By Mark Miner
The sun rode low on the horizon, highlighting all the dirt on the windshield, inside and out. A glance in the mirror showed a ruddy radiant cloud of dust belatedly heralding their passage. Roger stretched back in his seat, gazing out at the plains of sage rolling up to the low brown mountains. Mark glimpsed out his window a peak with a tinge of snow still on it. The truck hummed along the road at a good clip, restrained, considering the eighteen-year-old at the wheel. It had been a fine trip. Fine like Hemingway's fine. Fine like a well-built cabin, like a good rifle, fine like a friendship between equals who have nothing to prove.
A gentle bend around to the right and there was a ranch house down in the valley. It was a few miles off, but the air was made of cut crystal, and the sun shone on its roof like copper fire. The cool wind flowed through the windows of the cab, bringing the best smell in the world, recent rain on a desert. Nevada was God's country, and in God's country there is very little to say. School was past, and jobs were past, glowing clouds in the east were massed, down in the valley's sage-strewn floor a stream would run forevermore, what would it take us driving here for? running our truck on a western moor? There is little that can be said in God's country. It is best left silent.
In the waning daylight a small form appeared beside the road. Roger sat up and pointed. Mark nodded and braked quickly. Pulses pounded as pistols were produced. A buck jackrabbit, and they were open to revised dinner plans. Roger motioned to Mark to lead off. Mark leveled the forty-five, sighted carefully, and fired. The jack leaped up, bloodied, and headed for the bush. The boys dashed after it, muzzles up, into the low sage. The jack hadn't made it far, the bullet had shattered one rear leg. Roger found it in a bunch of sage, and Mark finished it with a round to the head. Thrilled, the boys returned to the truck. Dressing wasn't overly difficult or messy, and the jack peeled beautifully. A quick washdown of the jack, their hands, and the knives, and the rabbit went into the cooler until dinnertime. God's country became quiet again, but for the humming of the motor.
Nevada slipped into darkness, and the truck lumbered on, headlights gazing fixedly ahead. Back onto pavement now, and northward. Another hour and they would camp. Blue and desolate roads met them, hauntingly empty for miles. The headlights only startled birds roosting on the road, and were shut off for a time to enjoy the cool night, like slipping into an unlit pool in the late summer, when the air has an overtone of cool. The truck swam through the desert darkness, the ribbon road unrolling ahead, never ending, it seemed, until it was swallowed by the hills. Those hills rose up in the moonscape, mounting above the truck as it wound along a dirt road through the mountains. The valley sprawled on the other side of the pass, filling a vast basin with low grasses. A few lights glinted down by the dry lake. The truck coasted down the grade, sliding into the valley , easy, like a worn saddle. The road led past the town, and out into the grassy plain, with the sage creeping down the edges of the valley rim. A ghostly pale road drifted up out of the valley floor and between two hills. The boys turned, heading for the mountains to camp. Barbwire gates and a cattleguard further, the boys were in the small canyon, hidden from the moon.
Ten minutes of wood gathering later, a small fire cheered the canyon. Roger strung wire through the rabbit carcass, and propped it over the fire on an A-frame. The boys set to their camp, spreading tarps and sleeping bags. Roger swore. Mark looked back to find the rabbit collapsed into the fire. He shook his head. The grub box was found, and two cans of soup and a can of peaches served as sustenance. The rabbit sizzled in the fire. Mark sighed. It had been a good shot, too. They scoured the dishes with sand, rinsed them, and stowed all the food. A few stars winked at their misfortune as they bedded down for the night.
Day broke over the canyon wall, and the boys rolled out. They broke camp, and only then looking up at the walls of the canyon. Silvered trees, barkless, lined the canyon as far as they could see. The trees were perfectly formed, with branches intact, preserved as silver statues by the fire that killed them. It was breathtaking. The boys loaded the truck and drove back to the main road, northbound through Nevada.
