the beasts scrambling constantly to gain further purchase on the craggy slopes of conscience and morality.
But after thirty-two years together, after Pruett’s awful betrayal, Bethy sat him down, looked him in the eye, and required something of him. All the other years, from the first to the last—every decision that impacted their lives: each belonged to him. But this one thing—this one impossible thing—she wanted. And so it was actually not that hard for him to do.
After such a long hiatus, one might think it hard to return to such a low point, but the sleazy lie of a drink fixing what ailed him returned too easily. It seeped into every crack and fissure in his soul, feeling like a smoky-keg fire, soothing the aching joints of his heart. Soon enough, he knew, the warm liquid salve would cool, freeze, and expand, bursting the façade of his healing into a billion dead, sparkling pieces.
The demons returned too, happily resuming their elevated position above his will. Like snipers in the trees bordering his mind, they aimed their weapons, demanding that he do things that, until then, only came to him in nightmares; evil thoughts that now breached the innocent light of day.
Blue smoke choked the air in the small bar. Pruett liked to drink in the Wooden Boot—one of three Wind River bars—because of the clientele: mostly roughnecks from the gas patch, many of them transplants. The locals that frequented there were a rough bunch too, and kept mainly to themselves. Ty McIntyre hung his hat there some nights, when he was a free man anyway. Tourists avoided the Boot; it was dingy, seedy, and could be downright dangerous. Because of these untoward realities, however, it was a popular hideaway for people who shirked the public eye.
Sheriff Pruett was off-duty and wearing a plaid hunting shirt, jeans, and a fresh pair of Justin work boots. His felt hat occupied the stool beside him on the right and he had just drained a third Heaven Hill blended whiskey when Carter Lee Holcomb walked up and dropped his butt in the stool to his left.
“Sheriff Pruett,” Holcomb said, tilting back his natty, sweat-ringed straw hat but leaving it fixed atop his head. He motioned to the bartender. “Jenny. Two bourbons and a Bud back.”
Holcombs were about as popular in Wind River as McIntyres. Sonny Holcomb, the father, ran one of the two local filling stations; twenty-year-old Carter Lee worked at Jonah Field for a Canadian natural gas company, Encana , doing miscellaneous scuttle work—roughnecking, mostly. That is, when he wasn’t drinking or roaring his truck up and down Main Street, cruising for high school seniors or drunken divorcees.
Pruett kept quiet and tilted his head back to Jen Werner, signaling for another Heaven Hill.
“What, you don’t talk to us respectable folk anymore?” Carter Lee said.
“Would you mind adding a little clarification, slick?” Pruett responded. Though it was a rough bar, he never pushed his sheriff weight around unless it was necessary. Most of the regulars respected the distance between him and the badge. In a place like this, even the law could remain anonymous.
But to Carter Lee Holcomb, no one got a free pass. Carter Lee was every town’s fallen high school hero. Three years before he’d made Wyoming All-State in football. Halfway through his senior year, with no real college prospects, Carter Lee dropped out of school and started working the gas fields. He put on fifty pounds that first year, most of it padding the considerable muscle on his short, wide-body frame. Word in town was that Carter Lee’s biggest contribution to the old man’s business was drinking away what little profit Son Holcomb’s station mustered.
“Fuck you, boy ,” Carter Lee said, his eyes looking at Pruett in the mirrored backstop. “Heard you keepin’ old Ty fuckstick McIntyre all nice and fatted up in the jailhouse. Probably sneaking him his favorite whiskey too. Just saying that maybe you ought
But after thirty-two years together, after Pruett’s awful betrayal, Bethy sat him down, looked him in the eye, and required something of him. All the other years, from the first to the last—every decision that impacted their lives: each belonged to him. But this one thing—this one impossible thing—she wanted. And so it was actually not that hard for him to do.
After such a long hiatus, one might think it hard to return to such a low point, but the sleazy lie of a drink fixing what ailed him returned too easily. It seeped into every crack and fissure in his soul, feeling like a smoky-keg fire, soothing the aching joints of his heart. Soon enough, he knew, the warm liquid salve would cool, freeze, and expand, bursting the façade of his healing into a billion dead, sparkling pieces.
The demons returned too, happily resuming their elevated position above his will. Like snipers in the trees bordering his mind, they aimed their weapons, demanding that he do things that, until then, only came to him in nightmares; evil thoughts that now breached the innocent light of day.
Blue smoke choked the air in the small bar. Pruett liked to drink in the Wooden Boot—one of three Wind River bars—because of the clientele: mostly roughnecks from the gas patch, many of them transplants. The locals that frequented there were a rough bunch too, and kept mainly to themselves. Ty McIntyre hung his hat there some nights, when he was a free man anyway. Tourists avoided the Boot; it was dingy, seedy, and could be downright dangerous. Because of these untoward realities, however, it was a popular hideaway for people who shirked the public eye.
Sheriff Pruett was off-duty and wearing a plaid hunting shirt, jeans, and a fresh pair of Justin work boots. His felt hat occupied the stool beside him on the right and he had just drained a third Heaven Hill blended whiskey when Carter Lee Holcomb walked up and dropped his butt in the stool to his left.
“Sheriff Pruett,” Holcomb said, tilting back his natty, sweat-ringed straw hat but leaving it fixed atop his head. He motioned to the bartender. “Jenny. Two bourbons and a Bud back.”
Holcombs were about as popular in Wind River as McIntyres. Sonny Holcomb, the father, ran one of the two local filling stations; twenty-year-old Carter Lee worked at Jonah Field for a Canadian natural gas company, Encana , doing miscellaneous scuttle work—roughnecking, mostly. That is, when he wasn’t drinking or roaring his truck up and down Main Street, cruising for high school seniors or drunken divorcees.
Pruett kept quiet and tilted his head back to Jen Werner, signaling for another Heaven Hill.
“What, you don’t talk to us respectable folk anymore?” Carter Lee said.
“Would you mind adding a little clarification, slick?” Pruett responded. Though it was a rough bar, he never pushed his sheriff weight around unless it was necessary. Most of the regulars respected the distance between him and the badge. In a place like this, even the law could remain anonymous.
But to Carter Lee Holcomb, no one got a free pass. Carter Lee was every town’s fallen high school hero. Three years before he’d made Wyoming All-State in football. Halfway through his senior year, with no real college prospects, Carter Lee dropped out of school and started working the gas fields. He put on fifty pounds that first year, most of it padding the considerable muscle on his short, wide-body frame. Word in town was that Carter Lee’s biggest contribution to the old man’s business was drinking away what little profit Son Holcomb’s station mustered.
“Fuck you, boy ,” Carter Lee said, his eyes looking at Pruett in the mirrored backstop. “Heard you keepin’ old Ty fuckstick McIntyre all nice and fatted up in the jailhouse. Probably sneaking him his favorite whiskey too. Just saying that maybe you ought
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