He looked at the badger hole. Decisions. He dug up the slacks, shook off the dirt, considered and reconsidered. Meanwhile the sun was rising, soaring like the fire of his hopes well into early morning. That Amtrak train would already be coming down the grade from Loveland Pass, bearing in its Vista-Vu dome car the bonniest colleen in the Golden West.

Haste! He counted his money: twenty-one dollars. (No credit card.) Enough to buy a pair of decent pants at Sears or J.C. Penney maybe, but what about the feast he planned for her, the imported Danish cheese, the Prague pilsener, the Swedish flatbread, the grapes, the Italian salami, a pair of filet mignons (mignones? mignoneaux? mignoni?) with bacon and mushrooms or else some lamb, marinated in a garlic lemon wine sauce, skewered with peppers and onions and tomatoes on a spit and broiled over the fire and—and of course the wine, two bottles of a fine Bordeaux perhaps, one red one white, one served at forest temperature the other chilled in ice pourquoi non?

He rehearsed the plan, rolling down the mountain toward Glenwood Springs, where he arrived to find that the time of day, Rocky Mountain Daylight Saving Time, was 6:04 A.M. He drove to the railway station anyhow, double-checking, but found the passenger depot locked. Peering through the dusty glass of the windows he read the chalked writing on the blackboard inside, the schedule of arrivals. Ten-thirty, said the board.

He had time for a cup of coffee. He located a cowboy and truckers’ café, ordered coffee, flapjacks and pigmeat. Might need the strength later. For what? Who could say? For a rescue operation, perhaps: pretty Claire treed by a bear or frozen with fear on a crag of rock or swept by chance down a raging torrent toward a thundering waterfall, who knows? Henry the Ranger would be prepared.

He left the café. Seven o’clock. Three and a half hours yet to go. He walked around the block five times, drove to the biggest food store in town, parked, waited. Made notes in his diary. Played a few tunes on his harmonica, wondering which might most impress a professional musician. None, probably. He bought a copy of the morning newspaper and read the same old news. Nothing new. Same rotten war dragging on and on, same scoundrels still in office, same derailed freight trains and overturned truck-tankers spreading chlorine gases, flammable fluids, alarums, confusion and terror. What else is new?

Finally the supermarket was opened. Henry entered, first customer of the day, and pushed his cart up and down the quiet aisles. He found most of the items on his list. When the cashier at the check-out counter added things up, Henry had only enough money left for gasoline to return to Moab and his job.

Poverty. Lacking an icebox, he buried the perishables inside his sleeping bag, insulating them from the sun, and drove once again to the railroad station. The passengers’ waiting room was open. He entered, looked at the clock on the wall above the ticket windows then at the schedule board. The westbound train would be twenty minutes late. Fifty minutes yet to go. He went into the men’s room with his satchel in hand, peeled off his sweaty shirt and bathed himself from the waist up with soap and cold water. He dried himself with paper towels, took out his razor and shaved his bristling jaw, his blue-gray chin and upper lip. Trimmed his eyebrows. With thumb and forefinger plucked a few hairs from his nostrils. He ran a hand through his black hair, finding it greasy again; just another greaseball hillbilly. He shampooed his hair for the second time in less than twenty-four hours and slicked it down with a comb, then fingerwaved his standing pompadour. He brushed his teeth and deodorized his hairy armpits.