be able to sit in the tent sometimes but he is able to convince himself that he really doesn't.

In the daytime they accept his presence without question: but they rarely joke with him; and, except when Dan's around,

they rarely speak to him. They watch him though--like they are waiting for something.

Chip is surprised when Pinky and Arlo ask him if he wants to make a beer run one day after work. They have beer. Arlo has sixpacks of beer hid in every creek within two miles of camp. Each day when Arlo rides out to spread line to mark the bug trees, first thing he does is stop and pull one of his sixpacks out of the creek. At the end of the day he wobbles in the saddle and by not long after dark he's passing-out drunk. The offer excites Chip because it is a friendly overture, but it doesn't make sense. It's the first time they've offered to include him in their forays without Dan's telling them to. He says yes anyway.

On the way back to camp, Pinky surprises him even more by stopping his pickup. They've pulled off the blacktop to turn into the fire lane that runs through the forest for about six miles back to camp.

"You want to drive?" Pinky asks with a grin. "Me and Arlo got some serious drinking to do. Since you ain't drinking maybe be best if you drive."

Pinky's pickup, like everything else he owns, is the best. Like the big white stallion that bucks like crazy when he mounts it in the mornings, like his hat and boots, like the shirts he wears anytime he leaves camp--fancy plaids with silver snaps for buttons and silver overlays on the tips of the collar--Pinky's pickup is a joy to look at.

"Sure Pinky, I'd love to."

The fire lane is not really a road at all. Carved through the forest to provide emergency access to firefighters anytime the Grand Teton National Park is threatened, it is little wider than a game trail. The pickup bounces heavily no matter how slowly Chip drives, but Pinky and Arlo are drinking fast and telling him to hurry back to camp so the beer won't get hot. He speeds up but makes sure he keeps absolute control of the vehicle.

They leave the forest and enter the large meadow they must cross to get to camp. Suddenly Pinky commands him to stop. Chip knows he's done something wrong. He immediately stops the truck. Without a word, Pinky jumps out, stalks around to the driver's side and, glaring furiously, plants himself with his hands on his hips. Chip sits at the wheel and stares back in amazed apprehension.

"Get out!" Pinky commands.

Chip's mouth silently opens and closes; once, then again, then, continuing in silence, he turns to look at Arlo.

Arlo advises, "You better get your ass out."

Chip opens the door and gets out. He stares at Pinky trying to silently communicate his bafflement, trying to communicate his desire to please.

"See this?!" Pinky roars.

Chip looks where he is pointing and sees that the corner of the metal rollbar mounted on the pickup bed is separated from its mount. In amazement Chip asserts, "Pinky, I couldn't a done that! I wadn't driving that fast. I..."

"You broke the son of a bitch!" In his fury, his face is redder than the hair which gives him his name. Every muscle is communicating attack.

"Pinky, I couldn't have! I didn't hit any bumps that hard! Arlo, tell him! Did I break it?"

Arlo slowly dismounts from the truck and shrugs, "Pinky says you broke it, you broke it."

Chip summons all sincerety at his command, "Pinky, I just couldn't have broken it; I wadn't driving that fast. Besides, you told me..."

Pinky lowers his voice a octave, "You calling me a liar?"

Chip harmonizes with a high note counterpoint, "Pinky! What are you doing? I'm not calling you a liar. I'm saying I don't think I broke the thing. I was driving careful. Pinky, you know I wouldn't do something like that on purpose. Pinky, if I did it, it was an accident."

"I'm gonna kick your ass."

Chip takes four long steps backward. "Piinky! What are you doing? If I broke it, I didn't mean to. I'll pay to have it fixed. I've got money coming..."

"You been asking for it and I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Pinky what have I done? I ain't asked for nothing. I try to mind my own business and get along with everybody. Pinky, I don't want no trouble with you."

"Siting up in your tent thinking you're better'n everybody. Reading all them books like you got good sense or something. Everybody's on to you. We know you're on the run from the law or something. And you acting like you're too good to hang around with us."

"Pinky, that's not it! I just didn't want to...I just didn't want to make mistakes. I don't think I'm better'n y'all. I just didn't want...

"I'm gonna kick your ass. You got it coming."

