by Jonis Agee
“Something might come to you.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.” Graver’s voice was soft but firm.
“Black hat on the hook right inside the kitchen door. We’ll meet you at the house with a horse.”
As soon as Graver started walking, Higgs noticed that he wore flat-heeled farmer’s brogans. “Ask Vera, Mrs. Higgs, to fetch you a pair of boots, too.” No use in having a man dragged to death or worse if a horse shied and his foot went through the stirrup when he fell off.
CHAPTER NINE
Before he rapped on the door, Graver could hear the old man yelling and the sweet-voiced woman laughing. They’d been going at it since the day Drum Bennett was deposited on the overstuffed parlor sofa. Sometimes Vera’s sweet tone took on a knife’s edge and she’d cut the old man off at the knees; this was usually followed by a few hours of blessed quiet, during which Graver would be able to sleep.
“What does he want?” Drum yelled.
“Hush,” Vera hissed. Pushing the strand of damp hair off her forehead, she gave Graver a quick smile and tilted her head. Her eyes had a touch of green like the water in the hay meadows. Sometimes, when she was angry, a dark cast appeared like the morning sky before rain. She was a handsome woman with light tortoiseshell skin that shone in the new summer light. When he told her about the hat and boots, she hesitated, and then reached for a hat, quickly brushing the brim and crown and holding it up to glance inside. Before he put it on, Graver saw J.B.’s initials stamped in the leather sweatband, and paused. The hat fit perfectly.
As soon as she left to find him boots, Drum Bennett started in.
“You may have the rest of these farmers fooled, but I know you. I know what you did. Don’t think I’m not gonna do something about you soon as I’m on my feet again. Now take off my son’s hat!” The old man’s face had lost color, as well as some of its tautness, beginning to sag into wrinkles that made his threats seem more bluster than warning. Graver removed the hat and held it in both hands.
“Sir, I’m sorry you lost your son. It’s a hard row to hoe. But I did not kill him, and I intend to find out who did. Same man shot me, a thing I cannot tolerate.”
The old man stared at him, as surprised at the length of the speech as anything he’d said.
“I just knew you’d grow to liking one another.” Vera bustled in clutching a pair of high black boots with long mule tabs. Almost new, they had a waxy shine and barely scuffed soles.
“Ma’am, I can’t take those.” Graver started to back out the door.
“I don’t have time to go looking again, Mr. Graver. I’m in the middle of making doughnuts, so you’ll oblige me to take these boots and let me get back to my cooking.” She held the boots out with one hand and rested the other on her hip.
“Take the damn boots,” the old man growled. “Man’s dead.”
Graver shook his head and took the boots. They fit just about as perfect as they could without being made for his feet. When he stood and stamped, driving his heel home, he straightened his back and shoulders, despite the twinge from the healing wound, and felt something new settle in his mind.
The chestnut kicked out behind as soon as it was asked to lope, and tried to put its head down to buck, but Graver was ready for it and sat light in the saddle, not giving the horse its head until it settled down to work. He felt the deep satisfaction that came from riding a good horse again, one with powerful hindquarters that reached under the body and a good sloping shoulder that grabbed at the distance. J.B. hadn’t spoilt the horse’s mouth either. The animal responded to the lightest touch on the reins, and Graver was careful to sit back when he asked for a walk or a halt, the response was so immediate. He smiled in appreciation. For all he’d sacrificed to become a husband and father and farmer, this was probably the only thing he truly missed, but he rarely allowed himself to dwell on the series of choices and mistakes that had brought him to this desolate land.
