Art was nowhere to be found. We went to the beautiful new library and saw this sign on the front door: "Closed until further notice." We made inquiries at the student cabins and geodesic domes, at the two big barns, at the saw mill, the forge, the elegant library, the covered tunnel bridges. No one knew anything. Nobody had ever heard of Arthur de Languroc.

We came upon him, finally, quite by accident. Among the fruit trees, at sundown, he rode a bicycle right into me. I was flung against an apple tree. On the ground, I gasped for air and wiped away blood leaking from my nose. "What is wrong with you people?" the cyclist yelled at us, picking up his bike and adjusting the very out-of-kilter handlebars. MacDougall took one good look at him and said, "You’re Art de Languroc."

"My mother's only," he replied. "And you are whom?"

"Aaron MacDougall. This gentleman you just crashed into is Cisco Wieland," he said, handing me many crumpled tissues from his assorted coat pockets.

"Where did you learn to ride a bike?" I said, putting my bloody nose right up to his nose. The foulness of the odor rising up from him, though eluded somewhat by my thick nasal congestion, almost hit me harder than the bike had.

"China," this reckless, malodorous kid declared matter-of-factly. He was dressed entirely in black -- even his shirt was black. He had a dark, haggard face circled in a matted knot of obsidian black beard and hair, looking far more like Abe Lincoln than MacDougall did -- an ashen-faced Abe Lincoln leaving the scene of a fire. Lank, anemic Arthur de Languroc looked like he'd just walked out of a Kentucky smokehouse. To no one's surprise, he took a cigarette from a pack he had in his shirt pocket, then held the pack out to us. Like me, MacDougall declined.

"I'm going to quit myself one day," he said, thrusting his hands straight down at his sides. “So where were you guys, anyway?" he asked. "I was looking everywhere for you."

"First off, we went to see Professor Shepperton and Tzu Jan Chi. We were told to go in search of you -- the school librarian -- which we did do. That's all we know. We were told you would help us settle in."

"Yeah," I piped in. "And there was no mention of anybody being mowed down like grass in the process. I would accept an apology, you know," I said, checking myself all over for any broken bones.

"It's dark," MacDougall pointed out. "Art, can you or can't you steer us in the directions of our accommodations for the night?"

"We can sleep in the library," Art offered, "or I can lead you to your cabin."

In silence, we set out across the campus to our hut. Torpid Art stopped often to light a cigarette -- one after another. The darkening sky turned lavender. We were led to a log cabin, maybe eight by a dozen feet, that must have been built in the time of the Wyoming gold rush. There were clean panes of glass and fresh putty in the old window frames. Fresh cement was present in the chinks between the logs. But there was no roof on it.

"It's not done yet," Art said. His entire scrawny body jiggling when he laughed. He laid down in front of a tree in front of the cabin. He put out his last cigarette that day, saying he was going to sleep right there that night. Which in fact he did do.

I had brought a tent, and now I asked MacDougall if he might like to help me get it pitched. Which in fact, in the dark of night by lantern light, we did do. I’d even brought sheets. My sleeping bag opened out so that two could lie under, and we actually kept warm and comfortable that cold night. MacDougall kept saying things about “poor Art,” worrying he’d freeze. But the smoker was already snoring about as loud as my father, Wild Bill, and I knew how deep that sleep was.

In the morning we got out my cooking gear and made six cups of strong coffee shared three ways. While warming our hands and sipping, MacDougall asked Art why he hadn't returned the previous evening to his own cabin or pagoda or whatever -- or to the library.

"Why would I go to the library?" he asked, puzzled. "It's not open."

"Why isn't it open?" MacDougall asked reasonably.

"The two State Library and Museum Services Development Grants, the certified service grant and the ‘Striving for Excellence’ grant were denied us. The school failed, under the provisions of the state's procurement rules and regulations and competitive bidding requirements, to be certified. What's this I see?" he said.

Art took down a piece of paper pinned to the cabin’s front door. He read aloud: “Go to Tumsaw city in the morning.”

“What now?” I moaned. “A treasure hunt?”

“Best just do it,” Art warned. “That’s how they do things here.”

There was a working outside sink on the cabin's eastern wall, so we washed up then dressed and headed off campus to the main road, and hitchhiked to the town. We bought some light groceries, and munched on these while roaming around the town quite aimlessly.

"Hello Cisco, good to see you," said a member my father's old rough cowboy crowd, tipping his hat. "Hey, Cisco" another ghost from the past called to me, a familiar young woman. "Great you're back! See you 'round."

