Wynne's War (35 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked him, and then she raised her eyes.

 

 

 

 

T
HEY CAME DOWN
the trail in the early morning light, three horses, three riders, the horses so haggard you could see every rib. Their saddlebags were gone, but still they stumbled beneath their riders' weight, the riders themselves stripped of packs and pouches, their uniforms dusted the same color as the mountains, their lean faces powdered with talc and their beards chalked white. A gray company. A cavalry of ghosts. The blue eyes of the man riding at the head of the column were all that marked them among the living. He had a rifle slung across his back and a pistol holstered on his thigh. The men behind him were likewise armed, blood dried in black splotches on their vests. The sky in the east was a pale shade of rose, and when the sun crested the horizon, it stained the riders and their horses with a deep crimson light. The stallion at the head of the column shook its massive head and began to sidle, but the blue-eyed rider spoke to him and reined him to a halt. The horses behind him stopped as well and then stood there, steaming. The stallion snorted and shook his head, muscles rippling beneath his perfect golden coat. He lifted his front leg and pawed the earth. His breath fogged in the morning cold. The rider reached to stroke his neck and the stallion went motionless. The man sat the horse, staring. Then he raised his hand and gestured toward the rising sun, chucked up the horse, and they continued eastward into the strange country below.

I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to my agent, Nat Sobel, and my editor, Eamon Dolan. Both saw something in my manuscript better than what was on the page. Then they helped me see it. Thanks also to the A-team at Sobel Weber Associates: Judith Weber, Julie Stevenson, and Adia Wright. More thanks to the tier-one operators at Eamon Dolan Books/HMH, Ben Hyman in particular. And to Kate Davis: commando of copyeditors.

My three best friends were instrumental in keeping me going on this project: Clint Stewart, Mark Walling, Adam Schnier. I wouldn't have done it without you.

(Or you, Skeeter—you continue to draw my blood.)

Special thanks to Sergeant Chip Herrin of the 509th Airborne; to Sheldon Kelly, cowboy extraordinaire: you saw the elephant and went back for another gander. Much respect and appreciation to the Rangers and Special Forces operators who answered question after question: wish I was able to mention you by name.

Lastly, I want to thank Robbie Rosas, Nick Long, and Jerry Redman: baddest gunfighters walking.
Nous defions,
my brothers.
Nous defions.

 

A
ARON
G
WYN
was raised on a cattle ranch in rural Oklahoma. He is the author of a story collection,
Dog on the Cross
(finalist for the New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award), and a novel,
The World Beneath
. His short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in
Esquire, McSweeney's, Glimmer Train,
the
Missouri Review,
the
Gettysburg Review,
and
New Stories from the South
. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he is an associate professor of English at the University of North Carolina, and contributes book reviews, articles, and narrative nonfiction to
Esquire
magazine and
Esquire.com
.