Chapter Text
1963
It was still early enough that the sun had not yet risen. The world sat in that cold, lonely hour between night and dawn, when the land looked endless and half-dead beneath the dark. An empty cattle truck thundered along a western highway in southern Wyoming, its tires humming against cracked asphalt as miles of open plain rolled by on either side.
To the east, the sky had only just begun to pale. A thin wash of silver-blue stretched over the horizon, faint as watered milk. Far off in the distance, maybe twenty miles yet, a scatter of town lights glimmered against the dark prairie like fallen stars. Telephone poles marched beside the road in crooked lines, their wires singing softly in the wind. There was little else out there besides sagebrush, fencing, and emptiness.
The truck’s engine roared loud enough to shake the cab. The boy riding passenger rested his head against the cool glass of the window, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Every bump in the road jolted through his broad frame, but he barely seemed to notice. He had known rough travel most of his life.
As the miles passed, the darkness slowly began to loosen its grip on the plains. The sky brightened first while the earth itself remained dark and cold beneath it. The town ahead no longer looked impossibly distant now, perhaps five miles away at most. Red signal lights blinked faintly in the growing dawn.
The radio crackled with static before settling back into Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight.” Her voice drifted low and lonesome through the cab. The truck driver, a weathered rancher who had picked the boy up alongside the highway sometime before dawn, smoked steadily behind the wheel. Cigarette smoke curled thick through the cramped cab, stinging the eyes. The driver had a kind face beneath the lines age and sun had carved into it, though neither man had said much since the ride began. The boy never caught his name, and the driver never asked for his. Men out west often preferred silence.
After a while, the boy leaned forward and grabbed his old Stetson from the dashboard. The hat had seen better years, sweat-stained, bent out of shape, the brim cracked from weather and hard use. He turned it once in his large hands before settling it low over his brow.
Duncan.
He was a long way from home. Farther than he had ever thought he would be.
Not yet twenty years old, though already carrying himself with the heaviness of a grown man. He had come to America from Galway, Ireland with little more than a duffel bag, a few dollars in his pocket, and the promise of ranch work somewhere out west. Back home there had been nothing waiting for him except endless rain, failing farms, and work that broke men young. America at least offered distance. Sometimes distance felt close enough to hope.
Even here in Wyoming, with its dry wind and endless plains, he still looked unmistakably Irish. His features were rough and weathered already, shaped by labor more than youth. He wore a faded denim cowboy shirt that had long since become too small for him, the sleeves stopping well above his wrists while the buttons strained across his chest whenever he shifted. His jeans were worn thin at the knees, his boots scuffed white with dust.
Duncan was enormous. Six foot six, broad through the shoulders and thick in the chest, built like a draft horse from years of hard labor. There was nothing lanky about him. Strength sat naturally on his frame, heavy, solid, immovable. The kind of build earned through hauling feed sacks, splitting wood, fixing fences, and wrestling cattle through mud and snow.
His hair was dark brown, though the first touch of morning sunlight turned it copper-red around the edges. His eyes were a striking blue beneath thick brows, sharp against the ruggedness of the rest of him. He was handsome in a severe sort of way, though clearly unaware of it. Quiet-faced. Watchful. The kind of young man who seemed older than he was because smiling did not come naturally to him anymore.
Back in Galway, boys used to joke that he was “thick as a castle wall.” Duncan never minded much. They were right.
He had been raised on silence and hard work. Raised to keep his head down, finish the job, and endure whatever came without complaint. There was a stiffness to him because of it, an awkward roughness that made him seem distant even when he stood beside someone. He spoke little. Trusted slowly. Watched everything.
Outside the truck window, the Wyoming plains stretched endlessly beneath the growing dawn, vast and empty and beautiful in a lonely sort of way. Duncan watched them pass in silence, carrying him farther west, farther from Ireland, and toward a life he could not yet imagine.
Duncan straightened the creased brim of his Stetson before settling it properly atop his head. The old hat sat low over his brow, shadowing his eyes as he stared out through the truck windshield toward the distant lights ahead.
“Aye, that’s Signal, innit?” he asked quietly. His Irish accent still clung thick to certain words, softened only slightly by the months he had spent drifting through the American West.
The trucker chuckled to himself and took another long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright orange in the dim cab. Smoke drifted lazily between them.
“Was the last time I come this way,” the man replied. “Ain’t much there but a rail stop, couple bars, and tired ranch hands.”
Duncan gave a small nod and looked forward again.
The town sat alone against the Wyoming plains, tiny beneath the enormous morning sky. From this distance the lights looked warm somehow, almost gentle. Seeing them stirred something homesick deep in his chest before he could stop it. Towns like that, small, isolated, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing, reminded him too much of home.
Galway had been greener, wetter, softer around the edges. Wyoming was harsher. Endless dry plains instead of rolling hills, dust instead of rain. But loneliness looked the same no matter the country.
He watched the lights in silence while Patsy Cline crackled low through the radio.
Duncan had not come to America chasing adventure the way some men did. He came because there had been nothing left for him back in Ireland. No land worth inheriting. No money. No future beyond breaking his back for somebody else’s farm until age turned his bones useless.
America had sounded different when he first heard about it. Bigger. Open. A place where a man could begin again if he worked hard enough.
So he crossed the ocean with a duffel bag, a few dollars in his pocket, and the address of a sheep ranch scribbled onto folded paper.
The plan had always seemed simple in his mind. Work hard. Herd sheep for a few years. Save what money he could. Maybe buy a little place of his own someday. Then settle down with a nice American girl, the kind with kind eyes and steady hands, and build something resembling a life.
Just how Arlan always wanted.
The thought of the old man tightened something quietly inside him. Arlan used to tell him that a man needed land, honest work, and a family if he wanted any chance at happiness. Duncan had carried those words with him all the way across the Atlantic like scripture.
Outside, the first edge of sunlight finally broke over the plains, turning the Wyoming horizon gold. The truck rumbled onward toward Signal, toward another town Duncan had never seen before, and toward a future he still could not picture clearly no matter how hard he tried.
—
The truck hissed to a stop in front of a service station that looked like it had only just opened its eyes for the day. Air brakes screamed sharp in the cold morning stillness. The sky over Signal was pale as watered milk, the sun still tucked behind the mountains to the east.
An old man struggled with a tractor tire near the garage, rolling the thing inch by inch across the cracked concrete. The tire was near as tall as he was.
Duncan climbed down from the truck with no suitcase to speak of, only a grocery sack stuffed with another shirt and a second pair of Levi’s. Before both his boots hit the dirt, the truck lurched away again, throwing dust across his jeans and the back of his coat.
He stood there a moment stretching the stiffness from his shoulders.
In the daylight it was plain one heel of his boot had worn crooked. Every few steps he had to correct for the tilt of it, his gait carrying a faint hitch from years of use.
Signal looked near abandoned at this hour. No cars moved. No voices carried. Wind pushed a scrap of newspaper down the empty street.
