by Homer Hickam
“Carl told me all that, Mike,” Sam replied, “but I have to say I’m completely surprised and disappointed in you. I know you’re still new out here but I thought ten years was enough for you to learn a few of our rules. A man could get shot, he wanders where he’s not supposed to go.”
This irritated me. I don’t like to be threatened, especially after I had sincerely apologized for something I didn’t have to apologize for. “If a man could get shot, Sam,” I said, “another man could go to prison for a very long time.”
Sam scowled at that. “Around here, we don’t send people to prison who defend their property from trespassers.”
“I was on BLM, Sam, under a BLM permit.”
“You were on land that we Haxbys have tended to for over a century. How would Jeanette like it if I and my boys started trespassing on her BLM?”
“You’ll have to ask Jeanette,” I said. “But I don’t think she’d shoot you.”
Sam had another gripe. “You got those damn fossil hunters and those damn green wacko brothers out there on the Square C. You tell Jeanette we think she should kick them all out.”
About then, someone came to my defense although it was the last person in the world I wanted on my side. Ted Brescoe. “You don’t own the BLM, Sam Haxby, not one square inch of it,” he said, stepping up after a bout of eavesdropping. “And I’ll tell you something else. I’ve contracted with a surveyor and we’re going to see exactly where your property line runs. I think you’ve been moving your fence twenty to thirty feet every few years, encroaching on the BLM. If I find out you’ve been cheating, your lease won’t be renewed. I’ll have the FBI on you, too, trust me on that, and maybe I’ll have them out to see what you’ve got hidden away on your ranch. Wouldn’t surprise me if you had an atom bomb.”
Ted’s discourse left us all a little breathless, including Ted. To my surprise, Sam actually seemed deflated and didn’t argue back. Maybe it was because the FBI is both respected and feared in these parts and it was at least conceivable a BLM agent could bring his big federal brothers to kick over some cans. “Come on, boys,” Sam said, and he and his two sons went off without another word.
Ted watched them go, a tight smile stretched across his ugly face. “You have trouble with them again, Mike, you come to me.” This was a nice thing to say, which was unlike Ted so he salvaged his reputation by adding, “That surveyor’s gonna also look at the Square C fence. Jeanette’s lease might be canceled, too.”
“Ted, we know the fence is wrong. Your agency put it up wrong so it wouldn’t have to work so hard stringing it across Blackie Butte.”
“Maybe so,” Ted snorted, “but then you tore it down. That’s destruction of government property. You could end up in jail.”
“Have a real nice day, Ted,” I said and got out of his sight. In fact, I decided to get out of all their sights, even Jeanette’s, and enjoy myself a rodeo. I figured I’d earned it.
20
The rodeo began and, for the most part, it was a normal Fillmore County Independence Day Rodeo, which was pretty fine. There was the pig chase, the mutton busting (kids riding sheep, no lie), the calf roping, the barrel race, team roping, and the bull riding and bronc busting. The audience was as knowledgeable as any that ever watched a rodeo, a gathering of ranchers who made their living with cows and horses, and therefore were all the more appreciative at what they were seeing. I didn’t go up in the stands where there was shade, being too dirty and sweaty to sit beside anybody, so I just hung around at the beer garden and sucked down some brews. The garden was up on a berm so I had a pretty good view of the proceedings. I’d seen Laura, Tanya, and Pick come in earlier and they’d gone off somewhere. Then I’d seen Pick by himself, down by the hot dog stand, but I didn’t see where he’d gotten himself off to after that. Anyway, there I was, minding my own business watching the bucking broncs toss off their riders when Ray came running up. “The Haxbys got hold of Pick!” he said and I dropped my beer and went chasing after him to see what was what.
Ray led me around the corral where the bucking horses were kept. I saw, to my astonishment, Pick climbing up on one of the chutes, the Haxbys—father and sons—urging him along. Even more astonishing, Pick seemed intent on climbing aboard the horse in the chute. I yelled at him and Pick looked up and grinned and waved. He looked like he was in charge of the world. Of course, he wasn’t in charge of anything except getting his neck broke. The three Haxby men were looking like the proverbial cats who’d eaten the proverbial canaries. “Don’t get on that horse, Pick!” I cried. He looked over at me, cocked his head, and gave me another big, proud grin.
