The Good Brother

14

The first snow never left, but stayed in great drifts that completely obscured the rear of Joe’s cabin. Montanans, he noticed, never referred to snow as snow, but called it weather, as if the term made the season easier to endure. He wondered what they called spring rain.

Without a work schedule, Joe’s body found its own rhythm. He rested when tired and ate when hungry, adopting the simple cycle of an animal. He spent part of each day restacking the firewood, building columns and filling between them with smaller logs. He read the history of railroads and wondered what became of all the Chinese who’d done the work. The books on computers and economics he used for kindling, a page at a time.

A pine knot made a dull explosion in the stove and Joe went outside to gather more wood. It was the most sun in a week and he felt grateful. The brightest light shimmered ahead of him and he trudged through a knee-deep drift to face the sun. A gust blew snow from the boughs of an ancient pine. His face warmed. He closed his eyes. For a moment he forgot himself and wondered how his mother was. Boyd had taken care of her as best he could, a responsibility that Joe had inherited, Marlon would take the role now. She was probably deciding if the giant candy canes made of cardboard would last another Christmas, Joe’s mind moved like lightning to chop that thought short. He opened his eyes. Trees along the peaks were glowing silhouettes.

When his beard was full, he went to town for his driver’s license. The clerk asked for his address.

“I’m in a fishing cabin on Rock Creek,” Joe said.

“Rural route?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mailbox number?”

“It’s Just temporary,” Joe said. “I get mail at a bar.”

“We’ll make it general delivery, Rock Creek,” the man said. “Social Security number? Or do you want your own?”

“My own what?”

“A different number?”

“That’d be fine.”

“I figured so,” the man said. “It takes a little longer.”

Joe wondered if Montanans had a special respect for privacy, or if everyone outside of Kentucky did. He stood awkwardly before the gray background and waited for the camera’s flash, another act that would sever him from home. The state was supplying him with proof of who he wasn’t. The clerk made two photographs and gave Joe the spare. He sat in the waiting area and studied the tiny picture, confused by its resemblance to his brother. Joe didn’t think he looked like Boyd in the flesh, but the picture did. He stared at it for a long time, trying to understand the difference.

The clerk shook Joe’s shoulder.

“Hey, Mr. Tiller. You all right?”

Joe blinked at the man.

“I called you three times,” the man said. “Here’s your new license.”

Joe slipped it in his pocket and left. Outside, he stared at the mountains around the town — his town now, his land and sky. He removed the Kentucky license from his wallet. The picture didn’t look like anyone now. He bent it in half and dropped it down a sewer grate.

He drove through Missoula, trying to understand why people lived in such a tight cluster. He supposed they had more friends than he did, but town only made him lonely. Driving offered comfort, the motion itself a form of solace, and when he reached his cabin, he didn’t want to go in. It was a pathetic-looking little shack, cold and dark, like old man Morgan’s house.

Stricken with panic, he turned away and ran, lifting his legs high of the weedy snow. His breath blew hard. He was the only color in a land of black and white. His foot slipped and he fell and his head bounced against a snow-covered rock. He rolled on his back, waiting for his vision to clear. A silken sky stretched between the mountains, the blue of water overhead. He felt as if he were lying on a beach looking out to sea.

He’d heard that freezing to death was the easiest way to die. You were supposed to get warm after a while and slide into sleep. The snow would cover him like a quilt. He’d never awaken in a strange place again. When he realized where his mind had taken him, he was overwhelmed with terror. He stood and began moving. With no one to turn to, he had to be careful not to turn on himself.

He returned to his Jeep and drove out of the canyon. Spruce boughs drooped beneath the weight of snow. The creek was frozen along the bank, forming a white border for its flow. He met a car and the driver lifted a forefinger in what passed for a wave. Joe was still a stranger, but his vehicle was known.

He stopped at the bar by the interstate and parked beside three cars, one bearing a Buffalo Bills bumper sticker. As he stepped inside the saloon, his head grazed a gigantic moose head hanging from the wall. Below it was a cigarette machine. He sat at the bar, a long slab with high stools placed on a floor covered with peanut shells and sawdust. Slot machines lined the wall. A machine gun was fastened above the bar with Christmas lights hanging from its front sight. Two men shot pool in the back.

