3

He'd given his own names to the pointless local scenery. Not that 'Tensleep Canyon' and 'Powder River Pass' weren't evocative in their way, but they were somebody else's. John privately enjoyed picking out minor land forms and skewering them with titles like 'Damn-it's-cold Ridge', and 'Lost-Fred-Here Canal'... all part ofthe many scenic splendors of 'More-Cows-Than-Brains Basin'. Yeah. Life was good.

He walked slowly along County Lane 38, hunched against a sharp, biting wind that threatened snow. It was only one-thirty, so he took his time, planning to reach the stop just before the school bus did. Scott might yell, but he'd keep the matter private. Why not? Pick your favorite ineffectual method of dealing with utter recalcitrance, and stick to it, right?

Gravel crunched loudly, as a dusty, dark green pickup truck rumbled slowly past, pulling over to the side of the road just in front of him. Damn.

Johnshook thepale hair out of his eyes, hurried his pace, and took himself to the truck's forward passenger door. Lifting the handle, he climbed into the smoky, heated cab, shut the door, and sat down. Caught in the act, he could do nothing now but await sentencing.

The big old man in the driver's seat stubbed a cigarette out in the ash tray, checked the rear view, then cut back onto the road again. Clearing his throat, he said,

"Went into town to check the mail. Saw Buddy Mathers. Talked awhile."

John gave his grandfather a swift, sideways glance. Grant Tracy was silver-haired and wind tanned, with big, square hands, broad shoulders, and bright blue eyes. His voice was frog-pond deep, hoarse and scratchy from years of long-distance shouting and a lifelong addiction to cigarettes.

"I'm sorry, Sir." John replied quietly. No sense trying to excuse his own bad behavior. The principal would have told Grandad everything, and Grant Tracy would far rather hear the plain truth than any lie, however convenient. "I left school after second period and started walking home."

Grandad nodded slowly.

"So I heard." He drove another five miles through sage-covered highlands before adding, "heard something about a fight, too."

John was startled enough to look all the way over. Who had told? Not Ken, certainly..., or Christy... and he'd have thought sheer vanity would have kept Sam's mouth shut. Grant, his face unreadable, was clearly expecting a response, though, so John said,

"Just a shoving match, Grandad. Nothing serious."

Two miles later, after turning the matter over for awhile, Grant commented,

"Seems Taylor Kemminger's boy was sent home with a broken nose, and some... personal injuries. Your name come up." He lit another cigarette, smoked about half in silence, then chuckled a little. "Couldn't 've happened to a nicer guy. The apple don't fall far from the tree, John, and I've had words with Taylor afore now, goin' back to third grade; about a girl. Still...," This was a relatively long speech for the normally laconic old man. "Fightin' don't solve much. Feels good, but don't make nuthin' better."

John was confused. He'd expected punishment, not a companionable talk.

"No, Sir. Guess not."

Grant nodded again.

"Long as you remember that, and limit yourself to Kemmingers, don't guess I've much more to say." Then, reaching into his bulky suede jacket, "Sumthin' come for you. Picked it up at the post office, on my way into town." The old man pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto John's lap.

He focused on the edges, first. The battered corners, the crease that bisected one side, where the envelope had been folded between other bits of mail headed west. It was awhile before he allowed his attention to move to the center, where, printed out in ink smeared by the careless traffic of a thousand hands, were the words:

John M. Tracy

PO Box 23

Burlington, Wy 82411

Mail. For him. From a return address that sparked hope in his heart at the same time as it seemed to bury him under a hundred tons of ice. He looked at the envelope sitting there on his lap like a motion-triggered bomb, but dared not open it. Not in front of anyone else, anyway. It was too important.

Grandad pulled the truck over again, bringing it onto the graveled shoulder beside their own land. The house and outbuildings lay just four miles away, across a few ridges, a swift little river, and some cottonwoods. Scattered cattle, too, but they were mostly harmless,guilty of nothing worse than vague stupidity.

"Take one a' the rifles," Grandad instructed him, "and a knife, and stay outta the crick bottom, Boy. Ain't everythin' asleep yet that oughta be. Ross had a few head tore up pretty bad last week. Nuthin' left but the brand. Might be a sow fattenin' up for the winter, and I ain't fixin' to have you join the circle of life just yet. Your grandma 'd nail my hide to the smokehouse wall. Seriously. Reminds me..." He took a paper sack from the back seat and handed it over.

"Take this, and finish it, quick. Your grandma figured you ain't et nuthin, again."

Taking the rifle, a big hunting knife, the lunch, and his letter, John got out of the truck.

"John!" His grandfather was stretched out and leaning over, peering out the rolled-down passenger side window.

"Sir?"

"Good luck."

John nodded, slung the rifle, and set off to read his letter.