Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson

wondered if he had had a chance to climb any mountains since he had moved to Durant.
    I killed the motor, cracked the door, and gingerly walked around the truck. She already had her door open and had unlatched the baby, presenting him to me. I took him carefully, and she got out of the vehicle. Her purse dangled from her elbow, and the three of us eased our way up the two steps of the tiny porch where, to my surprise, she pulled a set of keys from her purse and unlocked the door.
    I wasn’t aware of anybody in our town who went so far as to lock their doors; most people didn’t even close them until really cold weather. They even left the keys in their cars with the engines running while doing errands downtown. We lobbied against such activities and went so far as to move the citizens’ cars around the block in an effort to make them aware that they could be easily stolen, but it had little effect other than smart-aleck phone calls to Ruby.
    “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    I glanced down at her. “I’d love a cup of tea.”
    She nodded, one brief jolt of her chin.
    I followed her into the house. It was small, had probably been built in the twenties, with a set of narrow stairs that rose to my right, living room to my left, and a small dining alcove that must’ve turned the corner into the kitchen. She continued on, but I paused at a nifty little wood-burning stove nestled in a river stone fireplace. The house was spotless, and there were sweet touches everywhere; lace curtains in the windows, hardwood floors waxed within an inch of their grain, and a deep red border with a twin set of gold stripes that raced the perimeter of the room. The furniture was old but sturdy, and there were a number of framed pictures on the mantel.
    I took the two steps to the fireplace with the baby still in my arms—I think he liked the heat from the stove as much as I did—and I studied the photographs on the thick slab of dark wood. There was a wedding photo with the handsome groom and beautiful bride smiling at the camera, yet clutching each other like they knew what was ahead. There were a few shots of some older folks, about my age, actually—parents, I assumed—and one to my far right, a black and white with three individuals standing in some frozen coulee. The two flanking men were very tall, but my focus was on the center one, a young man with glacier glasses that reflected the mountain sky and adorned with the trademark Vandyke. He was smiling like a banshee, his fists planted on his hips, and a Tyrolean hat kicked to the side of his head.
    Musketeer Santiago Saizarbitoria, mountain climber.
    “He’s very proud of that one.” She’d shed her coat. The baby was making a few mewing sounds. “Can you continue to hold him while I make the tea?”
    “Sure.” I readjusted him against my chest and slowly twisted back and forth.
    She considered me for an instant and then disappeared around the corner.
    I peeled the edge of the blanket back and looked into the almost black eyes of Antonio Bjerke Saizarbitoria, aka the Critter. Even at three months, the swaddling looked like he’d been popped out of a Santiago mold. The dark eyes were wide. I extended a pinkie and watched as his little fingers wrapped around my proffered digit. “Howdy, partner.”
    I heard the ding of a microwave, and Marie appeared with two cups of tea complete with saucers.
    I gestured for her to put mine on the mantelpiece. “The other two men in this one look familiar. Are they brothers?”
    “Jim and Lou Whittaker—Jim was the first American to climb Everest, but that’s Mount Rainier in Washington. San spent a few summers guiding up there for them.”
    “They must’ve named it after the beer.” She didn’t laugh. “Is that what you call him, San?”
    She sipped her tea. “I call him lots of things, but that one’s for public consumption.”
    I gestured with the baby. “And what do you call this one?”
    “The Critter.” I turned red, she