with a white blaze at his chest. His right lip lifted to free a canine tooth out of the Paleozoic period, and he rumbled so low it sounded like thunder rolling down the valley. I glanced over at Vonnie, who was sleeping soundly, and figured she’d wake up when she heard the strangling sound of my last scream. I have to admit that my hand drifted down to where my sidearm usually was and then rested not so casually on my empty leg. He didn’t move any farther, and I heard this strained version of my voice saying, “Good dog, good doggy . . . Easy, boy.”
I fought the urge to run, knowing that such an enticement to wolves and to the Cheyenne was impossible to resist. Backing toward the door, I tripped at the bottom step and his head bobbed at the opportunity. We locked eyes, and I think there was an understanding. He might kill me, he might eat me, but I didn’t have to taste good. There was an umbrella and a loose assemblage of three golf clubs in the umbrella stand at the door. I figured that I could hold him off with the one iron, but then I’d most certainly need divine intervention, because everyone knows that God’s the only one who can hit a one iron. “Easy boy, easy . . .”
He didn’t move, just watched. I backed the rest of the way out the door and slowly shut it in front of me. For a moment, I thought about opening it again and locking it, then figured the hell with it. Whoever went in there next would get what he deserved. I quietly walked across the red-slate gravel as the halogen lights came on again. The place was like a disco. I wheeled the truck around the compound and headed out through the gate from whence I came. Absentmindedly, I turned on the radio, suddenly feeling the urge to hear voices, voices I didn’t necessarily have to respond to. Then I had a rotten thought. I keyed the mic. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, this is Unit One, come in Base.”
His voice was sleepy. I didn’t blame him; I would have been asleep, too. “Jesus, yeah. This is Base, yeah, go ahead.”
I suppressed a laugh. “Are you okay?”
Static. “Yeah, I’m okay, are you okay?”
“Yep . . . I’m okay.” I looked out the windshield and navigated my way through the fog. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Roger that, okay.” And with that, he was gone.
And I really was okay. It wasn’t exactly the evening I had planned. To tell the truth, I was probably relieved. The untold expectations of my first date in four, not three, years had kind of hammered me. When I made the turn at Crossroads, the lights were off at the bar, and I was glad there was nobody there to share war stories with. It was time to go to my little cabin with its stud walls, plywood floors, and UV-unprotected logs. Henry was right. It was time I got around to a few changes.
When I got home, the red light was once again blinking on my phone machine, so I punched the button. “Hi, Pops . . .”
4
“You are not dying.”
“How do you know, you’ve never died.” I pushed my spine into the depression in the mile-marker post and eased my weight against its scaly green-painted surface.
“I have died many times.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Get up.”
I picked a piece of cheat grass from the red shale roadbed, and it came out in one whole stalk, roots and all. It was cold, too. The frost clung to every surface, encasing the poor little fellow like those dragonflies you see trapped in thousand-year-old amber. If I was going to keep doing this every other morning, I had to get a pair of gloves. I raised my head and looked at him as he positioned himself in front of the rising sun like some fighter pilot moving in for the kill. He nudged me with his foot. “Get up.”
I took a large swipe at his legs, but he nimbly jumped back out of the way, gravitating to the balls of his feet and rolling up on another set of wheels. The tendons and veins popped out of his naked ankles like those of some skinned cat, and I looked away,
I fought the urge to run, knowing that such an enticement to wolves and to the Cheyenne was impossible to resist. Backing toward the door, I tripped at the bottom step and his head bobbed at the opportunity. We locked eyes, and I think there was an understanding. He might kill me, he might eat me, but I didn’t have to taste good. There was an umbrella and a loose assemblage of three golf clubs in the umbrella stand at the door. I figured that I could hold him off with the one iron, but then I’d most certainly need divine intervention, because everyone knows that God’s the only one who can hit a one iron. “Easy boy, easy . . .”
He didn’t move, just watched. I backed the rest of the way out the door and slowly shut it in front of me. For a moment, I thought about opening it again and locking it, then figured the hell with it. Whoever went in there next would get what he deserved. I quietly walked across the red-slate gravel as the halogen lights came on again. The place was like a disco. I wheeled the truck around the compound and headed out through the gate from whence I came. Absentmindedly, I turned on the radio, suddenly feeling the urge to hear voices, voices I didn’t necessarily have to respond to. Then I had a rotten thought. I keyed the mic. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, this is Unit One, come in Base.”
His voice was sleepy. I didn’t blame him; I would have been asleep, too. “Jesus, yeah. This is Base, yeah, go ahead.”
I suppressed a laugh. “Are you okay?”
Static. “Yeah, I’m okay, are you okay?”
“Yep . . . I’m okay.” I looked out the windshield and navigated my way through the fog. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Roger that, okay.” And with that, he was gone.
And I really was okay. It wasn’t exactly the evening I had planned. To tell the truth, I was probably relieved. The untold expectations of my first date in four, not three, years had kind of hammered me. When I made the turn at Crossroads, the lights were off at the bar, and I was glad there was nobody there to share war stories with. It was time to go to my little cabin with its stud walls, plywood floors, and UV-unprotected logs. Henry was right. It was time I got around to a few changes.
When I got home, the red light was once again blinking on my phone machine, so I punched the button. “Hi, Pops . . .”
4
“You are not dying.”
“How do you know, you’ve never died.” I pushed my spine into the depression in the mile-marker post and eased my weight against its scaly green-painted surface.
“I have died many times.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Get up.”
I picked a piece of cheat grass from the red shale roadbed, and it came out in one whole stalk, roots and all. It was cold, too. The frost clung to every surface, encasing the poor little fellow like those dragonflies you see trapped in thousand-year-old amber. If I was going to keep doing this every other morning, I had to get a pair of gloves. I raised my head and looked at him as he positioned himself in front of the rising sun like some fighter pilot moving in for the kill. He nudged me with his foot. “Get up.”
I took a large swipe at his legs, but he nimbly jumped back out of the way, gravitating to the balls of his feet and rolling up on another set of wheels. The tendons and veins popped out of his naked ankles like those of some skinned cat, and I looked away,
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