Dan was a great old guy. Sometimes I would go to visit him alone, and sometimes with Patty, or Lisa, or Shawna. Or sometimes a whole troop of us would descend on him at the same time. We all called him Uncle Dan, although in reality he was uncle to none of us but rather a sort of community property, essential to us all. He was always happy to see us. He'd grin, and pass out those terrible cookies, then sit us down on the floor or rare furniture and talk to us for hours, if we would listen. He knew all sorts of stories, and could invent new ones easily if he felt our attention beginning to wander. And he would always listen to whatever any of us needed to tell him.

Sometimes, if we were very lucky, Dan would play for us. He was old, and his fingers were so gnarled they could often barely hold the bow, but when the weather was fine he could play that fiddle like no one I've ever heard since. He could play anything from classical to hoe down, and once he began he would play just as long as his crusty old joints could stand the pain. We loved him. In Fredonia it rarely snows but winters can be cold. Dan Button's dogs started barking in the evening one Sunday in February, then whined, and pawed at the door. My Uncle Jesse drove by there just after dark, and commented when he got home that it seemed strange, old Dan leaving his dogs out like that. They were usually inside and fed, curled up like big warm rugs in front of the coal stove before sundown.

We were sitting around the kitchen table, and mom was just finishing up the dishes. "He's probably gone over to Bud's for dinner," she said, wiping her sudsy hands on a dishtowel that hung over the back of my chair.

I thought about that. "Maybe we should call?" I said.

Mom looked at me, and raised her eyebrows. She didn't say anything. Bud was Uncle Dan's nephew, and it would have been natural for the old man to go there for Sunday dinner. That would explain why the dogs were outside. We didn't call.

At thirteen, when young girls long for beauty and romance, Shawna was hardly an inch over five feet tall, freckled, and had the disposition of a young maternal guinea hen. The second daughter in a family of seven children, she was virtually never seen without some younger brother of sister in tow. To me, the youngest child of aging parents, the noisy cluttered world she lived in seemed a symphony of life. But there were days, when other sisters were given chores or smaller children were whisked away for dental appointments or birthday parties, that Shawna was reprieved. Freedom from family obligation seemed to Shawna like an invitation for adventure, and she rarely wasted those offerings.

It was on such a day, when August hung over our town like a sweltering sheet on a windless clothesline, that we decided to ride the loop. Shawna had a horse, and I could borrow one from the neighbor up the street, and it seemed the ideal thing to do with a whole day stretching before us. The loop is a nine mile curve that circles from the northern edge of Fredonia onto a long ridge, and back in again near the rodeo grounds below town. Western cedar and juniper trees crouch behind sandstone slabs which errupt like scales from the red clay of our hills, and the purple cliffs of Northern Arizona buttes rise in guardian walls all along the way. We often went there, climbing to the petroglyphs half way around, or cooking dutch oven dinners beneath the erstwhile shade of the evergreens, but neither of us had ever ridden a horse around the loop; we'd always come with parents or friends who drove.

Although Shawna had a horse, she did not own a saddle. She was a petite girl, and her horse was really more a pony, so lacking a saddle had never seemed a serious problem. When I arrived for our jaunt firmly astride heavy tooled leather Shawna was ready, her skinny thighs clenched fiercely around the plump sides of her dappled grey gelding.

For perhaps the first hour we rode in silence, making good time through the sagebrush flat before we arrived at the comparitively cooler road near the base of the cliffs. My horse was a tired old girl, who plodded along diligently at my urgings, but Shawna's horse seemed skittish. He hadn't been ridden much that summer, and I think maybe he was a little irritated at having to do so much exercise in the heat.

We'd brought a lunch, so we stopped midway around the loop, knotting our reins loosly into the foliage of a juniper tree, and the horses grazed or dozed somberly in the afternoon sunshine. When we mounted up again, we rode in single file. I was in front, and Shawna followed a gradually increasing few paces behind.

We'd been riding for quite awhile, and the heat had lulled me into a sort of dreamy trancelike world, so when my horse jumped, I wasn't ready for it. It jumped, and shied up the embankment about fifteen feet, all in the same move, and I nearly fell off. As soon as I'd calmed the mare down, I could see what the problem was. Right in the middle of the road a huge diamondback rattler was coiled, apparently absorbing some of the sun himself. He wasn't making any threatening moves, but he was nearly as big around as my arm, and he definitely looked menacing. From where I was, partway up the side of the hill, I could easily skirt the part of the road the snake had taken over, but I couldn't safely go back to warn Shawna. So I stayed there, and waited until she wandered into sight. "Snake," I whispered as loud as I dared, once she seemed within hearing distance.

"What?" she shouted, obviously no more on the lookout for danger than I had been.

"Snake," I repeated, mouthing the word clearly, and gesturing toward the road.

"Snake?" she hollored, "Where?"

"There," I said, pointing, and trying to calm her down. "In the road, right in front of you."

I think Shawna saw the snake just about the same time the horse did, and they reacted in almost exactly the same way. Shawna's first instinct was to run, and she'd already started to slide off the grey's back when he bolted. Only he didn't just bolt. He jumped straight up about five feet in the air, and came down running on the other side of the snake. Shawna had kept the reins wrapped around her hand, and had just been in the process of sliding off when the horse made his move. She ended up somewhere like half way around the horse, with one arm actually hanging on to the underside of its belly, and the other hand frantically gripping the bridle. She started yelling immediately, which probably just added to the horse's terror, because he made no sign of slowing down. I took off after them, but they were already around the bend and down the hill before I even got close.

