As Sam and Armen descended deeper into that realm of isolation, Armen began to feel the immensity of the Range more acutely; he felt naked and vulnerable, and quietly hysterical. He kept his anxiety contained, and kept marching. After a couple miles, where the trail turned west and crossed Rifle Creek, Armen stopped and cocked his head, then turned to ask Sam, “you hear that?”
“A guitar,” Sam responded.
The music vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Soon after they crossed Rifle Creek, they heard a dog barking. Sam felt a charge burst up his spine, but he settled himself down. A couple minutes later a cattle dog ran up, wagging its tail, and then it turned and vanished into the trees. After a couple minutes more, a corral appeared among the trees. A pair of horses grazed outside the corral. Nearby, a man sat before a campfire holding a guitar. The man turned and tipped his Stetson in their direction.
“Mind if we make camp nearby?” asked Sam.
“I sure do,” the man answered, “I’d much prefer you make camp right here!”
The dog ran up and began sniffing Sam.
“Buck! Git!” The cowboy commanded.
Sam shuddered as the dog cowered away. “Buck?” he echoed.
“Yep. That’s his name. Why don’t you pitch your tent here? You won’t find a better spot, and you certainly won’t find better company.”
“We don’t have a tent,” Armen replied, “but we’d be happy to unroll our beds here.”
“Make yourselves at home.”
Sam took a moment to come to terms with that name—Buck. He thought it through and decided that “Buck” couldn’t be an unlikely name for a dog.
Armen continued to handle the introduction.
“Thanks, sir. My name’s Armen. This is Sam.”
“Call me Walker. Pleased to make your acquaintance. … What brings you out here?”
Sam looked at the dog, processing just how dissimilar it was to his Buck and wondering how frail and gray his Buck would be after all those years.
“Golden trout,” Armen answered.
“Well then,” replied the man. “This is the place.” The man didn’t quite resemble a TV cowboy. He didn’t look white enough, but then few California cowboys do, and that goes way back to the time of the Californios. Maybe he was Paisano. Maybe he had some Indian in him, or Mexican. Armen couldn’t quite pin it down. He headed off to scare up some firewood.
“That’s good to hear,” assented Sam as he found his voice.
The cowboy sat down facing the fire, reached back for his guitar, picked a handful of familiar notes, and then began to strum.
A little while later, Armen approached with a load of wood, recognized the melody, dropped the wood on the pile, and started to sing with a grin, “O give me a home—”, whereupon Walker interrupted,
—where the backpackers roam,
Where the deer and the park rangers play;
Where seldom is heard
An irrelevant word,
And the trails are not crowded in May …
Sam walked up and sat down by the fire. His eyes smiled while his ears followed the song.
Home, home on the Range,
Where the bear and peak baggers prey; …
After the chorus, Walker broke into a mellow, trotting solo, then resumed strumming, whereupon Sam interjected a verse he’d heard somewhere with his acquired south valley drawl.
How often at night, when the heavens were bright,
With the light of the twink-l-in’ stars,
Have I stood here amazed and asked as I gazed
If they ever had cowgirls on Mars.
Walker and Armen laughed and joined in for the next chorus round.