Twenty of these things, hung in trees across three states. No rhyme to where the tribes left 'em, near as I can tell — but there's a rhythm to findin' 'em, if you know how to ride it. Nobody I asked could tell me who strung the last one, or why. Some things a man just has to go and see for himself.
There's no single tree marked on any map I've seen — these sit loose within the stretches below. Ride the line, keep your eyes up, and you won't ride past one.
Started this hunt where the map calls itself Ambarino, followin' a straight line down through it — out past Cotorra Springs, up toward Bacchus Bridge, on near Fort Wallace, and down close to the Wapiti reservation. Four of 'em, strung along one clean stretch of country. Didn't much matter which end I started from. A man could ride it top to bottom or bottom to top and end up just as far along.
Angled east from there, followin' a line that carries clean across into New Hanover. One sat south of Grizzlies West, another just east of Cotorra Springs — same springs, different tree, funny how a place can hold more than one of these things without a soul noticin'. The last of the three waited down near Widow Rock, off the main road south.
One standin' clean on its own, out near the middle of the Heartlands, close to where the map spells its own name. Middle of nowhere, middle of everything. A man could ride right past it if his mind was elsewhere — mine usually was.
Thick of it, here. Five of 'em bunched close enough together a man won't lose the thread between trees. Found 'em scattered around the overflow lakes in the Heartlands, west of a pig farm I'd rather not describe further, north of a shack I recall belonged to a fella named Lonnie, and on down into the edge of Bluewater Marsh. Take your time through this stretch — the swamp'll swallow a afternoon if you let it.
Pushed east after that, up along the line that runs past Van Horn, zigzaggin' north toward Brandywine Drop. Found 'em near the railroad tracks by Citadel Rock, on through the edge of Annesburg, and climbin' the length of Roanoke Ridge — that stretch held onto a couple more, if a man kept his eyes on the high ground instead of just the tracks.
There's a fifth one waitin' along this same stretch, further south, close by Elysian Pool. I know it's there. I left it for later — had my reasons, and they'll make sense by the end of this.
Instead of takin' that fifth one waitin' by the pool, I cut north — clear up to the corner of Ambarino, past where the map marks its O, southwest of a spot they call The Loft. Lonesome stretch of land up there. Cold, too, most days. But the tree's easy enough to find once you're close, same as all the rest.
Turned around after that and rode back south, down to the one I'd left waitin' near Elysian Pool. Twentieth. Last one. Rode a strange sort of loop to get to it, doublin' back over ground I'd already covered, but it put me right where I needed to stand.
Pulled my notebook out, same habit as always after findin' one of these. Except this time was different. All twenty marks I'd made, connected clean into somethin' — a buffalo, plain as day once I looked at it right. And off to the side, a mark I hadn't put there myself. Sat right about where the eye of the thing should be. Never counted toward the twenty. Just showed up once the twenty were done.
Pointed me straight back to where I'd just come from — Elysian Pool. Wasn't done with that place after all.
What I found from there, I'll let a man see for himself. Some doors are worth walkin' through blind.