What do I want? Why do I want it?
I want to get to Santa Fe. Why? Because it's perfect, that's why.
Jack looked around at the dirty rooftop he lay on. He idly slid a finger along the eave and brought it up to gaze at the grime now coating his fingerpad. Santa Fe isn't like this, he thought. The dirt there isn't dirt at all, really, it's earth. That's what the cowboys call it. Good, clean, solid earth. He wiped his finger on his pants and reached up to clasp his hands behind his head. And you can see the stars in Santa Fe too, he continued. They're much brighter than the ones we have here. And the moon hangs in the sky like a flipped nickel, only brighter and better. Much better, like everything there.
The food in Santa Fe is good and clean and rich too. He'd never had it, but he knew it had to be good. Like the Indians ate, giving back to the earth, taking only what they needed, so the food in Santa Fe was connected to everything, and full of vibrant life. He'd need that life while he was riding all day. He could rope a steer, he was sure. He practiced every day when the boys were having lunch at Tibby's. Racetrack always asked why he didn't eat with them, and he always said the same thing: "Gotta work on my technique, Race." He knew that Racetrack didn't know what Jack was talking about, and that was okay with Jack. Racetrack didn't care anyway, at least not enough to press the issue. When he got to Santa Fe and made friends with the cowhands, he'd eat Santa Fe food with them every day. They'd talk about how many steers they'd roped that day, and how bright the sun was. Not that it was too bright—a Santa Fe cowhand can handle anything. Except, he thought ruefully, maybe a New York winter.
Luckily, it was summer now, and he considered sleeping outside. But he didn't want the boys to worry about him. More than they did already, at least, which was not a lot but more than nothing. He heard the low thread of concerned voices now, and knew that they were talking about the odd habits of their oldest and their best. Racetrack would be reassuring them, and Mush would be nodding buoyantly, and Blink would be wanting to charge out to the rooftop and demand to know what was wrong. Nothing's wrong here, Jack would say. It's just not right here. It's right in Santa Fe, and I suppose now's as good a time as ever to tell you that I'm going to be leaving as soon as I get enough money, because in Santa Fe you aren't tied down to three blocks of city, and you aren't temporary. When you belong in Santa Fe, you belong.
But Racetrack kept the anxious boys in check, and Jack rolled over onto his stomach. He was getting tired now, and the lazy, half-joined thought glimmers that come at that time of night were drifting in and out of his mind rapidly. He suddenly thought of Sarah, and knew that he'd have to leave her when he went. She couldn't leave the Jacobs's, they needed her. But he needed her, and he needed sun and open, open spaces and riding for days and not coming to anyone else's "territory" or the end of a borough. He clenched his jaw. There would be girls in Santa Fe, beautiful girls, kind girls, girls he would dance with and swing around and they would have skirts like bright, alive butterfly wings. He closed his eyes and pictured them dancing, with fiddles and banjos and harmonicas playing, and old ranchers sitting to the side watching him, the young whippersnapper, carve his name in the hearts of all the girls, especially one, a dark blonde with a familiar face. "Hey," he said to her, and she smiled and they danced and the fiddles played until a lark woke up in the meadow.
"Jack, Jack, wake up," she said, only she wasn't the one saying it. Jack jumped out of sleep and found Racetrack clumsily shaking him. "You gotta sell, Cowboy, it's time to sell."
"Right, Race. Thanks," he said.
"No problem. Hey Jack, if you don't mind my asking, what were you dreaming about?" Race looked at him and half-smiled. "You were talking in your sleep."
Jack ran a hand through his hair. "What I always dream about, Race," he said. "The city."