The recent loss of his family overpowered any kind of regret and seemed petty compared to the lives he had seen finished. In the end, his wife hadn’t asked anything of him, no terrible return to her hometown for burial, no message to her unforgiving family. How quickly we are taken, he remembered musing, and was then brought back by the wails of his small children as they passed. His wife had simply slipped under the dark waters of her death without a sound. They never had a chance. Their lives fluttered away like milkweed seed on the wind. He couldn’t catch and hold a single one. Now, as then and the whole time afterward when he was digging their graves and burying them in the sand, and laying the rusty iron bed frame over them so the animals couldn’t dig them up, he hadn’t allowed the luxury of tears, of self-pity as it were, because he was alive, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Graver couldn’t help feeling that no matter what he did, he kept traveling the same circular road as they topped the hill and looked down at the windmill and water tank. The red horse snorted, tossed its head and reached its nose around to stare at his boot. Wrong man, it seemed to say. Graver felt an unnatural apprehension in his gut, as if he was about to hear gunshots echo in the still morning air and feel the bullet rip into his body again.
The grass was especially green here because of the water, and cropped by the cattle that came to drink and stood swatting flies. The herd was elsewhere this morning, though, and the men had the area to themselves. Other than that, it was the same as the day he was shot. What did Higgs want? Graver didn’t have any answers, at least any he wanted to share, and he noticed that Higgs and Larabee had drawn up on either side of him as if to block an escape.
A meadowlark on one of the windmill struts puffed its chest and sang its courting song, then glared defiantly in case any other suitors showed. Graver thought of his wife’s passion for drawing the creatures in the world around her, how heartbroken and brave she had been when the two oldest children had taken her box of pastels and scrubbed them on the table until there was nothing left. There was no money to replace them. After that she had drawn with pencils until they wore out, too. He watched her hands toward the end, anxiously sketching with her fingernail in the packed dirt by the fireplace, staring into the fire. While the fever was on her, she drew on the mattress ticking and the dirt floor, until her nails wore down, and her fingertips bled from the scraping. Even after he bound her hands, the motion continued, sometimes scrawling the air between them, sometimes the front of her nightgown, or the bed again. He was glad to burn the bedding when it was all over, afraid he might recognize the portraits.
He shook himself. Why had he never asked her if it was worth it, what she gave up for him? He knew he didn’t want the answer, and was glad she never offered. The truth couldn’t be known until the end of a person’s life, and then what’s the use. He should never have taken her love, like a gift that was out of proportion for the occasion. But it was a young man’s mistake, one he’d never repeat. He wiped his face with his hand and wasn’t surprised to find it sweaty. Ever since he was shot, he felt chills and twisting cramps in his gut like his body fought to rid itself of the poison. His mind wandered, too, right when he needed to pay attention to things at hand, like it was trying to trick him.
“Can you think of anything else about that day?” Higgs asked Graver while Larabee smoked and watched. Graver shook his head. A breeze drove the windmill blades, producing a high, persistent squeal, and then quit and they slowed to a stop. “Larabee, you got any grease on you?” Higgs asked. “Might as well fix that son of a bitch while we’re here.”
The man sighed, finished his cigarette, and rubbed it out on the toe of his boot before climbing down and searching his saddlebag for an old tobacco tin.
“What’s that?” Higgs asked with a frown.
“Hair grease, hand healer, leather protector, waterproofer, bag balm, wound dressing. Want some?” Larabee grinned.
Higgs waved his hand. “Get going.” He shifted his eyes to Graver. “You get down and show us how it happened. Every inch of it.”
“Thing is, my knee’s been giving me fits lately, and climbing’s . . .” Larabee stood next to his horse and glanced at the windmill as if it were a Wyoming mountain peak. Higgs snorted and shook his head.
“I’ll do it,” Graver said.
“You up to a climb?” Higgs asked.
Graver maneuvered his horse to Larabee’s side, took the can of grease, and headed for the windmill on the far side of the tank. Anything was better than acting out the shooting again. Maybe they were going to finish him here, the thought had occurred to him several times throughout the ride.
“Can’t fault a man for wanting to work,” Larabee said as he stepped into the stirrup and settled back into the saddle.
“Hope that arm’s healed enough. Hate to have you haul him back on your horse, you walking the whole way,” Higgs said.
“Looks like he’s doing fine.” Larabee lifted his chin to the windmill, where Graver was straddling the crossarm and digging into the grease tin.
“You need to get back down there and start looking for clues,” Higgs said.
