The cowboys on the Hat Six are a good bunch. Most of them have ridden together for a while and know how to get things done, Not a tinhorn among them. Each is able to sit a horse, quick with a loop, and ready to use a sixgun if it came down to it. A solid crew. The owner, Frenchy Pinoicit, has so much faith in them he is able to entrust the day-to-day business of the spread to their care while his own mind is occupied with more exciting and interesting business prospects. He's ridden the San Juan Mountains alone for the past couple weeks searching for something he didn't talk about much . This one is a little weird even by Frenchy's standards. He said he was prospecting bentonite but in fact he is searching for an eleven inch man.

"A little feller, about yay high," Frenchy said to his crew boss, Sheldon, leveling his palm off at the top of his Coca-Cola. Then he proceeded to tell of two miners who blasted a hole and found him sitting crosslegged in the back of a carved out cavern, eyeing them carefully. It had frightened the two so badly they'd run right back out into the open, then been unwilling to bed down where the little rascal might come out and find them sleeping.

If Frenchy had followed the miners just a few more steps, he'd see them pulled into the Casper Wyoming branch of the Theosophical Society,to be placed in comfortable settees, warmed with English teas and filled with sweet scones. The Casper group had taken on an entirely new air of excitement, with the recent arrival of an  odd collection of physicians, physicists, and metaphysicians racing to find a place to continue their research beyond the prying eyes and long arms of the recently formed FDA. 

Within hours, these Borderland Scientists, as they term themselves, are loading cabinets of complex electronic gadgets designed by their flights of scientific fancy and constructed of wire, rheostats, lights, gauges, paddles and switches. Leaving their hidden compound, the Borderland Research Center, nestled in a small valley two miles west of the Hat Six Ranch, they turn southwest, guided by their machines.

The race for the Little Man is on.
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"Tell me what you see," Marcus said, hoisting Kenneth up to the lip of the window ledge.

Kenneth's stubby little fingers were wrapped around the edge, barely able to grasp and certainly not strong enough to pull his weight higher, giving the vantage his brother was pushing him to strive for. If anything, he was just leveraging himself against the crumbling white exterior wall as a rock climber does going up the cliff.

He could feel his older brother's shoulders shaking beneath his feet, making the perch he was trusting shudder like a ladder ready to collapse.

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Whatever you're able," Marcus said, before tossing in a personal aside. "Stupid."

"Put me down, cause I can't," Kenneth said. 

He heard a deep sigh in response. He didn't need to see the disgusted snarl contorting his brother's face. It was one of those two or three expressions saved for him alone, shared lavishly when they were out of sight from parents, judges, and any authority whom might appreciate their ruthless contempt.

"Then, why am I going to all this trouble? Huh? You tell me."

"You just want to find out if she's going to the bathroom."

"Oh! You ugly little queer." Marcus said. "You really don't understand anything about competition, do you? Things I have to do to win. Fuck you!"

And Kenneth felt all support beneath his feet disappear, instantly. His finger holds on the board, tenuous at best, served no more purpose than supporting him just long enough for his brother to step safely back. Then, he fell, light through the bathroom window shifting quickly to the black background of the evening sky with streaks replacing the points of starlight. Having his body pressed tightly against the house caused him to collapse in a perfect arc, anchored to the wall on the point of his toes, slamming to the ground like a board, head, shoulders, back, and hips making contact simultaneously. The breath was driven from his lungs and he was unable to draw more.

Three events, in rapid succession.

First, the back gate slamming behind Marcus as he made his escape.

Next, four floodlights on tall metal poles, suddenly bathing the entire backyard like a high school football field in the glare of game night lights.

Finally, creaking of the redwood slats beneath the weight of somebody stepping out of the back door and onto the deck.

It didn't matter. Kenneth knew his brother really did just want to see Deborah McAfee with her panties down, peeing. 

Marcus could say whatever he wanted.
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