glow over this stretch of the highway and the open land on both sides of it. The wind
whistled beneath the eaves of the station, but out here it made a strange open
humming that was not quite a vibration. It made him think of Pammy Andreeson’s
hopscotch chant.
He walked listening for the sound of an oncoming train behind him. He didn’t hear
that; what he heard when the wind dropped was a minute but perfectly audible click-
click-click. He turned and saw a wolf standing about twenty paces behind him on the
broken passing line of Route 26. It was almost as big as a calf, its coat as shaggy as a Russian hat. In the starshine its fur looked black, its eyes a dark urine yellow. It saw David looking and stopped. Its mouth dropped open in a grin, and it began to pant, the
sound of a small engine.
There was no time to be afraid. He took a step toward it, clapped his hands, and
shouted, “Get out of here! Go on, now!”
The wolf turned tail and fled, leaving a pile of steaming droppings behind on Route
26. David grinned but managed to keep from laughing out loud; he thought that would
be tempting the gods. He felt both scared and absurdly, totally cool. He thought of
changing his name from David Sanderson to Wolf Frightener. That would be quite the
name for an investment banker.
Then he did laugh a little—he couldn’t help it—and turned toward Crowheart Springs
again. This time he walked looking over his shoulder as well as from side to side, but
the wolf didn’t come back. What came was a certainty that he would hear the shriek
of the special coming to pick up the others; the part of their train that was still on the tracks would have been cleared away from the junction, and soon the people waiting
in the station back there would be on their way again—the Palmers, the Landers, the
limping Biggers, the dancing Pammy, and all the rest.
Well, so what? Amtrak would hold their luggage in San Francisco; surely they could
be trusted to get that much right. He and Willa could find the local bus station.
Greyhound must have discovered Wyoming.
He came upon a Budweiser can and kicked it awhile. Then he kicked it crooked, off
into the scrub, and as he was debating whether or not to go after it, he heard faint music: a bass line and the cry of a pedal steel guitar, which always sounded to him
like chrome teardrops. Even in happy songs.
She was there, listening to that music. Not because it was the closest place with music, but because it was the right place. He knew it. So he left the beer can and walked on
toward the pedal steel, his sneakers scuffing up dust that the wind whipped away. The
sound of the drum kit came next, then a red neon arrow below a sign that just read 26.
Well, why not? This was Route 26, after all. It was a perfectly logical name for a
honky-tonk.
It had two parking lots, the one in front paved and packed with pickup trucks and cars, most American and most at least five years old. The lot on the left was gravel. In that one, ranks of long-haul semis stood under brilliant blue-white arc sodiums. By now
David could also hear the rhythm and lead guitars, and read the marquee over the door:
ONE NIGHT ONLY THE DERAILERS $5 COVER SORRY.
The Derailers, he thought. Well, she certainly found the right group.
David had a five in his wallet, but the foyer of 26 was empty. Beyond it, a big
hardwood dance floor was crammed with slow-dancing couples, most wearing jeans
and cowboy boots and clutching each other’s butts as the band worked its way deeper
into “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.” It was loud, lachrymose, and—as far as
David Sanderson could tell—note perfect. The smells of beer, sweat, Brut, and Wal-
Mart perfume hit him like a punch in the nose. The laughter and conversation—even a
footloose yeehaw cry from the far side of the dance floor—were like sounds heard in