Flying Steel

A story about friendship, water, and flying blades

As we finish our third beers, Bro and I watch the sun slowly sink behind low purple mountains. Orange and gold highlights streak scattered high, wispy cirrus clouds on the western horizon. Mare’s tails, the old timers call them, and the very fact that I know the term surely dates me.

Bro sighs after he finishes his last swallow, then crushes the empty can into the dust beneath his dirt-caked boot.

“I guess I should go get us some more beer,” he says.

 Bro’s favorite Too Slim and the Taildragger’s tune, No More Money in My Cowboy Boot, blares through Bluetooth speakers sitting in an empty, stained and cracked concrete bird bath not far away.

And definitely not far enough away. Bro loves Too Slim, but he kinda gets on my nerves. After 16 albums, it’s hard to come up with something new.

I finish my beer as the song ends and hand him my empty can.

“You sure you want to go in the house, dude? It may not be safe, yet.”

He stomps my can, then tosses it in a 30-gallon garbage bin half-filled with similarly flattened aluminum disks.

“All I know is I want another beer,” he says. “It’s my house, too. I should be able to go in and get one whenever I want one.”

“Who said you couldn’t? You’re just scared of your own wife and children, bro.”

“Well, you’re scared of them, too,” he says, looking all defensive.

“Damn right,” I say. I don’t want him to feel bad.

Bro grunts and frowns down at his boots.

“I’ll flip you for it,” he says.

Uh-uh.

“No way, we’ll throw for it,” I say back, grinning. “Stic-tac-toe. One round.”

He tugs at the big silver hoop in his left earlobe and thinks about it. He knows I win 55% of our backyard blade games. He’s the one who did the calculations.

I guess somebody had to do it. Math ain’t really my thing, so I don’t care as much as Bro does. He’s a farmer. In this day and age, math is as much a tool as a plough, and he wields it with consummate skill. He can tell you everything you want to know about percentage annual crop yields and equipment depreciation and how many green chile seeds will fit in a freaking gallon jug.

You’d never know it by looking at him, though. What with the tanned shaved head, the long fu-man-chu, the geeky bamboo frame, blue-tinted glasses and those slanted brown eyes, he looks like a pensive refugee from a bad Kung Fu movie, just minus the coolie hat.

Maybe I should buy him one for Christmas this year.

I let slip a chuckle as I think about Bro in a Kung fu movie, getting his fat a*s kicked by Jackie Chan and Jet Li.

He arches his eyebrows at me. “What? You think this is funny? You think you’ll win?”

Now I’m laughing. He can be such a child.

“I’m going to kick your a*s,” he says as he stomps off to the cheap, weather-warped old kitchen table stuck between his dilapidated old workshop and a hay barn half as big as a city block.

Bro studies the two dozen knives on the table for half a minute, then he picks up his favorites for our one-spin games, a set of three simple, unadorned, 13-inch, scale-less daggers.

After a cursory inspection, he chooses one, then walks over to the range and stops at the fluorescent-pink-painted rebar spike driven into the ground 3 meters from the stic-tac-toe target, a 3-foot wide, 1-foot thick cottonwood round mounted at chest height on an easel-type tripod made of 4x4s.

A large square, 18 inches a side, has been painted on the target round and is divided into a 3x3 grid of smaller 6-inch squares. All lines are 1.25 inches wide and spray-painted black. In the center of each grid square is a 3-inch wide circle painted bright red.

A big tic-tac-toe board.

Bro assumes his throwing stance; left foot forward, right foot back about 3 feet.

“Center,” he says, calling his shot.

He raises his knife high above his head, leans back a little, then throws his knife so hard his back foot comes off the ground.

Thunk!

“S**t!”

Funny how those black lines seem to draw your blade, like that black paint was magnetized.

I take my time walking to the table, then I pick up one of the three 14.5-inch clip-point Bowies the dude from up the valley at Falcon Blades made for me, 17 ounces with rough leather handle scales, my own personal favorites.

Frowning still, hands clasped at the small of his broad back, Bro paces back and forth between a mammoth dugout fire pit and the double barbecue pit he built with stones we gathered down by the river.

I take up my stance 6 inches behind the spike; feet shoulder width apart, right foot back about 6 inches, my walking stick and knives in my left hand. This is my spot. I could throw with my eyes closed if I wanted to and still have a shot at beating Bro.

I heft the knife a few times. The weight feels perfect in my hand. The balance feels perfect, too, always has. These knives are my sweet precious babies and this one is statistically my best one, according to Bro and the archery scoring app he downloaded from Google Play.

I stretch my legs a little, but the titanium steel rods holding my shrapnel-shattered left leg together don’t bend, they break, and I’m not going through that again, so I don’t push it.

“Center square,” I say over my shoulder.

I grunt as I make my throw, shifting weight slightly from my right foot to the cane. My arm and shoulders do most of the work.

Thunk!

The knife sticks in the center square, but it doesn’t hit the red circle. I get credit for the square, but I don’t get to throw again this turn.

I retrieve my knife and stick a white golf tee in the hole it made to mark the square as mine.

When I turn around, Bro is already at the line. He gives me the finger.

I just smile and limp away.

The very instant I pass out of his sight, he says, “Right middle,” and throws.

Thunk!

His knife sticks, but it’s next to the inner line of the right middle square. Bro jogs to the target, bends over and stares at it, then he looks at me and beckons with a crooked finger.

 “I think it’s in,” he says, “But your call, dude.”

I stroll down range and have a look. One side of the knife is black territory, the other is wood.

“That’s in,” I say.

Bro puts a pink tee in the square to mark it as his, then he hurries back to the line and taps a boot toe in the dirt while he waits on me to stroll back.

Grasshopper needs to learn patience.

Need a little patience, yeah.

Just a little patience, yeah.

Exactly right, Axel, exactly right. Thanks for chiming in.

I stop in front of Bro.

“Move, dude,” I say. “You’re a downer with a rude attitude, sometimes.”

“Well, hurry up. I’m thirsty,” he says and backs away.

“Go drink some water from the hose,” I say. “I’ll wait until you get back.”

“Up yours,” he says and flips me the finger again. “Just throw.”

So, I step to the line.

“Bottom right,” I say and throw.

Thunk!

Dead center in the bottom right red circle. I get another throw.

“Woohoo!” I yell without looking back at Bro.

I walk down range as slowly as I can without expecting a knife in my back, then I retrieve my Bowie and place a white tee in the hole.

