Free Fire on the Mountain by Edward Abbey Page B

want to sleep on the cot inside?”
    Lee grinned. “Is there room for all three of us?”
    “Not with me in the middle there ain’t.”
    “Then let’s all sleep out here.”
    “By the fire,” I said.
    “You boys do that,” Grandfather said, “but somebody might as well use that cot. I’ve been sleeping on the ground for about seventy years now, give or take a few.”
    “You ought to be used to it,” Lee said.
    “I’m used to it. But I never did like it much.” Picking up his bedroll, the old man walked toward the cabin door. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”
    “Goodnight,” we said.
    Lee and I shook the scorpions and black widow spiders out of the sleeping bags, spread them out again on the ground close to the fire, removed our boots and hats and crawled inside. We did not use our saddles for pillows. A saddle is hard enough just to sit on.
    At first I lay on my side, gazing at the coals of the burning pine. Then I lay on my back and stared straight up at the marvelous stars. The flaming blue stars. Out in the little park the horses stumbled around, munching grass, and I heard one of them staling on the hard ground. A meteor stroked quietly halfway across the sky.
    “Lee?”
    “Yes?”
    “Up there on the peak: Was it—something like the lion?”
    He did not answer at once. “Would you mind repeating that question?”
    “What you found up there—was it something like the lion?”
    “Oh. Yes. Yes, Billy. It was something like the lion.”
    I thought about that as I looked straight up at the stars. The marvelous stars. A marvelous day. The stars became dimmer as I watched them, as if they were drifting farther and farther away from us. I closed my eyes and slept and dreamed of the missing pony, fireflies, a pair of yellow eyes.
    Billy!
    I opened my eyes. Dark.
    Wake up, Billy
.
    I poked my head out of the sleeping bag and for a moment thought I had not slept at all. Then I saw the blue streaks of dawn and the ashes of the fire. I looked toward the cabin and saw the old man already at work by lamplight, serving breakfast at the table inside the open door. I smelled coffee and bacon. He looked out and called me again: “Out of the sack! Let’s eat!”
    I struggled out into the chill mountain morning. Shivering, I pulled the cold stiff boots onto my feet, found my hat, and stood up. Lee was bringing in the horses. Blinking, rubbing my face, I hobbled toward him and helped tie all three near the cabin. My legs and back were so stiff and sore I thought the horsesmust have spent part of the night tramping on me to keep warm.
    “How do you feel today, Billy?” Lee Mackie grinned at me in the morning dusk; all those white teeth—no wonder he thought people would vote for him.
    “I feel pretty good,” I said. “Pretty damn good.”
    He laughed and slapped my back. “Come on, let’s eat.”
    The old man was banging on the skillet with a big spoon. “Get in here!” he hollered, “or I’ll throw it to the bluejays.”
    After breakfast we grained the horses and saddled up. Again somebody had to go after water: I volunteered. Wanted to prove something. I made two trips down to the spring, and the second time climbed the rocks to the place where the lion had been crouching. I could not see any tracks but thought I detected a strange odor in the air—a feline smell. No, something else: ozone and summer lightning.
    We closed up the cabin, climbed on our horses and moved out, starting down the ancient trail road toward the foothills. Grandfather and I planned to explore the territory between the mine road and the windmill. Lee would ride with us as far as the junction of the two roads.
    My bones felt like cast iron, my rear like one unanimous saddle sore, but once astride the bulk and power and restless life of Blue I didn’t care. The feel of the reins in my hand, the creak and squeak of leather, the big horse beneath me, gave me all the strength and confidence I needed. I felt like a lion: an aged, battered