Graver slowly worked his way around the scaffolding of the windmill, pretending to examine the machine while he memorized the way the small hills folded into the larger ones that were actually sand dunes underneath a thin layer of soil and grass. To the east a series of shallow hills like steps cut into the front of a tall hill. The killer must have waited there, Graver thought, where the grass was cropped short by his horse. He tried to remember the voice from that morning. At the time, he’d thought it was a young man, but maybe it was a woman? Or perhaps the shooter had been lying in an uncomfortable position, say on his back, where the soapweed took over the hillside. Person’d have to be cautious of rattlers sleeping in the shade of those wide stiff leaves. And the prickly pear cactus, the yellow blooms peeking out of the spiny ears, he’d have been careful not to roll or kneel in those.
Graver’s fingers felt the gears, the drive shaft of the windmill, dry as a bone. He didn’t remember that noise, but it must’ve been there. He peered closely at the housing for the drive shaft and saw that a stray shot had pierced the metal, allowing the grease to clog and dry. He stuck his finger in the hole and felt the bullet. Have to come back and dig it out, see which gun it came from. Had they saved the bullets from J.B.’s shoulder or checked his guns to see if he’d fired back? He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Higgs was focused on Larabee. Graver circled the windmill struts one more time, examining the murder site from every angle. The puzzle wasn’t only J.B.’s shooting, it was the Indian girl’s death as well. Why was she there? Where was her body now? And why had the shooter left him alive? For days, he was haunted, thought the killer might change his mind and come back for him. Another reason to figure this out, to be ready when the shooter realized his mistake. Then Graver had another thought—what if he tried to draw the killer toward him instead? First rule he’d learned in his past life: trust no one. Second rule: have a fast horse nearby. Always. He glanced at the chestnut gelding as it restively stamped and tossed its head against the no-see-ums chewing bloody clots in its ears. Third rule: stay out of family problems. Well, he’d blown that one to hell, hadn’t he.
He tested the blades and was rewarded with a nearly noiseless spin. He threw the grease tin to the ground and began his one-armed descent, pausing halfway to rest. His shoulder throbbed wildly. Dizziness came through his head in a wave and ate up the day around him. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against one of the main wooden supports. Be lucky not to end up with a face full of splinters like his hand. He should have asked for gloves, but he was so used to doing without that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He wished to hell he were someplace else. Wished he’d kept going that morning, hadn’t been drawn into another man’s fight. But now it was his fight, and no matter how he felt about the Bennetts, he had to help set things right. A vivid image of his wife and children suddenly swept over him, and he closed his eyes against the sudden moisture. When he reopened them a cloud of dust was rising to the top of the hill. He quickly jumped down and ran to his horse.
“Damn those boys!” Higgs stood in the stirrups. Graver sent his horse up the small rise behind him to see more clearly as cows and calves spilled down the hill and crowded the water tank.
Higgs removed his hat, bounced it against his thigh to clear the dust from the brim, put it back on, and gave the front a final tug to guarantee it was tight. “Nothing to see here now those cattle come through. Let’s get back.”
“I need a job,” Graver said.
Higgs squinted at him and gave a short nod. “’Less you got a better offer, you can bunk here. Thirty a month and found to start.”
Graver glanced at Larabee’s patched saddle and bridle, and the worn pants and shirt he wore. “I’m grateful for the offer, but . . .”
“Just stay until we get this killing sorted out, then.”
Graver nodded. He stared at the place he’d found the girl and the man that morning.
Larabee spoke up, “Wonder what J.B. was doing up here with that girl.” He glanced at Graver.
“Probably saw something, same as me.” Graver returned the look. “Where’s the girl buried now?”
Larabee ducked his head and glanced at Higgs.
“We don’t rightly know. Came back to get her and she was gone.” Higgs lifted his hat. “Can’t put the rain back.”
Graver surveyed the little meadow one more time and wondered how it was the girl was gone. Did animals drag her off? Or did the shooter come back for her?