The bartender had a stalwart cant to her posture as if she was prepared to withstand rough weather and rougher men. Joe ordered juice, and while she filled a glass, he studied three large squares of posterboard that hung behind the bar. A list of names was crudely printed on each.

“That’s who’s barred,” the bartender said. She pointed to each list in turn. “Barred for a week, barred for a month, and barred for life.”

“What’d they do?” Joe said.

“The first list is for fighting and the second is for coming in with a weapon.”

“What’s the third?”

“Using the weapon.”

She was looking Joe in the eye, a female version of many Montana men, thick-shouldered with no neck, big hands, and a determined attitude — not someone to get riled. The fact of her gender made her more intimidating than the men. She strode away and Joe watched her hips inside her jeans.

The opening door flashed a line of light across the floor as an old man entered. He walked in a peculiar flat-footed way, exerting motion from the hips down, while his face and shoulders remained still Joe wondered if his gait was the result of hours on horseback or a lifetime of walking in high-heeled boots.

The man sat at the other end of the bar.

“Ugliest bartender in the West,” he said.

“Red beer, Coop?” she said.

He swiveled to look at Joe. “One for him, too.”

The bartender half-filled two glasses with tomato juice and poured beer on that. She brought one to Joe. The man lifted his glass in a toast and Joe sipped the drink. It tasted like watered tomato juice with beer’s tang behind it. He joined the old man.

“Hate to drink alone,” Coop said. “Even if I can’t really drink.”

“No?”

“Red beer’s like sending a boy to do a man’s job.”

“How come you can’t drink?”

“Had me a heart attack. Blew the bottom tip right spang off. Doc said it was like an engine threw a rod from running out of oil.”

“That’s rough.”

“Not so bad. They tell me if I eat an egg, not to eat the yolk. About like having a screw without a kiss. Now that’s what you call rough.”

He was wearing a baseball cap with a Buffalo Bills emblem.

“From the East?” Joe said.

“Hell, no. Never been there.”

“Reckon you just like football,” Joe said.

“Professional sports is the fourth worst thing ever happened to this country.”

“It is.”

“Television’s third.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“What’s the others?” Joe said.

“The second’s both parents having to work just to get by.”

“How about number one?”

“You’re not ready for that yet.”

A fine network of lines crossed Coop’s hands like cracks in an old plate. Each heavy finger held a large gold ring.

“That’s not for show, partner,” Coop said. “And not for fighting either. That’s gold. This hand is worth more than a credit card. Paper money used to be good for gold, but not since the thirties. Now plastic stands for cash. You know most of the money in the world don’t exist?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Don’t exist at all. All money is blood money, but only gold is real. That’s why there’s sawdust on the floor.”

“I don’t get you.”

“In the old days, people bought drinks with gold dust. At the end of the night, the owner swept the sawdust and sifted it for gold dust. Gold’s not much count. Bends too easy and won’t hold an edge. But you can trust it for value.”

He tilted on the stool to pull a gold coin from his pocket and passed it to Joe. It was very heavy.

“Fifty years ago,” Coop said, “twenty of those would buy a new car. It’s the same now. Twenty still gets a car. That don’t work with cash.”

Joe placed the coin on the bar, wishing he had one. He’d never owned a new car and couldn’t recall anyone who had. He’d always heard that two years old was the best buy. He wondered how many gold coins that would take.

The two pool players joined them from the back. One was a wiry kid who moved in reckless jerks as if attacking the air that surrounded his body. The other man looked a few years older than Joe and also wore a Bills cap.

“Found a friend. Coop?” he said.

“just a beer buddy.”

“Coop don’t get a chance to talk much,” the man said.

“He was doing all right,” Joe said.

“Usually does. Was he going on about gold?”

Coop’s chin rose and his eyes closed down as if they had flaps.

“Damn straight,” he said. “There’s a trillion dollars on paper in the world, but only a billion cash. That’s a tiny percent. It’s not money anymore, it’s data.”

“I know it,” the man said.

