When they first went hunting together they were boys in high school. Dave still had the same pick-up. A sixty seven Dodge.
They always went to the same place, a hundred miles from nowhere. Their only landmark the Burning River Mountains falling away to the south. They hunted the sagebrush along the rim of a canyon and twice they had brought home an antelope. Twice in twenty two years.
This year they planned to cross the canyon. The canyon had always seemed impassable, with sheer walls dropping to a small river, but someone told Wally the Indians had a way across and the year before they thought they might have found their route.
It was late when they got there. They camped in the dark and in the cool morning they locked the truck and pulled on their packs. Sagebrush rolled away in every direction. The canyon edge, just a hundred yards away, did not show itself.
The way down was a nightmare. Tiny footholds. Did old people and babies really come this way to the obsidian hills? What about their horses? They found old wooden pegs driven into the rock wall from time to time.
``Hand holds,'' said Wally. He was sick with fear each time he looked down. His pack pulled him away from the wall, tried to pull him into the abyss. He took off the pack and dropped it down to land in the rocks along the river. Hopefully it wouldn't wash away. He sighed with relief. So much easier now. Just his gun on his back.
The way up on the other side seemed much easier. Almost like a trail. At the top they were in new country. They got out the topo.
``Let's not get on the bombing range,'' Dave said, ``I bet it isn't signed.''
``If we get one we'll never get it out,'' said Wally. They both laughed. It was fifteen years since they last got an antelope.
The land seemed without feature. They stayed together. Wally the lawyer and Dave the hardware store clerk. Friends for twenty years.
Around dinner time they came over a ridge in the sagebrush and stopped in their tracks. In the bowl below them lay a B-29 in pieces. It seemed animals had hardly touched the mummified bodies of the crew who lay where they had fallen more than fifty years ago.
A Rolex watch on a dessicated wrist. A metal canteen. Pilot's log in the cockpit.
``No one's been here,'' said Wally. ``No one ever found it.''
Dave looked around him, ``Someone must have,'' he said, ``some cowboy must know.''
``We should notify the airbase.''
They picnicked in the silent company of the dead. Hunting seemed no longer an option. Before they left Wally went back to look again at the pilot, the pilot's Rolex. He stooped to touch it. Dry flesh flaked and blew away. He raised his eyes and saw them. Three of them on the rim of the sagebrush bowl. Watching. Wally lifted an arm in half hearted greeting. No response.
``Let's get out of here,'' he said.
They camped that night under a single juniper lodged in the small space at the canyon bottom. In the morning there were footprints of a mountain lion around their camp.
The way back up seemed easier now, They tossed their packs in the back of the truck. When Dave unlocked the door he found spent cartridges scattered on the floor.
``Are these a warning or what,'' he said.
``Let's get out of here,'' said Wally.