Free Slickrock Paradox by Stephen Legault Page B

was with him to hear his confession. He drifted off to sleep listening to the wind’s harmony in the branches above.
    When he woke it was late in the afternoon, and he was hungry. Silas rose stiffly, his ankle sore and swollen, and limped back to his car. From the trunk he took a bag of granola bars but when he looked at them he felt he would rather wait. He started the motor and began backing down the narrow lane.
    With a shock he found himself suddenly hitting the brakes, stalling the engine, to avoid a collision with another vehicle. Not five feet from his rear bumper, partially obscured by a tangle of alder along the side of the track, was a gunmetal-blue Jeep Wrangler. He started the Outback again and revved his engine, but the Jeep didn’t move. He turned the ignition off and opened his door.
    â€œHey there,” he called. There was no reply. “Hello?” Nothing. Silas walked to the end of his wagon and looked at the Jeep. There was nobody behind the wheel. He went to the driver’s door and looked into the cab. An open can of beer sat in the holder next to the gearstick and there was a six-pack minus two on the passenger-side floor. In the back were several oversized duffle bags and two large water-tight surplus ammo cans, the sort that rafters used to keep their food and belongings dry when running the Colorado River.
    â€œHelp you?” came a voice from behind him. Silas turned, his ankle protesting, and saw a man not twenty feet away, partially concealed by the foliage.
    â€œThis your Jeep?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œMind moving it?”
    The man approached. He was short and powerfully built, thick across the shoulders and broad in the arms. He wore a heavy beard and his hair fell in long curls, nearly touching his shoulders in the back. “Don’t mind at all. Just had to take a piss.”
    â€œWhat did you do, walk all the way back to Moab to do it?”
    The man laughed, showing a set of bright white teeth. Silas guessed that he was thirty at the oldest. “Just went off in the woods. Got distracted by a bird.”
    â€œThat’s what you call it, eh?”
    â€œYou Canadian?”
    Silas’s speech had betrayed him again. “Yes.”
    â€œI’m Josh,” said the man, thrusting out a heavy hand. Silas regarded it momentarily and then shook it.
    â€œSilas Pearson.”
    â€œGood to meet you. Want a beer?”
    â€œI’m actually just heading home.”
    â€œWhatcha doing up here?”
    â€œJust getting out of the heat.”
    â€œYeah, I know what you mean, man. Hot as fucking hell down there. Nice to be up in the trees. I got a place up here, just over by Oowah Lake. Don’t tell the fucking rangers on me.”
    â€œYou live up here?”
    â€œSometimes. In the summer. Winter I head down into the canyons.”
    â€œSounds nice,” Silas said. “I won’t tell. Do you mind?” he said, pointing to the Jeep.
    â€œSorry, fuck. Let me move my machine.” Josh jumped behind the wheel. Silas noticed a heavy revolver tucked in the waistband of the man’s khakis. America, he mused, home of the heavily armed. Josh gunned the engine and deftly navigated the trail in reverse. Silas followed at a more cautious pace. When he reached the T-junction a few hundred yards back, Josh had pulled over and cut his engine.
    â€œCome up for a visit sometime?” he said when Silas leaned out his window.
    â€œHow will I find you?”
    â€œI’ll find you,” Josh said with a wolfish grin.
    Silas turned around in the narrow track and drove down the trail. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the young man leaning on the front of the Jeep. Silas hoped he wouldn’t see him again.
    THERE WAS A message on his machine when he arrived home. He dialed the number to play back the message and stood in the dark by the big picture windows, the last light draining from the Adobe Mesa.
    â€œDr. Pearson,