“This kid don’t. I’m just trying to educate him. Doing a damn fine job until we got interrupted.”

“Aw now, Coop,” the man said. “Let’s all have a beer.” He made a gesture to the bartender, then offered his hand to Joe. “I’m Owen. Coop here is my granddaddy. This is my little brother Johnny. You don’t live around here, do you.”

“Got a cabin up Rock Creek.”

“You rent it off Ty Skinner?”

Joe nodded.

“Is it warm enough?”

Joe shrugged. He didn’t want to complain about the cold, or the cabin, especially since the men knew Ty. No one spoke. Joe had the feeling he’d stepped into a brier patch. He thought of Boyd’s ability to make conversation with anyone, by continuing to talk until someone responded. He’d heard men discuss sports for hours, a habit he’d never understood.

“I guess you all must be big Bills fans,” he said.

The men didn’t answer, which confused him because of the hats.

“I like baseball, myself,” Joe said. “It’s the only sport left where anybody can play. Size don’t matter.”

“It ain’t about football,” Johnny said.

Owen gave his brother a hard-eyed stare, then turned back to Joe. Owen was a big man and Joe didn’t want a problem. He sipped the red beer.

“You must like it private up there,” Owen said.

“I do,” Joe said. “Usually I go to town when I get jumpy, but tonight I came in here,”

“Town?” Coop’s voice held a tone of disgust.

“Yeah. Plenty to see.” Joe glanced at Owen. “Less trouble, too.”

“There’s no trouble,” Owen said. “We just don’t want anybody taking advantage of Coop. Don’t take much for that coin to disappear.”

Joe stood.

“Thanks for the beer,” he said to Coop.

“Don’t let Owen run you off,” Coop said. “It’s just his way.”

“Maybe so. But it ain’t mine.”

Joe left, and as the door swung closed behind him, he heard Owen’s voice quiet the old man’s complaint. Silence hung like a weight in the clear night sky. The Big Dipper aimed its bottom lip north while Orion struggled over the mountain. The parking lot spread into the dusk beneath a marble moon.

Joe’s eyes in the Jeep’s mirror seemed sad. He inspected his new license in the dim shine of the dome light. The eyes were too small to see. He drove to the door of the tavern and rolled his window down.

“I’m Joe Tiller,” he yelled. “I live here, too.”

He drove to town very fast, overtaking every vehicle on the road. Snowflakes the size of quarters vanished against the windshield. He passed through Hellgate Canyon, a narrow entrance to the flat basin of town. Missoula was brightly lit, thick with Friday night traffic. Ranch kids in pickups cruised down Higgins, circled the 4-X sculpture, and drove back through town. The snow was gone and the air was warm. Bare mountains surrounded the town, dark hulks that blocked the sky and held in weather. The gritty air clung to his face.

He entered a bar with no sign. The front half was crowded with old hippies and bikers, Indians, cowboys, and Vietnam veterans. Regulars received every third drink free, signaled by the bartender rapping her knuckles against the wooden bar. On the walls hung framed photographs.

The rear of the tavern held a throng of university students. Many of them carried backpacks with plastic mugs fastened to them by a mountain climber’s carabiner. Some wore shorts with long johns that ran into heavy boots. Hair was either very long or very short.

Joe’s rough appearance made people think he was a local, but the crowd only increased his sense of isolation. He wasn’t sure how to act. Men at home usually drank outside, separate from women. In Montana bars, it seemed as if everyone yelled to be heard above everyone yelling. He ordered a red beer, a drink no one at home would touch, but holding it made him feel as if he belonged.

A man behind him shouted to a woman.

“I’m from California but I’ve been here six years.”

“I’m a native of right here,” she said.

“All your life?”

“Not yet.”

“How long you lived here?”

“Till now.”

“Yeah, right,” the Californian said. “More power to you.” He turned to Joe. “I’m from California but I been here six years. Where you from?”

“Mississippi,” Joe said.

“The river or the state?”

“What?”

“You know, like how people always say about New York. The city or the state?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Sure, I know.”

