Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 19 ≈

Slim drove down to spend a day or two in Pinedale and at Big Sandy. She trotted him around the office, flashing her gold ring. Hoot Sexton looked a bit grim on hearing that Slim was undersheriff of Teton County. Glory, the Head Clerk, actually smiled at her for the first time. They went to the Corral for a sandwich and Sooz chatted him up, gathering material for the gossip mill. Mary asked if Jet was around. He should be coming to the office this afternoon, Sooz said. The Drongo (as she called Harv) had already left to start his hitch. He wouldn't talk to her, and the way he eyed her made her skin crawl.

"Do you work with that guy, Drongo?" Slim asked.

"Yeah. Harv. He's been nice so far. He's just off in his own world most of the time. Half of what he says are lines from some old movie: Cool Hand Luke."

Slim laughed. "That's a great movie. One of my all-time favorites! Ever seen it?"

""Nope. I didn't go to many movies, growing up. And all they showed at St. Joseph's were those Bing Crosby flicks about priests and singing delinquents. Or nuns and saints."

"I just got a VCR and a big TV set. I'll rent it and we can watch it when you come up to Jackson."

"You bought a TV set? Seriously?"

"What am I supposed to do when my love interest is off traipsing about in the wilderness? Read dirty books?"

"Since you put it that way, I forgive you."

Slim wandered around the town park with Gris on a leash while Mary got her radio and paperwork at the office and signed out. She loaded Gris and drove south, followed by Slim in his truck. He'd bought a red Dodge Dakota, a compact with a club cab, so Gris could ride on the rear bench seat. He was against putting dogs in the bed of a truck— he'd seen too many killed and injured in wrecks.

The drive down was dusty and uneventful. They stopped at Dutch Joe and she introduced Slim to Deirdre's husband, Stanton Marshall. He seemed nice enough. Deirdre was up on some trail, collecting data.

"What sort of data?" Mary asked.

"She marks camps on a map and interviews people. Where they're going and why. Her dissertation is on patterns of recreation use as influenced by the presence of livestock grazing— the title's actually longer but I can't remember it." He chuckled. "She'll interview you at the end of the season."

"Over a meal, I hope," Mary said with a grin. "She's a fantastic cook."

"I'll pass that along," he said.

"His dad's a senator," she told Slim, out by the cars. "And she's totally rich."

"Ginger's rich. And Krista. They're okay."

"She's way richer, and not very nice. I'm supposed to bunk at this guard station, but she made it clear that I wasn't welcome. Besides, the bunk room is a pit. Wait 'til you see the Sugar Shack."

There was a rusty Suburban parked by the scratch road where she'd seen Trapper loading the deer. She could see a silhouette: the leather slouch hat. He was watching the road. She waved and drove on. When they got up to the wire gate, Slim asked her who the guy was, back there?

"That's Trapper. I told you about the deer."

Slim took out a little notebook. "Any idea what his real name is?"

"Nope. But Arlene will know. They hired him as a caretaker. And fired him. For shooting at some 'bilers who were trying to break in. Sam and Arlene invited us to the Lodge for dinner. She's a good cook."

They parked by the shack. Slim stretched his back and whistled. "One of those CCC camp cabins. We spent a summer in one when my dad was a Park Ranger. Does it have one of those foldup table cupboards?"

"Come in and see." She unlocked the door and welcomed him in with a kiss.

"This is nice. Except for the bunk beds."

"We can pull the mattresses off and lay them on the floor— total passion pit."

Slim held her at arm's length and gave her a look that made her knees weak. "If you were any more perfect, you'd have wings."

"I do," she said. "You just haven't found them yet."

Gris barked at the door, and she had to disengage to let him in.

"How long 'til chow?" he said.

"Two and a half hours."

"All the time in the world."

The lodgepoles threw bars of shade across the window. She dragged a brush through her tangled black curls and pondered what to wear. Not that she had much choice: blue jeans or black. Blue— that was more western. She looked over her tee shirts: Slits, Runaways, Cramps, Bikini Kill, Minor Threat, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Til Tuesday. She caught up the last and slid it over her head. She'd swiped one of Slim's faded cowboy shirts— he was still whining about that. She put it over the tee: New Wave glam lurking beneath C & W camo. Love those fake-pearl snaps.

She'd just gotten some new sandals, Chacos, on a pro deal through the ski resort. Ginger had all sorts of connections. She'd hardly worn them and they were clean, the colors of the webbing bright. But her toes were kind of grubby. She sat on the steps and gave her feet a scrub. Slim came out. "I'm ready to go," he said, "You look nice."

"So do you, Boyfriend. Almost human."

They walked over to the Lodge, soles crunching in the banked till of the road. She pointed out the various landmarks, mostly big gray peaks.

A heeler came charging up to Gris. "Tucker!" Zack yelled, and was ignored, as the dogs circled, sniffing. Then the tails started wagging: friends. She tied Gris in a patch of shade and went inside. Sunday dinner was pretty loose, Arlene had said. Most of the dudes were on a weekly basis, and left after Sunday breakfast, so it was just the lodge crew and any longterm guests. Nevertheless, Arlene had whomped up a real feast, in Slim's honor: ribeye steaks on the grill, dutch-oven scalloped potatoes, french-cut beans with almonds, fancied-up carrots, and a big salad with three colors of lettuce.

They also had red wine, real French stuff, Vaqueyras, and before she could explain that she didn't drink, Arlene poured her a glass. She could feel Slim's eyes on her as she picked it up and took the tiniest sip. It was good. Why not?