One Step Over the Border

by Stephen Bly

  He inspected Luke’s left rear hoof. The black horse winced when he ran his calloused fingers over the frog area.

  He glanced back at Laramie and watched his partner pull on a green Carhartt Henley shirt. Hap marveled that he would trek down to south Texas with him on what amounted to a lark, and knew Laramie’s loyalty piled up a debt almost impossible to repay.

  “You want me to start the eggs?” Laramie called out.

  “Yeah, go ahead. Lukey’s got a bruised foot. How did he do that in the trailer?”

  “You goin’ to slap a rubber boot on him?”

  Hap studied the horse’s hoof. “Yeah, for a few days anyway.” He glanced over at Laramie’s blaze-faced bay. “You want me to check Tully’s feet?”

  “Don’t let him kick you.”

  Hap rubbed the horse’s neck. “Well, Mr. Tully. I don’t worry about you. Horses kick. And bite. And buck. Nothin’ can change that.” He hefted Tully’s right front hoof and muttered. “But people can change. Anyway, I surely hope so.”

  Both men dressed and huddled next to the fire, blue tin cups of bitter coffee in their hands.

  Somewhere under melted yellow cheese and chunky red salsa, a half-dozen scrambled eggs lined their blue tin plates. Using a rolled-up corn tortilla for a scoop, Hap crammed a spicy bite into his mouth. “I believe my tongue is hot enough to boil water.”

  “They do make good salsa down here.” Laramie swished his coffee around in his mouth before he swallowed it. “But this is a long drive from Wyoming just to find it.”

  When Hap sucked in a breath of air, it felt cool all the way to his tonsils. “I know what you’re thinkin’ about our brief stay in Mexico last night. But she’s got to be somewhere. I have to give this a try.”

  Laramie used his tortilla like a washrag and wiped his plate clean. “It was nineteen years ago.”

  “Some things a man don’t forget.”

  “A man? You were twelve years old when you visited with that cute Mexican girl for two hours while your daddy fixed their car in Wyoming.”

  “You know it’s been eatin’ at me ever since. You knew that from the first day we met. I explained it in the steak house east of Greybull.”

  “I know I’m the only one who would put up with your idiot obsession.”

  “You’re right about that, partner. But it’s a drive… a goal… a life purpose… not an obsession. It’s more like a dream. Without dreams, a man dries up inside.”

  “Hap, you’re thirty-one years old and you refuse to date anyone not named Juanita. It’s a full-blown obsession.”

  The cool westward wind drifted over them, pregnant with heat to be birthed later in the morning. A distant rooster sounded startled to crow so late. Bacon grease congealed in a black skillet parked in the dirt between them.

  “Laramie, I’m tryin’ harder this summer to understand than I ever have. I know one thing: this is my last season of searchin’. I got to give it my best shot. That’s the only way I’ll be able to walk away from it.”

  “If last night’s any indication, we won’t live another week. Sometimes it’s like walking the floor with an addict. I try to keep you upright and moving until this ‘drug’ works out of your system.”

  “I sorta figure that last night was progress.”

  “Progress?” Laramie waved his boot like a pointer stick. “You don’t have a clue whether she lives in the U.S. or Mexico, or whether it’s in Texas, New Mexico, or Colorado. She could have moved to Cody, Wyoming, by now. Think of that for irony.”

  “We checked out Cody ten years ago.”

  “You’ve got to narrow it down some, Hap. It’s like looking for some particular penguin in Antarctica. We’re going to find Juanitas all over, but how can we tell the right one? So far the only site we’ve crossed off the list was that rundown cantina in Matamoros.”

  Hap studied the tanned creases around Laramie’s eyes. He kept thinking of the old rodeo phrase, “It ain’t the years, boys… it’s the miles.” His voice lowered. “I eliminated some others last night. I was layin’ there in my aches and pains tryin’ to think it all through and it dawned on me. My Juanita is the kind of gal to make somethin’ of herself. We were lookin’ in the wrong place last night.”

  Laramie shook his boot out. Something dropped to the sand, dug a quick hole, and buried itself. “What was that?”