A woman at the bar laughed, spit flying from her mouth. She wore a leather vest and held a cigarette beside her mouth. Her eye was freshly blacked and swollen. Two men squared off by the cigarette machine and backed up like roosters. One shouted “Happy birthday,” and they ran toward each other, heads bent low, arms at their sides. Their heads butted and they bounced apart, grinning madly.

A short, broad man carried a tumbler of Scotch with no ice. He was battered as an old ship, still intact and making headway, people trailing behind him as if drawn by his wake. His voice was a rapid growling rasp. “The shit you see when you don’t have an automatic weapon.”

Joe turned back to the Californian, but he was gone and another man had filled the space.

“Order me a tequila if she looks at you,” he said.

“Okay,” Joe said, “Where’re you from?”

“Albania, but I been here twelve years.”

Everyone tried to compete for a Montana pedigree. It began with old families and worked its way down to the recent arrivals. The longer you’d been in the state, the more deserving you were of living there. Each group of newcomers resented the next and everyone conveniently left the Indians out of the equation. It seemed to Joe that people forgot Americans were allowed to live anywhere in the country, including Montana.

Two men pushed past him and ordered shots of whisky.

“Did you see her eye?” one said.

“I’ve seen better heads on beer.”

The woman with the black eye lurched off her stool. She grabbed the man’s left hand and pointed to his wedding ring.

“I call that a no-pest strip,” she said. “So you can shut your goddam, hole.”

She dropped his hand and veered toward Joe.

“I’m from the South,” he said, “but I been here a month.”

“Anaconda,” the woman said, “but don’t hold that against me.”

A young woman with long brown hair walked through the bar. She was tall, and attractive, and held a basket of roses for sale. A man in a crumpled western hat bought three and handed them at random to nearby women. The seller continued to stand there, and someone nudged the man and told him she was waiting for a tip.

“I’ll give you a tip,” he said. “Stay out of Butte.”

Everyone laughed and he bought more flowers. The wide-shouldered man Joe had seen earlier ordered a round of drinks for a dozen people. He handed Joe a full shot glass.

“Thanks,” Joe said. He pointed to the photographs on the walls, several of which had gold stars affixed to a corner. “Who’re they?”

“Patrons,” the man said.

“What’s the stars for?”

“They died,”

The man lifted his glass in a silent toast to the dead. Joe drained the small glass, wincing at the taste.

“You from here?”

“El Paso,” the man said, “How about you?”

“Ken—” Joe began, then stopped. He forced himself to shrug. “Around,” he said.

The man nodded as if the answer was common, Joe pushed his way to the door, stepping over the legs of a man sitting on the floor. He was furious with himself. Outside a dog was chained to a rack of bicycles. Two pickups raced down the street, driven by teenagers in western hats, and Joe thought of Boyd drag-racing his big Chevelle on the straight stretch of road below their hill. He stopped and looked into the shadowy reflection of a store window. Fuck you, Boyd, he thought.

He walked until he felt calmer, passing new stores with pastel awnings and coffee places that didn’t serve a straight cup of coffee. A shiny shop was devoted to upscale bathroom gear. Coming toward him at a rapid pace was an Indian man wearing an army jacket. Beneath his arm was a stuffed teddy bear. His eyes looked as lost as Joe felt.

The bright orange sign of the Wolf protruded at an angle from the building’s corner, but Joe continued past the front door and down an alley. Like a porno shop or a speakeasy, the Wolf had a side entrance for the poker players. A seat was open and the dealer gave Joe a hand before he sat down. Joe raised without looking at his cards, and the dealer held the flop until Joe threw money on the table. Someone bet. Joe raised as he removed his coat. The dealer burned a card and turned one face up and Joe raised the bet again. He made the final bet before the river card, and three players called. Joe flipped his cards. He had a pair of tens and there was one on the board.

“Three tens,” the dealer said. “Takes the pot.”

He pulled the chips in a heap and used one arm to sweep them to Joe.

“You should cash out,” a player said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

Joe laughed. At the table’s end was a man dozing between hands, his shirt risen high to expose his belly. One of the dancers played cards while waiting to go onstage in the next room. A young kid sat at the mini-bar, asking people to lend him a gambling stake. The green felt of the low table was smooth, and the chair molded to Joe’s body. He felt good.