After a few seconds Duncan crossed toward the old man, who had finally balanced the tractor tire against a wooden post.
“’Scuse me,” Duncan said carefully, his Galway accent thick around the words. “Might ye tell me where th’ Farm an’ Ranch Employment Office is at?”
The old man squinted at him beneath the brim of a grease-dark cap.
“You ain’t from around here.”
Duncan only nodded, waiting.
The old man jerked his thumb down the street. “Trailer house. Three blocks that way. You’ll see it.”
Duncan dipped his head politely. “Much obliged.”
He had barely turned before the old man barked after him.
“Don’t let that goddamn Steffon Fossoway send you up to Brokeback without no thirty-ought.”
Duncan stopped.
“There’s coyotes up there mean as sin,” the old man continued. “They’ll eat your sheep an’ your damn jackass too if you let ’em. With a thirty-ought, leastways you got a chance.”
Duncan blinked at the sudden torrent of words. “Sir?”
The old man kicked the tractor tire twice, irritated at either the tire or life itself.
“Where was you raised, bud?”
“Ireland.”
That seemed to settle something in the man’s mind. He stared harder now, taking in Duncan’s pale face, the worn coat, the awkward way he stood.
“Well hell,” he muttered. “You’re a long damn way from home, ain’t ya?” He narrowed his eyes. “You ain’t Catholic, are you?”
Duncan swallowed once and shook his head. “Ah ain’t never heard o’ no place called Brokeback.”
The old man pointed north.
Beyond the town rose a mountain range, barren and enormous, the upper reaches still holding snow though summer had already touched the valley. The peaks vanished into pale cloud above the tree line.
“That’s Brokeback way up there.” He spat into the dirt. “An’ don’t you let Fossoway stick you up there with no twenty-two neither. Coyotes don’t fear a twenty-two.”
Duncan shifted the grocery sack in his hand.
“Make damn sure he gives you a thirty-ought.”
The conversation had already stretched longer than Duncan liked. Talking to strangers never sat easy with him, and right now he needed work more than anything else in the world.
So he nodded once more, tipped his hat again out of habit, and started down the empty street toward the trailer office.
–
The sun was fully up now, though still low enough to cast everything in long, pale morning light. The air out in Wyoming carried a gentle breeze that moved across the open land in steady whispers, stirring dust along the roadside and rattling the loose edges of wire fencing. Everything felt wide and empty, like the world had not quite decided what it wanted to become yet.
Duncan sat on the wooden steps of a dingy trailer house, the boards creaking faintly beneath his weight. Above the door hung a crooked, weather-worn sign that read: FARM AND RANCH EMPLOYMENT AGENCY. The paint was faded, the letters half-peeled, as if even the name itself had grown tired of being there.
He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, Stetson tipped forward just enough to shade his eyes. Dust clung to his boots. The hem of his worn denim shirt fluttered slightly in the breeze. He had been waiting longer than he expected, though out here time always seemed to stretch and lose shape.
A moment later, he noticed it, smoke drifting lazily around the far corner of the building. Not smoke from a fire, but exhaust. Thick and gray, curling upward in uneven bursts.
Then came the sound.
An old pickup truck rounded the corner of the road, painted a faded, sun-beaten blue. Even before it came fully into view, Duncan could hear it fighting for its life, a muffler so badly damaged it sounded more like a cough than an engine, each uneven burst rattling through the quiet morning.
The truck lurched into the gravel parking lot in front of the agency, tires crunching over stone. It shook violently as it slowed, the engine sputtering, choking, protesting every second it was forced to keep running. The whole machine sounded held together by stubbornness alone.
Duncan watched it with quiet interest, expression unreadable. The truck’s problems were obvious even from where he sat, the uneven idle, the shaking frame, the way it seemed to argue with itself just to stay alive.
With one final, miserable cough, the engine gave out completely.
Silence followed.
For a moment, nothing moved except the wind. Then the driver inside the cab sat still, hands resting on the wheel as if considering whether the truck deserved any more of his patience.
Finally, the door opened.
The man climbed out and slammed it shut with sharp, frustrated force. The sound echoed across the gravel lot. He stood there for a second, staring down at the broken pickup with open disgust, the way a man might look at a horse that had finally refused to stand.
Duncan shifted slightly on the steps, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied him. Out here, everything broke eventually, machines, men, or both.
The man was tall, around six feet, maybe an inch or two over, almost matching Duncan’s height in a way that made him stand out immediately in the empty gravel lot. His build was strong without being exaggerated, the kind of athletic frame shaped by hard work rather than vanity, ranch labor, horses, fences, long days under open sky.
His jaw was sharp, clean-cut even beneath the rough attempt at a beard that had only just begun to darken his face. Curly black hair spilled out from beneath a worn straw cowboy hat, the brim bent slightly from use. He looked older than Duncan at first glance, maybe twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, but there was something unsettled about it, as if even he wasn’t entirely sure what age he was supposed to feel like yet.
He wore faded jeans dusted with road grit, a bull rider’s belt buckle dulled from years of wear, and a flannel shirt that had seen too many seasons to still hold its original color. His boots were scuffed to the quick, leather worn soft at the edges. Everything about him suggested movement, travel, work, change, like he didn’t quite belong in one place for long, even if he tried.
There was something different in him compared to Duncan. Less rigid. Less shut-in. A looseness in his posture that suggested a man who laughed easily when he was comfortable, who might lean into a conversation rather than away from it. The kind of man who could probably tell a story and make people listen without trying too hard.
For a moment, he didn’t seem to notice Duncan at all. The trailer house steps were still half-swallowed in shade, and Duncan’s stillness made him easy to miss, just another shape among shadows and dust.
The man turned back toward his broken truck, jaw tight, as if already preparing to hate it more than he did a second ago.
Then he looked up.
His eyes landed on Duncan.
He paused. Just a fraction of a second, barely enough to count as anything at all, but it was there. A flicker of awareness. Surprise, maybe.
Duncan didn’t move. Just watched him from the steps, hat low, expression unreadable.
The man stiffened slightly, as if caught in something he hadn’t meant to step into. His gaze held for a heartbeat longer… then slipped away just as quickly.
He turned his attention back to the truck like it suddenly mattered more than anything else in the world.
Duncan did the same.
Neither of them spoke.
The gravel lot filled again with silence, broken only by the faint whistle of wind through the fence posts and the distant creak of the trailer house settling in the heat.
–
By the time it was around eight in the morning, the wind had begun to rise properly across the Wyoming plains, pushing dust in low, restless sheets over the gravel lot. The sky was bright now, a hard, endless blue stretching over everything without mercy. Nothing out here ever stayed still for long, not even silence.
The man with the broken truck had made a makeshift shaving station out of his rearview mirror. One hand braced on the open driver’s door, the other carefully working a cheap, dull razor, something that looked like it had cost a quarter and a prayer. He used a paper cup for water, dipping the blade, scraping carefully at the uneven stubble on his jaw.
It wasn’t going well.
