Between the Rivers

PALE sunlight crept groggily through the window. Gideon lay beneath the bedclothes, caught as much between night and day as those first tentative rays. Beside him, Aspen stirred. Gideon tried to clear away the dream-webs. If Aspen were here, then this was not that horrible then, he was not there. This was the Rolling Rivers.

  Aspen stirred, put his feet to the floor, blinked his eyes and stretched hugely. Moving quietly, he began his morning routine. Still half dressed, he turned at the sound of blankets being pushed aside.

  “Go to sleep, Gov. Lee and I will do the chores.”

  Normally Gideon would have leapt at the offer and collapsed into a slumbering heap. This morning he had a need to put distance between himself and the dreams that used the darkness against him, twisting into echoes and shadows that–

  Gideon rubbed his eyes so hard he had to blink repeatedly before he could see clearly again. He slumped into his boots, drew his braces over his shoulders and shuffled out. Aspen grabbed up the last of his own clothes and followed, unsure where this strange mood would lead.

  WHEN Fort called out, Gideon wasted no time taking the hand extended to him. He swung up on the big sorrel and asked no questions. It felt wrong, a betrayal somehow, to be at the ranch– any ranch– after the Harris place. Wherever they were headed, it wasn’t here and that would do.

  The Rivers’ cabin sat between two year-round water flows, one more a creek than a river, and both born from the snow-covered peaks up above timberline. Fort steered his horse along a tributary of the ranch’s namesake, switchbacking as the terrain grew steep.

  Around ten thousand feet up, they meandered onto a meadow of lush grass and brilliant wildflowers. Patches of forgotten snow clung to the north sides of rocks and hid behind tree trunks, though the day was pleasantly warm. The creek had become a modest waterfall, cascading over a rocky ledge and flowing to a shallow pool, which was itself surrounded by huge rocks. On one side the sharp rocks gave way, consenting to share a few feet of their shoreline with the neighboring grass.

  Had Gideon known the word, he would have called it tranquil. The fog that had invaded his brain was fading, evaporating like a mist against the spreading day. Fort stretched out on the ground and unwrapped a meat-inside-bread thing Cricket had made. A twitch of the big man’s hand indicated there was plenty.

  Being with Fort was different. He was content in silence and did not demand it be filled. He took his time and noticed the world. Details like a hawk high above, the shooshing of the trees, the half print of a bobcat’s paw, the rich smell of earth still damp from yesterday’s sprinkling, he took them all in with quiet pleasure.

  It was like those stories about bridges. What were they? Trolls? Ogres? Those knobby, slime encrusted creatures that were supposed to eat you in one teeth grinding, bone crushing crunch. The stories always portrayed the giants stretching out a massive hand to scoop the hero up between their gnarled fingers, slobber dribbling from their lips and mud-dumb glee bubbling in their hearts. There you were in that viselike grip, your future looking very brief indeed, only to discover the giant just wants to show off its collection of wildflowers. That was Fort.

  After they had eaten, he led the way by means of an animal track that wrapped around the mountain to a wide shoulder of rock where they stood, as if alone in all the world, looking out over the most stunning stretch of heaven earth had ever boasted.

  A line of ridges squashed up on each other, like fabric haphazardly pushed together. Between these and the nearer peaks ran a slender valley, rich with pine trees and dotted with scrub oaks. A shimmer over to the right had to be water winding its way from the snowcapped peaks to. . . would it go so far as the ocean? Gideon felt a wave of guilt nearly drown him. What right did he have to these moments, to take joy or pleasure for his own sake when there were others who never would again? Harris, who liked to ride in the rain, the boys who worked like men and played like children and–

  It was not to be thought. None of that was to be thought. Why had he lived? Gideon would never know. But he had, in that other lifetime, committed his life to those who had died, to promising them, if not justice, then at least vengeance.

  The valley stretched out, one peak after another, and the flicker of sunbeams on water caught Gideon’s eye again. He would have liked to see an ocean.