He settled into the intricate web of the game. Players came and left, tapping out, buying in, complaining about the dealer, demanding a new deck, filling the air with smoke, and covering the table with fine ash. Joe’s stack of chips continued to grow. He played as if under a hypnotic spell, adding chips to the pot with a flick of his wrist, playing as Boyd had taught him. He was hitting overpairs and big kickers on every flop. His good hands received callers. If a flush bet out, he’d last-card a boat. When facing a full house, he’d hit quads on the river. He flopped sets again and again, slow-playing until the turn, then hammering the bet. The cards were running over him and he was running over the game.

At one in the morning the game broke. They were down to three players and the dealer’s rake was pounding them with chip removal. Joe cashed out with seven hundred dollars. He was tense and hungry but didn’t know what to eat.

He stepped into the dim confines of the strip club and was blasted by the sound of music, the smell of sweat and beer. Two bikers shot pool. A woman in boots strolled a small stage with a slick floor and a mirrored wall Off-duty dancers carried drinks on small trays. He’d never been in a strip club before.

The dancer squatted before a cowboy who held a rolled dollar bill between his teeth. She removed his hat, leaned close to his face, pressed her breasts together and used them, to take the dollar. She backstepped quickly, her face angry. “Fucking asshole,” she said. “Don’t lick.”

She moved down the line like a nurse ministering to patients. No one touched her. She laughed with a few men, and gave the older ones special attention. Joe pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket. When she squatted before him, he wanted to ask her name and how she wound up with, the occupation. Perfume surrounded her like a cocoon. He looked in her eyes and gave her the five.

“Here you go,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Back at you,” she said.

She leaned to kiss his cheek and he smelled her hair and lipstick. Sweat glistened on her breasts as they pressed against him. He reached for her without thinking, but she was gone, had pulled back as if anticipating his movement. Joe watched her walk away. He felt as if she were twitching her hips for him alone.

The man on the stool beside him elbowed Joe. “Wish I had that swing on my back porch.”

The lights were dim, the music loud. The woman prowled the tiny stage until a man waved a dollar and she leaned over him, bending from the waist with her back to Joe. He had never seen a woman stand in such a way and he felt a tingling below his belly, the first desire in months. Her legs were strong, the muscles of her thighs taut. Joe imagined standing behind her. He wondered when she got off work, and if she had a boyfriend.

A woman tapped him on the shoulder. She was wearing a halter top and denim shorts cut high above each hip. She asked if he wanted a drink. He nodded, unable to speak. He felt like he had as a child when he came off a ride at the county fair, overwhelmed by sensation, wanting more.

“What can I get you?” the waitress said.

He continued to nod and she turned away. The dancer was kicking crumpled dollar bills toward the rear of the stage. The music ended. Another dancer stood in the wings, holding a cassette tape, waiting her turn. She removed gum from her mouth and pressed it against the rung of a chair.

Joe waited for the dancer to come out of the dressing room, and after a few minutes she joined the bikers playing pool. Joe watched, feeling as rejected and ignored as he had in high school. He left the bar and hurried through the diner to the street.

just outside the door, two men struggled on the pavement. A short guy clung to the other man’s long hair, beating at his face. The tall man rolled on his back to pin the short one beneath him. A city patrol car arrived and two cops approached the fighters.

“Get him off me,” the tall guy said.

“It looks like you’re on him,” the cop said. He bent over the men. “Come on, Jim Buck, turn loose of his hair.”

The two men rose and stared at each other while the cops stood between them. The car’s toplights flashed red and blue across the concrete.

“Jim Buck, you start walking south,” the cop said. “And you, what’s your name?”

“Nick.”

“He come up and grab your hair from behind?”

“How’d you know?”

The cop shrugged. “He’s from Bozeman. Got a car?”

“Around back.”

“Go on home.”

“I Just got here.”

“You got an ear problem?”

“I’m going, I’m going. It just don’t seem right.”

“Stay away from here tonight.”

