Way Down on the High Lonely

Epilogue

Brogan poured another glass of whiskey as the stranger listened in rapt attention. Brogan had sold a lot of booze telling the story of the battle of Reese River valley.

The stranger, a salesman from Bishop, laid another five down and looked around the grungy, colorful saloon. A mammoth dog lay sleeping behind the bar. The only other customer was a bearded, long-haired man who sat at the last bar stool drinking coffee and reading a dog-eared paperback book.

“So then what happened?” the salesman asked Brogan.

Brogan went on to tell him how Milkowski had found the money somewhere to buy the Hansen place and so now owned the whole valley, and how the daughter had gone off to college at Brown, which he thought was in Rhode Island or one of them little East Coast states. The boy got back to his momma, who sent a postcard a few weeks ago saying he was coming along well, was going to be just fine. The one-armed man and the big bear of a guy just disappeared, and for a while the feds were all over town, asking a lot of questions. Then there was a whole herd of types from the state museum who went poking around the cave measuring shit and stuff, and they were just puzzled as hell about that Indian’s body, because he came from a tribe that was supposed to have been extinct for about a hundred years. And Karen Hawley… well, she found herself a new man.

Brogan leaned over the bar, smiled, shook his head at the wonder of his own story, and waited for the question that always came so he could give the kicker.

Sure enough, the stranger asked, “And what happened to Neal Carey?”

Brogan shrugged dramatically, leaned over a little more, and said, “Nobody knows. Some say he froze to death out there. Others say he’s still alive somewhere up in them caves. But no one ever saw him again.”

Brogan left the man shaking his head and sidled down the bar. He poured more coffee into the bearded man’s cup and smiled at him.

Neal finished the cup, climbed off the stool, nodded to the salesman, and headed out. Brezhnev lifted his head, and if Neal hadn’t known better he’d have sworn the dog winked.

Neal would like to have had another cup, read a few more pages of Roderick Random, and maybe chewed the shit with Brogan for a while, but there wasn’t time.

He pushed open the door, stepped out into the cool air, and walked up the hill to meet Karen for dinner. It was chili night at Wong’s.