Every pass of the razor looked like it hurt more than it helped, but he kept going anyway, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed at his reflection. His truck radio played low in the background, Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” drifting out through the open cab, almost swallowed by the wind.
Then, without warning, the quiet broke.
An old white Buick station wagon, barely held together and moving far too fast for something its age, came tearing down the nearby street. It cut through a line of pickup trucks and horse trailers like it didn’t belong anywhere near them, engine whining in protest.
It swerved sharply into the gravel lot.
Dust exploded outward in a thick, choking cloud, rolling straight across the space.
The shaving man jerked back instantly, half-blinded, abandoning his careful work to shield his face as grit and dust swept over him. His razor hand dropped, the paper cup wobbling dangerously before he managed to steady it. He let out a low, frustrated breath, clearly deciding the universe had no respect for personal grooming.
The station wagon slammed to a stop, far too close to the trailer steps, barely two feet from where Duncan stood.
Duncan moved quickly, stepping back just enough to avoid the sudden surge of dust and gravel, one hand instinctively lifting his hat to keep it from blowing off.
The driver’s door flew open.
The man who stepped out was all sharp motion and irritation. In his thirties, maybe, hard to tell at a glance. He had a head of unruly curly hair the color of orange peel, as if it had never once been convinced to lie flat in its life. His face was tense with impatience, and there was an oversized container of coffee still half-balanced in one hand as he reached back into the car for it properly.
This, Duncan would soon learn, was Steffon Fossoway.
He shut the door behind him with more force than necessary and glared at both of them like they were already late for something they didn’t know about. Not a word of greeting. Just a long, assessing look, first at Duncan, then at the man by the truck, as if deciding which one of them annoyed him more.
Neither Duncan nor the other man moved.
The wind filled the gap instead, rattling loose paper and dusting everything in a fine layer of grit.
Steffon turned and marched toward the trailer office door without another word. He went inside.
The door slammed hard behind him.
For a moment, the yard went quiet again, just wind, distant engines, and Johnny Cash still faintly playing from the truck radio.
Duncan stood there with his big hands sunk into the pockets of his worn jeans, watching the closed door like it might explain itself if he waited long enough.
Across the lot, the other man straightened slowly, eyes flicking toward his truck as if briefly considering whether it still deserved his attention. Then, just as quietly, he seemed to decide it didn’t.
Duncan shifted the grocery sack at his feet, his only real belongings, and finally looked over at him again.
Steffon Fossoway stuck his head out, curly orange hair already being tugged sideways by the wind, coffee container still clutched like it was the only thing keeping him civil. His expression was sharp with impatience, eyes narrowing at both of them like they were something he’d found stuck to his boot.
“If you pair a deuces are lookin’ for work,” he barked, voice cutting clean through the yard, “I suggest you get your asses in here, pronto.”
No explanation. No greeting. Just command.
For a second, neither Duncan nor the other man moved. The words hung in the air between them, swallowed and stretched by the wind.
Then Duncan shifted first. He bent slightly, picked up his small sack of clothes, the only possession he’d brought with him, and gave one last glance toward the other man.
The man returned it briefly, expression unreadable, before pushing off from his truck at last.
Together, without speaking, the man crossed the gravel toward the trailer steps. Boots crunched with the wind as it followed him in short, restless gusts.
The door loomed open like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole.
Duncan went in first.
The other man followed.
And the door slammed shut behind them with a hard, final crack.
–
The inside of the trailer was dusty and close, the air thick with old tobacco smoke and the dry heat of bodies that had come and gone without ever bothering to leave anything behind but smell. Venetian blinds hung crooked in the narrow window, half-bent slats letting in strips of harsh Wyoming light that cut across the room like broken bars.
The single desk dominated everything. It was cluttered with scattered paperwork, corners curling with age and neglect. An overflowing Bakelite ashtray sat dead center, packed so tightly with cigarette butts it looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. Ash had spilled over the rim and dusted the papers beneath it in a gray film.
There was only one chair facing it.
Clearly, Steffon Fossoway did not believe in company. Or at least not the kind that stayed long.
Behind his desk, hanging from a nail in the wall, was a pair of old binoculars, scratched lenses, leather strap worn nearly smooth. They looked like they had seen more time outside than anything else in the room.
Neither Duncan nor the other man sat. There wasn’t anywhere for both of them anyway.
Duncan, after a brief pause, reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled carton of cigarettes, and struck a match against the side of the desk. The small flare of fire briefly warmed the dim room before he lit up, exhaling slowly as the first smoke curled toward the low ceiling.
In the background, a small black-and-white television buzzed quietly on a shelf, tuned to a news broadcast. The grainy image showed President John F. Kennedy speaking, his voice faint beneath the static.
Steffon Fossoway had already settled into the swivel chair like it was a throne he didn’t particularly care for but refused to give up. He leaned forward slightly, elbows near the mess of papers, and began speaking as if they were already expected to understand everything he was about to say.
“Forest Service designated campsites on the allotments,” he said, voice blunt and matter-of-fact. “Them camps can be three, four miles from where we pasture the woolies. Bad predator loss if there’s nobody lookin’ after ‘em at night.”
Steffon took a drag from his cigarette, eyes flicking briefly to Duncan, then to the other man.
“What I want,” Steffon continued, “is a camp tender in the main camp where the Forest Service says it oughta be. But the herder…”
He pointed across the room.
“…he pitches a pop tent on the Q.T right with the sheep. He sleeps there. Eats supper and breakfast back in camp, but at nightnights he stays with the herd. Hundred percent. No fire. No lights. Don’t leave no sign. Roll the tent up every mornin’ in case some Forest Service snoop comes wanderin’ through.”
Duncan listened without interrupting, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. A long ash had formed at the tip, dangerously close to falling. For a moment he seemed to consider the ashtray, but it was already overflowing, ash spilling onto Steffon’s scattered paperwork.
Instead, he simply tapped the ash carefully into his own palm, watching it crumble there before brushing it away without comment.
The radio silence of the room was broken suddenly by the phone.
Steffon reached for it without looking away from them, lifted it, and listened.
His expression tightened almost immediately.
“No,” he said flatly. A pause. “No. Not on your fuckin’ life.”
He hung up before the other end could respond, setting the receiver down with a little more force than necessary. Then, without missing a beat, he returned to the conversation as if nothing had happened.
“Got the dogs,” he went on. “Your .30-30. Sleep there. Last summer we had a goddamn near twenty-five percent loss. Ain’t lettin’ that happen again.”
His gaze shifted again, settling on Duncan with more intent now. He studied him properly this time, like assessing weight, weather, and durability all at once.
“You…”
He pointed.
“…Friday noon, be down at the bridge with your grocery list and mules. Somebody with supplies’ll meet you there in a pickup.”
Steffon reached behind himself, grabbed a cheap round watch from a box on a high shelf, and began winding it with quick, practiced motions. The cord looked like it had been tied together more than once. He set the time, checked it once, then, without ceremony, tossed it across the room.
It arced through the air toward Duncan, casual as if he were handing off a tool rather than throwing a lifeline.