Seeing that Pinky is intent and that no objection will change his mind, Chip finds himself in unmapped territory. He has no desire to fight Pinky. He knows as sure as he knows anything that he stands no chance. He knows the little man has taught more than one tough range cowboy it is a mistake to mess with Pinky. Fear causes Chip's body to vibrate, and every instinct tells him to turn and run. But he stands there. His only movement is to lower his head to look at Pinky from underneath his eyebrows.

Pinky snorts at the sight and tosses his voice aside to Arlo, "Look at him lower his head like a little bull, Arlo. Ain't that cute! I'm gonna kick his ass all the way back to camp like a football."

Pinky clenches his fists and takes one step toward him.

Chip hears himself speak and his voice comes out low and sure and serious, "Pinky, I don't want to fight you--I don't want to. But I ain't running Pinky. I wadn't raised to run."

Pinky takes another step and begins to move into a fighter's crouch.

Chip steels himself for the rush and proclaims, "I don't want it Pinky, but I ain't running." His voice carries the unmistakeable tone of clear warning. "I ain't runnin' Pinky. I wadn't raised to run."

And just like that Pinky stops and relaxes and grins. He shoots a quick look in Arlo's direction, then looks back at Chip. His grin broadens. "You all right ain't you boy."

Perplexed, Chip responds, "Well, I don't know about that Pinky. All I know is I ain't running."

Pinky snickers, apparently delighted with what he sees. "You all right." He turns to Arlo, "I told you he was all right."

Arlo grins and shrugs.

Having disarmed Chip and left him completely unsure of what anything means, Pinky walks directly to him, puts his arm around his neck, pulls his head down in a friendly headlock, squeezes, then lets go. "I told them you was all right."

"Pinky, what the fuck is going on?"

Pinky looks into his eyes. They are standing very close. Too stunned to think, Chip stares deeply into the other man's twinkling blue eyes for long seconds. Then Pinky looks back at Arlo and, like a proud parent, gloats, "I told you he was all right."

Things change rapidly after that. Where before there was a definite distance between himself and everybody in camp, now there is none. They don't form a line and shake his hand and pat him on the back. They just look him in the eye, they talk to him, they grin at him, and they finally get him drunk. Never drunk enough to tell them where he is really coming from, but drunk enough to tell them everything else. About his home in Georgia and his mom and the girls he has known and the ones he's only known in his fantasies. He tells them about the places he's hitchhiked to, and the places he wants to go, the things he wants to do. And they accept him as he is. Not one of them but at the same time somehow one of them.

The days and the nights become a joy to the boy. Work now is an opportunity to add to the muscles that bulge larger each day. Each night he learns more about the options and opportunities these men know and live with in a freedom only dreamed about in the rest of the world: he learns to dream of riding bulls, great beasts that only the truly fearless can conquer; he learns of the women drawn to the cowboy, he learns to dream about them; and finally he learns to rest within himself alive like never before, accepted as a man among men.

***********************************

The chance to go to Canada comes suddenly, unexpectedly--out of the blue, as they say. Dan announces it in the cooktent after supper. "They got this new generator for us up in Quebec. I got to get it down here by this time next week if we're going to stay on schedule. I could have them ship it but I figure we'll save some money going to get it. I figure me and Pinky and Arlo can drive up, rent a trailer, and haul it back." He looks at Chip. "You ever been to Canada?"

Chip feels a rush of delight but he tries to appear nonchalant when he answers, "Don't think I have."

"You want to come along?"

He can no more control the broad grin that bursts across his face than he can the burst of speed in his heart, "Do I!"

Catching himself, he manages to smother the grin and adds, "Oh, I wouldn't mind."

They all laugh but he doesn't mind.

The men stop at a desk just inside the entrance to the building. The woman sitting at the desk cannot hide her surprise. She obviously is not accustomed to encountering working cowboys in the building. Dan asks her what room Professor Mitchelson is in. She tells him the room number and adds, "He's in class right now." She looks at her watch. "He should be out in another thirty minutes."

Dan counters, "He told us to come on in. We've got to get a manual from him for a generator he designed. We're on a tight schedule so he said it'd be all right if we came in. Won't take a minute."

The lady shrugs, tells them the room number, and points down a long empty hallway. They walk down the hall to the door numbered eleven. Dan opens the door and peeks in. He waits silently for a short time. Chip and Arlo and Pinky can see nothing with Dan's body blocking the doorway. They hear Dan say, "Hey, Professor. We're here."

