He'd dropped his .30/30 somewhere in the woods and would not go back. He had left his desire for whiskey back there, too, and knew that he was done with whiskey and stolen cattle and most things from the city, but that he still needed a rifle and a good shotgun, also. He broke horses again until he felt that he'd broken the madness still left in him, and bought another rifle, one of the .30/06s that hunters said could shoot as straight and far as a wolf running, plus a Winchester pump shotgun, and married a woman who could make star blankets and bead white buckskin. She did not want many city things, and his jobs breaking horses and stretching barbed wire kept them in flour and cloth and shells for his guns. They had three daughters, and in the summer and fall during the drought years, when the prairie blew for days and carried the antelope and grass away on its breath, he and his family would go to the mountains where the women picked huckleberries and sold beadwork in the tourist stores while he hunted, never carrying a compass but following instead glimpses of a white deer through dark trees. He was never lost, he said, just late sometimes, and then he would sit under a tree and eat a piece of loin or heart from the elk he'd killed and wait until the white deer came by again. He said his daughters never did understand such things, though they ate the elk, and until they noticed boys and needed to smell nicer, they helped tan the hides. They wanted to ride the highways in automobiles and do other city things, but in later years when they'd grown and run away with men from the city and then come back home without their men but with grandsons, they brought him broken-winged birds and asked his help, as if they knew a knowledge of death could help life. His grandsons listened to him (as I did a few years later, following his pointing pipe through the Missouri hills), listened to how he killed the elk whose antlers lay on the dogpen roof, the old bull he'd killed on the mountain the Assiniboine called Thunder because of the clouds that always ran through its scalp. He told about falling across a rock slide in the wind of a thunderstorm and breaking nothing but the rear sight from his rifle, and how he'd climbed to the ridge where his horse had run in the lightning and the bull was lying under the only tree on the ridge, a stunted fir; he'd walked up behind rocks and swung the rifle as the bull ran like sage grouse flying, and broken the elk's neck in front of the shoulders. He told about how he killed the mule deer as big as a yearling steer-his grandsons did not believe it, he knew from their eyes, and he grew suddenly angry, remembering how it had taken all one day to lower the buck off the steep mountainside, the cowhide rope around his waist to keep the buck from sliding off into the canyon below, down to a barren ridge where he let the horse drag the deer down in the night. But he forgave his grandsons because they were young and would sometimes ride with him in the old Chevrolet pickup he now hunted from on the prairie. They shot the young sage grouse that stood under the sagebrush along the coulees with their great-grandmother's .22, and he showed them how to gut grouse quickly without a knife, but they were bored with dead things and wanted to find more live things to kill. He tried to explain that other moments were possible, but did not have the words, not because of any lack of education but because of the repetitive stubbornness between youth and old age, where grandsons never want anything but the high ridges and grandfathers have lost the memories of all the valleys and draws. As he grew older he circled the places he remembered best, the coulees near home, and left the mountains to the young men who would not climb them. He forgot to grow bitter because he kept these places in his mind.