"You know these people?" MacDougall asked. I gave him an abbreviated, watered-down version of my past life.

“You come to take the house away?” a lady called down suddenly from a second-floor window over the gray wooden facade of the Horsehair Inn. As there was no one else loitering in the area, we figured she was talking to us. “You -- boys! You come to take the house?”

“We don’t know,” Art called back honestly. “What house?”

“One minute,” she called down. “I’ll be right there."

We got to clear the ground,” the big woman yelled, approaching menacingly on the street in severe, pearl-buttoned square dancer’s garb. It was Edith Farber. “Hello Cisco,” she said to me."You boys can have it free. It’s just a cabin, actually. But it’s yours for the taking. We need the ground clear by tonight.”

“Can you get transportation for the house?” Art asked. “Get it somehow to the Two-Top Mountain School?”

“Sure,” the old lady affirmed, growing kinder now. “My husband Jake can take it in his truck. The cabin’s already been jacked up off the ground. Noon all right?”

“Noon it is,” Art said, casually lighting a cigarette.

It wasn’t much to look at, but the wood was good, the transportation free, and of course getting the cabin that day certainly was timely. I’d know Jake since I was a teenager. Jake wore red suspenders over a turquoise flannel shirt tucked into blue jeans and fine black leather boots. His face looked hard as granite, but he was contrarily light-stepping, animated, and soft-spoken. Using a construction site crane, he got all the pieces of the collapsed cabin in his gravel-pit dumptruck, somehow keeping the entire roof intact, and then drove it and us to the school, depositing us safely -- ridge-piece, rafters, battens, and all -- in front of the roofless cabin’s front door. He pushed a lever and the wood and roof and all slipped off the truckbed lightly to the ground. "Ten to one the new roof fits over the old cabin," Jake felt confident. "I'll be back in the morning with a crane, boys."

In the morning Jake awoke us with his loud yellow crane. He'd brought his little daughter Lizzie along -- and breakfast. Lizzie, twelve years old, in T-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops, served us bread rolls, butter, applesauce, and hot coffee. The sun was just coming up. While we ate, Jake, in coveralls, a red-checked flannel shirt, and a baseball cap, got out a pencil, paper pad, measuring tape, and a level, and climbed the walls of the cabin to jot down notes. Then he went around the new roof and compared his findings. "Boys," he said, "we got a green light."

The roof was lifted in the air. MacDougall, Art, and I took positions at three of the walls, helping to ease the new lid into place over the old structure. It was perhaps slightly larger than it ought to have been by design, but in such a matter of pure coincidence, you could hardly have expected better. There would be plenty of shade. The front stuck so far out I figured we could use the extra wood to build a porch and have a regular verandah. From my backpack I withdrew my twelve-ounce, oak-handled, full-curve claw hammer, as fine a symbol of design simplicity and engineering excellence as you will find. When he saw it, Jake whistled out loud. He had brought plaster and extra screwdrivers, hammers, 2x4's, nails, and screws so, with Lizzie inspecting our progress, we got right to work securing the roof.

"It's on the house," Jake said proudly when the work was done.

"Yes it is," Art de Languroc agreed, lighting yet another cigarette.

"No -- I mean I'm glad I could help you boys, and I did it at no cost to you," Jake explained. "No charge. No expense incurred on your part. It was my way of saying I was glad I could do this for you -- see you later. Here's my business card. 'Farber's Saddle Shop and Ogonco Gas Station, Equestrian Accessories and Paraphernalia -- saddles, spurs, boots, belts, vests, jackets, hats -- and Wyoming Souvenirs and Gas. Main Street, Tumsaw.' You young gentlemen scholars come in, I'll give you twenty percent off. C'mon, Lizzie. We got to get back to your mom."

We gave Jake and Lizzie Farber our profuse thanks. Lizzie sat in her father's lap, riding in the high, enclosed compartment of the departing yellow crane.

"I need to go now, too," Art said, smoking an unfiltered cigarette right down to his yellow fingertips. "My duty's done."

"You aren't a boarder here, with Cisco and me?" MacDougall asked, perplexed.

"Oh no. I have my own place," he said. "It's like the man said, 'No expense incurred. Just my way of saying hello and see you later.' Professor Shepperton said you'd need my help and I said I'd help, and I helped. You've got bunkbeds, dressers, desks, and a refrigerator in there. You probably ought to go back into Tumsaw to get sheets and pots and pans and things." Art wedged his cigarette between his lips, shook our hands, then thrust his arms straight down along his sides. "Don't electrocute yourselves," he laughed, and walked off like some smoking, jiggling, sallow automaton.