My old black mare gave it her best effort, but she was tired, and no match for the snake crazed pony. I pushed as hard as I could, and Shawna yelled, but it took us at least a mile before I caught up with her, and even then I had to try several times before I could nudge her horse over and get hold of the reins. Once I had her pony's head I finally stopped him. But that didn't stop Shawna's yelling.

"How come you took so long," she screamed at me, letting go entirely and dropping on her back into the soft dirt of the roadway. "I could have been killed!"

I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't catch you." I thought again how much like a chicken she looked, with her skinny legs sprawled out in the dust and hair sticking from her head in little tufts.

"Well you should have," she ranted. "I almost couldn't hang on. I might be dead right now." "I'm sorry," I repeated, looking down at her. She still hadn't lifted herself out of the red powdery dirt, and streaks of it were mixed with rivulets of sweat that ran down her face and across her neck. The pony may not have been entirely calm, but he was quiet. He stood almost rigidly at attention, his four legs straddling Shawna's prone body.

"You look ridiculous," I said. "Your hair's red."

She glared at me another few seconds, then started to laugh, so I laughed too. She rolled out from under the pony and tried to brush some of the dirt off, but didn't do much good. She was filthy. "Damn," she said. Then again, "Damn." There didn't seem to be anything more to say about it so she got back on her horse, and we started to ride. The sun had begun to settle across the western horizon, and streaks of red crept hesitantly across the sky. Golden light bathed the shadows, and rocks and bushes stood out starkly, as though painted in silhouette. This time Shawna rode in front of me, and both horses sauntered along at a nice steady walk all the way back to town.

Part 2: A Single Step

Shawna crouched in the far corner of the second booth, an old white sweatshirt draped over her knees and a suitcase pushed demurely under the table. She was waiting for me, but didn't look up as I slid into the opposite side.

"Hi," I said, trying my best to sound casual.

She didn't answer at first, but raised her eyes to peer up at me from under her eyebrows. Huddled over the steam of her coffee mug, she looked like a mystic, prophesying her own fate. "You didn't say anything, did you?" She muttered, sounding defensive and afraid at the same time.

I sighed. "I didn't say anything," I answered. "But I thought about it. I should have."

"Don't." She said, straightening up and reaching for the sugar dispenser. "If you don't tell anybody, I'll be halfway there before anyone figures out I'm even gone."

"They'll know I knew something, when they find out," I told her, shaking my head at the approaching waitress. "Your mom is going to yell at me."

Shawna grinned. "So? She's yelled at you before."

I smiled back. "Yeah, no big deal. But it's your dad that bothers me, really. He'll just look at me, Shawna, and wonder why I didn't stop you."

"Well you can't stop me, you know that. I'm going to do it."

I did know that. I might be able to delay her by telling her parents, or the cops; but I couldn't stop her. Shawna was probably the most stubborn person I knew, and once she'd made her mind up there was nothing that could change her opinion.

"It's going to be ok, Jo," She said, trying to reassure me. "Steve will be waiting for me at the depot, and everything will be fine."

I nodded. Under the hum of air conditioning, the clink of spoons against china coffee cups sounded like bells.

There was a bustle of activity at the heavy glass front door, then the hiss of air breaks as the Greyhound bus pulled up along the sidewalk. The door opened, and perhaps twenty travel weary passengers descended, dragging an assortment of bags, boxes, or coats. The waitresses sprang into action, hastening them into tables already laid with placemats and water glasses, and scattering menus in a broad sweep around the room.

The bus would stop at the Trails End Cafe for half an hour, giving the riders a dinner break and picking up any freight traveling south toward Phoenix. Highway 89 was the main artery linking Utah to Arizona, and with no train stations or airlines the Greyhound bus became the only means of public transport for all the little towns along its path.

Shawna stood up, and helped herself to a refill from the coffee maker. Then she looked around the room, pausing to stare through the plate glass windows toward the traffic on Main Street. I thought perhaps she was saying good bye.

"I don't think you should do this," I said, knowing it was no use. "You should at least wait a year, until we graduate."

"I'm going to go, Jo Lynne," she repeated, smiling patiently. "If it bothers you, you don't have to stay. I can get on that stupid bus by myself."

"No, I'll stay," I said, looking at her levelly. "I just had to say I think you should wait." Shawna reached out then, and broke the head from the pink carnation that stood in a cut glass vase beside the napkin holder. Twirling it between her fingers, she looked down into the lacy petals, as though searching through a maze. "I'll call you when I get there," she said. "Steve has a phone in his apartment."

"All right," I answered. "Let me know when, you know, when you get married."

"I will," she said, without smiling.

The bus driver had been standing by the cash register for the past several minutes, talking with Peach, the owner of the the restaurant. He turned now, stretching out his arms, then shouted, "All aboard. Leaving in five minutes for Page, Flagstaff, Phoenix, and points south."

Shawna stood up, and pulled her suitcase out from under the booth. "I have my ticket already," she said, "so I'm just going to go get on the bus."

I nodded.

"Well, I'll see you," she said, just looking at me.

I walked with her to the front of the restaurant, and held the door while she went through with her suitcase. Then she moved up the tiny stairs to the bus, and disappeared into the interior. I stood there for a minute, then went and got into my car. I didn't start the engine, but just sat there until the driver came out, and coughed life into the old Greyhound. Signaling all down its length, it pulled into traffic and slowly moved off down the highway. It was about nine in the evening, and the sun had already fallen behind the cliffs at the west of town. On the horizon the sky hung like melted butter, casting an amber glow onto the faces of all the buildings down Main Street. Above the slow drone of traffic, I could hear the twitterings of night birds, and the soft lazy chirp of a cricket. I started my car, and Just an Old Fashioned Love Song was playing on the radio. I pulled onto the highway, and felt the undertone of silence as day closed around me.