The big lobo came, trailed by its mate and their two...did you call them yearlings? As it stretched its muzzle (and all those shining teeth) toward the slim outstretched hand, the moon filled its eyes perfectly for a moment, turning them silver. Then, just before its long snout could touch her skin, the wolf uttered a series of piercing yips and flung itself backward so sharply that for a moment it rose on its rear legs, front paws boxing the air and the white plush on its belly exposed. The others scattered. The big lobo executed a midair twist and ran into the scrubland to the right of the road, still yipping, with his tail tucked. The rest followed.
Willa rose and looked at David with an expression of hard grief that was too much to bear. He dropped his eyes to his feet instead. "Is this why you brought me out into the dark when I was listening to music?" she asked. "To show me what I am now? As if I didn't know!"
"Willa, I'm sorry."
"Not yet, but you will be." She took his hand again. "Come on, David."
Now he risked a glance. "You're not mad at me?"
"Oh, a little-but you're all I've got now, and I'm not letting you go."
Shortly after seeing the wolves, David spied a Budweiser can lying on the shoulder of the road. He was almost positive it was the one he had kicked along ahead of him until he'd kicked it crooked, out into the sage. Here it was again, in its original position...because he had never kicked it at all, of course. Perception isn't everything, Willa had said, but perception and expectation together? Put them together and you had a Reese's peanut butter cup of the mind.
He kicked the can out into the scrubland, and when they were past that spot, he looked back and there it lay, right where it had been since some cowboy-maybe on his way to 26-had chucked it from the window of his pickup truck. He remembered that on Hee Haw-that old show starring Buck Owens and Roy Clark-they used to call pickup trucks cowboy Cadillacs.
"What are you smiling about?" Willa asked him.
"Tell you later. Looks like we're going to have plenty of time."
They stood outside the Crowheart Springs railway station, holding hands in the moonlight like Hansel and Gretel outside the candy house. To David the long building's green paint looked ashy gray in the moonlight, and although he knew WYOMING and "THE EQUALITY STATE" were printed in red, white, and blue, they could have been any colors at all. He noticed a sheet of paper, protected from the elements by plastic, stapled to one of the posts flanking the wide steps leading up to the double doors. Phil Palmer still leaned there.
"Hey, mutt!" Palmer called down. "Got a butt?"
"Sorry, Mr. Palmer," David said.
"Thought you were going to bring me back a pack."
"I didn't pass a store," David said.
"They didn't sell cigarettes where you were, doll?" Palmer asked. He was the kind of man who called all women of a certain age doll; you knew that just looking at him, as you knew that if you happened to pass the time of day with him on a steamy August afternoon, he'd tip his hat back on his head to wipe his brow and tell you it wasn't the heat, it was the humidity.
"I'm sure they did," Willa said, "but I would have had trouble buying them."
"Want to tell me why, sugarpie?"
"Why do you think?"
But Palmer crossed his arms over his narrow chest and said nothing. From somewhere inside, his wife cried, "We got fish for supper! First one t'ing an' den anudder! I hate the smell of this place! Crackers!"
"We're dead, Phil," David said. "That's why. Ghosts can't buy cigarettes."
Palmer looked at him for several seconds, and before he laughed, David saw that Palmer more than believed him: Palmer had known all along. "I've heard plenty of reasons for not bringing someone what he asked for," he said, "but I have to think that takes the prize."
"Phil-"
From inside: "Fish for supper! Oh, gah-dammit!"
"Excuse me, kiddies," Palmer said. "Duty calls." And he was gone. David turned to Willa, thinking she'd ask him what else he had expected, but Willa was looking at the notice posted beside the stairs.
"Look at that," she said. "Tell me what you see."
At first he saw nothing, because the moon was shining on the protective plastic. He took a step closer, then one to the left, moving Willa aside to do it.
"At the top it says NO SOLICITING BY ORDER OF SUBLETTE COUNTY SHERIFF, then some fine print-blah-blah-blah-and at the bottom-"
She gave him an elbow. Not gently, either. "Stop shitting around and look at it, David. I don't want to be here all night."
You don't see what's right in front of your eyes.
He turned away from the station and stared at the railroad tracks shining in the moonlight. Beyond them was a thick white neck of stone with a flat top-that thar's a mesa, pardner, jest like in them old John Ford movies.
He looked back at the posted notice, and wondered how he ever could have mistaken TRESPASSING for SOLICITING, a big bad investment banker like Wolf Frightener Sanderson.
"It says NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF SUBLETTE COUNTY SHERIFF," he said.