CHAPTER TEN
Dulcinea and Rose stopped their horses on the last hill overlooking the ranch and stepped down to stretch their legs after the long ride. Yesterday they left Rosebud, crossed into Nebraska, and stopped in Babylon for the night before coming into the hills. It was the end of the day, and Dulcinea could see lone cowboys on horseback driving cattle slowly out to summer pastures. They must be late this year because of J.B.’s . . . she could not say the word yet. Glancing at Rose, she felt the kinship of sorrow and could not begin to imagine the loss of a sister. There was no hierarchy to grief, she realized, and her knees nearly buckled as her feet sank into the sand underfoot, where the horse-and-wagon traffic had killed the grass. She was almost home and something made her pause.
To the right was a vast blue lake, the surrounding marsh alive with birds feeding and mating. The air bore the moist scent of water, so blue it put the distant white-blue sky to shame. She shaded her eyes to stare at the lake where pelicans floated peacefully. Nearby a pair of swans stretched their long necks searching the waters for food, and farther on, ducks dove and flapped, green necks glistening in the sun. Myriad red-winged blackbirds perched on dried cattail stalks with brown heads shredding into the new green shoots below. Nearby, one bird straddled two cattails, feet clenched fiercely to hold its territory against the loud, hissing wind.
After she rode down this hill, nothing would ever be the same. Right now, Dulcinea was between two worlds, but soon she would be in the one without her husband. She stuck her hand in the pocket of her traveling coat, fingered the crumpled yellow paper that carried J.B.’s last coded message from March. Soon the birds take wing with my heart. She hadn’t known about his poetic nature when they first married, or even after the boys were born. It took their separation for his silence to become eloquent in the anonymity of the telegram’s compressed language. She fingered the paper’s edge. She was wearing it soft as flannel.
Beyond the lake, the hills rose green and humped like ancient fallen beasts, their grass remorseless and brutal hair. There were few trees that thrived naturally here, the occasional cedar the men hacked down because it drew too much water, the sand willows, mulberries, wild cherry, and cottonwood by the small creeks and rivers. She used to miss trees terribly, their casual interruption of the sky, until she returned to Chicago for a visit, then she missed these ragged hills instead. She stooped to pick a wild pink rose, avoiding the tiny spines that slivered like unseen
glass hairs into one’s fingers. There was little scent, but the creamy softness of the petals like the inside of a dog’s ear more than made up for it. She placed one on her tongue, and imagined she could taste the hills, the bittersweet tang of life.
“Those three men don’t have any cattle.” Rose pointed east where the cowboys trotted their horses. Two of the men slumped in the saddle while the third rode with shoulders high and firm.
“Where did it happen?” Dulcinea asked. Rose would know. She’d already been out there.
Rose tipped her head at the three men. “That way. Water tank between Bennett lands.”
“Why was my husband there with your sister? How old was she?” Dulcinea regretted her question the moment it left her mouth and Rose grimaced like she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry—” Dulcinea reached out, placed her hand on Rose’s arm. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” Rose admitted. “She was going to meet a man who could help her—” She paused and picked up the reins she’d dropped to ground tie her horse. “She was a good girl. Told me he had information about our mother.” She appeared lost in thought as she watched the three men near the ranch yard. “Maybe it wasn’t your husband she was meeting.”
Dulcinea stared at the other woman, who bit her lower lip to stop from saying more. She stepped back and picked up her own reins, then pretended to check the cinch on the saddle before she mounted again. What could J.B. know about Rose’s family? She’d told him about befriending Rose when they met in March, and he seemed ignorant of her family. She looked westward, where heavy clouds lay above a gray veil that meant someone was getting the luck, and the rain. The sun hung near the lip of the horizon like a red ball at rest, and a low bush beside her suddenly exploded with lavender butterflies that clouded around her long skirt, washed up her bodice, and splashed against her face, their wings like an exhaled breath of powder as she closed her eyes. Something about the moment, its unexpected tenderness, made her long to hear him say her name again, just once more, “Dulcinea, Dulcie May,” as he’d whispered in her ear when last they’d met, in March.