  “A beetle, I guess. Now, listen up. This is huge. I decided there will be no more searchin’ out cantinas, saloons or casinos. I’m just sure my Juanita’s teachin’ at a school, nursin’ at a hospital, or runnin’ the soup kitchen at the gospel mission. We need to be lookin’ on the good side of town. That’s the kind of woman she is.”

  Treeless brown prairie grass stretched north of them. Laramie gazed at the horizon as if expecting a fox to jump up. “The Rio Grande’s eighteen hundred miles long. That’s not what I’d call narrow.”

  Hap stood up slowly, unlocking his back as if it were a pair of vise grips. “We ought to go search a hospital. Maybe they’d rent us a cheap room for the night. That would do us the most good.”

  Laramie wiggled his toes, then shoved his foot into his boot. “Hap, I promised you I’d ride the river with you. And you know I keep every promise. But that doesn’t mean I comprehend all of this.”

  Hap scratched his unshaven chin. “Look, if it’s any consolation, I don’t understand me either. Sometimes this drive feels like a disease. But I aim to get cured. And the antidote is somewhere between here and the headwaters of the Rio Grande near Creede, Colorado. I guarantee, partner, this is the last summer you and me have to put up with this.”

  Laramie filled both tin cups with steaming coffee. “You know why I put up with this? One reason: I know for fact, you’d do the same thing for me.”

  “If you had an idiot obsession? That’s tough to imagine.”

  “Well, it’s not tough for me to imagine. I got some fears all scrambled up inside. They don’t drive me toward something, but away from lots of things. Maybe it’s a good thing to always be focused on your quest. It keeps me from looking over my shoulder. But right now, a cash-paying job would be a helpful thing. Our funds shriveled up with your transmission repair and new water pump.”

  “If we get to the Midway Café in McAllen at 8:00 A.M., E. A. Greene promised us some work.”

  Laramie took a slow, deep breath and exhaled into the steamy cup. “Does this mean we’re finally bidding a fond farewell to Brownsville?”

  Hap felt the blue tin cup warm the calluses on his fingers. “Not until we finish our coffee.”

  Like a jet trail hugging the ground, dust plumed from E. A. Greene’s red Dodge dually and long gooseneck stock trailer. Laramie and Hap cut through the silt fog like an F-14 through wispy clouds as they followed him to the entrance of the Hidalgo County Land and Cattle, Ranch 21.

  Laramie rolled down the window when they pulled over the cattle guard and through the large open gate. A dozen outbuildings littered the ten-acre site with no apparent order. All had dulled, flaking white paint. Hard-packed, reddish dirt separated the buildings. The windblown terrain looked broom swept.

  “We’ve entered indoor rodeos in a smaller arena than that old barn,” Laramie said.

  Hap parked the truck and horse trailer next to an empty stock tank and broken windmill. Three rail corrals crosschecked the pasture. Stacks of bone-dry tumbleweeds lined the east side of the fence. “Lots of holdin’ corrals, that’s for sure. But no water. Ain’t that strange?”

  “The big house is a little run down, but the bunkhouse seems okay. Usually it’s the other way around. I don’t see a soul, though. It’s got an air of being deserted. Reminds me of that job we took in Dubois.”

  “The one that went belly-up while we were out on gather and no one bothered to come tell us? Yeah, I’m getting an uneasy feeling about this job.”

  Hap climbed out of the truck and stretched his arms. “E.A. said the crew headed out with the herd two weeks ago. We took too much time gettin’ here.
That busted transmission almost cost us a job. Nice of him to put us on anyway. I bet it would have felt different if we had been here with the crew.”

  “I’ve never worked a ranch that didn’t smell like manure.” Laramie unfolded his long legs, locking them into place like a card table. “I don’t think this place has housed anyone since the war.”

  “Which war?”

  “World War II.” Laramie peered into the horse trailer. “We might want to get paid in advance for this job.”

  Hap felt his neck stiffen. “We don’t get paid until we do the work. We ain’t changin’ that code now, partner.”

  “So this guy, E. A. Greene, was a friend of your daddy, right?”