A jovial voice answers, "Well come on in. Come in."

Dan enters the room but stops to hold the door open behind him. The professor sees the men behind Dan and says, "Come in. Bring your friends with you."

They enter a large classroom designed like a theatre with desks situated on an incline and the professor standing at the bottom. All feel discomfort when they realize there are about fifty students spread around the room. They pause, not sure what to do. The professor, a bald bespectacled man bellows, "Come in. Come in. Don't mind these students. Half of them are asleep anyhow. Class, these gentlemen are going to test the prototype generator I've been telling you about." To Dan he adds, "This will give them an opportunity to see that engineers design machines not for classroom theory but for real people to use." Then to the class, "As you can see, class, these are real people."

Several of the girls in the class giggle. Chip glances their way and grins. Their attention excites him and makes him feel like doing something to make them laugh, but all he does is put his hands in the back pocket of his jeans like Pinky.

They all cross to the professor's desk. Dan reaches out to shake his hand. The four men spread in a semi-circle around the professor, each taking turns shaking hands. Chip glances back toward the class and with a grin examines the girls seated nearest the professor's desk. One of the bolder ones returns his smile.

Behind them, the door bursts open. A man charges into the room like a bull into the ring. He is dressed in camoflage fatigues and carries what appears to be a rifle. He screams, "Don't anybody move!" Waving the rifle around the room, he screams again, "Don't anybody move!" Silence greets him as he stands there, crouched and panting rapidly.

Then a girl giggles and a male voice booms from the back of the classroom, "Okay, buddy, what's the punchline?"

The man screams, "YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE! A JOKE!" He points his rifle toward the back of the classroom and fires one round. The sharp CRACK reverbrates palpably like a tremor in the sliding tectonic plates on which they rode. The gunman grins, "YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY? HUH? I'll show you what's funny!" He laughs then but the laugh is not the actor's imitation of a demented madman, it is the sound of a spectator at a pleasing comedy. The laugh vanishes, "You women think you can do anything you want to a man? You think you can rip his balls out of his body and he'll just lay there? Just lay there and do nothing? You think that's FUNNY?! I'll show you what's funny. EVERYBODY! STAND UP!

When nobody moves, the gunman takes two steps into the room. He screams then, rage driving his voice to a piercing note, "DO IT NOW! STAND UP! He lowers his voice and asks sarcastically, "You want me to shoot you where you sit? I didn't come here to kill everybody, but I will if I have to. Now STAND UP!"

Slowly everyone in the room rises to their feet. "You men get away from the women. They're the ones I want!" He pauses, then screams, "BUNCHA FUCKIN' FEMINISTS! You think you can take a man's job? You think you can take a man's life? You think you can do anything you want? You'll see; you'll see. Now get away from them! All the men down front! NOW! MOVE IT!

At first nobody moves. Then one, then another, then another, the men begin to move until about thirty males separate themselves from the females. They move slowly down the aisles toward the front of the classroom. Two females try to join them.

The gunman throws the rifle to his shoulder and screams at the women who move, "YOU! Take another step and you're dead. Not another step!"

The women halt. The males continue their walk to the front of the room.

Suddenly Dan's voice booms out, causing everyone in the room to jerk violently, "You gonna kill the bitches, buddy?"

The gunman whirls toward Dan. He squints as if trying to make out a figure far in the distance.

Dan repeats, "You gonna kill the bitches, buddy? You gonna blow 'em away? That what you gonna do?" Dan looks at Pinky, then at Arlo and Chip, and speaks in a loud voice, "Looks like the bitches fixing to get what they deserve, boys. Think we oughta give him a hand?"

"SHUT UP DOWN THERE!"

Dan quickly turns back to the gunman and roars in cheerful explanation, "Me and my boys couldn't agree more Partner!" Without taking his eyes off the gunman who stands fifteen feet away, he adds, "Could we, boys?"

"Couldn't agree more," Pinky answers as Dan takes one step in the gunman's direction.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON'T MOVE!

As if the gunman is yelling encouragement, Pinky continues replying to Dan, his voice loud in the heavy atmosphere of the room, "Damn straight, Dan. 'Bout time they got what they deserve. We'll give him a hand. Damn straight." And Pinky takes a step toward the gunman. Arlo and Chip follow.

