"Hey Ken, look!" I dumped my end of the cedar log and pointed downhill. "Someone just pulled up behind your truck."

The canyon sloped so steeply we had a clear view of Ken's rusty old Ford hundreds of yards below us. A sedan had angled to the side of the road. Now the driver got out and circled Ken's truck.

"He better not be stealing my tires!" Ken growled. We both took off running.

I was six years younger and a bit faster. I pelted downhill, darting around sagebrush, skidding down gravelly inclines.

The guy behind the truck heard my approach. He didn't take off in guilt, though. He crossed his arms and glared. It was the game warden.

"I spied you two up there," he barked. "Poaching a deer. Caught you red-handed."

"Deer?"

"Hah! Don't play innocent with me, young man. I saw the carcass you were hauling along."

Ken arrived, out of breath.

I turned to him. "He thinks he saw us hauling a mule deer carcass!" I burst out laughing.

Ken grinned. "Howdy, Joe. Got another carcass in the back of the truck, under that tarp. Take a look."

The warden lifted a corner, grunted, spat in the dust of the road. "What you want with old twisted cedar trunks?"

"Fetching 'em down for Norval here. Supplies for his business."

The warden scowled at me. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fourteen."

"You got a business?" He leaned hard on the last word.

"Yup. I make bowls and lamp stands out of cedar wood. Ya sand it and wax it, and it's pertier than anything you can buy in town."

The game warden stared.

"I got a lathe," I went on. "I turn wood. Make buttons and beads, too."

Joe snorted. "That's the stuff your brother Phil has for sale in his service station?"

"Yup."

"Where'd you get a lathe? I thought you folks were hard up."

"Made the lathe myself. Whenever Dad takes a load of firewood to town, we scout the town dump. Surprising what people throw out. All it took was an old bed frame, a bicycle tire, and a motor from a broken washing machine."

The warden's eyebrows shot up. "By gosh and by golly! I'll let you get on with your, ah, poaching." He jerked a thumb toward the hillside and turned for his car. "By the way, you better tell Phil his electrical is failing at the service station. It was blinking up a storm last time I was in. Don't want to start a fire." He halted. "Wait a moment. I never saw no power lines running along the canyon road. Where's he get his electricity?"

I shrugged. "Dad salvaged a Pelton wheel from an abandoned mine, and rigged it in the creek to generate power for us and those cabins. Two people can't run washing machines on the same day. It trips the electric range burner that serves as regulator."

He arched his brows, shook his head, and drove away.

.

Story as told to his daughter.