How Far the Mountain. Robert K. Swisher Jr.

of hell. What is the difference between Heaven and Hell?”

      Taking a deep breath Bill gazed at the gently rolling land. The pinion and cedar trees melted into the deep browns and grays of the rock and earth like they were all one. It was beautiful. From the lot not another house was visible. On the horizon were the dark outlines of the Rocky Mountains—distant uncaring ghosts. He forced himself to look at the peaks. He forced himself to think about the bones.

      A female German Shepherd with a graying muzzle ran over to the corral and sat by Bill’s foot. Bill scratched behind her ears. “Gypsy, you old worthless dog, where in the hell have you been?”

      Thumping her tail a few times on the ground the dog lay down, seemingly at rest with the world. Bill remembered when Gypsy wandered into his life. Waking early one cold winter morning the German Shepherd was sitting on the front porch like she belonged there. He fed her, at which she showed no great thanks, and then she followed him around while he fed the horses and broke the ice on the water tank. When he went back in the house the dog lay down on the porch. “There’s a good looking dog on the porch,” he told her during breakfast.

      All she said was, “Get rid of it, I don’t like dogs.”

      That had been over ten years ago. “She loved you,” Bill said to the dog. “As much as I loved her.”

      Gypsy thumped her bushy tail several times but did not get up. Love had no great impact on her life.

      Bill stretched—the warm June air feeling good on his face. He was raised on a large cattle ranch, which the family lost. He rode broncos at local rodeos for years, never quite good enough to go to the finals, but still good enough to pick up some pocket change at the state level. After he was too old to rodeo, he sold horses; racehorses, meat horses, kid’s horses, it did not matter, he sold them all. Then he guided for many years.

      He guided high mountain horseback hunting trips, fishing trips, and photography trips—guided all the city slickers, as he called them, took them up to the mountains so they could eat candy bars and granola and see the real world. “The real world,” he half cursed, thinking about the wall tents with wood stoves in them, and the cots with air mattresses on them. The meals included steak dinners and breakfasts with eggs and pancakes. He laughed sarcastically thinking abut the fancy dans hanging onto the horses like kids hanging onto the toy horses their mothers put them on in front of K-Marts and Wal-Marts.

      He half smiled. It had been fun though, it made him feel good about what he was—a cowboy. “Cowboy my ass,” he smirked to Gypsy, making the dog jump to her feet. “I never could stand John Wayne, how can I be a cowboy?”

      Bill headed toward the barn, the dog, as usual, ten feet in front of him, as if she knew his every thought and action. Gypsy’s tail stuck straight up in the air. Unlike most German Shepherds, her tail did not curve, but stuck up in the air like the tail of a deer bolting away in fright.

      The inside of the barn was dark and dusty. Bill opened all the stall doors and both the front and back doors, letting the warm sunshine wash into the barn. Bill went into a small room and turned on the light. On the walls hung lead ropes, halters, bits from snaffles to hackamores, tie downs, and several hemp lariats. On saddle stands were three saddles and two packsaddles. Up against the wall was a set of wooden panniers, the ends bent from hitting trees. On a table were canvas tarps all folded and stacked neatly that were used to cover the panniers. At one time Bill owned enough gear to outfit six packhorses and haul in four people. On top of a stove for a wall tent was an eight-foot by twelve-foot tent that was handmade in Oregon from white sailcloth. When it was pitched, with its pine poles and lashings, and the stovepipe sticking out the flew hole, it made a mountain meadow into a home. Gypsy whined several times. “You loved it too,” he said to the dog.

      Gypsy jumped up in the air, shaking her head. “Yea, we will go,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t leave you behind, never could leave you behind.”

      The dog sniffed the tent, pulling out of the fabric the odors of bacon, steaks, fried trout, and the blood of deer and elk.

      Bill noticed his spurs hanging from a saddle horn as he went out of the room. The dog did not follow, but stood eyeing him. “Get out of there,” he ordered the dog. “I told you we would go.”

      The dog ran by his leg and raced out the front door of the barn, running around the barn several times before she stopped once more by his leg. Bill laughed, a shallow laugh, but still a laugh, and reaching down he patted the dog on her heaving side. “You’re not worth the dog food I feed you,” he said.

      The dog’s tail thumped on the ground.

      Bill inspected a green, dented and battered, two-horse trailer, surprised the tires were still inflated. The dog whined, looking at him with her smoky topaz eyes. “I told you already,” he said to the dog. “We will go, don’t bother me again about it.”

      Heading toward the house the dog ran in front of him. When he went inside she sat down on the porch like she always did, not looking at the door but out at the trees and the land, as if the ten acres went on forever, as if it was a real ranch, and not what the realtors called a ranchette. When Bill brought out her food she did not jump up and down. She waited calmly until he set down the dish, and, only after he went back inside, did she eat.

      Sitting at the kitchen table Bill stared at the distant mountain. His heart started pounding in his chest and sweat popped out on his forehead. “You can kill me if you want,” he said grimly, “but I’m coming, I’m coming.”

      As his heart slowed down, Gypsy strolled into the backyard. She barked at two robins, which flew into a tree, and then she lay down in the sun.

      Bill smiled. “You’re a good dog,” he said looking at the old graying German Shepherd, “you’re a good old worthless dog.”

      When Bill came out of the house with a can of saddle soap to clean up his tack, the dog beat him to the barn. When he started rubbing the soap into the first saddle, she lay down on the floor and shut her eyes. “You remember too,” Bill said to the dog. “You remember, you’re just stronger than I am.”

      Late in the afternoon Bill opened the door to his pickup truck. No sooner was the door open then Gypsy was in the truck and sitting by the other window.

      Gary Lindsey, foreman of the 150,000 acre Stone Ranch, saw the approaching truck, and spit a gob of tobacco. He had three horses to shoe and he did not really have time to talk. But, when he recognized the truck, he was sad.

      Gary approached the truck, trying to hide the pain in his back. Bill got out and Gypsy darted by him. Gary held out his hand to shake. “Haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said, looking deeply into Bill’s eyes. He then glanced at the dog. “You want to sell that dog yet?”

      “No,” Bill replied simply.

      Gypsy ignored them as though she knew she was being talked about.

      “Going to be able to hang on?” Bill asked.

      “Who in the hell knows? Boss is trying to do some deal with the state so we can give them land and not have to pay taxes for a few years. Maybe, maybe not.”

      “I need two horses,” Bill told Gary. “Two mountain horses.”

      “Buy or borrow?” Gary asked.

      “Borrow.”

      Gary spit a gob of tobacco. “It’s about time you went back Bill,” he said, in only a manner an old and trusted friend could.

      “I know,” Bill replied.

      “You could get you another string and start guiding again,” Gary said.

      “How’s the wife?” Bill asked, ignoring the statement.

      “Not as good of company as that dog,” Gary smiled. “Kid is Rodeo Queen this year.”

      “She always was good with horses.”

      “All I got to do now is keep her from getting knocked up by some dumb rodeo