Lyman's saddle was in some vestibule now. It was dusted. Maybe it had been polished, but it was in a vestibule to lend atmosphere. It was owned by someone who had never known Lyman or Banner and to whom they were not important.

During his last years Lyman had lived all the time in the city. He had brought Banner in to a riding stables there where dulled mounts trailed tracks and only picked up speed when nearing the barns again.

I had seen him once. Lyman. A lean figure in jeans and jacket riding Banner on a blustery afternoon on the barrens along the concrete river. My young heart had twisted and anger grew hot and searing seeing that, desiring to demand of Lyman how he could do that! How he could live in the crowded noise and dirt and bring Banner there. But maybe Banner preferred to be with Lyman anywhere. What the two of them had only they could know. Lyman died at some point. Of TB or alcoholism or both.

 

 

 

 

Damn you, damn you, Jackson, damn you!

 

 

 

 

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