by Frank Hayes
8
Cesar was sitting on the last hay bale that had come up the conveyor. He was done for the day. Pedro and José had just left in their pickup. Brothers and good workers, they had worked on the ranch for the last ten years. He liked to tease them since they became legal, calling them Pete and Joe. They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he thought they might secretly like it. Of course, what they didn’t know was that Cesar had been illegal for over fifty years. Virgil’s father had fished him out of the river way back when, and ever since he had called this place home.
Now Cesar sat on the bale, looking out of the hay door at the close of a hard day. He was feeling it. He would never admit it and no one, except maybe Virgil, could tell, but the years were beginning to show. It was probably close to a hundred degrees in the top of that barn and hay chaff was floating in the air, making breathing a challenge. So he needed to sit a bit before climbing down the ladder. He was looking forward to a cool shower to wash the chaff that had gotten down his back and mixed with the moisture of a long day. Uncomfortable as it was, in a way it made him feel good. It was the mark of a job accomplished and part of the cycle of life for him.
He stood up.
A mile or so in the distance, he saw the glare bouncing off a car windshield. He hoped the car was Virgil’s. He loved him as much as he had loved his father before him, maybe more. He had been here before he was born, and had been with him every step of the way as he grew up. After Virgil’s father and mother had been killed, he became the father Virgil still needed. The bond between the two was strong and unspoken, but always there.
* * *
Virgil expelled a deep breath as the group of ranch buildings came into view. He looked to his left at the cluster of horses standing idly, swishing their flyswatters in the shade of a tree by the ever-running creek. He saw the little mare from his recent fateful ride and remembered the soreness in the lower part of his back. As he drew nearer, he could see the figure standing in the open hay door of the barn closest to the road. He knew who it was long before he got close enough to see the man’s face. The same man who had been there his whole life. A smile crossed his lips. For the moment, the dull headache that had been building subsided and his mind cleared.
As he pulled into the driveway, he saw that the figure had disappeared. The hay door was closed and all he wanted to think about was the cold beer they would soon share as they sat on the front porch later that evening in the twilight. The only disturbance the distant yip, yip of a coyote on his nightly hunt or the soft nicker of Jack calling to him for a little attention.
* * *
Jimmy and his young sister, Abby, stood on the bridge watching the bobbers at the end of their lines float in the water below.
“Not much happening,” she said.
Jimmy looked at her and smiled. He was glad he had made good on his promise. Hayward was a pretty small town, no place to hide, and if you were a kid without much of a pedigree, it was even harder.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I like just standing here in the quiet.”
Fading sunlight slanted through the trees on the riverbank and danced on the water. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze, and no car had crossed the bridge in the last fifteen minutes.
“You know if you just hold your breath for a minute,” he said, “you can hear your heart beating.”
Abby inhaled deeply while Jimmy watched her face turn a bright shade. At the end of her minute, she let out her breath.
“Gee, Jimmy. You’re smart.”
He smiled again.
“Jimmy, what happened to Buddy Hinton?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Jimmy. Tell me something.”
“Why do you want to know? How do you even know about Buddy?”
“Kids were talking in the schoolyard during camp today. They asked me about it because they knew my brother was a deputy sheriff. I want to be able to tell them something. It’s kind of important.”
“Have kids been picking on you? Just tell me.”
“No.” Abby’s response was immediate. “They don’t do that, no more. Haven’t for a long time, ever since you became Sheriff Dalton’s deputy.”
“Oh, so that’s it. You want to impress some boy.”
Abby didn’t respond right away. She looked down at the water as the float on the end of her line suddenly slipped below the surface and the tip of the rod bent in an arc.
“Ya got something there, kid. Work the line slowly, don’t jerk it. Make sure he’s hooked first.”
For the next couple of minutes, they were both engrossed in the drama of the catch. Finally, with Jimmy’s guidance, Abby started to reel in the fish.
“Wow, Abby! You got yourself some big catfish. There’s tomorrow night’s supper. You did good.” Jimmy started to work the hook out of the catfish’s mouth.
“Jimmy, it’s not about the boys.”
“What d’ya mean, Ab?” He saw the serious look on her face, so he dropped the fish in a bucket at his feet and gave her his full attention.
“Well, you know how kids used to make fun ’cause we lived in a trailer and our clothes were . . . Well, you know.”
Jimmy nodded at the painful memories he had worked so hard to forget.
“I know it was much worse for you than it was for me,” she said. “But people don’t do that no more because of you. Kids now treat me pretty nice and when Virgil, I mean the sheriff, picked me up last week on my way to school and dropped me off and all the kids saw when he waved to me and called me Abby, I could tell they were looking at me different and it felt nice. I think some even think I’m special.”
“You are special, Ab.”