I smile on the way back.

Bro rolls his eyes and taps his foot, sturdy arms crossed on his barrel chest.

I might as well put him out of his misery. Or into it, depending on how you look at it.

“Top left,” I say as soon as I reach the line, then I set myself and throw.

Thunk!

Barely in the top left square, but in nonetheless.

“S**t!” shouts Bro. “S**t! S**t! S**t!”

“Game over, dude,” I say. “If you want beer, you’ll have to fetch it yourself. You can bring me one or not. I’m not going in there. They might eat me.”

“That’s not funny,” he says. “You know I have nightmares about that.”

He sighs and chews on a fingernail.

Damn. I hate seeing him like this.

“Okay, fine, chicken s**t,” I say as I return my knives to the table. “I’ll go with you.”

“Right on,” he says and heads for the house.

He grins at me over his shoulder as I try to keep up. “I knew you’d go with me,” he says.

I laugh.

“B*****d,” I say, “You know I’m a sucker for a sad face and a sob story.”

“You’re easy, dude” he says. “You’ve got a seriously messed up white knight complex.”

“You’re right,” I shoot back. “It’s genetic. I’m a descendant of Charles “The Hammer” Martel and Prince John of Gaunt, First Knight of the Garter, the most chivalrous knight the world has ever known.”

“Oh,” he says. “You mean the guys who slaughtered thousands, including their own kin, and took their land, their possessions and their women?”

Damn hippies. They still don’t get it. The more you change human nature, the less chance we’ll survive as a species.

 

 

***

 

 

As we approach the back porch, Bro stops and scratches his head. The old school groovy funk of Earth, Wind and Fire is clearly audible from inside the closed-up brick farmhouse, as are the faint, raucous laughs of grown women and the high-pitched squeals and shouts of their sugar-amped tweener children.

“Hey man,” I say, “Listen carefully. This is one of those enter at your own risk situations. These women are the worst kind. They’re smart and self-confident, they’re masters of ridicule, they’re on their own turf, they don’t like you, and ten bucks says they’re on their third or fourth round of margaritas by now. That’s a potent combination.”

Tread lightly my brother, tread lightly.

Maybe I should’ve brought my knives.

Bro just grunts and goes back to scratching his head.

“Dude,” he finally says. “Here’s the plan. I’ll go around front after you go in the back to the kitchen. If the kitchen is clear, grab the beer. If not, wait to see what happens after I go in the front door.”

“You just want to see me struggle up three steps,” I say.

Steps ain’t really my thing.

He grins at me, and it’s that evil grin he gets on his face when he’s being a dick.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “A little suffering is good for the soul.”

“Screw you, bro,” I say. “You’re a closet sadist.”

“Hey, you’re the one who says it all the time. Are you telling me it’s not true?”

“Of course it’s true, and it’s still true you’re a sadist.”

He eyes the steps, then he eyes me, then he eyes the steps again…

“Okay, fine,” I say as I take the first step with my right foot, then drag my left foot up beside it. Step, drag, step, drag and I’m on the porch.

I turn and face Bro, still at the bottom of the steps. I raise my eyebrows. “Happy now?” I ask him.

The last light is fading in the west. All I can really see in the dark is his teeth. He must be grinning at me.

“Yeah,” he says. “Your suffering moves me to tears.”

He laughs as he walks away toward the front of the house.

I flip him the finger even though he’s not looking.

“B*****d,” I mutter, then I walk across the porch to the back door, kicking crap out of my way as I go.

Are all farmers this messy?

I think they are. They never throw away anything. Who knows when they might need it, right?

As I reach for the backdoor knob, the door opens.

It’s Stick, Bro and Big Mama’s oldest, my 15-yr old god-daughter.

Damn, she hasn’t grown much taller in the past year and she’s still way too thin from the chemo. Her color is good, though, and she seems to have recovered her energy.

Poor thing. Kids with cancer break my heart. Tularosa Syndrome has sure taken its toll in this part of the valley.

“I thought I heard somebody out here,” Stick says. She leans to look around me. “Where’s my dad?”

I pretend to look at a non-existent watch on my wrist. “He should be at the front door about… right… nnnnow.”

She rolls her big brown eyes at me. “You’re weird,” she says.

“Oh, you have no idea, Little Woman,” I shoot back.

She giggles a little and flips shaggy, purple-dyed blonde bangs out of her face. She likes it when I call her that.

“You’re such a perv,” she says.

This conversation is not getting me any closer to the beer.

“Hey,” I say. “Who’s in the kitchen right now?”

She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “Just my mom. She’s making more margaritas.”

Now that she mentions it, I can hear the blender grinding away.

“Perfect,” I say. “Go get our last 12-pack out of the fridge, grab a bag of chips, and meet me at the range, all right?”

Her face brightens. “Can I hang out with you guys and throw? I’m bored. My mom keeps telling me to go away and the younger kids are driving me crazy. I’m not getting paid, so I’m not going to be the babysitter.”

I can’t help but laugh, but I enjoy her company, so, “Yeah, sure,” I say, “You can hang out with us. Just wait til your mom is done. When she leaves the kitchen, grab the goods and run.”

“Okay, I can do that,” she says, an ear to ear grin on her face.

“Cool,” I say, then we tap fists.

She goes back in the house and shuts the door.

I turn and hobble away.

Going down steps is harder than going up, though, so I carefully make my way down, one step at a time, then I head back toward the range.

S**t. It’s totally dark. The moon won’t be up for another hour and we were in such a freaking hurry to get more beer we forgot to turn on the range lights and light the bonfire. I’m screwed if I can’t see my feet. I can’t walk. My balance is shaky at best, and the path to the range is rough.

My feet are trying to grab on to the ground like a monkey about to fall off a tree branch.

The primate response.

Sometimes, I think I might have a little more monkey in me than most.

Step, tap, slide. Step, tap, slide.

Five minutes later, I’m still just halfway to the range when Stick shows up with a 12-pack under one arm and a bag of jalapeno-flavored Doritos under the other.

“Race you,” she says as she passes me by, laughing like a little… um… Bro.

“Can I have a beer?” she calls out over her shoulder.

“Say may I and please.”

She rolls her eyes. “May I have a beer, please?”

“You know better than to ask me that, Stick. That’s your dad’s call, not mine. I’m just your godfather.”

“Ugh. You are such a dick, especially for a godfather. What if I shake this 12-pack as hard as I can until you catch up?”