“Stop him!” I yelled at the Haxbys just as the announcer announced: “Ladies and gentlemen! Now, a special treat. As you know, Fillmore County has been invaded by dinosaur hunters!” There came a smattering of applause and boos.
“No-o-o-o-o-o!” I yelled and started climbing up on the fence to make my way to the chute.
The announcer kept going. “Now, in chute number three, we have Dr. Pick Pickford, one of the greatest dinosaur hunters ever known, riding a saddle bronc today to show us how to do it. His horse is Tornado!”
“Not Tornado!” I cried while Sam, Jack, and Carl laughed and slapped their legs. Then Pick climbed into the saddle, clutched the lead from the halter, the gate opened, and Tornado lived up to his name.
Looking back on it, I don’t think Pick was actually on that horse for more than maybe a quarter-second. Probably less. Tornado sent him flying into the air pretty much before the paleontologist/horse combination got all the way out of the chute. Pick went up and up, flailing. Then he did a very stupid thing. He allowed himself to fall down on top of Tornado. The bucking bronco right away let Dr. Pickford know that this was not a good idea by indulging in a couple of stiff-legged hops followed by throwing his back hooves straight up toward the sky. Technically, this maneuver is known as sunfishing, don’t ask me why. Anyway, it was good enough to send Pick flying like a rag doll through the air until he plowed face down into the churned-up dirt and not a small amount of horse, calf, and sheep manure in the arena. Tornado kept bucking until he saw his rider in the dirt. Then he stopped as if to savor his victory. I swear I saw an evil grin cross that horse’s face. Oh, yes, there are some horses who are evil.
Anyway, I don’t know how I got over that fence. Maybe I jumped over. I found myself running over to Pick who was just lying there, looking pretty bent. I knelt beside him. “Pick! Are you all right?”
Pick had his eyes open, which I thought was a good sign unless, of course, he was dead and couldn’t close them. But then his eyelids fluttered and I knew everything was going to be OK unless, of course, he was paralyzed or dying. Either way, I knew Jeanette was going to kick my butt.
The Haxbys opened one of the gates and strolled over. “We were just having a little fun, Mike,” Sam said.
“We asked him if he wanted to do this and he said he sure did,” Carl added. “Hell, what were we supposed to do? He’s an adult.”
“He’s not an adult, you rat bastard!” I yelled. “He’s a paleontologist!”
“Can we help?” Jack wondered, his thumbs stuck in his pockets.
“You’ve done enough,” I growled and the Haxbys took the hint and skedaddled, waving to the cheering crowd as they went.
The next thing I knew I heard the outer gates of the arena open and the beep-beep-beep of the county ambulance backing in and then there were two hysterical women on top of us, namely Laura and Tanya who, ignoring the paramedics’ entreaties not to move Pick, clutched him into their arms, rocking him to and fro, his head wobbling like a broken doll’s. “Oh, Pick,” Laura sobbed, “don’t die.”
Tanya was wailing and crying something in Russian. At last, Pick seemed to come around. He blinked a couple of times, then his eyes landed on me. He allowed a crooked grin. “Hi, Mike. What did I do wrong?”
“You trusted the Haxbys,” I said. “And you got on the wrong horse. Hell, with you, that would be an
y horse.”
Our next arrival, stiff-arming the paramedics who still hadn’t managed to examine Pick, was Jeanette. She pushed in, observed the situation, and announced, “He’ll be all right. You boys take over.” That meant the paramedics and they finally did their thing, loading Pick into the ambulance. The crowd reacted with polite applause while the announcer encouraged everybody to visit the beer garden and the 4-H concession. The ambulance sped off somewhere, probably just out of sight since Fillmore County didn’t have a hospital.
While Laura and Tanya continued to bawl, Jeanette drew me aside. “Didn’t I tell you to look out for Pick?”
I did my best John Wayne, hoping to amuse myself out of trouble. “Well, pilgrim,” I said, “the Haxbys got the drop on me.”
