was the obvious recipient of chips and candies thrown its way by scores of park visitors. The stone struck the squirrel a glancing blow on its shoulder.
“Got him,” the man proclaimed.
The squirrel jerked at the strike from the small stone. Rather than run off, however, it rose on its hind legs and sniffed at the cool morning air, forelegs aloft, awaiting the food it was accustomed to receiving.
“Check it out, pendejo,” the woman said, smacking the man on his shoulder. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” She stepped back and raised her phone, ready to take a picture. “Again,” she demanded.
The man picked up another stone, bigger this time. Behind him, Chuck stooped and picked up a walnut-sized stone of his own.
No longer content to target the ground squirrel with underhanded tosses, the man reared back and let go with a hard, overhand throw. Chuck threw overhand, too, but with much less force. The man’s stone struck the ledge to the right of the squirrel with a solid chock and caromed into the canyon. The sound sent the squirrel scurrying from sight.
Chuck’s stone struck the man squarely in the back. The man’s thick sweatshirt assured the chunk of gravel did no harm, but the stone’s impact caused the man to jump. He whirled and glared at Chuck. The logo of the Isotopes, Albuquerque’s minor-league baseball team, emblazoned the front of his gray sweatshirt. “What you think you’re doing?” he spat.
Chuck eyed the man. “You don’t like having rocks thrown at you?”
The scar on the man’s cheek turned from pink to violet as a storm of emotions crossed his face. Confusion, then dawning recognition clouded by disbelief—then rage. He took a threatening step toward Chuck, who squared his shoulders. The man drew back his fist as he advanced, the woman following.
Chuck steeled himself. He used his long, solo runs these days to burn through “all the stuff eating at him,” as Janelle put it to the girls. His morning runs were a help, but what Chuck really needed was exactly what this guy in the Isotopes sweatshirt offered.
The seconds drew themselves out as the man aimed a roundhouse at Chuck’s nose. Chuck reminded himself not to go for the man’s face in response, to avoid the battered knuckles that would result from such a blow. Acting on instinct and adrenaline, he rose on the balls of his feet, pivoted, and released. He threw his punch straight from his waist, using every bit of his coiled energy, which had built steadily in him for weeks now, despite his daily runs.
Before the man could complete his swing, Chuck buried his fist in the man’s solar plexus, treating the blow as the final, all-out shot at the end of one of his workouts, the man’s gut a stand-in for the heavy bag at the gym. Despite the man’s sweatshirt and layers of fat, Chuck’s blow found its mark.
It was good to know he still had it in him—the ability to defend himself, his honor, ground squirrels, whatever. It had been years since his last fight. He was north of forty, his sandy brown hair thinning, his blue-gray eyes covered by contacts, the pace of his runs slipping ever so slightly year by year. Regular workouts kept him fit, but age and gravity were taking their toll nonetheless, wrinkles pulling downward at the corners of his mouth, waistline gradually losing its sharp definition of youth, wrists aching after each workout from too many shots to the heavy bag over the years.
The man exhaled in a single, drawn-out ooof from the force of Chuck’s blow. The man’s hands dropped to his sides, his legs buckled, and he sank to his knees. Chuck had time to consider a follow-up punch before the woman came at him. Her eyes, framed by thick black makeup, were hot with fury. She lunged over the man and swiped at Chuck’s face. His backward leap wasn’t quick enough to avoid two of her long, red fingernails. They nicked his neck above his shirt, leaving parallel, inch-long cuts just deep enough to draw blood. The woman spun as she completed her swipe, losing her balance and toppling over the downed man. The two formed a tangled heap on the ground.
Chuck savored the sight of the collapsed couple before he returned to Rim Trail to resume his run.
Applause sounded behind him. He’d forgotten all about the Japanese tourists.
Cameras clicked and cheers burst from the group as he departed. The tourists would have a fine story to tell when they got home, wouldn’t they? The American West, a place where even lowly ground squirrels are treated with respect.
He jogged off along the rim of the sunlit canyon, more than ready for the day to come, looking forward to watching Rosie dive into the pancakes he’d promised to cook up for breakfast.
8 a.m.
No doubt Janelle would have spotted the fresh scratches on Chuck’s neck even if he hadn’t gone over to where she stood at the picnic table outside the camper as soon as he got back from his run. As it was, she returned his embrace only briefly before holding him at arm’s length, eyes on his neck, eyebrows raised.
“Tree branch,” Chuck said with a dismissive wave. Then he remembered their pact, her pact really, the one she’d made him swear to on their wedding day three weeks ago. The truth, she’d said. Always the truth between us. Nothing but.
He smiled. “Well, actually,” he took one of her hands in both of his, “I punched this guy out, and his monster wife about ripped my head off.”
The gold flecks in Janelle’s hazel eyes glittered in the morning light as she returned his smile. “Look where you’re going next time,” she said, and went back to stirring pancake batter in a large plastic bowl, her quick hands making the work appear effortless.
She was a city girl, twenty-seven, on her first camping trip. She wore a sequined black leather jacket, electric-purple sneakers, and skinny jeans. Silver hoops dangled from her ears and a small jewel sparkled at the side of her nose. Her high cheekbones and dimpled chin were sharply defined by the early sun angling through the trees.
Other camps were coming to life around them, people emerging from tents and trailers scattered beneath the ponderosa pine trees that grew tall here in Mather Campground, half a mile south of the canyon rim at the east edge of Grand Canyon Village. The needle-covered ground was speckled with shade and sunlight. Already the chill of the high-desert night was nearly gone, giving way to the blazing August day to come. The smell of wood smoke and frying bacon drifted through the trees. Campers made their way on foot along the network of roads that led to bathrooms spaced throughout the campground.
Chuck put his arms around Janelle from behind and nuzzled the back of her neck. Her long, straight, dark-chocolate hair, pulled loosely into a ponytail, tickled his face. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “Girls up yet?”
“You kidding? Late as we got here, I bet they’ll go another hour.”
He ran the tip of his nose along her cheek. She turned and kissed him hard, pulling the full length of his body against hers, then moved him backward a step with playful fingers that slipped under his shirt to tickle his stomach. “Coffee,” she directed. “Then the pancakes, like you said.”
“We’ve got an hour.”
“Not for coffee.”
They’d arrived well after dark, having made the seven-hour drive from the southwest Colorado mountain town of Durango across the Navajo Reservation in a single push. An archaeologist by profession, and founder and sole full-time employee of Bender Archaeological,
