Free Land of Wolves by Craig Johnson Page A

face rose, and he studied me. “What?”
    Pulling my horsehide jacket aside, I reached into my shirt pocket and tossed the card I’d found on the ground on the mountain onto the battered and gouged surface of the bar. I watched as it slid across and stopped just short of slipping off the other side.
    The Bear leaned forward and examined the blue printing on the white card that announced CASH PRIZES , MALLO CUP P LAY MONEY 5 POINTS —aware that I had found these selfsame cards left to me by a dead or possibly not dead seven-foot Crow shaman. Henry’s eyes focused so deeply, I was afraid the thing might burst into flames. “This was with the dead man?”
    “No, it was where I saw the wolf for the first time.”
    He picked it up and examined it more closely. “You found these before, during your interactions with Virgil?”
    “Yep.”
    “He could have scattered these things all over the mountain.”
    “Yep.”
    “There is only one problem.” He handed it back to me.
    “This one is like new.” I placed the card down by my beer.
    “I do not suppose Keasik Cheechoo or Chuck Coon are fond of Mallo Cups.”
    “I really wouldn’t know.” I stared at the card. “If, and this is a big if . . . If Virgil came back in this manner, what would he be trying to say to me?”
    “Difficult to know—perhaps nothing.”
    I raised my eyes to look at him.
    “It is possible he is simply checking up on you. Just seeing how you are progressing in the most inconspicuous way he knows.”
    “A hundred-and-seventy-five-pound wolf?”
    “We all have our ideas of unassuming. You have to admit it is more subtle than a seven-foot Crow shaman.”
    “A little.” I spun my can on the coaster. “So, why is he checking on me?”
    “Concerned for your welfare.”
    I curled the corners of my mouth enough to give the impression of a smile. “I could’ve used his help down in Mexico.”
    “Maybe you had it.” He placed his palms on the back edge of the bar, his forearms turned forward, the blued veins visible. “It is difficult to confront madness, because insanity is a stranger to reason and any reasonable response would be insane.”
    I stared at him. “I think I got that.”
    “The only thing more difficult is to return from madness, because we are never again sure that we are truly sane.” He fingered the card. “Like a disease, the madness lingers in the system, dormant but never truly gone from the mind, and we must learn to suppress it so that we can once again trust ourselves to be in civilized society.”
    “So, I have to learn to trust myself again, huh?”
    “Possibly.” He looked straight at me. “How is this aberration manifesting itself?”
    I took a deep breath. “It’s like I’m freezing up, my mind and body—like a short circuit.”
    “How long?”
    “Five to ten minutes, or so I’ve been told.”
    “Are you aware of yourself in these periods?”
    “Some, but removed—like I can’t reach myself.”
    “Perhaps you are being prepared for a vision.”
    “Well, then why don’t I just have the vision?”
    “You are not ready for it.”
    “You have to work up to a vision?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “As opposed to horseshit, which is readily available at all times?”
    He didn’t have an answer for that, and it was another moment before he surprised me by changing the subject. “We should go fishing.”
    “What?”
    “Fishing—precision guesswork based on unreliable data provided by those of questionable knowledge.”
    “I know what fishing is.” I took a sip of my beer. “If you want to go fishing, we’ll go fishing.”
    “No, I mean really fishing.”
    “Like a trip?”
    “I was thinking Alaska.”
    I thought back. “A bear almost ate us the last time we were in Alaska.”
    “That was a polar bear—does not count.”
    “Where in Alaska?”
    “Hyder.”
    “Why Hyder?”
    “I have never been there.”
    “I’m not sure if I have.” I thought back to my period in Seward’s Folly.