Joe headed for his cabin. At the edge of town, the red sign of a motel was partially lit by flickering neon. Joe impulsively pulled into the lot. A bleary-eyed desk clerk gave him a key. In the room was a single bed and a television. Joe lay on the bed. The ugliest picture he’d ever seen was fastened to the wall by six screws. A phone sat on a table and he felt an intense urge to call Abigail He couldn’t remember if the time in Kentucky was earlier or later than Montana.

He woke folly dressed on top of the bedspread. Sunlight filtered through the curtains as he removed his clothes and went back to sleep. In the afternoon he took a long bath. Winning money at poker had given him the first good feeling in months and he strolled downtown. A faint snow made the buildings indistinct, as if seen through silk. The money felt free to him, come from nowhere, and he wanted to buy something before it wound up transformed to a stack of chips in someone else’s pile.

The courthouse reminded him of the one in Rocksalt. It was built of stone and occupied an entire block, with a statue of a soldier charging across the wide lawn. Across the street was a bail bondsman and a lawyer’s office. It occurred to Joe that Montana made life handy for criminals.

He found a pawnshop with rows of leather jackets and stereo equipment, a motorcycle, and a pinball machine. The young proprietor wore a heavy mustache that ran to his jawline. Joe inspected several pistols and asked for a.32 caliber that would fit in a coat pocket. The man gave him a form to fill out.

“Costs fifteen dollars to run the Brady check,” he said. “Come back in five days.”

Joe didn’t want to put his new name into the federal system. A driver’s license was risk enough.

“It ain’t the money,” Joe said, “but I don’t come to town that often. I’d just as soon get everything taken care of at once.”

“I understand, but I can’t.”

“What about if you just sell it to me personally?”

“Wish I could, partner. Ml these guns are catalogued already and I have to account for them.”

“Ain’t they nothing I can do?”

“Use the paper,” the man said.

“What do you mean?”

“Take a look at the classified ads in the newspaper. Hell, it’s like a black market.”

“How about ammo?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll have that, too.”

Joe bought a gun cleaning kit, and inquired about gold coins.

“What weight?” the man said.

“How’s it come?”

“Ounce, half-ounce, and a quarter.”

“Ounce I guess.”

“Eagle or Maple Leaf?” the man said.

“Shoot, I don’t know.”

“Eagle is American. It’s ten-percent copper alloy but the value’s the same. Canadian Maple Leaf is solid gold.”

“What do most people get?”

“You know how it is around here. Folks mainly go for American. Had some Krugerrands out of South Africa but some man bought them all. Came in wearing full fatigues and carrying a Glock. Paid in hundreds.”

“Reckon I’ll take the Eagle.”

The man stepped into the back room. Stacked on the counter were new Liberty Teeth pamphlets. The front held a quote from Thomas Jefferson; “No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms.” Inside was a drawing of a scaffold with a man hanging from the noose. Pinned to his shirt was a note that said RACE TRAITOR. A fire burned below his dangling feet. At the bottom were the words MONTANA FOR AMERICANS ONLY.

The man returned with a gold coin in a small plastic bag. It was very heavy. One side bore a raised image of an eagle bringing a sprig to its young in a nest. Below it were the words ONE OZ. FINE GOLD— 50 DOLLARS.

“Fifty bucks,” Joe said. “I’ll take half a dozen.”

“I guess you would. We go by spot price in the newspaper, plus twenty dollars.”

“Then what’s the fifty on it mean?”

“Original mold.” The man shrugged. “They never changed it. I don’t know why.”

The price of the coin was very high, but Joe bought it anyway and slipped it in his pocket. He tapped the pile of pamphlets.

“What are these all about? I keep seeing them.”

“Some friend of the owner drops them off. I threw out two bunches and got in trouble over it.”

“What’s a race traitor?”

“Hell if I know. I can’t keep up with that bunch. One week it’s Indians, next week it’s taxes.” The man shook his head. “They started out being over gun control and I was all for it. The government wanted us to hold a guy’s gun for three days when he took it out of hock, but that didn’t work out. Pawnshops put up a stink all over the country. Now they got the sheriff’s office doing extra work, running background checks. Some of them are so busy with, paperwork, they can’t get out and do no sheriffing.”

