No, he had never written about
Paris. Not the Paris that he
cared about. But what about
the rest that he had never
written?
What about the ranch and the
silvered gray of the sage brush,
the quick, clear water in the
irrigation ditches, and the
heavy green of the alfalfa. The
trail went up into the hills and
the cattle in the summer were
shy as deer. The bawling and
the steady noise and slow
moving mass raising a dust as
you brought them down in the
fall. And behind the mountains,
the clear sharpness of the peak
in the evening light and, riding
down along the trail in the
moonlight, bright across the
valley. Now he remembered
coming down through the
timber in the dark holding the
horse's tail when you could not
see and all the stories that he
meant to write.
About the half-wit chore boy
who was left at the ranch that
time and told not to let any one
get any hay, and that old
bastard from the Forks who
had beaten the boy when he
had worked for him stopping to
get some feed. The boy refusing
and the old man saying he
would beat him again. The boy
got the rifle from the kitchen
and shot him when he tried to
come into the barn and when
they came back to the ranch
he'd been dead a week, frozen
in the corral, and the dogs had
eaten part of him. But what
was left you packed on a sled
wrapped in a blanket and
roped on and you got the boy
to help you haul it, and the two
of you took it out over the road
on skis, and sixty miles down to
town to turn the boy over. He
having no idea that he would
be arrested. Thinking he had
done his duty and that you
were his friend and he would
be rewarded. He'd helped to
haul the old man in so
everybody could know how bad
the old man had been and how
he'd tried to steal some feed
that didn't belong to him, and
when the sheriff put the
handcuffs on the boy he
couldn't believe it. Then he'd
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
273