Jeanette spotted Sam and his sons looking at us from the fence. They raised their beers. “It was a joke, Jeanette,” Sam called.
“Sam Haxby, I’ll take care of you later!” she yelled. She looked at me. “Sometimes, Mike, you disappoint me more than my heart can stand.”
So much for amusement. I rallied as best I could. “I didn’t know I was supposed to hold his hand all day.”
“That’s a lame excuse and you know it. I trusted you!”
I started to mention the hours of labor (most of it free and above and beyond the call of duty by any standard of humanity) that I’d put in since we’d come in to Jericho but I let it pass. Once again, I hadn’t done my boss’s bidding and I knew it. I just shrugged and let her glare at me until she got tired of it and stomped off. Laura and Tanya had already gone somewhere, which left me standing alone in the arena. “Mike,” the announcer said, “you want to clear out so we can get on with the show?”
I sought out the announcer, gave him a one finger salute and then strolled on out through the gate, taking my own sweet time and feeling the fool, which, of course, I was.
Figuring Ray would get a ride, I gathered up Laura and Tanya and took them into town in Bob, finding the ambulance sitting in the motel parking lot. Along the way, neither woman would spare a single word in my direction. I guess everybody was blaming me for Pick’s little adventure. The paramedics were coming out of one of the rooms. “He’s going to be fine,” one of them said. “No broken bones, no sign of concussion, just some contusions and hurt feelings.” Laura and Tanya leaped from Bob and ran inside the room.
I wandered on over. Pick was stretched out on a bed and his ladies were seeing to his comfort and health. When Laura looked up, I saw her face was streaked with tears. She said, “Why didn’t you take care of him? Jeanette said you would.” Tanya shot eye darts at me and I took that as my cue to leave, closing the door behind me.
I went to my room, stripped, took a long shower, and then stretched out on the bed until I thought to myself, “I should get drunk.” I dressed in some fresh duds and headed for the Hell Creek Bar to make my thought a reality, only to see that the crowd from the rodeo was now descending on the bar for the annual Fillmore County Independence Day Barbeque which always follow the annual Fillmore County Independence Day Rodeo. This, now that the schedule was coming back to me, would be followed by the annual Fillmore County Independence Day Dance held at the Hell Creek Marina on Fort Peck Lake, some twenty miles north of us. We were just warming up, folks.
I decided to spread my drunk out, although it was still my firm intention. I went inside and caught Joe’s eye and gave him the OK sign, which was my signal for a g&t and then two fingers, which meant I wanted it strong. Joe accomplished my request, putting my drink in a plastic go-cup, and I gulped down half of it, then wandered back outside where the steaks were a-cookin’. There were some good sides being served as well so I got in line with some other cowboys, most of whom I recognized but a few were either rodeo riders or Texans since they were wearing huge, ornate belt buckles. If you ask a Montana cowpoke, he’ll tell you we don’t sport those things because if you have to do that much advertising, you’re probably trying too hard to sell the product. Deep in my heart, though, I kind of wished I had one of those buckles.
I made small talk with a hired hand from down south. He worked on a Brescoe ranch, he said, and was from Kentucky by way of Iraq where he’d been deployed out of his reserve unit four times as a machine gunner on a Humvee, which I took as dangerous work. “I didn’t leave no forwarding address this time,” he told me. “I think I done my part.”
I agreed with him. Four times in a combat zone, the war gods just have to take notice and want to rub you out. Or maybe that was the gin that was talking, I don’t know. I finished it off.
I told the nice lady who was taking the money for the food I didn’t want a steak, just the sides and she looked at me like I was crazy. “What are you?” she asked. “A vegetarian?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said and her expression changed to one of shock.
She took my money, anyway, and sent me on my way. I got macaroni salad, cole slaw, green beans, mashed potatoes, and a couple of homemade whole wheat buns and sat at one of the picnic tables.
Joe swung by and put a brimming plastic cup beside my plate. “You look like you need this,” he said and kept going. It was another g&t, just as stiff as the last one. I silently thanked him.
