Crowe had, of course, totally disappeared.
'Well, you drifted into the wrong fucking party, man,' said the boy, and made as if to take another step, as Donny tried to figure out whether to pop him or to cut and run to avoid the hassle.
But suddenly another figure dipped between them.
'Whoa,' he said, 'my brothers, my brothers, let's not lose our holy cools.'
'He's a fucking ' said the aggressor.
'He's another kid, you can't blame the whole thing on him any more than you can blame it on anyone. It's the system, don't you get that? Jesus, don't you get anythingf' 'Yeah, well, you have to start somewhere.'
'Jerry, you cool out. Go smoke a joint or something, man. I'm not letting any three guys with booze bottles jump any poor grunt who came by looking to get laid.'
'Trig, I ' But this Trig laid a hand on Jerry's chest and fixed him with a glare hot enough to melt most things on earth, and Jerry stepped back, swallowed and looked at his pals.
'Fuck it,' he finally said.
'We were splitting anyhow.'
And the three of them turned and stormed out.
Suddenly the music started again--Stones, 'Satisfaction'--and the party came back to life.
'Hey, thanks,' said Donny.
'The last thing I need is a fight.'
'That's okay,' said his new friend.
'I'm Trig Carter, by the way.' He put out a hand.
Trig had one of those long, grave faces, where the bones showed through the tight skin and the eyes seemed to be both moist and hot at the same moment. He really looked a lot like Jesus in a movie. There was something radiant in the way he fixed you with his eyes. He had something rare: immediate likability.
'Howdy,' Donny said, surprised the grip was so strong in a man so thin.
'My name's Fenn, Donny Fenn.'
'I know. You're Crowe's secret hero. The Bravo.'
'Oh, Christ. I can't be a hero to him. I'm in it till my hitch ends, then I'm gone forever back to the land of the cacti and the Navajo.'
'I've been there. Mourning doves, right? Little white birds, dart through the arroyos and the brush, really hard to spot, really fast?'
'Oh, yeah,' said Donny.
'My dad and I used to hunt them. You've got to use a real light shot, you know, an eight or a nine. Even then, it's a tough shot.'
'Sounds like fun,' said Trig.
'But in my case I don't shoot 'em with a gun but with a camera. Then I paint them.'
'Paint them?' This made no sense to Donny.
'You know,' Trig said.
'Pictures. I'm actually an avian painter. Really, I've traveled the world painting pictures of birds.'
'Wow!' said Donny.
'Does it pay?'
'A little. I illustrated my uncle's book. He's Roger Prentiss Fuller, Birds of North America. The Yale zoologist?'
'Er, can't say I heard of him.'
'He was a hunter once. He went on safari in the early fifties with Elmer Keith.'
This did impress Donny. Keith was a famous Idaho shooter who wrote books like Elmer Keith's Book of the Sixgun and Elmer Keith on Big Game Rifles.
'Wow,' he said.
'Elmer Keith.'
'Roger says Keith was a tiny, bitter little man. He had a terrible burn as a kid and he was always compensating for it. They had a falling out. Elmer just wanted to shoot and shoot. He couldn't see any sense to a limit. Roger doesn't shoot anymore.'
'Well, after 'Nam, I don't think I will either,' Donny said.
'You sound okay for a Marine, Donny. Crowe was right about you. Maybe you'll join us when you get out.'
He smiled, his eyes lighting like a movie star's.
'Well .. .' Donny said, provisionally. Himself a peacenik, smoking dope, long hair, carrying those cards, chanting 'Hell, no, we won't go'? He laughed at the notion.