Duncan caught it cleanly in one hand.
Steffon didn’t wait for acknowledgment.
“Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll truck you up to the jump-off,” he said. Then he reached for the phone again, paused mid-motion, and looked at both of them one last time, hard, weighing, already done with the conversation.
The message was clear without him saying it.
Dismissed.
For a second, neither Duncan nor the other man moved. The air felt suddenly too small for the room.
Then, awkwardly, almost in unison, they realized they were finished.
Duncan turned first, cigarette still between his fingers, watch heavy in his palm.
The other man followed a beat later.
And they stepped out into the Wyoming wind.
–
The trailer door slammed shut behind them with a hollow, final sound that seemed to get swallowed immediately by the Wyoming wind. The heat and clutter of Steffon Fossoway’s office vanished at once, replaced by wide-open light and dust and sky that felt too large for anything as small as a man.
Outside, the air was sharper. Cleaner, too, in a way that still felt unforgiving.
The other man descended the three steps first, boots thudding lightly against worn wood before hitting gravel. He moved with an easy confidence, the kind that came from not thinking too long before acting. Duncan lingered a moment on the lowest step, one hand resting near his pocket, eyes lifting across the bleak stretch of land around them.
Nothing out here but space. Fence lines. Distant trucks. And the sense that the world ended farther away than it should have.
When Duncan finally looked back, the man had turned to face him.
There was a shift in his expression now, something looser than before. Less guarded. He gave a quick, almost crooked smile, like the tension of the office had already been left behind. Then he stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Lyonel Baratheon.”
Duncan studied him for half a second before taking it. His grip was firm, roughened by work, steady as iron.
“Duncan.”
Lyonel’s eyebrows lifted slightly as their hands separated.
“Your folks just stop at Duncan?” he asked, tone half teasing, half curious, as if the idea itself didn’t quite sit right with him.
Duncan hesitated. Just a beat.
“Pennytree,” he said at last.
Lyonel let out a low, satisfied hum, like that filled in a missing piece.
“Nice to know you, Duncan Pennytree,” he said easily. “Since you and I will be workin’ together, I reckon it’s time we start drinkin’ together.”
The words came with a grin that suggested he was only half joking. Or maybe not joking at all.
Duncan glanced down at his hand. The watch Steffon had thrown him sat there, cheap and round, already ticking away like it had somewhere important to be. The time read barely half past eight in the morning.
He looked back up at Lyonel. Then out at the empty Wyoming horizon.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he gave a small nod. Not enthusiastic. Not reluctant either. Just simple acceptance, like a man agreeing to whether he couldn’t change.
“Alright,” Duncan said quietly.
–
The bar sat just off the highway on the edge of town, a low, weather-beaten place with faded signs in the windows and dust gathered thick along the porch rails. Inside, it was large in a hollow sort of way, built for crowds that only came on weekends or rodeo nights.
At this hour, though, the place was empty.
Every chair had been turned upside down atop the tables, rows of wooden legs sticking into the air like strange antlers. The room smelled faintly of old beer, cigarettes, and floor cleaner. Neon signs buzzed softly against the walls even in daylight, their colors washed pale beneath the sun pouring through the windows.
The only people inside were the bartender and a waitress, both somewhere in middle age and moving with the tired rhythm of people who had spent years working around drunks and smoke.
The bartender was a husky man, somewhere around five-six or five-eight, with brown hair combed too carefully and large dark eyes that made him look perpetually annoyed or exhausted, sometimes both. He stood behind the counter, stocking bottled beer into the cooler one-handed while the other held a cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingers.
The waitress was smaller, maybe five-three, with beautiful red hair pinned back in soft curls that somehow survived the heat and cigarette smoke. She carried herself with easy confidence, apron tied crooked around her waist, expression sharp enough to keep the bartender in line when necessary.
When Duncan and Lyonel stepped inside, sunlight burst through the doorway behind them so brightly it startled both workers into looking up. For a moment, the newcomers were only silhouettes against the morning glare.
Duncan paused just inside the door, blinking while his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Beside him, Lyonel tipped his hat back slightly and glanced around the empty room with obvious approval, like any place serving alcohol automatically earned his affection.
“We ain’t open till ten,” the bartender called out immediately, not even bothering to sound apologetic about it.
Lyonel rested an elbow casually against the bar and smiled easy as anything.
“Me and my partner here,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Duncan, “Wwe got us a summer’s worth’a drinkin’ to do today. Reckon we’re gonna need that extra hour.”
His voice carried that same warm charm Duncan had noticed earlier, the kind that sounded natural, effortless. Like he’d spent his whole life talking people into forgiving him for things.
The bartender barely looked impressed.
“Told you,” he muttered, shoving another beer into the cooler, “we open at ten.”
The waitress rolled her eyes hard enough it almost seemed rehearsed. She shot the bartender a glare.
“Aw, lay off ’em, Raymun,” she said. “They’re just buttons.”
Raymun let out a long, suffering sigh and glanced at her with the tired affection of a man who had clearly lost this argument many times before.
“You boys have a seat,” she said brightly.
Lyonel grinned immediately and slid onto one of the barstools while Duncan followed a moment later, moving more slowlyslower, heavier, his boots scraping softly against the floorboards.
Duncan pulled out his cigarettes almost by instinct. He struck a match against the underside of the bar and lit one, smoke curling slowly upward as he leaned back against the stool.
The waitress dried an ashtray carefully against her apron before setting it down in front of him with a little nod of approval.
“Now then,” she asked, “what’ll you have?”
“Bud, please,” Lyonel said smoothly.
Duncan glanced up after him.
“Ah’ll take a Bud, please,” he said, his thick Galway accent curling around the words.
The waitress blinked once at the sound of it, clearly surprised, while Lyonel looked sideways at Duncan with the faintest trace of amusement tugging at his mouth.
Outside, the wind rattled softly against the windows while somewhere deeper in the bar an old jukebox hummed quietly to itself, waiting for somebody to feed it a coin.
–
Duncan and Lyonel remained at the bar long after the sun had climbed fully into the sky. The place had brightened some with the morning, though the interior still carried that permanent dimness bars seemed to trap in their walls no matter the hour.
A few more customers had drifted in by then, quiet ranch hands and truckers scattered far apart from one another, but the place was still mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner crackled low with country music between bursts of static.
Lyonel sat loose and comfortable on his stool like he belonged anywhere liquor was served. Several empty longneck bottles already stood gathered in front of him, little glass soldiers lined crooked along the bar. Duncan still nursed his first beer.
He peeled slowly at the paper label wrapped around the bottle, broad fingers working absentmindedly at the damp edges until strips of it littered the bartop. Every now and then he took a drink, but carefully, almost thoughtfully, like he wasn’t used to spending money on something meant to disappear so quickly.
“This’s my second year up here,” Lyonel said after another pull from his beer. “Last summer, one storm rolled through and lightning killed forty-two sheep.”
He shook his head with a low whistle.
