"Bet he's headed for the airport," Bud Jr. said, abruptly stopping his song in mid-lyric. "What kind of plane was it, anyway?It wasn't a commercial plane, that's for sure. I didn't see anything painted on the side. Man, it sure came out of nowhere."

Joe set the staple, tightened the wire, pounded it in with three hard blows. He tested the tightness of the wire by strummingit with his gloved fingers.

"It sings better than you," Joe said, and bent down to the middlestrand, waiting for Bud Jr. to unhook the tightener and move it down as well. After a few moments of waiting, Joe looked up to see that Bud Jr. was still watching the vapor trail of the jet. Bud Jr. looked at his wristwatch. "Isn't it about time for a coffee break?"

"We just got here," Joe said. They'd driven two hours across the Longbrake Ranch on a two-track to resume fixing the fence where they'd left it the evening before, when they knocked off early because Bud Jr. complained of "excruciatingback spasms." Bud Jr. had spent dinner lobbying his father for a Jacuzzi.

Joe stood up straight but didn't look at his companion. There was nothing about Bud Jr. he needed to see, nothing he wasn't familiar with after spending three weeks working with him on the ranch. Bud Jr. was thin, tall, stylishly stubble-faced, with sallow blue eyes and a beaded curtain of black hair that fell down over them. Prior to returning to the ranch as a condition of his parole for selling crystal methamphetamine to fellow street performers in Missoula, he'd been a nine-year student at the University of Montana, majoring in just about every one of the liberal arts but finding none of them as satisfying as pantomimeon Higgins Street for spare change. When he showed up back at the Longbrake Ranch where he was raised, Bud Sr. had taken Joe aside and asked Joe to "show my son what it means to work hard. That's something he never picked up. And don't call him Shamazz, that's a name he made up. We need to break him of that. His real name is Bud, just like mine."