  “I don’t think he knew Daddy. He’s a pal of my uncle Mike, my mom’s only brother. You heard him. The pay’s good for some day work. Two weeks and we can go back to searchin’ for my Juanita.”

  Though Greene stood in at five-eight, he loomed tall from the back bumper of his pickup. A polished bear claw clasped his braided leather string tie. The collar of his flower print western shirt was unbuttoned and dirty. “Here’s the plan, boys. I’ve got a bunch of kids and rookies up there with the herd trying to play cowboy and move them to the summer range. It’s for sure and certain that they’re goin’ to lose some along the way. That’s why I’m payin’ you top wages. I want you to bring up the rear and round up the ones they missed or left behind. Seasoned hands like you two shouldn’t have any trouble. There are corrals and loading ramps every eight to ten miles. Pen them there and make sure there’s water in the stock tank. I’ll be back with this rig, then trailer the strays up with the main herd. I’m guessin’ you’ll have fifty head or more before you reach the Sargosa Valley range.” He stopped to swat two flies that buzzed at his neck. “If I had experienced hands like you to begin with, I wouldn’t need this follow-up.”

  “When do we get paid?” Laramie pressed.

  “Normally at the end of the two weeks, but I can pay you a week at a time, if you want.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we want,” Laramie added.

  “You said you’d provide the chuck?” Hap asked.

  “That’s right.” E.A. dug in his pocket, pulled out a short, brass key, and handed it to Hap. “Each corral has a chuck box. I’m loadin’ ’em up as I head west. You just help yourself to what you need and leave it locked for the next crew.”

  Laramie gazed across the empty brown prairie. A hamburger wrapper scurried like a windblown rabbit until it impaled on a squatty prickly pear cactus. “They all shorthorns?”

  “It’s a mixed lot, boys.”

  Hap drew his worn brown boot across the hard dirt. “All branded Bar-HC?”

  “I haven’t had time to brand them new ones I brought up from Mexico. Most of them have a running H with some curlicues on each side. You know how them Mexican brands are.”

  “Draw us out a picture of your brands, then sign and date the paper,” Laramie said.

  “You reckon he needs to do all that?” Hap challenged.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Greene scribbled something on the back of an oily brown sack, then shoved it at Laramie. He was back in the truck and had roared off before Hap got his chaps fastened.

  One foot on the bumper, Laramie buckled up his spurs. “You know, that’s as little instruction as we ever got. How well do you know this guy?”

  “My uncle Mike was with him in Vietnam. I don’t need any more credentials than that.” Hap licked his lips and could taste the alkali dirt. “Besides, roundin’ up fifty head don’t sound all that tough.”

  “Do you know anything about Mexican brands?”

  “I ain’t never cowboyed south of Colorado until now. You know that.” Hap snapped his chap strap behind his knee. When the wind gusted, he screwed his hat down.

  “That’s why I insisted on this.” Laramie tucked the folded brand sheet into his pocket as he led Tully away from the trailer.

  “Kind of desolate out here, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, I expected us to ride out among the bluebonnets on some historic Texas ranch.”

  “This isn’t much different than searching for strays south of Wamsutter, Wyoming.” Hap buttoned up his black leather vest. “I reckon cattle is cattle.”

  Bedrolls tied to the cantles and cinches pulled tight, Laramie and Hap swung up in their saddles with a smoothness learned from years of practice—plus a wince or two, a result of the night before.

  South Texas now sweltered July hot. Sweat dribbled down their bandanna-wrapped necks. Squatty prickly pear cactus marked the parched prairie. Lumps of brown grass looked like mountaintops poking through the dust clouds. Wild islands of tangled brush thick enough to inspire Uncle Remus to spin a story filled the landscape. It hadn’t rained for seventeen days.

  The duo found the tramped dirt trail of E. A. Greene’s eight hundred head. Without assigning tasks, Laramie skirted the northern edge of the herd’s track. Hap rode the southern boundary. Both cowboys studied the windswept tracks, trying to spot where a cow or calf had strayed away from the others. They rode in sixty-foot circles, hoping to cut across a track or sign of herd defection.

