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Craig Nybo

4

his house to change out of his uniform and lock his gun away in the steel safe he kept in his bedroom closet.

•••

Ten minutes later, Kurt walked across Hugh’s lawn toward the porch.

“Glad to see someone has his finger on the pulse of this seminal community of ours,” Hugh said as Kurt sat next to the old man on a white-painted, hard wood bench. “May I entice you to a bottle of the mountain’s finest?” Hugh said and offered a cool bottle of Coors.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Kurt took the bottle.

Kurt saw Hugh as a man who had lived life to maximum capacity. Hugh’s stories never ceased, and they never failed to engage Kurt as a rapt listener. Hugh had worked as a lumberjack by trade but spent many passionate hours reading and traveling. He had seen the world, drank from its orchards, and sampled the scents and colors of every continent. He had even fought the North Koreans and the PRC along the 38th parallel. It was hard to imagine that such an exorbitant amount of life experience could exist in Hugh’s failing frame. He was now in his late golden years with a touch of shaky palsy and even more rheumatism. But Hugh never complained.

“So what problems have the diabolical minds of DePalma Beach dreamed up for you today?” Hugh said. The old man’s voice boomed, reminding Kurt of a sea-captain barking out orders.

Kurt sipped his beer. “I paid a visit to Buren People’s ranch today.”

Hugh chuckled, deep and rustic. “Buren, Buren, Buren. You know, he wasn’t always a half-crazed conspiracy theorist. I taught him to fly-fish when he was in his early teens. He was quite good at it if I recall correctly. What did the old boy have to say?”

“He had twenty-two head of sheep on his spread mangled by a pack of wolves last night.”

“Oh?”