The Trackers

by Charles Frazier

Handle and lash, the cowboy’s lunge whip was twice as long as he was tall. He swirled his right hand loose-wristed, making a figure eight with the whip, apparently just for the slow, rhythmic whooshing sound of it, the music.

I HAD NEVER TRAVELED FARTHER west than Louisville, so the rail portion of my journey to Wyoming felt epic and magnificent. All the different trains and stations, the elements of landscape but not full landscapes, only linear swipes of color flying past through the windows, flowing in muted horizontal bands.

he stopped and said, In the future, people won’t give two shits about rivers. That’s how bad it’s gonna get. People won’t even write songs about them anymore. That’s how you’ll know the world has gone to hell. Maybe you’ll be unlucky enough to see that world. Me, I’ll have floated on downstream.

There’s not but one true trail through the world, and all the truth you can say of it is it’s there. Everything else is a guess, your own made-up bullshit. There’s really no such thing as a guide. Just the trail.

THAT NIGHT I COULDN’T SLEEP. I didn’t look at the clock. Never do. I don’t want the alarm to ring in the morning and I come crawling out of bed knowing I was awake for a specific number of hours and then feel foggy and sleep-short all day. I’d rather wake up thinking maybe I hovered in and out a little bit overnight and then move on with the work.

A ripple-pattern afghan, blues and grays and a touch of maroon, draped over the arm of one of the chairs. I wondered who had crocheted it, what journeys it made to land here.

Faro shook his head and said, Val, good Lord, you don’t interrupt a campfire story.

Talent combined with work produces choices.