“Thought I’d asphyxiate from the smell after. Dead woolies roastin’ in the rain…” He grimaced and lifted the bottle again. “We’re gonna need plenty whiskey when the lightnin’ starts.”
The waitress wandered back over just then carrying a rag over one shoulder. She frowned the second she saw Duncan’s bottle still sitting half full in front of him.
“You drinkin’ that beer,” she teased, “or was you plannin’ to grow flowers in it?”
Duncan blinked up at her, visibly caught off guard. Color crept instantly into the tips of his ears. He shifted awkwardly on the stool, looking down at the bottle as if it had somehow betrayed him.
He opened his mouth to answer—
But Lyonel beat him to it.
“Tell you what, ma’am,” he said smoothly, leaning slightly toward her with an easy grin, “you just keep linen’ ’em up.”
The waitress snorted softly at that, clearly satisfied with the response, and wandered off toward the cooler again.
Duncan glanced sideways at Lyonel once she was gone.
“Ah ain’t got but a buck an’ some change,” he admitted quietly, voice low beneath the music and bar noise.
Lyonel waved the concern away immediately.
“You drink up,” he said. “I’ll worry about the tab.”
Duncan looked like he wanted to argue for a second. Instead, after a pause, he nodded once and lifted the bottle.
The two of them drank together then, Lyonel quicker, Duncan slower at first until he finally matched pace. They finished nearly in unison and slammed the empty bottles down onto the bartop.
The waitress returned almost instantly with two fresh beers already opened.
“That’s more like it,” she hummed approvingly as she slid them over. She gathered the empties with practiced hands before disappearing again.
Duncan took a longer drink this time before glancing over.
“What was ye sayin’ ’bout some lightnin’?” he asked.
Lyonel groaned dramatically.
“Smoked some sheep. Fossoway got all over my ass like I was supposed to control the weather.” He took another swallow before continuing. “Still beats workin’ for my old man though. Can’t please him no matter what I do. That’s why I took to rodeoin’.”
He reached down proudly and knocked his knuckles against the large rodeo belt buckle at his waist. The metal clinked softly.
“Ever rodeo?” he asked.
Duncan shook his head. “Never.”
Lyonel studied him curiously over the neck of his bottle.
“You from ranchin’ people?”
A small pause followed.
“I was.”
The answer sat strangely between them. Lyonel’s expression shifted slightly, smile fading into something quieter.
“Folks run you off?”
Duncan stared at the beer in his hands for a second before answering.
“Kind of.”
He peeled another strip from the label slowly.
“Originally they run themselves off. Missed a curve in th’ road one night an’ killed ’em both.”
His voice remained steady, but softer now.
“Government stuck me with my uncle after that. He mostly raised me.”
Lyonel’s face tightened immediately.
“Shit…” he muttered. “That’s hard.”
For once, he didn’t sound charming or playful. Just honest.
Then, after a beat too heavy for either of them, Lyonel suddenly lifted his head toward the far end of the bar.
“Two shots’a whiskey,” he called loudly to the waitress. “Right quick!”
If it had been later in the day, Duncan probably would have drank more than he ought to. The beer was already loosening something in him, not enough to make him reckless, but enough to soften the hard edges he carried around like armor. Another few hours, a few more longnecks, maybe some whiskey on top of it, and he might’ve even found himself feeding a coin into the jukebox.
Might’ve danced a little, too.
The thought alone almost embarrassed him.
Back home in Galway, before things had gone wrong, there had been nights where music spilled out of crowded pubs and somebody always dragged somebody else into dancing whether they wanted to or not. Duncan had never been particularly graceful, but he was young enough once to laugh through it anyway.
Across beside him, Lyonel leaned back easy against his stool, whiskey glass loose in one hand while he talked about rodeos and horses and places Duncan had never heard of. He talked with his whole body, hands moving, shoulders loose, expression alive in a way Duncan envied without quite realizing it.
And Duncan found himself watching him.
Not directly. Not enough to be obvious. Just in pieces.
The way Lyonel grinned when he laughed. The easy confidence in the way he carried himself. The restless energy in him that seemed like it could burst into motion at any second.
That man, Duncan thought quietly to himself, looked to be a mighty good dancer.
The realization came strange and sudden.
Duncan lowered his eyes back toward his beer almost immediately afterward, peeling another strip from the label as if the thought itself needed hiding.
Beside him, Lyonel was still talking, completely unaware.
Or pretending to be.
–
Neither of them had anywhere else to stay that night.
The bar had long since emptied into darkness, the jukebox gone quiet except for the occasional hum from its dying lights. Outside, the air had turned cold fast after sundown, the kind of dry mountain cold that crept beneath denim and settled deep into bone.
Lyonel had offered Duncan the truck almost casually at first, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ain’t no sense wastin’ money on a room,” he’d said. “Besides, she only breaks down while drivin’. Sleeps just fine.”
Duncan had refused immediately. Said there was no way he was gonna keep another man from his sleep, especially not crammed into that old pickup with barely enough room for one decent night’s rest.
But Lyonel Baratheon, Duncan was quickly learning, possessed the dangerous skill of talking until people gave in just to hear silence again.
So now they were there.
The old blue pickup sat parked just outside town beneath an ocean of stars, its engine long cooled and ticking softly in the night. Wind brushed across the plains in low whistles, rocking the truck ever so slightly now and then. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once before the silence swallowed it whole again.
Out here, away from town lights, the sky looked endless.
Duncan had never seen stars quite like Wyoming stars.
They covered everything. Thousands upon thousands scattered across the dark so thickly it almost hurt to look at them too long. Back in Ireland, clouds and rain usually swallowed the heavens whole. But here, the sky stretched open without mercy, vast enough to make a man feel terribly small beneath it.
Lyonel slept beside him in the passenger seat.
Or at least, somehow slept.
He’d passed out almost immediately after climbing into the truck, slumped awkwardly against the door with one arm folded across his chest and his hat tipped halfway over his face. His breathing had settled deep and even despite the miserable position. Every so often the truck shifted slightly beneath his weight and he’d mumble something unintelligible before going still again.
Duncan sat in the driver’s seat wide awake.
One large arm rested against the open window frame while the other sat folded across his stomach. Cigarette smoke drifted slowly out into the night air. He stared upward through the windshield at the stars, thoughts turning restless beneath the quiet.
Four months.
Four months up on that mountain.
Just him, Lyonel, sheep, storms, and wilderness. The thought felt enormous suddenly. Bigger now that it was real. There’d be no towns, no roads, barely another soul for miles. Just long days and longer nights.
Duncan wasn’t sure yet whether the idea comforted him or unsettled him. Maybe both.
After a while, his eyes drifted sideways toward Lyonel.
The man looked strangely younger asleep. Softer somehow. Without the grin or the talking or the easy confidence constantly moving across his face, there was something almost boyish about him. A dreamer, Duncan thought again. The kind of man who probably trusted strangers too easily and believed things would work themselves out in the end.
Duncan couldn’t understand how anybody slept that comfortably folded against a truck door. Lyonel’s neck looked like it ought to hurt like hell by morning.