“Go ahead, but if you do, you’ll have to go back in the house with the women folk.”

“Aaargh,” she groans. “You’re no fun.”

“Ha! You know that’s not true.”

Bro shows up, just then.

“Hey,” he says glumly. “You could’ve told me you got the beer.”

I shrug and ask him, “What happened?”

He stares down at the boot toe he’s scuffing in the dirt.

“You were right,” he says. “I got stabbed by a half-dozen wicked-sharp tongues.”

Stick snickers.

I just hang my head and slowly shake it. “What did Big Mama say?”

“She called me a dumbass, then she told me I should’ve put all the beer in the ice chest to start with and to do a better job of preparing next time.”

I burst out laughing.

“Yeah, she’s right. You should’ve.”

He looks up at me and flips me the finger. “You didn’t say anything. It’s your fault, too.”

“Bro, you’re the host. It’s your responsibility to keep the cooler stocked.”

“Just shut up, dude. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He turns toward his daughter. “Give me a beer,” he says.

Stick hands him one.

“Put the rest in the cooler, please,” he tells her.

“Are we gonna throw in the dark, bro?” I ask him.

“Stick, will you turn on the lights while I light the fire?”

“How about you turn on the lights and I’ll light the fire.”

“Okay.”

He hands Stick the fire starter gadget on his way to the workshop.

The music goes off and the range lights come on a few seconds later; a giant spotlight mounted on the shop’s rusty metal roof and a bank of four others attached high up on a nearby utility pole, each one aimed at a target on a tripod.

The lights are bright. We’ll be able to throw all night if we want to.

Meanwhile, Stick returns, flicking the lighter on and off, on and off…

As the flames behind her grow and limn her in flickering orange light, I hold out my hand.

“Give it to me, firebug,” I say.

She holds the gadget away from me, but she doesn’t see Bro coming up behind her. He snatches it out of her hand.

She turns and shouts, “Hey dude, what the hell?”

She’s so much like her dad was at that age. Full of piss and vinegar.

And bullshit.

“I told you, Stick, it’s not a toy,” Bro tells her.

“Fine,” she says and stomps off toward the workshop.

“Freaking teenagers,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Bro, shaking his head. “They’re a pain in the a*s.”

Stick comes out of the workshop with the set of three 13.5-inch, antler-scaled skinny Bowies her dad bought her at an exhibition in El Paso. She walks over to the 10-pin setup; half a heavy pine plank door mounted on a 4x4 tripod with ten blue circles painted on it; one 3-inch circle at the bottom center, two above it, a row of three above that, and finally, a row of four 4-inch half circles across the top, right at the edge, the other half being in thin air.

Tough, tough targets that upper row.

Stick finds the rebar spike 3 meters in front of the target, quickly assumes her stance; one narrow foot on the line and the other back about 3 feet, just like her dad’s stance.

She rears back, her knife high above her right shoulder, then she snaps forward and throws hard; harder, even, than Bro, and he weighs about 260 lbs.

THUNK! Right in middle target of the row of three.

THUNK!

THUNK!

Yeah, this girl will put your eyes out, just like that.

I can’t believe how much those little Bowies improved her throwing since last summer. Bro knew what he was doing when he gave them to her.

Hell, she’s been throwing since she was 6. She should be good anyway.

“You want a beer?” Bro asks me.

I shake my head. “No, I think I’ll hold off for now. I’m going to throw for a while.”

He sits in a folding chair with his beer in one hand and his phone in the other. “Go ahead,” he says. “I need to check my messages.”

He’s already frowning and reading before I can turn around.

Whatever.

I hobble to the blade table and pick up my knives, then I join Stick as she returns from retrieving hers.

“Which game are we playing?” she asks me.

“You pick,” I say. “A, B, or C.”

She taps her chin with the butts of her knives as she thinks about it for a second, then she pushes her big, thick-lensed glasses up with a finger.

They immediately slide down her nose again.

“How ‘bout we start with A,” she says.

“Sounds good. Throw for who goes first?”

She shakes her head. “Age before beauty, Old Man. You can go first.”

I don’t reply. I step to the line instead. 

“Do I get a warm-up round?” I ask.

Stick shrugs. “I don’t care, I’ll beat you anyway.”

“Then these first three throws are warm-ups.”

She nods and says, “Okay.”

I take up my stance 6 inches behind the fluorescent-orange-painted spike.

I take a few deep breaths, shake out my shoulders, do two half knee-bends, then I throw.

Clang! Ding!

Damn. I missed. Under-spun, I think.

I back up another 4 inches, then I raise my next knife over my shoulder and throw.

Thunk! Dead center in the left 3rd-row target.

Too bad I was aiming at the right one!

I think Stick is going to kick my a*s. This game is way harder than stic-tac-toe.

Ok, then, last chance.

I raise my third knife, take a deep breath, and blow it out as I throw. My open hand release is perfect. My reach over the fence follow-through is good.

Thunk!

“There it is!” I mutter under my breath.

I look back over my shoulder. Stick is talking to her dad. He’s not paying her the slightest bit of attention, as usual, but that won’t stop her.

“Hey!” I call out. “I’m ready. You know the rules. You have to watch, or you forfeit.”

She stops in mid-sentence and joins me. She hates to lose at anything.

“So, throw, Old Man,” she says. “Call your shot.”

“Wait,” I say. “We usually put money on this game. Do you have any money?”

She gives me the teenage stink eye. “I have $23, but I’m not betting it on a stupid game. How much is Cassie worth? I’ll give you her.”

I laugh at her. “I don’t want your little kitty, Stick. If I win, you have to practice after school every day next week.”

“But I have responsibilities…”

I wave my hand to cut her off. “Bullshit. The school system only has enough books for the classroom, not enough for every student to take home. You don’t have homework, and hell, you only go to school 4 days a week. Read less and throw more. If you show a little initiative, maybe your dad will let you go to Flagstaff with us in September. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

She crosses long skinny arms over her flat bony chest, then she taps a narrow blue sneaker toe in the dirt.

Sometimes, it’s like watching a weird, blonde version of Olive Oyl.

Or maybe I’m just freaking Popeye on medical grade spinach.

Well, blow me down…

“What do I get if I win?” Stick finally asks.

I give her the evilest grin I can manage.

“You get to practice every day next week, and if you show some initiative, maybe your dad will let you go to Flagstaff with us.”