“Do these pamphlets help?”

“Hell, no. They piss a lot of people off, including me. But it ain’t my store. If it was, I’d get rid of the damn guns and deal in video games. Biggest turnover we got. You don’t want to look at a setup, do you?”

“I don’t have a TV.”

“No problem, partner. We’ll fix you right up.”

Joe shook his head and left. Though it was late afternoon, he ate breakfast at a diner and read a newspaper. For the first time in months, he took an interest in events of the world. There was an article about Christmas spending having risen since last year. He checked the paper’s date and was astounded to learn that it was January thirteenth. The holidays had come and gone without his notice. He thought of his mother and was stricken by the knowledge that she’d stayed near the phone in case he called.

From a pay phone he called a number in the paper that advertised guns for sale. The voice on the other end was curt, stressing that he only had legal weapons. Joe told him he wanted a small-caliber pistol and arranged to meet the man in the parking lot of a tavern. Outside, a thick snow fell. Neon bar signs tinged the air with gleaming shades of red, Joe drove to the lot and waited. Half an hour later, a small white car parked next to the Jeep. Joe opened the passenger door and sat inside.

The driver was in his forties, with long hair and a black Stetson. He wore a light denim jacket and beneath it Joe could see the web harness of a shoulder holster. The man didn’t talk as he opened a duffel bag and handed Joe one pistol at a time until he chose a.32 caliber. Joe asked for a box of ammunition and the man nodded. When Joe asked how much, the man held up two fingers.

“Two hundred?” Joe said.

The man nodded.

“That’s too much.”

The man shrugged and held out his hand for the pistol. Joe counted the money into the man’s palm. The silence made him nervous. He slipped the gun in his pocket and opened the car door. The man touched his arm. Joe stiffened, a quick surge of fear rushing through him. He turned warily and the man handed him the box of ammunition, Joe left the car.

Snow made a screen that blocked the street. He locked the front hubs into four-wheel drive and crossed the Clark Fork in snow too thick to see the guardrails. His headlights reflected off the wall of snow and shined back through the windshield. He passed two car wrecks, one deserted, the other attended by police and ambulance. He suddenly had no idea how far he’d traveled or how much time had passed since he’d left town. No one knew where he was. He held the steering wheel tightly, afraid of losing his balance and falling from the seat. He wanted to pull over and wait until daylight, wait until spring.

Lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he steered to the edge of the road as a small pickup passed him very fast. Joe drove through the whirl of snow left by the truck’s passage, deciding that the driver must be a local. He wondered if he’d ever be able to rush into the slippery darkness with such confidence.

He stopped at the tavern by Rock Creek, hoping to show off his gold piece» but it was empty. The bartender sat at the bar with a glass and a bottle of liquor. A situation comedy flickered on a small television.

“I don’t know why I watch this shit,” she said.

“Nothing else to do.”

“You can watch with me, if you like. Everything’s on the house tonight.”

She offered Joe a glass of whisky. As she leaned forward, he saw a flash of delicate black lace inside her shirt. He took a quick sip, which burned his throat and brought on the memory of driving county roads with Arlow. That night seemed like a decade back.

The bartender was still leaning and he didn’t want to look at her because he knew he’d see her bra again. A Liberty Teeth pamphlet lay on the bar. He held it up.

“You believe this stuff?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “That crap’s nothing but a bunch of crap. Some of these round-asses think they’re better than the rest of us. They blame everybody else for their sorry selfs.”

“Then why keep these things here?”

“People just drop them off, same as lost-dog flyers or church bake sales.”

“Is it the Ku Klux Klan, or what?”

“Are they the ones who wear sheets?” Joe nodded.

“Not them, then. Nobody around here can spare the bedding.”

She finished her drink and poured another, her long hair trailing the bar.

“Who is it then,” Joe said.

“Could be you best not ask,” she said, “Could be that’s just the kind of thing you don’t want to know. Now sit here and let’s watch some TV.”

Joe stayed where he was. He sipped the whisky, and the burn ran from his throat to his chest and spread along his limbs.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll fix you something special. Ever hear of a mat drink?”

