West is a space to be crossed, an unforgiving swath of rugged mountains and empty plains on the way to somewhere else. The final destination isn't always geographical, but is often a state of mind, of self-worth or of sheer will. And all along the way are places where folks have stopped to catch their breath or gather their wits before moving on to whatever waits at the end of the line.
Mountain City is copper and a little silver and less gold.
Martin's quirky family runs Tremewan's Store, the beating heart of Mountain City, where the earthy, slot-playing widows gather for newsy tidbits and Indians from the nearby reservation collect their supplies. Martin's grandfather, Oliver Tremewan, won the store in a turkey shoot in 1958 and, at this writing, still works there every day at the age of 87. Tremewan's maintains a complex credit system that allows most of its customers to charge their groceries until they come to cash their welfare or Indian allotment checks, illustrating the web of trust in a close-knit community and the dependence upon one another that underlies the independent mythology of the West. Hardened like the place he sketches against the vagaries of life, Martin writes sensitively without being maudlin, as if pity were something he discovered late in life. He finds beauty in the abandoned shacks of Mountain City, courage in the elderly people who stay there and trust in the cycle of prosperity to come 'round one more time.