by J.P. Voss
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At the entrance to Diamond Stables, the heavy-gauge horse gate had been unlocked and was standing open. Booker slowed to a crawl and rolled down his window. The morning air was filled with the sound of a diesel engine idling not far away.
Lacy said, “Pull over here behind the trees.”
A thick row of American elm, at least a hundred yards wide, kept Diamond Stables secluded from the outside world. Booker parked along the trees, and the two teenagers slipped out of the truck. They trudged through the mud and stopped at the entrance. Two hundred feet straight ahead, the main office door was open. Bill came storming out and walked across the drive toward a Freightliner hauling a horse trailer. Parked along the corral fence, the truck faced the tack-room. The teenagers used the backside of the corral for cover, working their way around to a spot over by the tack-room, out of sight, but still close enough to hear what the two men were saying. The driver shut off the engine and climbed down out of the truck. Lacy signaled Booker to be quiet while she listened to the driver complaining about the delay.
She whispered, “I need you to keep those two busy. If Bill sees me, he’ll know something is up. All you have to do is hold their attention, and keep them distracted while I make a break for Creed. Once I get a bridle on him, we’ll make a run for it.”
“What’s you stepfather going to do? I don’t want to make him mad. He looks mean.”
“I really need your help Booker,” she said, fluttering her eyes. “I’m a damsel in distress. I need a knight in shining armor?”
Helpless, Booker slapped himself in the forehead. Against his better judgment, he walked over to the tack-room, rolled the tumblers on the padlock, and popped open the door. Grabbing a pick and shovel, he strolled to a spot a few feet in front of the truck. Booker took huge shovels full of mud and started dumping them in a big pile right under the Freightliner’s front bumper. It wasn’t long before Bill took notice.
“What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing boy?”
“I’m measuring the effects of moisture on soil compaction.”
“How’d you like me to compact your face?” Bill asked. “What’s the matter with you boy? Are you some kind of retard? You’re digging a hole right in front of this man’s truck you damn dimwit.”
“I’m not a dimwit.”
“Well you’re sure acting like one. You’d be smart to do you’re digging somewhere else boy. You don’t want to piss me off youngster, not this early in the morning.”
Stunned by Bill’s crassness, Booker’s jaw dropped, and he stood frozen with his mouth open.
“Now about that hundred dollars,” Bill said, turning back to the old driver. “I’ll sign the Bill-of-Sale, and the horse is yours. That office manager won’t give you any trouble. I got her straightened out. She’s just some ignorant Mexican woman from a temporary employment agency. She’s going to open the stall right after she finds the keys.” Bill pointed to the far end of the stables. “See, there she is. She’s headed down there right now. Give me my money. There’s no need for me to stick around. This place smells like horseshit, and besides, it’s colder than a well-diggers ass out here. Just give me the cash, so I can be on my way.”
The driver paid up, and Bill signed the paperwork. Bill started walking toward his car, and Booker approached the driver.
“Excuse me sir. I was curious. Why do you need a forty-foot trailer for just one horse?”
The trucker spun around and bore into Booker with bloodshot eyes. The old driver had a bad case of white line fever, and his face had a million miles on it. He scratched his coarse gray stubble and chewed tobacco while he talked.
“Hell son, this is only my first stop. I’m going to pick up about twenty more head in Grand Junction. After that, I’ll head to Holbrook Arizona. That ought to give me a full load.” The old driver climbed up in the cabover Freightliner and looked out the window. “From there, I take ‘em on down to Mexico to the Slaughterhouse.”
The diesel engine roared to life, and Lacy burst from her hiding place. She looked at Booker with flaming blue eyes and cried, “Stop that truck.”
“Stop!” Booker grabbed the handrail and climbed up by the driver’s window. “What if I told you I’d give you a hundred and forty dollars for that horse you just bought? I know you only paid a hundred for it. I’ve got a hundred forty dollars at home, and I’ll give you every penny of it. That’s a forty percent profit in less than five minutes. That’s a super deal mister. You can’t pass that up.”
“Boy, I can get four-hundred dollars for that horse down in Mexico. You got that much money?” When Booker didn’t answer, the old driver shook his head. “I didn’t think so. Now get down off this truck boy. I got man’s work to do.”
While Booker had been stalling the driver, Lacy had reached between the truck and trailer, pushed the safety latch out of the way, and grabbed the steel handle of the trailer release bar. Yanking on the handle, she pulled the release bar open and then ran for Creed. Once Lacy was clear, Booker got down off the Freightliner and started backing up fast.