  Hap stood in the stirrups, stretched his legs, then plopped back down on the hot, slick leather saddle seat. He always had a hard time explaining to the carbound how good a saddle felt. The guy who worked at Boeing collapsed in his La-Z-Boy recliner every night, but Hap relaxed best in his saddle. He figured it was the rhythm of horse and cowboy… the sway… the fresh air… not counting the lousy food, the icy November rains, and the stink of burning cowhide. He knew it meant nursing a calf all night in the bathtub and then watching the wolves devour it six weeks later. But he had chosen this life, and he knew he wouldn’t trade it for something so confining as a fast food franchise. He also realized it had been a long time since he had any other choice.

  They wound their way through the brush-choked barranca, a narrow, steep gulch no more than thirty-feet wide and a half-mile long. Hap emerged with a brindle yearling who trotted ahead of him, bleating about the rude intrusion.

  “I’ve got rounded small cloven tracks within bigger ones that veer off toward the brushy oasis. I’ll check it out,” Laramie hollered. Soon the wet pair, cow and calf, scooted ahead of him.

  With a dry breeze at their backs, Laramie and Hap plodded the horses at a slow enough pace not to tire the cattle, following the contour as it mimicked the river. Only the screech of a red-tailed hawk circling the prairie with mouse-filled talons broke the silence. The steady clomp of Luke’s hooves provided the percussion for the hawk’s shrill violin. The sun hung halfway to noon when they pushed the little gather into the shade of a live oak tree.

  “You should get yourself a sombrero,” Hap teased. “It will get hot this afternoon. This ain’t Wyomin’.”

  Ignoring the suggestion as he had for ten years of working cattle together, Laramie wiped his forehead with his bandanna. He pulled out the brand list and studied it. “Do you think we’re doing this right?”

  “We got four steers, three cows, two calves, and that young brown-and-white bull that’s been followin’ behind us for a couple miles. They all have one of those brands on it. Sounds right to me.”

  “The bull hasn’t come close enough for us to read the brand, so I think we can let him trail along for a while.”

  “Laramie, did you ever wish you got married when you were younger?”

  “Geez, where did that come from?”

  “You mentioned the bull… that reminded me of Grey-bull, Wyoming… and Juanita. She had a kid. What was his name?”

  “Philippe.”

  “How old would he be now?”

  “Eleven, twelve, I guess.”

  “He must be playin’ Little League. You or me could be sittin’ in the stands at a Little League game in Rock Springs yellin’ for our boy when he came up with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth inning.”

  “I think they only play seven innings in Little League.”
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br />   “Make ’em throw you a strike, Philippe!” Hap hollered.

  Laramie stared at his partner. “You had too much sun?”

  “I guess I was ponderin’ how much of my life I’ve wasted on this Juanita thing. I’m goin’ to be in my forties before I ever watch my kid’s Little League game.”

  “Is this going anywhere?” Laramie demanded.

  “Don’t you ever think about things like that?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to have kids?”

  “I don’t think so. Are we going to round up some cows or just talk all day?”

  Hap watched Laramie ride north. It wasn’t the first time his partner had iced up over the subject of family. He reckoned if he hung around long enough, Laramie would open up on the issue. But not today. Hap turned Luke south and trotted him to the edges of the trail.

  When the tracks swung north of a brush-filled ravine, Laramie signaled Hap to shouting distance. “We got a cow down there. She’s dropping smaller and smaller sign. It hasn’t crusted over yet.”

  “Ain’t this a wonderful business?” Hap shouted back. “We get to spend our day studyin’ cow manure.”

  “And to think, my mamma wanted me to be a lawyer,” Laramie called back.

  “From what I can tell, this ain’t all that much different.”

  “One of us ought to push the bunch up around to the head of this ravine. The other can plow the brush and try to jump it out.”

  Hap stood in the stirrups to survey the rugged tangle of brush and rocks. “I reckon I know who will do what.”

  “You got the best cow pony, even if he is wearing one boot. Tully won’t cut brush unless he sees your horse do it first.”

  “Luke’s so smart, maybe I could just send him down by himself.”

  “Holler up, if you need help.”

  “Yeah. I’ll just call you on your cell phone.”

  “You laughed at me when I suggested we get cell phones,” Laramie said.