Holster

The town rose from the earth like the wheat rose in
the fields around it. Sun bleached buildings shimmered in the
August heat, as if alive. The red of their bricks baked in the sun,
from a distance appearing to float just above the brown sea of
wheat that covered the valley.

Mountains stood in the distance. Solid and still they
sat, untouched by the heat of summer or the cold of winter. Worn
down by age, their slow rise and smooth shape across the arch of
the sky gave them the illusion of proximity. After a lifetime in
the valley, it still surprised Jeremiah how something that looked
so close, could be so far away.

Leaving town this morning had been strangely
uneventful. He thought he would feel some sadness at leaving for
the last time. Instead, he felt nothing but relief as he said
goodbye to his wife and two remaining children.

Relief for them, relief for him, relief that at last
the end was in sight.

He looked to the road ahead. The narrow dirt jeep
track wove through the pine trees before disappearing out of sight
around a bend. He shifted into a lower gear as the road climbed
steeply. With a loud bang the whine of his truck’s engine paused,
jumped a pitch higher, and then resumed its noise as it fought
gravity. Jeremiah’s ears rang as the old Ford strained to make its
way up the steep grades of Forest Service Road 181.

Plumes of powdery tan dust chased behind the pickup
as it climbed. Town was now more than an hour back, out of the
mountains, across the fields. He would catch a brief glimpse of it
at switchbacks, back out through the canyons in the distance. It
was too far to see clearly now, just a tiny red smudge baking in
the sun, lost in the rolling fields far behind.

He would miss these mountains. As a boy he had come
up here with his father to hunt. The first time his father ever
left him alone in the woods had been a few miles from where he was
now.

At first he had been afraid to be alone in the
mountains. Watching his father disappear into the darkness down the
ridge had initially filled him with horror. He was alone. There
were predators hunting the same ridges they were, predators that
could easily kill a ten year old boy.

He had sat in the dark night, glassing the distant
ridge for elk as instructed until his arms ached from the big
binoculars. As he sat his fear faded. The call of the elk as they
bugled back and forth, the crisp night air, the small cloud of his
breath appearing and disappearing in the moonlight. He discovered
there was a quiet rhythm in these mountains that never stopped. By
the time his father returned, Jeremiah understood what it was his
father loved about these mountains.

The dirt road leveled out as it neared the top of
Indian Ridge, widening slightly in a spot to turn around before
ending at a wall of trees. Sweat pooled in the small of his back
from the heat. He stopped the truck. He was here. The cloud of dirt
that had been chasing him up the mountain enveloped the truck. Silt
dusted the pickup, painting it brown with the fine dirt.

Jeremiah shut off the engine, watching the dust
gather into little clumps on the windshield. It grew dark in the
cab. Still he didn’t move. His hands gripped the wheel, sweating
where they touched the hot leather.

Was this the right thing to do? Would his father have
done the same if he were in this position? A sense of shame tore
through him, a crippling cancer that had metastasized into every
part of his life. He looked over at the backpack on the seat beside
him. His father would not have been in this position. This was
Jeremiah’s failure, Jeremiah’s mistake.

He opened the door of the Ford to stand for a moment
on the side of the road. The scent of the high country tamaracks
mixed with the diesel exhaust from his truck. It was a familiar and
friendly smell. This place, these trees, these mountains- if the
answer was anywhere it was here.

Sweat stung his eyes and he squinted, turning away
from the blazing sun. His shadow fell onto the ground before him.
It stood slightly stooped. No longer did he stand straight and
tall. The top of his spine bent forward, worn down like the
mountains around him. His posture crushed by the weight of an
unbearable grief.

He shouldered the daypack, slamming the truck door
with a bang. Dust leapt off the door into the air, as if shocked.
He ignored it. Reaching into the back of the pickup, behind the
driver’s side, he unzipped a black, dirt covered duffel. Halfway
down the zipper stuck. He cursed. With a frustrated yank he ripped
it open, breaking the zipper. There, on the bottom of the bag,
glistening in the bright white sunlight, lay a shiny silver Smith
and Wesson .44 revolver.

As a boy he had watched his father kill a man with
this gun. They had been hunting the backside of Chief Joe’s Draw.
It was near the end of the season, when the snows covered the peaks
but hadn’t yet touched the valleys. It was late in the day, and the
light was low. They camped just below the snowline, big wet flakes
mixed with rain falling from the sky. Jeremiah sat at the campfire,
hands painfully cold inside wet gloves, watching the little bursts
of steam rise from the snowflakes that landed on the hot rocks at
the edge of the fire.

The man stumbled drunk out of the woods into their
camp. His rifle was scuffed, rusted, and wet. It slung haphazardly
over his left shoulder, a piece of dirty twine holding it in place
instead of a leather shoulder strap. It pointed towards the sky,
taking the rain and snow directly down the barrel. The man did not
seem to notice.

He said he was a hunter like they were. He said he
had hunted these hills for a long time, like they had. He said all
hunters were brothers in camp.

Jeremiah’s father did not answer. He rose slowly and
stood unspeaking between Jeremiah and the man.

Hunters share their kill with other hunters, the man
said. No one should go hungry when there is food for everyone. The
man’s eyes darted about the camp, stopping when it saw his father’s
rifle.

