Storm's Thunder
Page 31
The valley thrives at its extremities, protects its flanks, and in its barren and forgettable crotch, offers up the Bend. I tune my ears to the sounds of its discontent. I can almost hear the arguments brewing at the meeting hall, where this minute strident voices debate the proper course of action. It is a circus of frustration I will step into soon enough. But for now, my eyes fix on the Sangres.
A wildfire, when it happens, coats the sky for miles in a billowy, ashen cloud. And a controlled brush burn or the clearing of timber leaves a choking thumb smudge of black. But the thin gray string of vapor rising from the pass directly across from me now indicates none of those things. From the Bend I would not see this spindly column of smoke at all. Only here in the foothills—blessed by the sharp eyes the Spirits gave me—am I of sufficient altitude to detect it. Perhaps Sheriff guides me still, or through him, the bighorn. But the meaning of the smoke is clear—a mile or two into the Sangres, in a pass the Navajo call the Gulch of No Place, a campfire burns.
I pull hard on the last of my cigarette and stub it out on the ground. Then I steel myself for the long walk back to town. There will be no sleep for me tonight.
Randall Slavin
BRANDON BOYCE was born in Staunton, Virginia, and received a B.A. in English from California State University, Los Angeles. An accomplished screenwriter, his films include Apt Pupil, Wicker Park, and Venom. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals. His first novel, Here by the Bloods, was published in 2014. Storm’s Thunder is his second novel. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife.