without saying anything about it both knew how it would go for the rest of the summer, sheep be damned. As it did go. They never talked about the sex, let it happen, at first only in the tent at night, then in the full daylight with the hot sun striking down, and at evening in the fire glow, quick, rough, laughing and snorting, no lack of noises, but saying not a goddamn word except once Ennis said, “I’m not no queer,” and Jack jumped in with “Me neither. A one-shot thing. Nobody’s business but ours.” 

     There were only the two of them on the mountain flyingin the euphoric, bitter air, looking down on the hawk’s back and the crawling lights of vehicles on the plain below, suspended above ordinary affairs and distant from tame ranch dogs barking in the dark hours. They believed themselves invisible, not knowing Joe Aguirre had watched them through his10x42 binoculars for ten minutes one day, waiting until they’d buttoned uptheir jeans, waiting until Ennis rode back to the sheep, before bringing up the message that Jack’s people had sent word that his uncle Harold was in the hospital with pneumonia and expected not to make it. Though he did, and Aguirre came up again to say so, fixing Jack with his bold stare, not bothering to dismount. 

     In August Ennis spent the whole night with Jack in the main camp and in ablowy hailstorm the sheep took off west and got among a herd in another allotment. There was a damn miserable time for five days, Ennis and a Chilean herder with no English trying to sort them out, the task almostimpossible as the paint brands were worn and faint at this late season. Even when the numbers were right Ennis knew the sheep were mixed. In a disquieting way everything seemed mixed. 

     The first snow came early, on August thirteenth, piling up a foot, but wasfollowed by a quick melt. The next week Joe Aguirre sent word to bring themdown -- another, bigger storm was moving in from the Pacific -- and theypacked in the game and moved off the mountain with the sheep, stone srolling at their heels, purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing them on. The mountain boiled with demonicenergy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light, the wind combed the grassand drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone.      As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.Joe Aguirre paid them, said little. He had looked at the milling sheep with asour expression, said, 

     “Some a these never went up there with you.” The count was not what he’d hoped for either. Ranch stiffs never did much of ajob. 

     “You goin a do this next summer?” said Jack to Ennis in the street, one legalready up in his green pickup. The wind was gusting hard and cold. 

     “Maybe not.” A dust plume rose and hazed the air with fine grit and he squinted against it. 

     “Like I said, Alma and me’s gettin married in December.Try to get somethin on a ranch. You?” He looked away from Jack’s jaw,bruised blue from the hard punch Ennis had thrown him on the last day. 

     “If nothin better comes along. Thought some about going back up to mydaddy’s place, give him a hand over the winter, then maybe head out forTexas in the spring. If the draft don’t get me.” 

     “Well, see you around, I guess.” The wind tumbled an empty feed bag downthe street until it fetched up under his truck. 

     “Right,” said Jack, and they shook hands, hit each other on the shoulder, thenthere was forty feet of distance between them and nothing to do but driveaway in opposite directions. Within a mile Ennis felt like someone waspulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time. He stopped at the sideof the road and, in the whirling new snow, tried to puke but nothing came up.He felt about as bad as he ever had and it took a long time for the feeling towear off. 

     In December Ennis married Alma Beers and had her pregnant by mid-January. He picked up a few short-lived ranch jobs, then settled in as awrangler on the old Elwood Hi-Top place north of Lost Cabin in WashakieCounty. He was still working there in September when Alma Jr., as he calledhis daughter, was born and their bedroom was full of the smell of old bloodand milk and baby shit, and the sounds were of squalling and sucking andAlma’s sleepy groans, all reassuring of fecundity and life’s continuance toone who worked with livestock.When the Hi-Top folded they moved to a small apartment in Riverton up overa laundry. Ennis got on the highway crew, tolerating it but workingweekends at the Rafter B in exchange for keeping his horses out there. Thesecond girl was born and Alma wanted to stay in town near the clinicbecause the child had an asthmatic wheeze.