“No.”

She swayed to her feet and grabbed the stool. She sucked on her cigarette as if it would make her sober and pointed to the other side of the bar.

“You take that rubber mat and drain off all the spills into a glass, then drink it.”

“This is fine,” Joe said.

He touched the glass to his mouth as she sat down.

“Come on over here,” she said. “What’s the matter, you don’t like TV?”

“Not really.”

“My God in heaven. Why the hell not?”

Joe watched the television screen for a minute. At the next joke, the actress paused for the laugh track to begin.

“Right there’s why,” he said. “That’s not real people laughing, I mean it’s real, but it’s on a tape. They just turn it on and off.”

“It’s a comedy is why.”

“It doesn’t need us,” Joe said. “The damn thing laughs at itself.”

“You sure think different from the rest of these cowboys around here.” She pointed at the liquor shelf. “Sure you can’t find nothing you want?”

What he wanted was her, but he was afraid, and the fear bothered him, even as it increased his desire.

“Where you from?” he said.

“Up on the Hi-Line, Daddy moved us to Missoula when I was twelve. How about you?”

“I got a place on Rock Creek.”

“Not one of those tipis, is it?”

“I don’t reckon.”

“Aw, shucks,” she said. “I was hoping you might need you a dpi creeper sometime,”

She finished her drink and looked at him, her gaze moving from his face to his boots and back to his face.

“I was ready to close up when you came in,” she said. “This snow holds business down and the road’s too bad for me to get home. I usually just stay over. Got a bed in the back.”

“Guess I’ll be going then.”

“Have another drink,” she said.

“That’s all right.”

“There’s plenty of it, and more to come,”

“I probably ort to leave.”

“Maybe the roads are too bad for you to make it,” she said, as she stood. “Wouldn’t want you to wreck on us.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I like careful men,” she said, and moved close to him.

“I do my best.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Why don’t you stay and find out what my best is.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, bumping against his body. Her lips tasted like whisky and smelled of smoke. Joe returned her kiss and she pushed against him, her arms hanging slack at her waist. She stumbled, nearly pulling him to the floor, Joe maneuvered her to lean against the bar. He gripped her arms and kissed her hard, feeling the desire rising in him until the fear surpassed it. He leaned away, abruptly angry. He hurried across the room, hearing her laugh as he went out the door.

He drove through the Valley of the Moon, veering around boulders that had fallen into the road. The creek was dull black at the bottom of a steep drop and he wondered how many collisions had happened here. He felt an urge to stand on the gas pedal, yank the wheel, and plunge down the bank into the water. He slowed to make sure he wouldn’t do it.

At his cabin he parked out of the wind and left the truck. The snow fell in a steady rush, a blanket that never stopped. He stood in the darkness and let it settle on his head, making epaulets along his shoulders. He felt ashamed for not staying with the bartender, and wondered if there was something wrong with him. Perhaps he’d spent so much time alone that he’d been rained for company. He thought about Abigail. Leaving the tavern was not related to her and it had nothing to do with the bartender either. He’d left because he couldn’t be with a woman until he was sure of who he was. “Virgil Caudill was gone and there was no grave, no marker, no place for sorrow and rage. He had simply ceased to exist.

His mind ran through the events in Kentucky. There’d be no question as to who had killed Rodale, but the official interest would go only as far as it had when Boyd died. The police would take a report and little else. The sheriff wouldn’t do anything. Joe hadn’t told anyone where he was going because he hadn’t known himself, and he hadn’t contacted anyone at home. He’d gotten rid of the gun. He’d paid for everything with cash so paper wouldn’t follow him. The only improvement he could see was to have spared Rodale.

He went inside and studied the mirror. Facing him was long hair and a long beard, but it was still Virgil. He wondered who had killed Billy Rodale — Virgil or Joe.

He built a fire and went to bed. Everything he owned had once belonged to other people. Another man’s foot had stretched the leather of his boots. His sleeping bag conformed to the shape of someone else’s body. Even his name had come from the grave. He looked at his hands and wondered if he would recognize them on another man, or loose in a bin at a junk store.