The driver shove the truck in gear, the truck rolled forward, and the kingpin slipped from its cradle. The trailer slid off the greasy fifth-wheel plate, and the aluminum horse hauler crashed down on the truck’s steel frame. The sound shattered the morning air. The driver slammed on the brakes, but the tires slid in the mud, and the trailer slipped off the back of the truck. The empty horse trailer plopped in the muck and shuddered.
The old driver exploded out of the cab. Shaking while he lit a smoke, he took a couple of real good pulls on the nicotine stick before flipping open his cell phone and calling the police. Ranting at the 911 Operator, the driver accused the teenagers of malicious mayhem and told the operator that the cops had better hurry up because one of the little hellions was getting away. He hung up and lit another smoke off the smoldering butt shaking between his fingers.
He said, “I just called the cops. I don’t know what the hell’s going on around here, but you and that little girl down there are going to have to answer some questions. That damn trailer didn’t come loose by itself.”
After she’d scared off the office manager, Lacy had put a bridle on Creed and was headed for the door when a black and white radio unit pulled up, blocking the stall exit. Officer Gil Larson, an eight-year veteran, rolled out of the squad car and straightened his rumpled uniform. Larson’s plump round face was pink in the cold morning air, and his gray wool tundra cap gave him the look of a Norseman. His stride was easy as he stepped into the stall with Lacy. Officer Larson had a patriarchal presence, sympathetic eyes, and a warm tone.
“Whoa,” he said, stroking the startled quarter horse’s forehead and muzzle. He looked at Lacy with disbelieving eyes and started laughing. “Did you really disconnect that old man’s trailer?”
“You don’t understand. I had to. Please let me go. I’ll never do anything wrong again for the rest of my life.”
“Do me a favor little girl and come down off that horse so we can talk.”
“Please don’t arrest me.”
“I don’t arrest people,” he replied. “Not unless I absolutely have too. It’s not my job to arrest people. My job is conflict resolution. Now why don’t you dismount and let’s see if we can’t figure this mess out. Okay sweetheart?”
Lacy leaned over, buried her face in Creed’s mane, and started to cry. Rolling off of her horse, her legs gave way, and her butt hit the stable floor. When she got her composure back, she pulled herself up. Except for the part about Booker being involved, Lacy told Officer Larson everything.
While Lacy told her story, Larson thought about what would happen to his ten-year-old daughter if he died. Lacy finished with a sigh, and the policeman took her by the hand. Leading her over to the tack-room, he had Lacy stand with Booker and then motioned for the driver to follow him while he inspected the horse trailer.
“It looks like you got lucky,” Larson said to the driver.
“In a pig’s eye,” he replied.
“Can the attitude,” Larson said. “Except for a couple of minor scratches, there’s no damage to the trailer. I guess all the mud made for a nice soft landing. There’s no visible damage to the landing gear. Even the airlines are still connected. Everything looks fine. I’ll bet you could use that backhoe over by the barn to lift the trailer out of the mud. Then you can lower the landing gear, hook-up your rig, and be on your way.”
“What kind of cop are you anyway? Aren’t you going to arrest these two little gangbangers?”
“I though about arresting you,” Larson said. “The girl claims you were trying to steal her horse.”
“That lying little bitch,” he said. “I’ve got a bill of sale right here. That’s my horse, and those two little pricks ought to be horsewhipped for that stunt they pulled. I want them arrested.”
“Are you sure about that?” Larson asked. “If I arrest them, then this becomes a crimes scene, and the horse becomes evidence. Arresting them would force me to impound the horse until a judge could make a decision.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth,” Larson said. “Or I’ll seize your truck and trailer too. It’s all evidence.”
Booker blurted out, “I’ll buy Creed. He only paid a hundred bucks for him. I’ll buy Creed back for one hundred forty dollars. That’s a forty percent profit in ten minutes. And I’ll pick up his trailer with the backhoe, so he can get back on the road.”
“That sounds fair to me,” Larson said, turning toward Lacy. “How do you feel about that Lacy?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Booker said. “Creed will still be your horse. I’ll keep him at the stables and take care of him until you can get a job and pay me back.”
“That’s so sweet Booker.”
“You’ve got two choices,” Lawson said, turning back to the driver. “Take the young man’s generous offer, or sit around waiting for a judge to rule. Property cases are a low priority, so it might take a month or more.”
“What the hell is this? Is this some kind of shakedown? Is this what passes for law in Nebraska?”
“Law’s got nothing to do with it; this is about justice. I call it Prairie Justice.” Larson’s face contorted, and he looked like an agitated bulldog as he eyeballed the old driver. The old man flinched, and Larson growled. “I’d suggest you take the boys offer. Then head for the Stateline.”
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