It sat leaned up against the tent under the fly, out
of the rain. It was flawless. The barrel had a perfect sheen of oil
on it, so perfect it reflected the flames of the campfire in the
steel. A single drop of moisture beaded up on the barrel, unable to
touch the steel through the oil.

The wood of the stock was worn smooth from use. It
shimmied as well, fine, dark, and precise. A leather strap, crafted
by his father specifically for the rifle, twisted slowly back and
forth in the breeze, dangling from the top of the barrel. It was an
instrument of perfection.

The man stared at the rifle for minute. No one moved.
His eyes shifted from the rifle, back to Jeremiah, then to his
father. He spoke again, slurring his words.

I have whiskey; I can share whiskey for meat.

He took a step towards the fire.

Jeremiah’s father rested his hand on the hilt of the
revolver. He slowly shook his head side to side, never taking his
eyes off the man.

The man spoke faster, spittle flinging from the edges
of his mouth. It’s not right to keep a man hungry when you have
more than enough. It’s not right to turn a man away from a hot fire
on a cold night. It’s not right for you to have, and others to not.
I’m a hunter too, he said, I’m a hunter too.

Still, Jeremiah’s father did not speak.

The man grew more agitated. He pointed at Jeremiah.
If there’s not enough the boy will be fine going hungry. It’s good
for a boy to sleep in the mountains with an empty stomach. It
teaches him to be a man. Give me some food. He took another step.
Give me some food. Jeremiah grew afraid.

His father answered.

No.

The word hung in the air like a wall as soon as his
father spoke it. It was solid, unmoving, untouchable. The man knew
it.

Give me some food. I have a family too. Give me some
food, or I will take it.

Jeremiah watched the man through the flames of the
campfire. His movements grew quicker, more agitated, exacerbated by
the flames dancing before him.

Still his father did not move.

The man spit on the ground. Curse you. And curse your
son. He turned, shuffling his slow drunken gait back towards the
woods.

A wet log in the fire popped. The man spun,
unslinging his gun, dropping to one knee as he did so. He moved
impossibly fast for someone who had seemed so drunk a moment
before.

Jeremiah’s father drew the revolver and shot the man
in the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jeremiah was
safe.

***

Jeremiah knelt in the gravel to hide the key under
the front wheel of the truck, as he always did. He stopped and gave
a small laugh. He would not be coming back. There was no reason to
hide it. He stood, setting it in the middle of the hood, holding it
there for a moment to make sure it wouldn’t slide off. Once he was
sure it would stay, he traced a large circle in the dust around it
to draw attention to it. Someone would see it when they found the
truck.

Jeremiah set the pistol next to the key on the hood
and unslung his backpack, setting it in the dirt at his feet. He
unbuckled the top of the pack, flipping it open. A leather holster
lay atop the gear in the pack.

He took a deep breath and picked it up. Last night
was the first time he had touched it since Jonathan died. It had
still been in the boy’s room, next to his bed where his wife had
left it after the funeral.

Jeremiah stepped into the room with a spinning head
after half a bottle of whiskey. Everything was still in place
exactly as Jonathan had left it six months ago. A glass of water
sat next to the little boy’s bed, half evaporated, dirty from dust
in the air and time.

The smell of the boy was the worst part. It made
Jeremiah’s chest ache. It was as if Jonathan had just stepped out
of the room a moment ago. It made him seem just out of reach, just
out of touch, trapped just one second away, forever.

Jeremiah looked down at the holster in his hands,
bright in the sunlight. It was oversized by modern standards. It
was made to carry a big gun, a long time ago. The leather was soft,
worn down with time, and faded. At one point a star had been
stamped into it. All that remained was a faint outline. The holster
had been passed down in the family for five generations. Father to
son, father to son, father to son.

He threaded it onto his belt, and pushed the revolver
down into it until it was snug. It was a perfect fit.

Jonathan had loved the holster. Jeremiah had given it
to him for his sixth birthday. He had wanted his son to have it as
soon as he could. To be part of the men in the family who had worn
it.

Jeremiah had assumed he would use it to carry his toy
pistols, as he had when he was a boy. But Jonathan was funny. He
used the holster like a belt pack, a way to carry his plastic toy
figures, not guns.

Jonathan collected superheroes, little toy action
figures that stood two inches tall. His room was filled with them.
The holster was the perfect solution for carrying his collection
with him. He strapped it on with a belt and wore it every day
around the farm, the giant holster dwarfing his little hips.

Jeremiah touched the holster with the palm of his
hand. It felt smooth and solid. It was strange to think the last
time he had seen this holster it had been attached to Jonathan. He
clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He would see Jonathan
soon enough. He would set things right with his son.

Jeremiah started hiking, following the gentle climb
of the ridge through the fields and tamaracks. He closed his eyes,
forcing himself to recall the face that time was taking away.

He walked on, lost in memories and thoughts,
oblivious to the world outside. His feet crunched in the dry grass
of summer, his boots scuffed against the rocks left exposed, and
his heart ached from the emptiness of the vast hole left in the
center of his life.

He came to a small game trail, following its flow. It
snaked along, taking long slow undulations back and forth beneath
the deep blue of a late August sky. The trail followed the
ridgeline, no different from the other ridgelines in the
surrounding mountains, no different save for the man hiking across
it in search of a spot to kill himself.