Her shoulders slump, her arms drop to her sides. Her mouth gapes open as wide as her bugging eyes.

“Seriously, dude?” she says. “You really are a dick.”

I nod at her and smile. “I am. But if you want to go to Flagstaff, you’ll need my help, and the only way you’ll get it is if you practice every afternoon next week, and beyond.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but she thinks about it for a heartbeat, then shuts it.

Little grasshopper is learning faster than big grasshopper.

Mainly because some grasshoppers refuse to learn new tricks.

Just ask Big Mama.

“Are Esme and Eostre going to Flagstaff?” Stick says. “If they get to go and I don’t, I’m going to be pissed at you.”

“If you don’t get to go to Flagstaff,” I shoot back, “You should only be pissed at yourself. It will likely be your own damn fault.”

She sighs and looks me in the eye.

“Bet,” she says and nods at the target. “Now throw.”

I set myself and shake my arms. I’m sore and tight by this time of day.

“I’m throwing bottom to top,” I say.

I’ll have to hit that lone 1st row target before I move on to the 2^nd row.

I take aim and throw.

Thunk!

Off to the left about an inch.

I reset and throw again.

Thunk!

My knife nicks the right edge of the target.

“That’s in,” Stick says.

“Next target,” I say. “2^nd row right.”

I move forward a couple of inches. That bottom target I was throwing at is closer than any others because of the tilt of the backboard on the tripod. Adjustments are needed for each subsequent row as you move up, unless you’re throwing no-spin.

I take aim and throw.

Tink! Clang!

Damn. Way overspun. I must’ve flicked my wrist. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Bad habit. I should pay more attention to my mechanics or I’m going to embarrass myself in Flagstaff.

“I’ll get your knives,” Stick says.

And she does. Not because she’s trying to be helpful, but because she’s an impatient teenager.

She hands me my knives.

“Thanks,” I say as I take them from her, “But you don’t have to fetch for me.”

“Pfffft, I don’t won’t to be here til next week, Old Man.”

I shrug. “Fine, then. Throw.”

She takes the line. “I’m throwing bottom to top, too.”

“Go for it,” I say.

She sets, takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

Right in the center of her target.

“Second row right,” she says as she moves up a little, takes aim again and throws.

Thunk!

She’s 3 inches inside on that one.

“Crap,” she mutters, then she says, “Hey, can I change targets for this last throw? I want to throw at the left one instead.”

I shake my head. “You know the rules. You know you can’t. Once you pick a target, you have to throw at it until you hit it.”

Stick huffs out an annoyed sigh. “Fine, then. Right target again.”

She sets and throws.

Thunk!

Damn, she makes it look easy, sometimes. A dead center shot.

“Ha!” Stick says and pokes out her tongue at me. “I am so kicking your a*s.”

She retrieves her knives and returns.

“You’re up,” she says.

I take the line. That right 2^nd row target always gives me trouble. After three years of playing this game, I still have trouble hitting it.

I check my stance and make a slow-motion practice throw, elbow in, knife up above my right ear.

I set myself, focus on the target and throw.

Thunk!

A half-inch to the right.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m pulling that knife. It’s in the way for a right-handed thrower.”

“I didn’t know we could do that.”

I nod. “It’s in the rules.”

As of right now.

“Oh,” Stick says. “That makes sense. I’ll get it for you.”

And she does.

I take aim again and throw.

Thunk!

“Ha!” I shout. “Gotcha, b***h!”

Stick laughs.

“Left target,” I say, then I set and throw again.

Thunk!

It looks in to me, but Stick is already hustling down range to check it out.

“It’s in,” she says as she grabs my knives and hurries back.

I take the blades from her and she takes the line.

“Second row left,” she says, then she quickly sets and throws.

Clang! Ding! Doink!

“Hey,” I say. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Take your time and get your mechanics right.”

She ducks her head and glares at me over her glasses, which, as usual, are about to slide down off her long nose.

“What?” I say and give her the Quick Draw McGraw stink eye.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she doesn’t say anything.

She turns her focus back to the target and takes her time as she aims, then she rears back and throws.

Thunk!

“See?” I say. “That was much better.”

She nods agreement, but her focus remains down-range. “Third row,” she says. “Left target first.”

She lines up her shot and throws.

Thunk!

It’s in, but way over-spun. She’s lucky that one stuck. She forgot to move up a little when she changed rows.

Still, she looks happy as she half-skips down range to get her knives and runs back.

“Four to three,” she says. “I’m winning.”

“It’s a long game,” I say. “You should wait before you get so excited.”

She shrugs. “I’m not scared.”

And I know she isn’t. But she should be. They don’t call me Sandbagger Sam for nothing.

I’m at the line and I’m feeling loose and warmed up now. “Third row left,” I say.

I set myself and throw.

Thunk!

Three inches to the right. Can I squeeze the next one past it? Maybe, but why take a chance?

Before I can even take a step, Stick is halfway to the target to fetch my knife.

Her dad never does that.

She hurries back and holds my knife while I reset.

I throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s almost in the center of the target.

One more throw this turn.

“Third row center,” I say.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

Nailed it! I’m temporarily in the lead, though I’m sure I won’t be for long.

Stick fetches my knives again, hands them to me, then steps up to her spot. She takes a couple of deep breaths.

She was overspun last time. Did she move up to compensate?

“Third row center,” she says.

She raises her knife and throws.

Clink! Clang!

Nope. Way overspun. She didn’t move up, but she does now.

Stick sets, aims and throws.

Thunk!

We’re tied now, but she still has another throw.

“Third row right,” she says.

Aim! Throw! Thunk!

“Ha!” she says and sticks out her tongue at me. “Six to five. I’m still winning.”

She hurries to fetch her knives.

When she’s out of the way, I take the line.

“Third row right,” I say as I point my knives at the target.

I set my feet, aim and throw.

Clang!

Damn it! Why do I overspin sometimes when I throw to my right? If I ever figure it out, I’ll be a badass at this game, but I won’t hold my breath.

I reset and practice my throwing motion for a minute.

Okay. I think I’ve got it sorted out, now.

Aim! Throw! Thunk!

“Yes!” I say and clench my fist, then I point at the top row’s far left target.

“Fourth row left,” I say and move up two inches.

I like the top row. For some reason, those targets aren’t all that hard for me, like they are for everybody else.

I check my feet, then I aim and throw.

Thunk!

That one’s in.

