BrokenBack Mountain
They had a high-time supper by the fire, a can of beans each, fried
potatoes and a quart of whiskey on shares, sat with their backs against
a log, boot soles and copper jeans rivets hot, swapping the bottle while
the lavender sky emptied of color and the chill air drained down, drinking,
smoking cigarettes, getting up every now and then to piss, firelight
throwing a sparkle in the arched stream, tossing sticks on the fire
to keep the talk going, talking horses and rodeo, roughstock events,
wrecks and injuries sustained, the submarine Thresher lost two months
earlier with all hands and how it must have been in the last doomed
minutes, dogs each had owned and known, the draft, Jack's home ranch
where his father and mother held on, Ennis's family place folded years
ago after his folks died, the older brother in Signal and a married
sister in Casper. Jack said his father had been a pretty well known
bullrider years back but kept his secrets to himself, never gave Jack
a word of advice, never came once to see Jack ride, though he had put
him on the woolies when he was a little kid. Ennis said the kind of
riding that interested him lasted longer than eight seconds and had
some point to it. Money's a good point, said Jack, and Ennis had to
agree. They were respectful of each other's opinions, each glad to have
a companion where none had been expected. Ennis, riding against the
wind back to the sheep in the treacherous, drunken light, thought he'd
never had such a good time, felt he could paw the white out of the moon.
The summer went on and they moved the herd to new pasture, shifted
the camp; the distance between the sheep and the new camp was greater
and the night ride longer. Ennis rode easy, sleeping with his eyes open,
but the hours he was away from the sheep stretched out and out. Jack
pulled a squalling burr out of the harmonica, flattened a little from
a fall off the skittish bay mare, and Ennis had a good raspy voice;
a few nights they mangled their way through some songs. Ennis knew the
salty words to "Strawberry Roan." Jack tried a Carl Perkins song, bawling
"what I say-ay-ay," but he favored a sad hymn, "Water-Walking Jesus,"
learned from his mother who believed in the Pentecost, that he sang
at dirge slowness, setting off distant coyote yips.
"Too late to go out to them damn sheep," said Ennis, dizzy drunk
on all fours one cold hour when the moon had notched past two. The meadow
stones glowed white-green and a flinty wind worked over the meadow,
scraped the fire low, then ruffled it into yellow silk sashes. "Got
you a extra blanket I'll roll up out here and grab forty winks, ride
out at first light."
"Freeze your ass off when that fire dies down. Better off sleepin
in the tent."
"Doubt I'll feel nothin." But he staggered under canvas, pulled his
boots off, snored on the ground cloth for a while, woke Jack with the
clacking of his jaw.
"Jesus Christ, quit hammerin and get over here. Bedroll's big enough,"
said Jack in an irritable sleep-clogged voice. It was big enough, warm
enough, and in a little while they deepened their intimacy considerably.
Ennis ran full-throttle on all roads whether fence mending or money
spending, and he wanted none of it when Jack seized his left hand and
brought it to his erect cock. Ennis jerked his hand away as though he'd
touched fire, got to his knees, unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants
down, hauled Jack onto all fours and, with the help of the clear slick
and a little spit, entered him, nothing he'd done before but no instruction
manual needed. They went at it in silence except for a few sharp intakes
of breath and Jack's choked "gun's goin off," then out, down, and asleep.
01 02
03 04 05
06 07 08
09 10 11
12 13 14
15 16 17
18 嶄猟井