Death on the High Lonesome Read Free

technology, they did nothing for him but confirm his displacement.
    Almost reluctantly, he walked toward them. When he got close he could smell the sawn wood siding. He reached a side door, but before entering, he ran his fingers over the splintered roughness that butted the doorframe. Cesar had asked him the afternoon before, as one of the workers was putting the finishing touches on some trim, if he had thought of a color or if he just wanted to seal the wood, keeping it natural. Virgil’s lack of response caused him to repeat his question.
    â€œWhatever we’re going to do to the outside, we maybe wantto get done before winter. On the other hand, maybe we should just let the wood season till next year. What do you think?”
    Virgil looked at Cesar like he was speaking in tongues. “I don’t know. Let me think on it.”
    Cesar got up from his usual seat on the front porch. As he passed by Virgil’s chair, he reached out and lightly touched his shoulder.
    â€œNo rush,” he said. “It’ll keep.”
    Virgil knew that if there was one person in the world who had a clue as to how he felt, it was Cesar. Now as he stood with his hand on the brand-new doorknob, he felt that when he pushed it open, a chunk of his past would disappear. The scab had to fall from the wound, in the process of healing. In the deepest part of his brain there was the realization that he had to move forward. He clenched his teeth and pushed. The door swung open so easily it surprised him. He could recall the hundreds of times when the wood in the old barns would swell and resist entry until a foot or shoulder was brought into play.
    The barns were pretty much mirror images of each other in terms of their exterior dimensions. This one however had a separate tack room along with two rooms that were set aside for Cesar’s living quarters. Virgil had made sure they were a significant upgrade from Cesar’s previous room. He was pleased when he checked out the two finished rooms and saw that Cesar had already left his imprint. A few colorful scenes hung on one wall in the bedroom, framed with a gaucho’s bolo. In the adjoining room, which served as a kitchen and living room area, there were terra-cotta plates sitting on a tablecloth with a Southwestern motif of mixed desert flowers, along with all-new appliances, which reminded him how dated the kitchen was in the main house. He did not miss the half-filled bottle of tequila sitting on the counternext to the refrigerator. When he left the living area after checking out the modern bathroom, his mood had lightened.
    By the time he got to the second barn, it was again becoming a struggle to not look for the pleasant ghosts of his past. They had been so alive to him in the old barns that had been reduced to ashes. There was not the full-throated laughter of his father in response to the gentle teasing of his mother. He did not hear her singing as she curried Star. He did not see himself as a boy unsuccessfully trying to lasso one of the chickens as it pecked aimlessly along the dirt corridor between the stalls, or see his father easily do the exact same thing.
    By the time he got to the second hayloft upstairs, a huge empty space, he was feeling just as empty. He came down the stairs, an improvement over the ladders in the old barns, as Cesar had readily pointed out. When he reached the bottom, he gripped the handrail tight, then sunk slowly to the second step, sinking in a sea of remembrance. There was nothing of his past in this place. He lowered his head. His hat fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up to dust it off.
    â€œNot even dust here,” he said to the empty space.
    He looked down the length of the barn to the opened double doors that led into the corral. The wide expanse of light was divided in two by an unrecognizable figure. Doubting the evidence of his own senses, he rubbed his eyes before he looked again. The figure started moving down