He watched him for another quiet moment before looking away again.
Outside, the stars continued burning cold and bright above them while the wind moved endlessly through the dark plains.
–
Duncan stood at the trailhead staring up at the country laid out before his eyes, and for the first time since coming to America, he truly understood what people meant when they called the West big.
Brokeback Mountain rose ahead of them like something ancient and half-forgotten, its slopes dark with pine and fir, the upper ridges still streaked with lingering snow even under the summer sun. They were high already, high enough for the air to feel thinner and sharper in the lungs, but the trailhead still sat beneath the tree line where the forest crowded thich around the open clearing.
The place was alive with noise.
Two sheep trucks and a pair of horse trailers had unloaded near the edge of the timber, and the clearing churned with movement. A thousand sheep milled together in a dense white mass, bleating endlessly as dogs snapped at their heels and ranch hands shouted over one another. Dust rose everywhere, hanging golden in the sunlight. Horses stamped and tossed their heads against reins. Mules brayed miserably beneath overloaded packs.
The whole thing smelled like wool, manure, leather, pine sap, and dirt baked hot beneath the morning sun.
Duncan watched it all in silence, one broad hand resting against the neck of a mule while a leathery old ranch hand named Steely showed him how to lash the packs properly.
Steely moved with the confidence of a man who’d spent more years around pack animals than people. His fingers worked fast and practiced, tightening straps and balancing loads with barely a glance.
“Weight’s gotta ride even,” he muttered as he deftly hitched two packs into place. “Else the damn mule’ll make sure you know about it.”
Duncan nodded, watching closely. He picked things up quickly when somebody showed him once proper.
Steely jerked his chin toward a crate sitting nearby.
“Only thing,” he said before spitting into the dirt, “don’t order soup. Them boxes’re hard to pack.”
Duncan glanced toward the crate and gave a small shrug. “’S fine,” he replied in his thick Galway drawl. “Ah don’t eat soup.”
Steely barked out a rough laugh at that before wandering off toward another mule string.
Duncan straightened and looked around again. His eyes eventually found Lyonel.
Lyonel was already mounted up on horseback some yards away, sitting comfortably in the saddle like he’d been born there. The horse shifted restlessly beneath him, tossing its head while a pair of blue heelers circled the sheep nearby in tight, excited loops.
One of the pups had apparently taken a liking to Lyonel already.
The small blue heeler was tucked half-inside his coat against his chest, only its speckled little head poking out while Lyonel absently scratched behind its ears. The sight looked ridiculous enough that Duncan nearly smiled. Nearly.
Lyonel noticed him looking and rode over at an easy trot. Dust kicked softly beneath the horse’s hooves as he approached.
Duncan’s gaze drifted critically over the animal first, the nervous ears, twitching muscles, the way it danced too lightly under Lyonel’s weight.
“That horse looks like it’s got a low startle point,” Duncan observed calmly. “Might throw ye an’ that pup both.”
Lyonel snorted immediately. “I doubt there’s a horse in this string that can throw me,” he said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.
He adjusted the pup tucked inside his coat before flashing Duncan a crooked grin.
“Let’s get movin’,” Lyonel added. “’Less you wanna stand here tyin’ knots all day.”
Duncan looked at him another moment, the grin, the horse, the wriggling pup hidden in his coat, before shaking his head faintly under his breath.
Then he grabbed the mule’s lead rope and followed him toward the mountain.
–
The thousand sheep moved like a living river across the mountainside.
Dogs barked sharply at the edges of the herd while horses picked their way through the rocky ground, tack creaking softly with every step. Duncan walked alongside the pack mules, one hand resting against the lead rope as the entire operation slowly climbed higher and higher above the tree line.
The forest eventually gave way behind them.
Ahead stretched vast alpine meadows rolling beneath the shadow of Brokeback Mountain, thick with late-summer wildflowers that bent and swayed in the mountain wind. Purple lupine, yellow sunflowers, Indian paintbrush, all scattered across the hillsides beneath an enormous western sky. The air felt different up here. Colder. Cleaner. Thin enough that every breath seemed sharper in the lungs.
Duncan had never seen a place like it in his life.
Ireland had green hills, sure enough, but nothing this wide. Nothing this empty.
The sheep spread themselves across the meadow as evening crept slowly over the mountain. Their constant bleating echoed softly through the valleys while the dogs circled watchfully around the edges of the herd. Somewhere nearby, bells tied to a few lead sheep clinked gently whenever they moved.
By sunset, camp had finally been made.
The sky burned orange and gold beyond the peaks, the dying sunlight washing over the mountain meadows in long streaks of color. Shadows stretched deep and blue across the grass while the first chill of night crept down from the ridges above.
Duncan had just finished setting up the tent when he looked over and saw Lyonel tending the fire.
Lyonel crouched beside it lazily, feeding another stick into the flames while drinking straight from a bottle of cheap whiskey. The firelight flickered warm against his face, catching in the dark curls beneath his hat. Behind him, the endless mountain rolled away into dusk while the distant sound of sheep drifted softly through the air.
Duncan walked over and lowered himself beside him onto the edge of a fallen log. The wood creaked beneath his weight. For a while neither of them spoke. They simply watched the sunset spread across the horizon like spilled paint.
Lyonel finally held out the whiskey bottle toward him.
Duncan took it.
In a deeply annoyed voice, Lyonel muttered, “‘Sleep with the sheep, no fire.’ Shit.” He shook his head and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That Steffon Fossoway’s got half a brain and twice the attitude.” Duncan handed the bottle back. Lyonel took another pull before continuing. “Can’t wait ’til I got my own spread someday,” he said. “Won’t have to put up with his shit no more.”
Duncan accepted the bottle again and took a longer swig this time. The whiskey tasted awful. Sharp enough to burn all the way down. The kind of liquor that seemed made less for enjoyment and more for surviving weather. Still, he swallowed it cleanly. “Ah’m savin’ fer a place m’self,” Duncan said quietly. He took another drink before glancing over at Lyonel. “Ye goin’ up with th’ sheep?”
Lyonel huffed immediately and shook his head.
“Not tonight. Tomorrow.” He grabbed a stick and poked irritably at the fire. “That Steffon Fossoway’s got no business havin’ us do somethin’ against the rules anyhow.”
Duncan looked at him for a second. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It wasn’t loud. Barely more than a rough chuckle under his breath. But it caught Lyonel’s attention instantly.
The fire cracked softly between them while the last of the sunset faded over Brokeback Mountain.
—
Morning came pale and cold upon Brokeback Mountain.
Mist drifted low across the high country, thick and gray as woodsmoke, swallowing the grassy plains beyond camp until the world seemed reduced to only a few yards of damp earth and shadow. The air smelled of pine sap, wet stone, and last night’s fire gone cold. Somewhere beyond the fog, sheep bleated softly like distant ghosts.
Lyonel was already awake.
