Free Fire on the Mountain by Edward Abbey

Vogelin’s ranch, toward the village of Baker, toward the Guadalupe Mountains, reaching out to meet the curtain of darkness coming toward us from the east.
    “Grandfather?”
    “Yes?”
    “Did you ever climb the mountain?”
    “What mountain?”
    “The one above us. Thieves’ Mountain.”
    “No, can’t say I did. And I never will. This cabin here’s high enough for me. About as close to Heaven as I ever want to get. You can bury me here.”
    “We’ll need dynamite for that,” Lee said.
    “Here Lies John Vogelin: Born Forty Years Too Late, Died Forty Years Too Soon,” Grandfather said.
    “Why forty years too soon?”
    “I figure in forty years civilization will collapse and everything will be back to normal. I wish I could live to see it.”
    “Why? You’d be right back were you started from.”
    “I’d like that. That’s the place to end up.”
    “Don’t you want to get ahead?” Lee grinned at me.
    “I’d rather stay behind. I already got a head.”
    “You already got a behind, where your head ought to be.”
    “Don’t confuse me. It took me seventy years to figure this much out. Who’s going to water the horses?”
    Nobody spoke. I stared out at the approaching union of light and dark. Lee and Grandfather stared at me.
    “Okay,” Grandfather said, “we’ll try again: who’s going to wash the dishes?”
    “I’ll water the horses,” I said.
    “Fine. If you start right away you’ll still have time to wash the dishes.”
    “I’ll light the lamp for you,” Lee said, “when you’rethrough watering the horses. So you don’t have to wash the dishes in the dark.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “But us real cowboys always wash our dishes in the sand.”
    Lee was silent.
    “Lee, you lose,” Grandfather said. “You wash the dishes. The boy’s whipped you again. Billy, you’ll find another old bucket inside the corral.”
    “Why can’t I just take the horses down to the spring?”
    “That boy asks a lot of questions,” Lee said.
    They stared at me hopefully.
    “All right,” I said, “why not? That’s all I asked. Wouldn’t it be easier to take the horses to the spring than to carry the spring back here to the horses?”
    “A bucket is lighter than a horse,” Lee pointed out.
    “The horses can
walk,”
I said.
    “But they’re tired.”
    “Will you please answer my question?”
    The old man smiled and patted my knee. “You’re right, Billy, it should be easier to do it your way. But the horses don’t like it down in there. And the trail is too tight for all three at once; you’d have a rough time. And besides, think what a mess three big horses, full of water and grass and grain, would make of one little spring which is barely big enough to dip a pail into. We drink out of that spring too.”
    “I guess you’re right, Grandfather. I should’ve thought of that.” I stood up.
    “Someday we’ll cover the spring, run a pipe from it down to a water trough the horses can get to.”
    “How long have you been using this place?” Lee asked, winking at me. “How many years, John?”
    “You shut up and wash your dishes.”
    I walked to the corral, found the bucket and started down the path to the spring. Lee and the old man rose to their feet, stretching. “We’ll give you a hand, Billy,” Grandfather said, “as soon as we clean up.”
    “Yes sir.”
    The twilight was moving in. I had to go carefully to find my way, for the trail seemed awfully vague in the deep shadows under the cliff. When I reached the spring the tree toads were bleating, a dismal noise and a sure sign of night. There was no other sound, except the murmur of the flowing water. A few fireflies twinkled in the gloom above the weeds.
    The long day in the desert sun had drawn a lot of water from my body. I was thirsty again. I squatted close to the spring, scooped up a double handful of water and drank. I dipped up more and bathed my face.
    When the last tinkle of falling drops had died away I became