“Dude, you’re kicking my a*s,” Stick says as she goes to fetch my knives.

“I’m only ahead by one,” I say, “And you still have three throws to catch up. Don’t be dramatic.”

Stick laughs, raises her eyebrows and points her knives at her chest. “What, me dramatic? Never!”

She pulls my knives and trots back, then she checks her orientation, slides forward a little, and sets her feet.

“Left one first,” she adds, then she aims, and throws.

Her knife sails over the target and disappears into darkness. She jinxed herself.

“Damn it,” she mutters, then she points her two remaining knives at me and glares. “Don’t you say a word Old Man.”

I just laugh as she turns and hurries off to find her knife.

“Good luck,” I call out. “And watch out for Ray Rae. I think he’s got a thing for you.”

She doesn’t say a word. She just raises a fist and gives me the finger as she disappears into the shadows behind the target.

That girl spends way too much time with her dad.

I hobble to the cooler and take out a bottle of generic water, then I open it and chug about half.

Aaah!

Cold water in the desert. There ain’t nothing better.

Now if I could just refresh my throbbing legs…

“Hey, bro,” Bro calls out from his chair. “Bring me a beer.”

He only calls me bro when he wants something. The rest of the time, I’m just another dude.

I grab a beer anyway and ferry it to him. He takes it from me, then points at the chair beside him.

“Sit down,” he says.

I shake my head. “Man, you know sitting in folding chairs ain’t really my thing.”

He shrugs. “Okay, dude.”

See?

The bonfire roars and crackles behind him. The flames are ten feet high now.

Bro tends to go a little overboard with anything pertaining to fire, firearms, or things that go ‘boom’ in the night.

“So, dude, are we still going to Flagstaff in September?” I ask him.

He shrugs again. “Are you driving?”

“I don’t know about driving,” I say, “But we can take my 4Runner.”

“Did you pay the $100 to join the ABTA?” he asks.

“Not yet, but I will after payday.”

“Cool.”

Stick is back in sight now, wiping her free hand on her skinny-leg jeans and wearing a big disgusted frown on her face. She gives Ray Rae the free-range pig a solid kick as he tries to sneak up behind her. He squeals, and she laughs.

She holds her knives up in the air. “I found it,” she says. “Let’s finish this game.”

I rejoin her.

She finds her spot, then she makes a face as she sniffs her hand.

“Ugh,” she says. “I hate freaking pigs. I don’t know why we have them. There’s pig poop everywhere.”

She turns her attention back to the target. Her face sobers rapidly. Three seconds later, she takes aim and throws.

Zing!

Her knife clips the edge of the target, then spins off into the darkness.

“S**T!” she screams, then she stomps off behind the target again.

“Hey, watch your language, Stick,” Bro yells after her, then he goes back to doing whatever it is he’s doing on his phone.

He says he’s checking his mail, but he’s probably on Match.com, trying to find a new wife, one less likely to castrate him, like Big Mama does the hogs.

She gets way too much satisfaction from that aspect of farm life.

Poor Stick. She’ll take it hard if she lives with her mom without her dad. She’s definitely Daddy’s Little Girl.

Or, at least, she used to be. She’s really not so little anymore.

Obviously fuming, she finally emerges from the darkness and stomps her way back to her spot on the line and assumes her stance.

In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her concentrate so intently.

Finally, she aims and throws.

Thunk!

“Yes!” she yells as she runs to get her knife.

“Good job, girl,” I say when she returns.

“I know,” she says and grins. “Seven to seven. Your turn.”

My legs and feet hurt. I’m getting tired. It’s late for me to be out.

Suck it up, p***y.

I move to my spot and just stand there, watching a three-quarter moon rise out of the bosque cottonwoods.

After a good full minute, Stick comes over and stands by me.

“Are you okay, Old Man?” she asks me quietly.

She puts a hand on my left shoulder and gently squeezes. “You’re moving kinda slow, even for you.”

“Yeah, I’m all right. I just run out of gas this time of day.”

“That’s because you’re older than Jesus,” she says with a grin, then she steps away.

Oh, the insolence of youth…

I turn toward the target, check my stance, roll my shoulders a little, then I take aim.

“Second from the left,” I say as I throw.

Thunk!

Ugh. Three inches low.

I aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in, though just barely.

“Inner right,” I say, then I check my stance, aim, and throw again.

Thunk!

Perfect!

“Dude!” Stick says. “You’re killing me!”

“Uh huh,” I say back. “Just try not to murder any critters while you’re throwing at that top row. Whatever you kill, you have to eat.”

She glares at me for a second, then she fetches my knives and brings them back.

After she hands them over, she moves to her spot.

“Inside left,” she says.

She stretches her back and waggles her shoulders, then she takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

“Yes!” she shouts and briefly raises her fist.

“Nice throw,” I say.

I hope she wins. I really do.

Stick studies the board for a half-minute.

“Inner right,” she says.

“Good choice,” I say. “Left to right across the rows is easier for a right-handed thrower.”

She takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

She’s off by 2 inches to the left.

“Do you want to clear that knife?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Watch this,” she says.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

Right in the middle of her target.

Stick turns her head and smiles at me.

“I’ve got you now, Old Man,” she says. “One target left. One knife left.”

Aim.

Throw.

Clang!

“Aaargh,” she grumbles as she goes to get her knives. “I should never have opened my big mouth.”

“You got that right,” I say.

Will she remember the lesson?

Probably not. Teenagers have to take a few licks before some lessons stick.

I take up my stance as Little Woman returns. She’s chewing on a fingernail, now.

“Last target,” I remind her, then I aim and throw.

Thunk!

“Ha!” I say. “That’s it for me. Let’s see how you throw under pressure.”

Stick looks all serious and grim now as she fetches my knife. She doesn’t say a word as she takes the line. She stares at the target board, shaking out her throwing arm. After half a minute she sets herself, but instead of throwing, she looks at me and grins. “Side bet?”

“What did you have in mind?”

She glances sideways at her dad, then beckons me with a finger to come closer.

Uh-oh. I may not like this.

I hobble across packed caliche and crusher fines until I stand beside her.

“So, spit it out, girl,” I say quietly. “What scheme are you hatching now?”

She’s always chock-full of them.

“If I make this throw, you practice, too, next week, otherwise, I’ll be practicing by myself. Besides, you suck. I hope they have a senior division. You might have a chance against a bunch of cripples and old people. You, know, like you.”

