Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
By ten o’clock, the sun had climbed high enough to melt the thin crust of frost on the grass behind the cabin. I heard the low rattle of a truck coming up the county road, its tires moving slow over the washboards. I walked out to the backyard just as Edwin Vance pulled his old blue pickup alongside the woodpile. He shut off the ignition, and the silence returned to the clearing before the dust had even settled around his front bumper.
Edwin climbed down from the cab, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. He had his faded canvas coat on, and the wooden toothpick was tucked into the corner of his mouth, exactly where it always sat when he had a job to do. He did not say anything at first, just walked over to the back of his truck and lowered the tailgate with a loud clatter. The bed was filled to the brim with split pine logs, each one cut to a neat sixteen-inch length.
