Warlock looked with some satisfaction at his woodpile. A small fire burned near a bed of green ferns on which he had spread the Space Blanket. There was a tin cup of water near the fire, hopefully on the verge of boiling—he was excruciatingly thirsty but imagined a dead animal lolling in the muck upstream from where he had drawn the water. My small kingdom for a flashlight. The pistol and knife were fine but you could scarcely shoot and stab the night. He would have to wait for the enemy to pounce into the frail ring of light the fire threw. This wouldn’t be a good time for Hudley to pull a surprise, no sudden playful leap out of the dark. He might just get hurt. Dad had once said when they were lost while trout fishing, “The pioneers had it a lot harder than we’re having it, Son.” This was before Dad had acquired the cretinoid macho lingo of the big city detective. But the trouble with the pioneers is that they largely knew what they were doing. Way back, when, in an undergrad American Studies class, a dipshit coed had asked what pioneer women used for sanitary napkins, and a bullnecked jock had shouted out “corn cobs” to a roar of approval. This was an unlikely event at Oxford, Warlock thought at the time, knowing full well that nearly all of the huge institutions of the Midwest were not so much universities as jerrybuilt vocational centers providing bum-wads for the economy. In any event, his B.S. and M.B.A. were for nought in a forest where data processing machinery and charitable foundations were noticeably absent: and where man’s-best-friend scooted off at nightfall. Perhaps he was trying to lead me back to the car? Unlikely at the speed he was running. It was a jungle. The dried fruit and jerky back in the motel wastebasket might have added up to an offbeat little stew. There had been a couple of those airline two-ounce bottles of whiskey in the survival kit but he had withdrawn them in a time of need. This was certainly an opportune moment to begin fasting and quit drinking. It was odd to have a wallet thick with expense money and not so much as a tea bag to comfort oneself. The imaginary girl scout walks drowsily up from the creek and spreads herself on the Space Blanket. Throw me the pork. No. Be my friend. No. Keep me warm. No. Let’s run away. But we don’t have a flashlight. He sank to a crouch as an owl beat overhead with the sound of sails rumpling in light wind. He applied a noxious mosquito dope to face, head, neck, hands and ankles, piled more wood on the fire and lay down on the crinkly blanket in time to hear the first chorus of yipes from coyotes. “Oh Jesus. Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep bless all the children throughout the world who are cold, sick and hungry.” Even me. Coyotes do not attack man. They’re just singing. They did not really have to pick this fucking spot. Luckily it was warm and luckily Diana had offered the consolation of it being the shortest night of the year—way up here, about ten to five—seven hours. Banning any other choices he could guts it out, by god. And come out better for it. Oh, a night in the woods, no inconvenience, really, part of the job, you know. He dozed, but there was an image of Diana with a black and he was jolted awake. The black must be me in blackface. Gather your pluck. The great Gauguin must have slept on the South Sea beaches when forced there by poverty, or tripped there by rum, likely with a dusky wahine. Were there mosquitoes in Tahiti? No bears, certainly. A new cattle prod up the spine. Bears. Big bears. But they mostly came to campsites for food and the last food hereabouts was the veal knuckle in Hud’s mouth. He’s still chewing it somewheres, probably in the car where he didn’t lead me. Diana wanted to see a grizzly in Wyoming but no deal in the Yellowstone traffic jam. The coyotes seemed to come closer and he fingered the .38, but they raced down the far side of the creek bed and in moments he could barely hear them. Good riddance. He’d only seen a dead one but this was even more scary, he thought. Hunting with Air Force buddies in Texas. This Mexican-Indian who was a jet mechanic said they could shoot a javelina and barbecue it, maybe screw some Indian girls if we bought lots of beer. It was so hot and Baxter from up in Maine was way ahead and they heard him screaming I got one, I got one. It wasn’t a javelina but a good-sized boar and he said shit a pig’s a pig when they beat him on the back laughing. I cleaned it with the Indian and we gave Baxter the huge balls. What should I do with them? Get them grafted on said Klein. The Indian’s relatives were sheep ranchers and scraped all the hair off and roasted it. Warlock slept then, thinking of Diana’s music, and imagining her face at its most demure and lovely but it tended to change to her face at the farthest shore of sexual passion. I sure can’t control my mind. Snore. Then the brief dream came roaring in, the antipodes of promise and grace: Mom was a trout with a woman’s face flopping on a riverbank, and Dad pushed him into haunted basements, then he whirled around the sky sometimes upside down, and Diana was cutting at his leg, naked with a bunch of men behind her, the boar with its shiny, grotesque face was standing beside the fire talking to him, in basso, jolly tones but in Spanish; Diana was biting his dick and laughing. His hand was hot and he yelled. Too close to the fire. Oh my god. He yelled again—FUCK THIS PLACE. He was angry now and sipped at his tin cup of hot water and ashes. Barely after two A.M., and at least three more hours. He stomped around the fire then added more wood. Maybe he couldn’t trust Diana but that was slipping back into the dream. Except for once with that photographer when they were more or less engaged. That wasn’t her fault. Another distant coyote. When they were dragging the boar back to the car they stopped at a creek to wash off the dried blood. In a grove of cottonwoods Baxter yelled “Come over here.” There was a big, dead coyote with a few yellow cottonwood leaves resting on him. What killed him? Old age said the Indian, look at that gray hair on his muzzle. Baxter took out his knife to take the ears for the hell of it, but the Indian said no it’s bad luck so he didn’t. Now he got the feeling that he could retrace his steps to the car. He stepped out of the light of the roaring fire and saw the deepest throw of stars of his life. Must be billions and the Milky Way like a waist down the middle. Jesus. Beautiful but no night for straying. Then there was a scream so penetrating that he could recapture it ever afterwards; thin and prolonged, it repeated itself twice. His hair tingled and ruffled, became damp, and his breath held until it exploded of its own accord. He was back near the fire with the gun in his hand without knowing how either of them got there. He had chosen a knoll without even a tree to back up to. He peered into the dark in the direction of the scream until his eyes were dry. Some of the wood was wet and greenish and the fire bellowed with smoke, and anyone approaching the fire might have hesitated at the sight of the man on the knoll. But no one was out there, not even a religion. He sat down cross-legged, utterly giving up. His eyes were still open but he wasn’t seeing anything, not past, present, future. He had been frightened out of his wits. Jesus, Dad, and Diana disappeared. After a while he crawled back to his ferns, hearing a first bird call, however premature it might be. The fire burned low and smokeless now and he could see the stars clearly without wanting to count them. Be fun to go out there and see them close up. Wasn’t he called Warlock himself, for god’s sake, for thirty years? He belonged out here. If something wants to come along it will surely get its ass kicked. More birds. Moist. Dew falling. First squawk of crow. Nice to dress Diana in green leaves or green grass of the green you see in England. All the birds on the earth now started. Where had they been all night? Then a streak of light in the east and a little breeze off the lake.