Duncan watched him through the haze while crouched beside the fire, quietly scraping the remains of breakfast from his tin plate with a spoon. Lyonel moved around camp with sleepy efficiency, tightening straps and checking tack before saddling his mare. The horse tossed her head impatiently in the cold morning air.
When Lyonel finally mounted up, the mare crow-hopped beneath him, springing sideways with restless energy.
“Easy now,” Lyonel muttered, steadying her with practiced hands.
The horse danced once more before settling beneath him. Then Lyonel tipped his hat toward Duncan and rode off into the mist, quickly disappearing into the gray along with the dogs and the sound of distant bells tied to the lead sheep.
Before long, Duncan could barely see him at all.
Only the occasional silhouette emerged now and then through the fog, a rider moving slowly alongside the herd while the mountain wind combed endlessly through the tall grass.
The days on Brokeback began to settle into rhythm after that.
Long stretches of silence broken only by sheep, wind, and horses. Lyonel spent most of the daylight hours high with the herd, tending them across the slopes and meadows while Duncan remained nearer the main camp, cooking, packing, cleaning, hauling water, mending whatever needed mending.
The mountain seemed to swallow time whole.
By late afternoon, the mist had burned away, leaving the world sharp and gold beneath the sinking sun. Duncan stood near the fire pit stirring dinner in a blackened pot while the last light stretched long across the ground. Pebbles and clumps of dirt cast pencil-thin shadows over the earth. Everything looked still enough to hold in your hands.
Later, Duncan rode up toward the herd carrying supplies strapped behind his saddle. He found Lyonel half-dozing upright in the grass while the sheep grazed lazily nearby.
His hat had slipped low over his face. One arm rested loose across the saddle horn while the mountain wind stirred the dark curls beneath the brim. The dogs lounged nearby with their ears twitching every now and then at distant movement.
Duncan slowed his horse beside him.
Lyonel cracked one eye open lazily. “Thought you fell off the mountain,” he muttered sleepily.
Duncan snorted softly through his nose and handed him the supplies without a word.
By dusk they were riding back down toward camp together beneath a sky streaked purple and orange.
The sheep settled lower along the hillside as night crept over Brokeback Mountain. Somewhere off among the trees, a coyote barked sharp and sudden.
Lyonel reacted instantly.
He pulled the rifle from beside his saddle, swung toward the sound, and fired. The shot echoed violently across the mountain. Birds burst from the trees somewhere below.
But the coyote vanished untouched into the brush.
“Goddamn it,” Lyonel cursed bitterly beneath his breath.
Duncan glanced sideways at him but said nothing.
–
Later, down at camp, Duncan knelt beside the freezing mountain stream cleaning soot-blackened pots and pans while twilight settled heavy through the trees. The water numbed his hands almost immediately. Behind him, smoke from the fire drifted upward through the pines.
Night came quickly after that.
Now the two of them sat around the campfire eating dinner from tin plates while darkness gathered thick around the mountain. Far below them, the lodgepole pines spread across the slopes in vast dark masses, green-black beneath the fading sky like slabs of polished malachite.
The fire crackled softly between them. Somewhere nearby, sheep bells chimed in the dark.
Lyonel finished eating first. He stood slowly and began saddling his horse again, preparing to head back up with the herd for the night.
Before mounting, he paused and looked back toward Duncan.
The firelight caught his face strangely soft for a moment.
“No more beans,” Lyonel said with mock pleading in his voice.
Duncan looked up from where he sat beside the fire.
Then, after a second, he nodded once.
“Arra, right so.”
–
Duncan sat on the fallen log beside the fire, cigarette held loose between two broad fingers, smoke curling upward into the cold mountain air. The flame had burned down low now, more ember than blaze, glowing red against the encroaching dusk.
He stared out across the vast gulf of land before him, the endless sweep of meadow rolling down into shadowed valleys, then rising again into distant ridges that blurred into the sky. Brokeback Mountain did not feel like one place so much as a whole world stacked on itself, each layer further and lonelier than the last.
Far out in that immense distance, Duncan finally spotted Lyonel.
At first he was nothing more than motion, a faint disturbance in the grass far across the high meadow, barely visible at all. Then, slowly, the shape of horse and rider resolved itself into something human again. Even then, he looked small enough to be swallowed by the land. Like an insect crawling across a vast tablecloth of green and gold.
Duncan watched him for a long time without moving.
–
It was late afternoon now, the light beginning to tilt toward evening. Shadows stretched long across the slopes, and the wind moved through the grass in steady waves, bending everything in its path.
Down in the meadow, Lyonel worked the herd with practiced ease. He circled the sheep on horseback, calling out sharply to the blue heelers as they darted through the flock, snapping and weaving and pushing the animals into tighter formation.
“Come on now, get on with it!” Lyonel’s voice carried faintly even across the distance.
He barked orders like the animals might actually understand him if he said it with enough force. The dogs responded instantly, ears pinned and bodies low as they obeyed every gesture. The sheep began to settle, bunching together for the night as the herd slowly bedded down beneath the open sky.
Duncan exhaled smoke through his nose and leaned back slightly on his hands.
Out there, Lyonel was just a moving point of energy in all that space, alive, restless, impossibly distant.
The sun sank lower. The mountain turned colder.
–
And then night came.
The meadow disappeared into darkness first, swallowed whole by shadow. The wind grew quieter, more cautious, as if even it didn’t want to disturb what was settling over Brokeback Mountain.
From his high camp, Lyonel stood alone now in the dark. The only light came from the thin wash of moonlight spilling across the ridges and the dim glow of his own small campfire, barely more than coals by this point.
He paused after tending the last of the sheep and straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as if tired down to the bone.
That was when he saw it.
Far across the mountain, tucked into another fold of the vast darkness, there was a second fire.
Duncan’s fire.
Just a small red spark against the immense black body of Brokeback Mountain.
From this distance, it looked impossibly far away, like a signal from another world entirely. Something fragile. Something alive.
Lyonel stood still for a moment longer, staring at it without moving. The wind tugged lightly at his coat while the sheep settled behind him into the night.
Then, quietly, he turned back toward his own camp.
–
Duncan met Steely at the supply point beneath a low stand of wind-bent trees where the trail widened just enough for a truck to turn around. The man leaned against his pickup with the casual posture of someone who had done this same drop-off a hundred times before and expected nothing interesting to happen on any of them.
Steely watched Duncan rummage through the supplies with growing focus, brow tightening as he checked sack after sack.
“Something wrong?” Steely asked finally, spitting into the dust without looking particularly concerned either way.
Duncan paused, then straightened slightly.
“The load seems light,” he said, voice clipped. “Where’s th’ powdered milk an’ th’ spuds?”
Steely pulled the list from his pocket and squinted at it like it might explain itself. “All we had,” he said simply. Then, with a sideways glance: “Thought you didn’t eat soup.”
“We’re sick o’ beans,” Duncan replied flatly.
Steely gave a short, amused huff through his nose. “It’s way too early in the summer to be sick of beans.”
