I also think it's wonderful. Judson knows he looks good on a horse; he knows he looks good with a gun, so he needs to be watched, and that need—which makes him an awfully fun companion in the wilderness—separates him from a total meld with nature. Judson could never live like Eustace, and indeed he should not. We need Judson, and he needs us. He represents our desire. People fall in love with Judson, and not just women, either. I've sat around campfires in Wyoming with Judson and his hunters, and I've seen how they gaze at him. They see his horsemanship and his nifty guns and his aw-shucks charm and his Brad Pittian good looks, and they love him for it. People want to trade lives with Judson Conway. But people don't want to trade lives with Eustace Conway.
Eustace is too hard.
Late one afternoon, we were all working on the cabin. Eustace had announced that he wanted the floor finished by dusk, so we were working fast. He was using a chain saw. (Yes, he was using a chain saw. These days he will sometimes use modern devices. Some modern devices he actually loves. "Plastic buckets!" he rhapsodizes, for instance. "I love'em!") So Eustace was sawing through a log when the chain saw hit a knot, kicked back and jumped toward his face. He deflected it with his left hand, sawing into two of his fingers.
He made one quick sound like "Rah!" and pulled back his hand. The blood started pumping out. Christian and I froze, silent. Eustace shook his hand once, sending out a shower of blood, and then recommended sawing. He was back at work. We waited for him to say something or to try to stop the bleeding, which was prolific, but he didn't. So we both went back to work, too. He continued bleeding and sawing and hammering and bleeding more. By the end of the day, Eustace's entire arm, the logs, the tools, both my hands and both Christian's hands were all soaked with blood.