Well, this was pleasant and pretty soon, stomach full and mildly intoxicated, I became an observer of the human condition, rather than an active participant. I sat at the table, my chin resting on my hands and just watched Fillmore County do its thing. What I saw of greatest interest was Sam Haxby, his two boys, and Ted Brescoe. Ted was up on his toes delivering a lecture and Sam and sons were listening and didn’t appear to like what they were hearing. I guessed Ted was giving them another what-for about their BLM. Then, I saw none other than Cade Morgan, or maybe Morgan Cade, appear or, as I liked to think of it, slither into view accompanied by good old Toby. Now that I had a moment to think about it, I decided Toby looked like Mister Clean’s evil twin. He even had the gold earring.
Cade and Toby looked around, took note of Ted and the Haxbys, took two steps toward them, then unfortunately noticed yours truly and came over and sat down across from me. “A great day, isn’t it, Mike?” Cade asked me. Toby didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, sort of menacingly, which he was very good at.
When I didn’t reply, Cade continued, saying, “So, how are things out at the dino dig?”
“We haven’t found anything,” I said, hoping to make him go away. “A dry hole.”
“I do not believe you,” Toby said.
“We might come out to see for ourselves,” Cade said.
“You already did,” I pointed out, “and you know we’re digging up a Triceratops.”
“What about the Tyrannosaur?” Toby demanded. “This is what we would like to hear.”
“Tyrannosaur?” I spotted Joe and raised my cup. “I don’t know nothing about no stinking Tyrannosaur.”
Cade said, “You know, Mike, I really don’t know much about you. I mean, your economic situation and all.”
“I know all about you,” I said, letting the gin do the talking. “Shock and Awe. But is your name Cade Morgan or Morgan Cade?”
Cade or Morgan didn’t seem bothered that I had checked up on him. He smiled. “Well, it paid the bills, Mike. You do what you have to do. In Hollywood, I was Morgan Cade. Here, I’m Cade Morgan. I hope you’ll keep my little secret. No use getting the folks upset. I want to be a good neighbor.”
Joe swung by, left another cup, took my empty one, and disappeared. “How about you, Toby?” I asked after another swallow of the transparent miracle drug. “What’s your real name? Ivan? Yuri? Sergei? Are you a member of the Russian mob? Just wondering.”
“My name is Toby,” he said with a look that could kill. I was glad it was just the look. His muscles could probably do the real thing.
“Toby is Russian,” Cade said. “But part of the mob? Does he look like a criminal to you?”
“Why, yes, Cade, he does,” I said.
“Well, looks are deceiving,” Cad
e replied, amiably.
“Now, let’s talk money, OK? All you have to do is let us know the progress of the dig. What was found, what Pick says about it, that kind of thing.”
“OK. How much?”
“Twenty bucks a day.”
I whistled. “Hello, big spender.”
“Fifty,” Toby said. “How about a hundred?”
“Done,” Cade said.
“I’ll take the first hundred days in advance,” I said. “Ten thousand dollars. Pay up.”
This provoked Toby, don’t ask me why. He crashed his huge fist on the table, rattling my plate and nearly tipping over my drink. I caught it just in time. “You are not serious!”
“Toby, you are absolutely correct,” I confessed. I looked him in the eye and then did the same with Cade. “You want me to be a spy. What I can’t figure out is why?”
“It’s nothing sinister, Mike,” Cade said. “We’re just interested. If there’s a valuable dinosaur on Jeanette’s property, maybe there’s one on mine. If so, I’d like to hire Pick to come look. That’s all. Just idle curiosity.”
This I doubted but I didn’t get to express it because Ted Brescoe swung by, apparently through threatening the Haxbys with me next on his list. He was feeling his oats that day, I guess. “I got more to say to you, Mike,” he said.
I made my regrets to Cade and Toby, who looked properly chagrined that I was leaving their company to consult with our local BLM agent. “What’s going on out there?” Ted asked. “What have you found?”
Maybe they all thought the gin would loosen my tongue, I don’t know, but it seemed like everyone thought I was the dinosaur gossip of all time. “Ask Pick,” I said, “or Jeanette. I’m just a hired hand what don’t know nothin’.”
Ted gave me a sour look. “I know you know this much,” he said. “You know how to screw another man’s wife!”