CHAPTER SIX

I was awakened from a dreamscape of fire-blackened hardpan and frozen gray Asian skies. The viscous smoke of flaming oil poured from the shattered iron carcasses of tanks, and the ear-shattering roar of American artillery salvos cleaved the air.

I hold no personal illusions that the nightmares I brought home from Chipyong-ni are any worse, more intense, or more noble than those suffered by the veterans of any shooting war. Anyone who has ever been exposed to the screams of a fellow soldier clawing vainly for the remnants of a severed limb, or heard a grown man weeping out his fear inside a foxhole slick with human excrement, or endured the odor of putrefying flesh on a week-old battlefield has earned his right to the fear and rage and terror inspired by these hallucinations.

My heart hammered at my rib cage as I came awake, and I pushed aside my sweat-soaked bedcovers as silently as I could. I showered and I dressed without waking Jesse from her sleep, and stepped out to the kitchen where Wyatt sat patiently beside the door to the mudroom. It was still dark outside, and the only sounds came from the wind chimes Jesse had fixed onto the branches of the maple that grew outside our back door.

It has been said that if one failed to properly execute a full and complete assessment of one’s situation, terrible consequences almost surely will follow. I have found that statement to be true, not only as a soldier, but as a cowboy and a man. When I revisit my experiences, as I am sometimes forced to in my dreams, I can see with the near-perfect clarity of hindsight that my war was only the initial feint, a first act of belligerence that has resulted in what the politicians have decided to term a Cold War, one that possesses no front lines, no uniforms, and no end. Korea had marked the first time in modern history that both the Communist Chinese and Soviets had combined their forces in a joint effort against the West. I often ask myself what might have happened had our country failed to respond, and I arrive at the same conclusion every time: Turning a blind eye to overt acts of aggression only invites more of the same.

Though, in the time that has passed since becoming a husband and a father, I have begun to develop a private and ultimately delusive aspiration about humankind: that somehow man might overcome the instinct to draw blood as recompense, or that despotism and mendacity will no longer be forced upon us by the narcissistic and violent will of tyrants. I number these notions among those that I keep to myself.

Wyatt Led the way down to the barn, working the edges of the pathway just beyond the illuminated cone thrown by the flashlight in my hand as he would have had we been herding cattle. In unsettled mornings such as this one, I found it calming to spend time working with my favorite stock horse, a handsome bay I named Drambuie. He had proved himself over the years to be not only an outstanding cow horse, but a very patient listener as well.

The iridescent blue of predawn began to show along the eastern quarter of the sky, and I couldn’t help but notice Caleb Wheeler’s silhouette up on his roof again. I pulled up short before entering the barn, clicked off my flashlight, and moved instead in the direction of Caleb’s cabin.

He had nailed an old extension ladder to the wall beside his trellis, so I hooked my finger through the cup screwed to the top of my steel thermos bottle and carefully climbed up. The shingles made a cracking sound beneath my boots and Caleb turned toward me with a start.

“What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked me.

“What am I doing up here?” I said.

“Word has it this isn’t the first morning you’ve been spotted on your roof.”

“Somebody spying on me?”

“My wife’s an early riser.”

I took a seat beside him, poured some coffee in the cup, and handed it to Caleb. He cradled it between his hands and warmed his palms.

“What are you gonna use?”

“I’ll take mine straight from the jug,” I said.

He nodded and went back to staring at the valley, and the heavy mist that blanketed the river bottoms.

“Heard you had a rough day yesterday,” he said finally.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Nobody enjoys sharing unpleasant news more than Lankard Downing does.”

“I was a topic of conversation at the Cottonwood Blossom?”

“You could say that.”

“And?”

“Jury’s still out,” Caleb said, and sipped his coffee. “Let’s face it, Ty. Every generation’s got its share of idiots, but this one’s surely got the numbers.”

Electricity flickered in the clouds beyond the mountain and momentarily reflected in his eyes.

“See that?” he said. “Season’s coming to an end. Spring’s done. Summer’s coming. It’s likely to be a dry one.”

I lit a cigarette to fill the silence, snapped my Zippo lighter shut, and watched the gray smoke tail away into the dark. If I was expecting Caleb to be abashed or embarrassed by our present whereabouts, I was wrong, but I still felt compelled to address it.

“Care to tell me what you’re doing up here on the roof, Caleb?”

He tilted his face skyward and squinted at the stars. He waited so long to reply, I thought he had chosen to ignore me.

“I was married once,” he said finally. “A long, long time ago. Did you know that?”

I did not speak, but shook my head instead, not wanting to intrude on the place that his memory had drifted.

“We had a baby for a minute, but we lost him,” he continued. His voice was like a whisper to himself. “I lost her, too, not long after.”

“She died?”

“No, not right away. Just a little at a time. She couldn’t stand the sight of me after our boy died premature, so she sent me packing. I heard she passed away about two weeks ago.”

I stubbed my cigarette on my boot sole, slid the spent filter into the pocket of my shirt, and looked at the stars. A meteorite caromed off the atmosphere and left a fleeting silver trail across the sky.

“Do you know how old I am, Ty? I am seventy-goddamn-four. That ain’t no age anybody ever dreams about being, is it? A man gives some thought to being twenty, or thirty, or where he might be when he turns forty. But after that …”

He balanced the empty plastic thermos cup on the ridge planks of the roof, and I poured a little more inside it as he pulled the Indian blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“What are we doing up here, Caleb?” I asked softly.

He swiped at his gray mustache with the back of his hand and took his time collecting his thoughts.

“Studyin’ on mortality, I s’pose,” he said. “I’ve been beset by dreams lately, and I don’t care to sleep much anymore.”

He paused for a long moment and his expression hardened.

“I swear to Christ, I can’t even watch the TV nowadays. Nothing but bad news, and pictures of smug college infants setting things afire and throwing tantrums in front of the cameras. They used to have Bonanza on, but they took that show off the air last month. Goddamn. Getting old is not for pussies, Ty; every birthday, every holiday, your world just keeps on getting smaller. Your friends get sick and die until one day there’s nobody a’tall. I’ll tell you something else: you’re about the only family I got left.”

“I know that,” I said. “You know Jesse, me, and Cricket feel the same way about you.”

He waved his hand as if to scatter that sentiment to the wind. He hadn’t been seeking my pity, and it hadn’t been my intention to offer any.

“I’m only sayin’,” he went on. “You gotta keep an up-to-date list of what you’re after in this life, cause if you don’t, it just becomes a habit and you end up chasing things you used to think you wanted.”

He looked at me to see if I understood him. He nodded then, having convinced himself that I had.

The night before, I had told Snoose I would need a night or two to think about the favor he had asked of me. I had originally intended to let Snoose know I couldn’t take his nephew on as a summer hand. Now, having heard what was troubling Caleb, I made a snap decision and changed my mind. I explained the situation to my foreman, who took the news in pretty much the manner I had expected.

“I don’t need no willful teenage pup getting underfoot,” Caleb said, and tossed the cold dregs of his coffee across the shingles.

“I’m not sure if the kid’s got any will at all,” I said. “I haven’t heard him speak more than three words in a row.”

He muttered something under his breath and I wasn’t sure if his comment was meant for me.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I said I hope to God that it ain’t true that your life passes before you when you sack your last saddle.”