At least she smiled when she said it. And the best she can do is tie me, so I may be an old fart, but I’m beating her. Experience versus raw talent, an interesting matchup.

“What do I get if you miss?” I ask her.

Stick grins at me. “You get to practice with me next week.”

I laugh. “I guess I’m not the only dick in the crowd, huh? You learn fast, Li’l Woman.”

“I’ve got good teachers,” she replies straight-faced, then she takes a deep breath and focuses on her target for half a minute.

“Here goes,” she says, then she throws.

Thunk!

“Damn,” I say. “You made that look easy. If you hadn’t lost two knives, you would’ve beaten me.”

“So, what do we do for a tie-breaker?” she asks me.

“I’m good for one more game. We haven’t played ‘Fibonacci’s tree’ in a while.”

“It’s kinda dark over there…”

I shake my head. “You can see better in the dark than I can. Your advantage.”

Bro has now joined us. “There’s plenty of room around this old willow,” he says. “Can I get in this game, too?”

“Only if you’re a dick, dad,” Stick says immediately. “The winner gets to be a Royal Dick for a day.”

“Well. I’m definitely a dick,” he says. “In fact, I’m ‘King Dick’, and you should all be calling me ‘Your Majesty’.”

“That’s a new one,” I say, “But I figured you’d go for something like that.”

“Yeah,” Stick says. “Mama says you wear your ego like other people wear a watch and it’s always telling you it’s time to make a royal fool out of yourself.”

Bro glares at Stick.

I glare at both.

“Hey,” I say before the argument starts. “None of this damned dick-ish-ness, do you two hear me? No mas. It’s a knife-throwing contest, not a bitchiness contest. You can b***h at each other all you want when I’m not around.”

I hate being that way, but it is what it is. They’re both hard-headed, and I swear, Stick’s like a cougar cub being raised by a pack of wolves. Lots of growling and hissing and cussing, and lots of fur flying.

“I’m throwing,” I say. “You can play, or you can go away, but the beer stays with me.”

That should shut Bro up for a few minutes, at least.

Stick is the wild card in this deck.

But she just says, “Fine,” and moves over to the giant dead willow.

Eight 6-inch black circles form a one-revolution spiral trail around the bark-less trunk, from the ground to a point 8-feet above it, just below the tree’s first massive dead branches.

“I don’t remember this game very well,” Stick says.

“You start at the bottom,” Bro says. “You can’t move up to the next target until you hit the one you’re throwing at. First to the top wins, period. None of that ‘You went first, so I get a chance to tie’ stuff.”

“So, we throw three knives at a time?”

“Yes.”

“Who goes first? Do we throw for it?”

Bro and I look at each other. He shrugs.

“Closest to the top target,” I say. “Stick, you go first. Bro next. Me last.”

“Why do I have to go first?”

“Youngest to oldest,” I say.

“Why not oldest to youngest?”

Bro is looking pissed again. “Just throw your damn knife, okay?”

“Fine,” Stick says, and searches for a spike marking the 3-meter line.

“You can dig in the dirt all day,” Bro says, “But you won’t find a spike. The distances change a little as you go around the tree, and they change a little with changes in elevation, so you just have to wing it.”

“Do I get a practice throw?”

“Yes, you can have three.”

She lines up her first throw and chunks her knife.

Thud! Clunk!

Not even close.

She backs up a little, then she takes aim and throws again.

Clang! Dang! Doink!

Stick is now frowning and looking at the ground around her.

Bro moves over by her and kicks a line in the dirt.

“Try that,” he says.

She moves to the line, aims, and throws.

Thunk!

Her knife doesn’t stick a target, but at least she has a working distance, now.

Little Woman smiles at her dad for the first time all evening and says, “Thanks.”

She fetches her knives and hurries back, then she checks her orientation and moves a little closer to throw at that highest target.

She sets.

Aims.

Throws.

Clang!

“Damnit,” she mutters. She moves out of the way to get her knife as Bro judges his spot from hers and sets himself.

He’s throwing 16-inch long, 7/32-inch thick, home-made machetes, now, heavy as hell. He swears bigger is better when it comes to that sun-seasoned dead willow tree trunk.

I’ll stick with my trusty Bowies.

But him first.

“Practice round,” Bro says, then he takes his stance, aims, and throws.

Thunk!

His knife sticks the fourth target up.

He moves around the trunk to the bottom target, aims again, and throws.

Clunk! P-ching!

His knife hits the dirt right in front of the target, bounces up and off the trunk, then buries itself in the freshly ploughed alfalfa field off to the right of the range.

He moves up a little and resets, then he aims and throws at the top target.

Thud! Clang!

A little under-spun.

Bro retrieves his knives, then returns to his previous throwing position.

“This one counts,” he says as he resets and throws.

Thunk!

He misses the top target by an inch to the right.

He leaves his knife where it stuck, and he walks away.

“Your shot, Old Man,” Stick calls out.

“No warmup,” I say. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I set up a few inches forward of Bro’s last throwing position, then I aim at that highest target and throw hard.

Thunk!

I stick my knife, but I miss the target by a good 6 inches. Bro’s knife is closer.

Maybe I should’ve taken a warm-up throw.

“You old roosters go ahead,” Stick says. “Throw and crow. That’s all you’re good for.”

Bro takes up his stance in front of the lowest target. His beer is still in his left hand. He takes careful aim, leans back, and whips forward. His knife spins once and hits the dirt at the tree’s base hard enough to raise a small dust cloud.

He resets and throws again, even harder.

Thunk!

His knife sticks dead center in the target.

He moves left, resets, and throws again.

Thunk!

His knife nails the next target up.

“Two down,” he says as he goes to retrieve his knives and I move to my spot before the first target.

On his way back, Bro stops for a second and frowns at me. “Did you see the article in the paper about Trail’s End and water this week?” he says.

I shrug.

“I saw the headline,” I say, “But I haven’t read the article, yet. What’s happening up there on the llano? Did Trail’s End run out of water again?”

I wait to throw until he spills the beans. I’m dying to know what’s happening. Water is always a big deal in the valley, but the llano issue is the biggest one to hit this part of the state since 1945, when the government blew up the first atomic bomb not 30 miles from where we’re standing.

“Yeah, Trail’s End may get screwed again,” Bro says. “It turns out the Rancho Llano Alto, LLC, of California has applied to pump 45 million gallons of water a year out of the llano aquifer and sell it to them.”