“I know to you, but I never been to other people. It’s a good feeling. So, if you were to tell me something about Buddy that they didn’t know, well, it would kinda help me.”
Jimmy looked out over the stretch of river beneath them. The sun was pretty much gone. The light no longer danced on the surface. The water looked almost black.
“Buddy was found by Virgil floating in a stock tank. He didn’t look too good because the water and the hot sun took its toll. You can tell that ’cause I know it will eventually come out, but I don’t want you pestering me for more. This is an ongoing investigation and we’ve got to be real careful with the information we have. We don’t want anybody to get a hint we’re onto them. Let’s get home now, so I can run down something I’ve just thought of.”
“Boy, Jimmy, you sound just like a detective. Wait till the kids hear about this.”
* * *
Not too far away, sitting with his feet on the railing of his porch, with a cold beer in his hand, Virgil was also enjoying the quiet. The nighttime smell of flowers and trees in full bloom mixed with barnyard smells of hay, manure, and hard work.
Cesar came out of the kitchen, the screen door slapping shut in back of him.
“Got almost all the hay. Left that field across the road for last. If we were to lose it to the weather, it wouldn’t be much of a loss. It’s pretty poor.”
Virgil looked at Cesar, surprised to hear that much from him in one stream.
“Guess it’s time to turn that ground over,” Virgil said. “Cover it with rye, then plow it under and reseed.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Each took a sip from his bottle while he contemplated the idea.
“They putting Buddy in the ground tomorrow?” Cesar said.
“No. They don’t dig holes on Sundays.”
“Any progress?”
“Not much. I think we’ve got to take a step back and look at this thing from the beginning. That’s what I just told Jimmy. Guess I’ll head off tomorrow where we found the truck and see if I can come up with something.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
Cesar took anot
her sip from his bottle before he answered. “Seems to me that’s the end. Down the bottom of that ravine is not the beginning.”
Virgil turned that over in his mind. Then he pushed back from the railing, put his feet on the floor, and stood up.
“Outta the mouths of babes,” Virgil said.
“Guess you’re talking about me.”
“You got it. You just ruined my night.”
“How so?”
“You were right. I gotta begin at the real beginning. And now’s the best time to do it. Saturday night at the Black Bull, instead of sitting here with you watching moss grow up that cottonwood.”
Fifteen minutes later, Virgil pulled out of his driveway, heading to the Black Bull to walk in Buddy Hinton’s last footsteps.
9
It was a little after ten when Virgil pulled into the parking lot of the Black Bull. Early for a Saturday night, but looking around at the packed lot he knew he wouldn’t die of loneliness once he got inside. His pickup rolled to a stop at the end of a long line of pickups. Virgil couldn’t help noting that his truck was one of the oldest and one of the least attractive. He never competed with the good ole boys who saw horsepower or condition as a measure of their masculinity. In reality, he had never really fit in with that group and on this night, in any event, he was hoping for as much anonymity as possible. That’s why he was here in his civvies and driving his old beater.
He pulled down the brim of the sweat-stained Stetson as he walked toward the front door, which was intermittently lit by the flashing oversized bull on the roof. The bull was still short one ear, which had been shot off ten years or so before, by a woman who was aiming at her husband after she’d found him giving mouth-to-mouth to an unknown young lady in the parking lot. Virgil remembered her comment after the incident that she was sorry about the bull, but she had stepped in a hole in the dark and had missed her mark.
Virgil had some history with the place from his late adolescence, but for the last decade or so it was mostly in his official capacity that he came here. The place had changed hands three or four times, but it always thrived. This was more a testament to a lack of competition and the enduring thirst of the locals than any marketing savvy on the part of the series of owners.
The crunch of stone under his boot coupled with the light from the one-eared bull on the roof brought a momentary reflection of his not-too-misspent youth.
“Careful there, Sheriff. You don’t want to trip on that step.”
Virgil glanced in the direction of the voice. Sitting on one of the rails that lined the porch, on the end of a lit cigarette, was Wade Travis. So much for anonymity.
“Thanks for the warning, Wade.” By the time Virgil reached the top step and his boot made contact with the wood floor of the porch, Wade had slipped off the railing and was waiting for him.
“Little bit off the beaten path aren’t you, Sheriff? Or is this a line-of-duty visit?”
“No, Wade. Unofficial. Just thought I’d step out for a beer or two.”
“Just like a regular fella. Whaddya know. Enjoy yourself.”
He stepped away and lit another cigarette as Virgil reached for the door.
“Just make sure when you leave, Sheriff, that you’re able to walk that line. You know we don’t tolerate drinking and driving in this county.”
“Glad you reminded me, Wade. Hope you do the same.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Sheriff. I got a little designated driver just inside there. She takes good care of me.”
Virgil nodded, pulled on the door, then stepped inside.