Quickly getting the hang of things, MacDougall and I took another tour around the cabin to see if any wires were connected, then entered our quarters to see if there was a fuse box anywhere. Nothing. No electricity. There was not a single available socket to receive the refrigerator plug. Simultaneously, MacDougall and I went to the water faucets at the kitchen sink to test these. Both hot and cold water rushed out. Again, our next consideration was mutual. We went to the toilet, threw in the bloody tissues I'd used to wipe my nose, and flushed it. Voila! It was beautiful. The water swirled, dropped, sucked down its contents, and the basin filled up with a clear, clean pool again. Next to the toilet, at the twist of a knob, lukewarm water shot from the shower nozzle into the bathtub.

Light pine wainscoating covered the log walls. The wooden floor planks creaked. There were dark green shades for the four windows -- no curtains. There was a table for two in front of the gas stove and sink. There was no overhead lamp -- no ceiling except for the underside of our new roof. I stood on a chair (there were two), hammered in a nail, bent it, and hung up my campsite lantern.

Over the next several days, we cleaned the fireplace, stove, and oven, got them operating efficiently, and worked further on the cabin's finer details, inside and out. We took a few trips into the town for food, drinks, pillows, sheets, silverware, plates, glasses, cups, and whatever else came to mind. I kept thinking of my father -- what a package of useful things he could send us from his junkyard! But it didn't seem an option -- I just doubted he'd respond. I bought a belt, vest, some concrete, and a couple postcards at Jake and Edith Farber's store (got twenty percent off) and asked Jake to bring the bag of concrete to us in his truck -- a done deal. We used the cement to bolster the cabin's existing foundation and to lay a new foundation for the forthcoming verandah.

Nights, we sat out front of the house-in-progress and watched the stars. I played my mandolin; MacDougall read aloud his poems. One evening Art de Languroc loped up stiffly, smoking and chuckling, carrying a shoebox, fencecutters, and a spool of orange cable. "It's electricity time!" he declared.

"Don't we have to apply for that through the front office?" MacDougall asked.

"Right -- if you want to wait till Christmas to power your lights," Art said. "I got screwdrivers, wirecutters, outlet boxes, sockets, and light switches here and I know how to connect you to the central power source. I had everything at the library we’ll need. I can get this done tonight, but we need to be discreet. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. If we don't do this now, you may not have a working fridge for your champagne come New Year's Eve -- if you go through the front office."

MacDougall looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. Trusting Art de Languroc to connect us to the central power source didn't seem like a great idea, but waiting till Christmas or New Year's to get electricity “through the front office” wasn't appealing either. And I sure did not want to go back to the nuthouse where Directors Shepperton and Chi lived, seeking their consent on the project only to hear Professor Townsend damn us, 'Why in hell don’t you go to the front office before you come here?”

"Boys," I said, "we got a green light."

"Follow me," de Languroc said, stepping on a cigarette butt he’d dropped on the ground. "Hold on to your hats."

He attached one end of the cable to our front door handle, then started walking. Taking turns letting out the cable, we sneaked, like cat burglars, past cabins, domes, and pagodas to the covered bridges. We went by the beehives, crossed a garden, tiptoed past The Dairy, careful not to wake the goats or sheep, and passed by The Art Barn, sawmill, library, and greenhouses. We arrived at solar panels, wind generators, water turbines, and a single electrical tower. Art took his big cutters in hand and swiftly clipped an entry though the fence around the power plant.

“You’re deft at that,” I whispered.

“You ain’t seen anything,” Art said, his hoarse, smoker’s-hack-tinged voice hitting me like death’s own chain-rattle. He motioned for MacDougall and me to follow him. He pulled the cable under the fence into the little compound, running it along with other cables just like it toward a door where a sign warned of High Voltage and, in smaller print, trespassing fines. Art fed his cable into a hole along the path of a hundred other cables, opened the door, stepped in, and again pulled on the wire. He fed it into a hole in a huge gray box in the middle of the room that looked like a steel bank safe, then swung its unlocked front door open. He’d pre-prepared his cable-end. He unscrewed screws and lifted a protective plate from rows and rows of heavy-duty plugs and receptors. Three of the sockets were still available for use. Art stuck the plug in one.

“Pfttt!” I heard and Art was down and I thought, Christ, we’re all fried now.