My jaw hangs open for a second. “You mean there’s that much water in that god-forsaken wasteland?”

He nods. “Yeah, there is, according to the article. The llano alto was a big freshwater lake 14,000 years ago. All the water in the aquifer is what’s left over and it’s all 12,000 years old or older, the paper said.”

“So, there’s no re-charge?”

Bro shakes his head. “Not according to some water consultant from Santa Fe.”

“Hmmm… what about the state engineer? Did the paper say what he said?”

Bro nods his head. “Yeah, he denied the permit, but the Rancho is taking it to Federal Court.”

Stick waves her hand like a student in the classroom.

Bro raises his bushy eyebrows at her.

“Are you saying an out-of-state company wants to sell New Mexicans their own water?” she asks.

Bro nods. “That’s about the gist of it, except even worse. It turns out Rancho Llano Alto, LLC, is owned by a Russian holding company.”

“What?” we both yell.

“Get a rope,” I say.

Bro nods and grins.

“Yep,” he says. “Some bunch of Russians is gonna get rich selling us our own water.”

“Well, ain’t that some s**t,” I say and take up my throwing stance. That piece of info really chaps my a*s.

“It’s bad enough we owe Texas billions of gallons we can’t pay back,” I add.

I aim and throw at the first target.

Thunk!

A little high and over-spun. I move forward a couple of inches, resume my stance, aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in and the bottom target is usually the hardest.

One more would be nice, though.

I move left, reset, aim, and throw.

Clang!

Well, hell. That one was off by a foot.

“What’s the outlook for the legal battle, did the paper say?” I ask as I go pick up my knives.

Bro shrugs. “According to the article, somebody said the precedent has already been set in California. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Grrrr,” I growl to myself.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Stick says as she picks her spot in front of the first target.

Bro shrugs again. “I think we all understand the inevitability of the situation. Every farmer in New Mexico knows what the problem is and has for generations. Too many people. Not enough water. It’s our nightmare. I just have a problem with foreigners profiting from our misery and misfortune. The money, like the water, should stay in New Mexico.”

Stick takes aim and throws.

Thud.

That one is in the dirt. She moves up a few inches, sets and throws again.

Clang!

That one ricochets off the trunk and spins out in the yard somewhere.

She’s got an annoyed frown on her face, now, as she sets for her third throw. She inhales a deep breath, takes careful aim, and chunks her knife.

Thunk!

Instantly, Stick looks overjoyed; all smiles and giggles. She made a solid throw. Throwing low like that is hard for most people.

She skips down range to fetch her knives as Bro moves to his spot.

“After I read the article, I emailed the state engineer,” he says as he takes up his stance, shakes out his arm. “We had a few classes together at State, back in the day, and we’ve had business with each other over the years since.”

“And? Did you get a reply?”

Bro nods his gleaming bald head. “Yeah, that dude is old school. He’ll fight the Russians until his dying breath.”

“What can we do to help?” Stick asks from the yard, where she’s still looking for her ricochet.

“There’s a local opposition group forming,” Bro says, then he aims and throws.

Thunk!

That one is in.

He moves left, further around the tree, then he aims and throws again.

Clang!

A little over-spun.

He resets and throws his third knife.

Thunk!

“That’s four,” he says with a big grin. “I’m kicking both your asses.”

I move to my spot as Bro heads down range to get his knives.

“What was that about an opposition group?” I ask him.

“According to the paper, there’s a group of small ranch owners already, mostly from the western part of the county. They hired an attorney. Another group is scheduled to meet in Trail’s End later this month. Both groups believe there won’t be any water left for them.”

“Poor Trail’s End,” Stick says. “They’ve already run out of water once. It was like a third-world country up there, one of my friends said. It’s almost a ghost town, now.”

I take up my stance, aim and throw.

Thunk!

That one’s in. Two down.

I move left, aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in, too, but under-spun. I’m lucky it stuck.

I move further around the tree, then I aim and throw my third knife.

Clang!

Why am I off so bad on my third throws? At least I made the score close; 4 to 3.

I proceed down range while Stick moves into her spot behind me.

“Did you join a group, dad?” she asks.

Bro shakes his head. “We farmers get our water from the river. The llano aquifer has nothing to do with us.”

“What if Texas decides to use California precedents, too?” I ask. “Couldn’t they just take the water we owe them if they win their court battle? Couldn’t they empty every reservoir in the state? Wouldn’t that affect every farmer in the valley, like they said on the t.v.?”

Bro frowns back at me, but he doesn’t answer right away. It’s a threat Texas makes on a regular basis. I guess it’s a good thing they’ve never actually gone through with it.

At least, not yet.

Meanwhile, Stick assumes her stance.

“I want to join the Trail’s End group,” she says.

Whoa!

Bro arches his brows at her. “Since when did you grow a political conscience?”

“Since when did you lose yours?” she shoots back and gives him the stink-eye to boot.

Good question. I raise my eyebrows at him. It seems to be a contagious gesture.

He glares back at me, spotlights reflecting from his glasses. The bonfire roars behind him. He looks like a flame-wreathed, gleaming-eyed, bald-headed shadow in black cutoffs, a black tee shirt and ten-year old work-worn boots.

The last verse from a Rage Against the Machine cover of a Woody Guthrie tune pops in my head as I stare at the spectral sight before me.

 

The highway is alive tonight.

Where it’s headed everybody knows.

I’m sitting down here in the campfire light,

With the ghost of old Tom Joad.

 

Meanwhile, Stick makes her first throw.

Clang!

“Crap,” she mutters as she sets herself again.

“Wait,” I say to her. “That last one was under-spun. You should move back about 6 inches.”

She smiles at me as she moves back.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m struggling a bit with this damn tree. I never throw at it.”

I chuckle at her.

“I noticed,” I say.

Bro is still off to the side, frowning at us. I think my question got him thinking.

Stick aims and throws.

Thunk!

“Damnit,” she whispers under her breath.

She was two inches to the right with that one, but her distance is right, now. She should get the next one.

She winds up again and throws.

Thunk!

That one is in there.

Stick doesn’t say a word on the way to fetch her knives. She knows the score as well as we do.

Bro takes her place at the line.

Stick pulls her knife from the trunk, picks up the ones on the ground, then turns to face her dad.

“So?” she asks. “Can I join the Trail’s End water group or not?”

“You’re not old enough to vote,” Bro says. “So you don’t count.”

