Читаем Back of Beyond полностью

The three Wall Streeters rode behind Rachel Mina; James Knox, Drey Russell, and Tony D’Amato. Gracie guessed that maybe Knox had been on a horse before, and possibly Drey. But certainly not Tony, who kept saying things like, “Where is the brake on this thing?” and “What good is a saddle horn that doesn’t honk?” Tony kept the other two laughing with his stupid asides and observations, and Gracie guessed it was kind of an act. Tony pointed out each time Knox’s gelding’s long penis unfurled and swung loose from side to side as the horse walked, saying, “Look who’s relaxed,” or “He reminds me of me when he does that.” The three men together were interesting, she thought. She’d seen very few male friendships up close in her life and the way they chided and insulted each other was a way of showing affection, she guessed. If women talked like that to each other there would soon be scratching and blood. She also thought how quickly boring it would become if every other statement was about their sexual organs, as it was with the male Wall Streeters. Despite their goofiness, though, Gracie liked having the three men around. They seemed solid and anchored. Better than three women, she thought. Especially on a trip like this.

The strange man, K. W. Wilson, rode behind them on a pale gray gelding. Although he wasn’t wearing a black hat or shirt, there was something dark about him. Brooding but at times kind of smiling to himself. Like he had a secret or found his thoughts amusing. The ghostly pallor of his horse only added to the image. He was thin and his face was made of sharp planes shoved together, as if he’d once had a normal face but somebody crumpled it in from the sides where it bent like sheet metal. His eyes were mounted close over the sharp bridge of a hatchetlike nose. He needed a shave and the trip had barely even started. He didn’t seem to laugh at the jokes of the Wall Streeters, not at all. Gracie was wary of him, and unlike Rachel Mina, had zero desire to get to know him at all.

Her dad rode behind Wilson, and Danielle was just ahead. Danielle rode well even though she didn’t have a clue as to what she was doing. Gracie wished she filled her saddle as well as Danielle, and wondered if and when her own butt wouldn’t be skinny and bony like a boy’s. Already it hurt. She could use some of Danielle’s padding, she thought.

* * *

“How’s that horse ridin’?” Dakota Hill asked in a tone Gracie could hear but low enough the others couldn’t.

“Good,” Gracie said. “I really like her.”

“Strawberry’s a good little horse. You can depend on her. Just don’t get her too close to those horses up front if you can help it, especially that black one, Midnight. Midnight don’t like Strawberry.”

“That’s too bad,” Gracie said, again leaning forward and patting Strawberry’s neck, “’cause she’s such a sweet girl.”

“Yup.”

Gracie thought Dakota Hill looked like a natural cowgirl in a way that Jed didn’t look like a natural cowboy. She was the type of woman, Gracie thought, who would be almost beautiful if she wore makeup. But Dakota seemed determined to fight against type by playing at being gruff and no-nonsense. What kind of woman wanted to be known as a “mule-skinner”? Gracie was puzzled by her but oddly fascinated at the same time.

When she turned back around in the saddle with the smile still on her face, she was jarred by two sets of eyes directly on her. From the front, Jed McCarthy looked on in what seemed like disapproval. And from a few horses away, K. W. Wilson smirked.

* * *

They were walking their mounts through the middle of a large green saddle slope rimmed by trees on all four sides. The air smelled slightly of sulfur. Jed had walked his string off the trail and let the others pass by. Gracie could see him talking to each rider in turn as they rode past him.

As she rode up next to him he asked, “You and that horse getting along?”

“Yes.”

“You sit a nice horse,” he said, nudging his horse into a walk until they rode side by side.

“I’ve been telling everyone to make sure to stay on the trail,” he said. “It’s more important here in Yellowstone than anywhere else.” He gestured toward a large white patch of ground to their right about a hundred feet away. “See that there?”

“Yes.”

“See anything unusual about it?”

“There’s no grass on it, I guess.”

“Look closer. Look at it about an inch above the ground.”

She squinted and noticed how the air seemed to undulate slightly, as if it were underwater. In the center of the white patch, a slight wisp of steam or smoke curled out of a hole the size of a quarter.

“What is it?”

“This is the thing about this place,” he said. “That’s a fumarole, or steam vent. The white is a dried mineral crust that’s covering a place where superheated water comes up out of the ground. The hole there releases some of the steam. Otherwise, it might build up too much pressure and erupt.”

“Wow,” she said, shaking her head.