Bitterroot Read Free Page B

said.
    I hesitated for a moment, then waded into the stream. The coldness of the water surged like melted ice over my tennis shoes and khakis. I pulled my fly line out of the reel with my left hand and felt it feed through the eyelets on the rod as I false-cast with my right, the brightly honed hook of the caddis fly whipping past my ear.
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
    3
     
     
    FAR AWAY, near Fort Davis, Texas, unbeknown to any of us at the time, a man named Wyatt Dixon was being released from a county slam. For the ride out to the railroad track on the hardpan he was chained at the ankles and wrists and waist. His bare feet had been stomped on so that he limped like an old man when he walked from the jail’s back door, under armed guard, to the van that awaited him. Inside the van, a three-hundred-pound deputy hooked Wyatt Dixon to a D-ring in the floor, wheezing while he worked, avoiding Dixon’s eyes and the grin that shaped and reshaped on his mouth.
    Ten minutes later, as the sun was setting behind a low ridge of arid mountains, the van stopped at the railroad track and Wyatt Dixon stepped out and stood in the hot wind, his red hair lifting like silk, his nostrils dilating with the smell of freedom.
    He was lantern-jawed, his eyes as empty and as undefined by color as a desert sky, his skin brown from the sun and clean of tattoos. Four deputy sheriffs pointed their weapons at Wyatt Dixon, then a fifth one methodically unlocked all the manacles on Dixon’s ankles and wrists. When the net of chains fell from his body, the men around him involuntarily stepped back or extended their guns farther out in front of themselves.
    “That boxcar’s gonna take you all the way to Raton Pass, Wyatt,” the fat deputy said.
    Another deputy threw a sack lunch into Wyatt Dixon’s hands. “You ain’t got to get off to eat, either. Not in Texas,” he said.
    “Y’all know where my boots is at?” Wyatt Dixon said, grinning as stiffly as a swath cut in a watermelon.
    The freight and cattle cars clanked together, and the wind blew chaff out of the flat-wheeler that Wyatt Dixon was supposed to climb into.
    “Better get on it, boy. The mosquitoes out here use soda straws on a fellow,” the fat deputy said.
    “I’m moving, boss man,” Wyatt Dixon said, and limped across the rocks like a man walking on marbles, then pushed himself inside the flat-wheeler as easily as a gymnast.
    A cruiser pulled behind the van, and a tall man in a gray suit, wearing a Stetson and shades and a wide, flowered necktie, got out and carried a cardboard suitcase to the boxcar. A badge holder with a gold sheriff’s star pinned to it hung from his gunbelt.
    “Don’t be telling yourself you got a reason to come back,” he said, and flung the suitcase into the boxcar.
    It burst apart on the floor, spilling out clothes, a white straw hat, a tightly folded American flag, a box of clown makeup, a pair of football cleats, an orange fright wig, and a plastic suction device, like a reverse-action hypodermic, that was sold through comic books to remove blackheads from facial skin.
    “Why, thank you, sir. Y’all treat a fellow in princely fashion. God bless America for such as yourselves,” Wyatt Dixon said.
    “Get this piece of shit out of here before I shoot him,” the sheriff said.
    A deputy began waving at the engineer in the locomotive.
    A few minutes later, when the sun was just an ember among the hills, the freight train made a wide loop on the hardpan and passed in front of the van and the sheriff’s cruiser at the crossing guard. Wyatt Dixon stood in the open door of the boxcar, his white straw hat cocked on his head, his American flag flapping from an improvised staff. He drew himself to attention and saluted the men down below, his bare feet discolored like bruised fruit.
     
     
    ON A FOGGY DAWN, three days later, Doc, his daughter Maisey, and I sat in my truck at the foot of a broad, green mountain that rose into ponderosa pines that were