“I’m joining,” I say. “Are you going to tell me I don’t count because I’m an ancient cripple?”

“No… wait… that’s different… you can vote…”

Then he shakes his head and holds up his calloused hands. “Fine,” he says. “You can go to the meetings with us.”

A smile lights Stick’s face even brighter than the firelight.

“Good man, Dad,” she says as she moves off the range. “I knew you had it in you.”

But bro is staring at the house and rubbing the heavy two-day stubble on his dimpled prominent chin. He’s wondering what Big Mama will think about this. He’s wondering if time away from her is worth missing a few beers one night a week.

Yeah. That’s probably what swayed him most.

Bro turns back to the target, takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

Damn, he’s on a roll. He must have his beer buzz just right.

Maybe I should’ve had another one.

He moves and aims at the next target up, the 6^th, and throws.

Thunk!

“That’s three quarters of the way around the tree,” he says and smirks.

Stick is groaning somewhere behind me.

Bro chugs beer from his can, moves to his left to the next target, then he takes careful aim, leans back, and throws his third knife.

Thunk!

“Three in a row,” he says with a grin on his face again. “Seven to three to two. You rookies are toast.”

He proceeds to the tree trunk and fetches his knives while I move into my spot.

Meanwhile, a door slams, then the sound of women laughing and moving around in the backyard suddenly fills the night. A tall hedge separates them from us, but I’m sure they’re all headed for the screened-in gazebo, and the wood-fired cedar sweat lodge Bro built, but never gets to use.

“Go see what they’re doing,” Bro says to Stick in a low voice. “And check on the kids. I want to know who is still here, okay?”

“What’s in it for me?” she asks immediately.

“You won’t get my boot up your skinny a*s.”

Stick sticks out her tongue at him, then she turns away and trots toward a narrow gap in the hedge.

Bro glares at me.

“Don’t judge me like that, dude,” he says. “Just throw.”

So that’s what I do.

Thunk!

Cool! That’s four! That’s pretty good for me.

I move left, set, aim, and throw again.

Clang!

That one’s a little short. I move up a couple of inches, then I aim and throw for the third time.

Thunk!

Not bad for a crippled old man, but Bro is still two ahead of me.

He’s stomping on and disposing of another empty beer can while we wait for Stick.

It doesn’t take her long to come trotting back.

“Mom and mi tias are in the sweat lodge,” she says. “My sisters and cousins are in bed. There’s nobody else here, now.”

Bro noticeably relaxes.

Is that a smile on his face?

“You’re up, kid,” he says. “I’ve got seven. Old Man has five. You’ve got two.”

“I know what I’ve got,” she snaps at him and moves to her spot.

She throws so hard she grunts.

Clang!

She throws again, even harder.

Thunk!

She moves left and throws again.

Thunk!

Cool. Stick’s getting the hang of it.

Her jaw is set in a determined hard line as she hurries to pick up her knives.

“You know,” I say as Bro takes the line. “There’s this old man lives down the road from me. He must be 80 and he barely speaks English. He’s got this old beat-up Chevy pickup. On the back bumper is a sticker saying, ‘No Oro por Otro Agua’. He’s had it for at least ten years.”

Bro nods. “Those guys remember the droughts and the forest fires and all. They vote, too.”

He takes his stance, then he aims and throws at the 8th target.

Clang!

Bro shakes his shoulders for a second, then blows out a deep breath.

“So what does the old man say about it all?” he says.

He takes aim again. He throws.

Clang!

“Aaargh!” Bro yells and shakes his fist at the tree.

Meanwhile, I shrug.

“Damn if I know what he’s saying, bro,” I say. “He gets all agitated. His eyes bug. He yells in rapid-fire Spanish and jumps around and waves his cane and stuff. Then his two compadres will come over and I hear a lot of ‘cabron’ and ‘bandejo’ and ‘huero’.”

Bro snorts a short laugh.

“They’ve got the right of it. The world is full of old white a******s,” he says and nods, then he aims for the third time and throws.

Thunk!

That one is dead center in the target.

“Ha!” Bro shouts while he shakes his fist at the tree again. “That’s eight!”

“You win,” I say. “Woohoo.”

“Yeah. Woohoo,” Stick adds sarcastically.

“Ya’ll suck,” Bro says as he returns his knives to the table. “I’m going to bed while the going is good.”

“Can I stay up for a while?” Stick asks.

Bro looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

I shrug.

“I don’t care, I say.

He looks at Stick and nods once, then he heads for the house.

“Good night, Old Man,” he says over his shoulder.

“Later, Bro,” is all I say back.

Neither of us is the sentimental, long-goodbye type.

Stick watches him walk away without much of an expression on her face at all. When he finally goes in the back door, she lets out a brief sigh and shakes her head, then she opens the cooler and grabs two beers. She tosses me one and, surprisingly, I manage to catch it.

“Don’t you say a word to me, Old Man,” she says as she pops the top on hers.

I pop the top on mine, too.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Little Woman,” I say back. “You wannabe grown-up, be grown-up, but remember that rules and expectations are different for adults.”

“I know,” she says, acting all nonchalant and trying to hold back a huge smile. “You’re the one who told me humans learn best from observation, practice and repetition, right?”

I nod at her and smile. Like I said, Little Woman has a lot of untapped potential, just like my spoiled-rotten grand-daughters.

“I’m glad you were paying attention,” I say.

“I was,” she says and nods, then she takes a long drink from her beer.

Afterward, she looks up, belches like only a teenager can, and grins at me in the firelight. She looks like the little imp she sometimes still is, the little imp I hope she’ll always be, but know in my heart she won’t be.

“Let’s practice something besides knife-throwing for a while,” she says.

“Deal,” is all I have to say to that while she goes to kill the lights.

Thirty seconds later, we take adjacent chairs by the low-burning fire. We practice being quiet, and we practice drinking a beer beneath a bright vernal moon and a million stars.

Meanwhile, all we can hear is the soft chatter and laughter of three slightly tipsy, sweating, middle-aged sisters just the other side of a thin desert hedge, the faint rustle of fresh young cottonwood leaves in a light midnight breeze, and the lonely call of a chuck-will’s-widow somewhere down by the river.

The only thing keeping me awake 10 minutes later is Little Woman. The steady crunch of Doritos coming from her voluminous mouth would surely wake the dead, but I’m so content with the company and the surroundings that I nod off anyway.