To Chip the events are going too fast to register anyplace other than the program of reflexes within him. His mind cannot process the information fast enough to summon a discernible thought in response. No thought, just action. When Pinky moves, Chip moves.

The gunman's scream hits the high note of hysteria, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING! NOBODY MOVE! DON'T TAKE ANOTHER STEP!"

Dan continues moving very slowly toward the gunman. Responding as if he is having a conversation with an old friend, he lulls, "Hey, we're with you, buddy. I wish you knew how many times we said somebody needed to blow the bitches away." Never taking his eyes from the gunman, he adds, "Ain't that right, boys? Ain't that the truth?" Dan's face carries a broad, utterly carefree smile, "Yessir. We're gonna help you fella. We're just gonna give you a hand. You got another gun? How about a knife? We'll cut the bitches throats for you." The distance between them is no more than twelve feet.

"I SAID DON'T MOVE! DON'T TAKE ANOTHER STEP!" His voice conveys certainty as his resolve hardens. He points his rifle squarely in the middle of Dan's chest.

Arlo and Pinky and Chip move very slowly in unison spread out in a line behind Dan.

Dan's smile broadens, a beam of pure delight emanates from his countenance as he continues to move in slow small steps toward the gunman, "Yessir, it wadn't yesterday we was talking about how we wished we had guts enough to blow the bitches away. Takes guts, that's what it takes. Guts. I can see you got 'em. That's all we was waiting for; just somebody to lead us. Leaders hard to find these days. Hard to find." Eight feet separate them.

The gunman backs away, "Don't come any closer." His back touches the wall behind him. The feel of the wall triggers conclusion, "NO CLOSER! I'LL SHOOT!"

Soothingly, calmly, Dan stretches out his hand as to a spooked horse and says, "No problem fella, no problem. Just take it easy. Just take it easy." Dan stops. Arlo bumps into him. Pinky takes a couple of steps to the side, widening the line, and stops too.

Chip stops and glances toward Pinky. For the first time since the gunman stepped into the room he has a conscious thought: What am I doing?

Dan continues to smile hugely. He appears absolutely overwhelmed with delight. "You're gonna do it anyway, ain't you? I see you got an extra knife..."

Chip glances and sees the survival knife in its scabbard on the man's cartridge belt.

Dan slowly raises his hands in front of his body as he continues to speak, "Just loan me the knife and me and the boys'll help you out. Hell, we'll skin the bitches for you." He barks gaily at the thought. "Yessir, we'll skin the bitches for you." Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to rotate his body. He breaks eye contact with the gunman and looks back over his shoulder at Arlo, "Won't we boys? Won't we..."

At the instant his eyes are no longer visible to the gunman, the look of joy vanishes from his face and is replaced by a raging fierceness. There is the slightest pause, then Dan catapults himself toward the gunman.

Even though Dan moves with the speed of a striking rattler, Chip perceives his image in a series of slow motion freeze frames. Click: Dan's blazing eyes meet the gunman's; Click: Dan's hands drop to his side like an Acupulco cliff diver; Click: Dan compresses his body into a coiled spring; Click: Dan releases the spring; Click: Dan launches himself off the floor toward the gunman; Click: the gunman's bullets impact Dan's airborne torso instantaneously reversing the direction of his dive.

And one final slow motion freeze frame. Chip sees himself stretched out like a wide receiver going for the ball. He is in the air, parallel with the ground below him, and the ball is just off his fingertips. His hands are stretched to split the skin tight, but he isn't going to reach it. Just a little too far, a little too far to reach. The last image is of the gunman's eyes, huge and bulging, bursting with fear and hatred and the lust of death, behind the barrel of the rifle centered on his chest. His brain never registers the movement of the rifle that stops his image processing and leaves him draining on the floor of the classroom. Nor does he see Arlo and Pinky as their bodies are ripped by the lead.

**************************** 

It's the next day now. Back in Wyoming. After reading the article in the newspaper, Herb glances again at the headline, THIRTEEN WOMEN AND FOUR MEN SLAIN IN QUEBEC MASSACRE. Herb holds the headline up so the men gathered around the table in the cooktent can see, and adds this comment in the calm certainty that carries the authority of truth: "If it had to happen the way it did, that's the headline Dan and the boys would have wanted to see."

The men in the cooktent nod in agreement. And there is a terrible glint in their eyes.