wondering what it was I thought I’d seen. I’d had quite the adventure in the Cloud Peak Wilderness Area only two months earlier, and the effects were still lingering. The Cheyenne Nation was watching me.
“Thought I saw something up there.”
He turned and looked. “Where?”
“Near the top; something flashed.”
His keen eyes played across the uppermost ridge. “I do not see anything.”
I nodded. “Probably just a reflection off some quartz or an old beer can. Speaking of, can we get a beer after this?”
His eyes scanned the ridge. “Sure.” He checked his wristwatch. “We can go up to the Jimtown Bar and get a drink before the professionals show up. We might not even get into a fight.”
“In the meantime, can I have one of those bottles of water?”
He slung the bag from his shoulder, unzipped one of the compartments, and handed me a bottle, the condensation slick on the outside.
I sipped my water, slipped my hat off of my head, and wiped the sweat from inside the band. “Is that professional courtesy, when you visit somebody else’s bar?”
He nodded and then squatted down and began pulling a large camera body and lens from the bag. “You bet.” Having assembled the camera, he popped off the cap and pointed the lens toward me.
I held my hat up to block the shot. “Just the surroundings, please—not the inhabitants.” Dog sat beside me and looked at Henry. “Take a picture of him; he doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Your daughter would like a photo of you, I’m sure, and since we are in the position of negotiating our way out of disaster . . .”
I put my hat back on my head. “All right, but then you have to let me take one of you for her.”
He raised the camera and directed it toward me. “I am like Dog—I do not mind; I am photogenic.”
When I laughed, he took the picture.
I held my hand out for the camera, and he gave it to me without argument. I turned it around and looked at the multitude of dials and buttons. “I’m used to the IPH cameras. . . .” I looked up at him. “You know, Idiot Push Here.”
He took it and set the focus on automatic, then handed it back to me. “There, just push the big button on the top.”
I raised the expensive device and looked through the viewer. “Thanks.”
The Painted Warrior background made for an interesting effect, with one native face mirroring the other. I watched with my one eye as the autofocus first defined the features of the Cheyenne Nation and then the sandstone cliffs behind him, searching for whatever my wandering hand chose to photograph.
He repeated patiently through his close-lipped smile, “The large button on the top.”
“Okay.” I readjusted my aim, but the automatic function on the camera continued to focus on the cliffs just over the Bear’s shoulder—almost as if the Painted Warrior was demanding a photograph of itself. “Damn.”
It was right as I went ahead and pushed the button that I could see something scrambling at the top, above the giant Indian’s forehead, and then plummet from the face.
I yanked the camera down just as a high-pitched wail carried through the canyon walls, and someone fell in an awkward position, almost as if holding something. Henry turned quickly and we watched, helpless.
The body struck a cornice once on the way down, then splayed from the side of the cliff and landed at the bottom where the grass-covered slope rose to meet the rocks. The liquid thump of the body striking the ground was horrific, and we continued to watch as whoever it was rolled down the hillside with a cascading jumble of scree and tumbling rock.
We were both running, the Cheyenne Nation ahead of me and moving at an astounding pace. Dog followed as we thundered down the hillside between the rock walls and back up the other side.
It was so surreal that I couldn’t believe it had actually happened, but the adrenaline dumping high octane into my bloodstream and the Bear’s reaction told me that
“Thought I saw something up there.”
He turned and looked. “Where?”
“Near the top; something flashed.”
His keen eyes played across the uppermost ridge. “I do not see anything.”
I nodded. “Probably just a reflection off some quartz or an old beer can. Speaking of, can we get a beer after this?”
His eyes scanned the ridge. “Sure.” He checked his wristwatch. “We can go up to the Jimtown Bar and get a drink before the professionals show up. We might not even get into a fight.”
“In the meantime, can I have one of those bottles of water?”
He slung the bag from his shoulder, unzipped one of the compartments, and handed me a bottle, the condensation slick on the outside.
I sipped my water, slipped my hat off of my head, and wiped the sweat from inside the band. “Is that professional courtesy, when you visit somebody else’s bar?”
He nodded and then squatted down and began pulling a large camera body and lens from the bag. “You bet.” Having assembled the camera, he popped off the cap and pointed the lens toward me.
I held my hat up to block the shot. “Just the surroundings, please—not the inhabitants.” Dog sat beside me and looked at Henry. “Take a picture of him; he doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Your daughter would like a photo of you, I’m sure, and since we are in the position of negotiating our way out of disaster . . .”
I put my hat back on my head. “All right, but then you have to let me take one of you for her.”
He raised the camera and directed it toward me. “I am like Dog—I do not mind; I am photogenic.”
When I laughed, he took the picture.
I held my hand out for the camera, and he gave it to me without argument. I turned it around and looked at the multitude of dials and buttons. “I’m used to the IPH cameras. . . .” I looked up at him. “You know, Idiot Push Here.”
He took it and set the focus on automatic, then handed it back to me. “There, just push the big button on the top.”
I raised the expensive device and looked through the viewer. “Thanks.”
The Painted Warrior background made for an interesting effect, with one native face mirroring the other. I watched with my one eye as the autofocus first defined the features of the Cheyenne Nation and then the sandstone cliffs behind him, searching for whatever my wandering hand chose to photograph.
He repeated patiently through his close-lipped smile, “The large button on the top.”
“Okay.” I readjusted my aim, but the automatic function on the camera continued to focus on the cliffs just over the Bear’s shoulder—almost as if the Painted Warrior was demanding a photograph of itself. “Damn.”
It was right as I went ahead and pushed the button that I could see something scrambling at the top, above the giant Indian’s forehead, and then plummet from the face.
I yanked the camera down just as a high-pitched wail carried through the canyon walls, and someone fell in an awkward position, almost as if holding something. Henry turned quickly and we watched, helpless.
The body struck a cornice once on the way down, then splayed from the side of the cliff and landed at the bottom where the grass-covered slope rose to meet the rocks. The liquid thump of the body striking the ground was horrific, and we continued to watch as whoever it was rolled down the hillside with a cascading jumble of scree and tumbling rock.
We were both running, the Cheyenne Nation ahead of me and moving at an astounding pace. Dog followed as we thundered down the hillside between the rock walls and back up the other side.
It was so surreal that I couldn’t believe it had actually happened, but the adrenaline dumping high octane into my bloodstream and the Bear’s reaction told me that
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