The place looked pretty much like he remembered. The building actually had some history to it. It had been built in the early 1800s as a trading post and a way station along an old stagecoach route. Time had given it a certain cachet, so even though it was kind of remote from the center of town, the last roadhouse owner decided to incorporate as much of the original building as he could into his modernization. He actually went out of his way to construct the new as close as he could to the old. For his efforts, in the final act of construction, one of the ponderosa pine logs that hadn’t been firmly set fell on him, knocking him senseless. Virgil heard he spent the next two years sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair trying to remember his first name.
The interior was laid out basically as one huge room divided in two by one of the largest horseshoe bars in the state. To the left of the door, tables lined the log walls around a black mechanical bull. On the opposite side of the horseshoe bar the large open area was filled with tables. In the center stood the original fireplace, while at the rear of the room there was an open dance area with a raised platform for a band. Virgil hesitated for a second or two, then took a seat at a small table.
“Well, cowboy . . . What can I get you?”
Virgil looked up to see a dark-haired woman and a smile.
“Guess I got you before you even got a boot in the stirrup.”
“You could say,” Virgil said. “Maybe a nice cold bottle of Sierra if you got it.”
“Can do. Only one minor problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, on the weekends if we get people that just want to drink, we’d kinda like them to sit at the bar or at one of the tables over there by the bull. We try to keep this side for people who want to eat something. It’s mostly a little crowd-control thing. People eating and listening to music or dancing tend to not get as rowdy as the people on the other side of the bar.”
“Makes sense. Well, I can always eat. How about you bring me a burger and a mess of fries to go along with that Sierra. Then I’ll just sit quiet and listen to the music.”
“Perfect. Be back before the band starts up. They’re on a break now.”
Virgil looked after her as she walked away. True to her word, she came back as the music trio was filing in from the back door.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before,” she said as she set the plate in front of Virgil.
“It’s been a while. I don’t get out much.”
“Wife got you on a short leash?”
“No wife, just busy.”
“Well, I’m Ruby. If you need anything more, just give a wave.”
“Okay. By the way, I’m Virgil.”
“Nice to meet you, Virgil.”
She turned and walked away. Virgil sat for a moment, the untasted beer in his hand, wondering why he’d just offered his name to the waitress.
For the next half hour, Virgil ate while he listened to the music. From the table he’d chosen, he had a good vantage point for most of the room. He could even see an occasional fool trying to be a ten-second hero, spinning around on top of the bull. One who tried and failed was lurching toward the men’s room, ready to give up as much as he had drunk.
He could see why the place was popular. The atmosphere was nice. The burger was as good as he’d ever had and the music was a nice mix. A blend of country and modern, which surprised Virgil. He sat over a second beer, noting the steady stream of new customers. He saw more than a few locals that he’d interacted with over the years, both positively and negatively. Buddy Hinton would have been pretty comfortable here, he decided.
As he put the last of the beer to his lips, he saw the door open and Carlos Castillo walk in with two other men. Virgil didn’t know the men, but he thought he recognized one of them from the trucking office where he’d last talked to Carlos. He was kind of surprised to see Carlos quickly look away after their eyes met, then head directly to the bar.
“You ready for another?”
“I just might.”
He saw the seat at the bar next to Carlos become vacant.
“Maybe I’ll give up this table,” he said. “I see quite a few couples coming to dance. Give you a chance to make a little more money than you’ll get from me. This place always this busy?”
“Always on weekends.”
“What about on weekdays?”
“Well, we have our regulars. Then of course there’s always every other Thursday.”
“Why every other Thursday?”
“Payday at Hayward Trucking. That’s our biggest two days of every month.”
After she left, Virgil put the empty glass down, then wove his way around the tables until he reached the empty barstool next to Carlos. Carlos was talking to the man on his left and didn’t notice Virgil. Virgil waited for a break in their conversation and for Carlos to put his glass to his lips.
“Hey, Carlos,” he said. “We don’t run into one another in months then twice in a couple of days. Go figure.”
Carlos glanced quickly around the room before returning his attention to Virgil.
“Yeah. Like they say, it’s a small world.”
He drained the last of the beer, said something to the man to his left, and stood up. “Well, I gotta get home before the wife starts looking for a replacement. See ya, Sheriff.”
Before Virgil could say anything else, Carlos was gone. Virgil hesitated just a moment, then headed after Carlos. He caught up with him just as Carlos closed the door of his pickup.
“Carlos.”
The look on Carlos’s face told him his instincts were not wrong.
“I gotta get down the road,” Carlos said.
“Talk to me, Carlos.”
Carlos glanced anxiously around the parking lot.
“Let’s just say it’s been suggested that we not talk to the law,” Carlos said. “Virgil, you know I got a wife, three kids, and a mother-in-law who won’t quit. I can’t jeopardize everything, not in this economy.”