Duncan didn’t answer. He had already turned back to the supplies, tightening straps, mentally reorganizing what little he had been given.
After a moment, Steely shrugged as if the conversation had reached its natural end. He walked back to his truck, climbed in, and without ceremony drove off down the trail, tires crunching through gravel until the sound faded into the mountain.
Silence returned almost immediately.
Duncan swung up onto his buckskin gelding, Chestnut, settling into the saddle with practiced weight. The horse stood solid beneath him, ears flicking as the wind moved through the trees. Behind them, two pack mules waited patiently, already loaded and tied off. Duncan clicked his tongue and started them forward.
They climbed steadily up into the high country.
Brokeback Mountain loomed in the distance like something ancient and unmoving, its ridges layered in deep greens and grays, the peaks catching pale light like worn stone. The higher they went, the quieter the world became, until even the wind seemed to thin out and leave only the rhythm of hooves and leather tack.
Duncan rode with a kind of quiet ease here. The silence suited him. It always had. He found himself whistling under his breath without meaning to, a low tune lost quickly in the open air.
Chestnut climbed steadily along the narrow trail, mules following behind in single file. The path curved around a bend, cutting through a stretch of pine and rock.
That was when everything broke.
Chestnut suddenly hesitated.
Then stiffened.
A heartbeat later, the horse spooked violently.
Duncan barely had time to react before Chestnut reared up sharply, front legs striking the air as the gelding let out a startled snort.
“Whoa—!”
A flash of black moved in the trail below them.
A small bear, more panic than threat, had wandered into the path and just as quickly realized its mistake. It bolted instantly into the trees, vanishing into brush and shadow.
But Chestnut was already gone with it.
The buckskin lunged sideways and bolted down the trail in blind panic, pack mules yanking hard behind him as the lines went taut. The sudden force tore at the loads, straps snapping and shifting violently.
Duncan was thrown clean from the saddle.
He hit the rocky ground hard, rolling once before coming to a stop against a patch of dirt and stone. Pain flared up his side immediately, sharp and breathless.
Above him, he heard the pounding hooves receding.
Chestnut had taken the mules with him, all three animals crashing through brush and undergrowth as they fled the trail. Somewhere ahead, a supply pack tore open completely. Flour burst into the air in a white cloud that hung briefly between the trees like smoke.
Duncan sat up slowly, wincing.
Warm blood trickled from a cut at his temple, running down the side of his face and into his jaw. He wiped at it once with the back of his hand, then let it be.
For a moment he just stayed there, breathing hard, listening.
Then he pushed himself up to his feet. Stiff. Annoyed more than anything.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
He looked down the trail.
A broken line of supplies led into the trees, flour, scattered grain, snapped twine, a crushed carton of eggs leaking into the dirt.
Duncan started walking.
Following the mess deeper into Brokeback Mountain.
–
The camp was quiet when Lyonel came back from the flock, the kind of quiet that only existed this high up, thin air, wind moving through dark timber, and the distant, restless sound of sheep settling for the night somewhere beyond the tree line.
He was hungry enough to be angry about it.
The first thing he noticed was the absence.
“Duncan?”
No answer.
He moved through camp quickly now, boots crunching over gravel and ash, heading straight for the tent. He pushed the flap aside and looked in, empty. Just bedrolls, supplies, and the faint smell of canvas and smoke.
His jaw tightened.
“Christ…” he muttered under his breath.
The worry came on faster than he liked. He masked it almost immediately with irritation, like it was safer that way. Safer than admitting anything else.
–
By the time he came back to the fire, it had burned down to a low flicker, throwing uneven light across the clearing. Lyonel sat on a log and finished off a can of beans straight from the tin, chewing absently while his eyes kept drifting toward the dark beyond camp.
The forest around them felt larger tonight. Closer, somehow.
He didn’t like it.
After a moment, he pulled the whiskey bottle up and took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood again. He started pacing without realizing it, slow circles around the fire, gaze cutting into the trees every time something moved.
“C’mon,” he muttered. “Where the hell you get off to…”
A twig snapped.
Lyonel stopped instantly.
His head lifted.
The sound had come from just beyond the firelight, somewhere between shadow and tree line.
He stared into it. Waiting.
Then movement.
Duncan rode into camp out of the dark.
Chestnut emerged first, breath heavy, coat glinting faintly in the firelight. Duncan followed, dismounting slower than usual, his movements a little stiff, partially obscured by the night.
Lyonel didn’t relax. Not yet.
When he saw Duncan properly, the anger he’d been holding onto shifted, softened into something more uncertain. Concern, mostly. Quickly disguised.
“Where the hell you been?” Lyonel asked sharply, too sharp. Then, after a beat, softer: “Up with the sheep all day, I get down here starvin’ and all I find is beans.”
Duncan grumbled something under his breath and walked straight past him toward the tent before dropping down onto the log by the fire.
The firelight hit him fully then.
And Lyonel stopped completely.
Blood streaked Duncan’s temple and cheek, dark and dried in places, fresh in others, running down the side of his face like he’d been marked by something out there in the mountain.
Lyonel’s expression shifted immediately.
“Good God, Duncan…” he said, voice dropping. “What happened?”
Duncan leaned back slightly, exhaustion in every line of him.
“Came by a bear,” he said flatly. “Chestnut was spooked.”
Lyonel blinked. “Who’s Chestnut?”
“My horse,” Duncan replied, like it should’ve been obvious, though there was a faint edge of confusion in it too. Then he exhaled. “Anyway. Spooked him. Took off an’ dragged th’ pack mules with him. Scattered food everywhere. Beans ’bout all we got left.”
Lyonel reached for the canteen without thinking and handed it over.
Duncan took it, then groaned quietly when Lyonel immediately snatched it back and replaced it with the whiskey bottle instead.
“Whiskey,” Lyonel muttered.
Duncan sighed but drank anyway.
Then Lyonel pulled the bandana from around his neck. He hesitated for only a second before pouring a little whiskey onto it, wadding it up in his hand.
“There’s no need fer that,” Duncan protested weakly.
“Let me help you,” Lyonel said, awkward but firm.
He leaned in, pressing the damp cloth gently toward Duncan’s temple. Duncan flinched slightly at the sting, jaw tightening, and Lyonel flinched right along with him, as if he felt it too.
“Shit,” Lyonel muttered under his breath.
Duncan finally took the bandana from him and began dabbing at the wound himself, wincing as he did.
After a moment, Lyonel straightened and stared into the fire.
“We’re gonna have to do somethin’ ’bout this food situation,” he said. Then, half-joking, half-serious, “Maybe I’ll shoot one of the sheep.”
Duncan looked up sharply.
“What if Steffon finds out? We’re supposed t’ be guardin’ th’ sheep… not eatin’ ‘em.”
Lyonel scoffed. “What’s the matter with you? There’s a thousand of them.”
Duncan shook his head slowly. “I’ll stick with beans.”
“I won’t,” Lyonel said immediately.
Then, after a beat, softer but still stubborn: “I won’t be eatin’ beans all summer neither.”