by Raisor, Gary
"Well you ain't got your way. You boys cut Amos some slack." Martin laughed. "Me and that old man go back a long ways. He taught me how to ride, how to shoot a decent game of pool. And a few other things, too. A lot of folks don't know this, but that crazy old Indian taught John Warrick everything he knows about the game."
That got their attention.
"Some say Amos's son, Thomas, was better than John," Bobby said.
"Don't nobody know that for sure. They never played. Thomas used to…," Martin caught himself and shook his head. Sometimes he forgot Thomas Black Eagle was dead. It always took him by surprise when he remembered. "Let's just say it would have been a hell of a game." Martin glanced at his watch. "You boys better shake a leg or you're going to be several beers behind."
Bobby saw that the conversation was getting under the foreman's skin and he decided to change the subject. "If you change your mind, Mr. Strickland, you know where we'll be."
"Yeah, I know." A look of distaste crossed Martin's face. "Jake Rainwater's bar."
They waited for the inevitable lecture.
"You watch your asses over there," Martin warned. "A lot of bad shit happens at Jake's."
Bobby and Kevin nodded. The only bad things that had ever happened to them at Jake's were hangovers and broken hearts. Nobody had ever died from either. Bobby walked over to the Caddy and started it up, causing a stream of blue smoke to pour from the tailpipe.
Boyce and Nash began edging away when the noxious cloud moved toward them.
Kevin watched the two hands take off their hats to fan away the smoke from the car. Somebody yelled out a strangled moo, and Bobby's face went scarlet with anger as he turned to see who had made the offending sound. "Who did that? I'm gonna kick his ass when I find out, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick his ass. You see if I don't."
Boyce and Nash gave Bobby their most innocent look. "Jesus, Bobby looks like he's about to pop a vein. What's the matter with him, Mr. Strickland?" Kevin asked.
"I guess he don't like to be kidded about his car," Martin said. There was something in the foreman's eyes. It might have been a twinkle.
"Everyone knows what the exhaust from that old Caddy can do," Kevin said. "Boyce told me it caused Mr. Roberts' best long horn bull to pass clean out. I guess something like that could make a man a little sensitive."
"Boyce tell you that? He use the words passed out?"
"Yeah," Kevin said, warily. "He said Bobby was bringing a bull back from Holbrook last summer, towing him in an open trailer behind the Caddy. And when he got here, the bull was passed out."
Martin was trying to suppress something that looked a lot like laughter. "That bull wasn't passed out, son. He was passed away. There was a big ruckus, finger pointing, even talk about lawsuits."
"What killed him?"
Martin leaned in close, like he didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. "The county vet was called in to see what killed old Sparky. That was the bull's name, Sparky. Damned good bull, that old Sparky."
"Can we hold up on the memorial to Sparky?" Kevin cut in. "What happened?"
"Well, the vet said that old Sparky had been asphyxiated. By fumes."
"From the Caddy?" Kevin supplied. "He was killed by fumes from the Caddy?"
Martin nodded. "Old Sparky had enough ten W thirty in his lungs to change the oil in a Toyota."
"Are those Sparky's horns on the front of the Caddy?"
"Yep, Chester put 'em on there. He told Bobby if he ever took 'em off, he'd cut his ass off without a cent."
"Man, that's hard." Kevin turned to look at the car and had to turn back immediately so Bobby wouldn't see the smile. Kevin wasn't fast enough.
Bobby saw and his face went bright red for the second time.
He revved the engine, causing everyone to move back a few more feet. "You shitheads can walk to Jake's for all I care. It was an accident; I didn't mean to kill old Sparky. It could have happened to anybody."
There was another moo, followed by some coughing.
"All right, that tears it," Bobby said, climbing from the car. "At least old Sparky got laid before he died, which is more than any of you will be able to say."
While Nash and Boyce were trying to keep the car between them and Bobby, something occurred to Kevin. His expression went serious as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Mr. Strickland, what do you want me to do about the dogs?"
Martin stared at the boy, saying nothing, his smile gone now as though it had never been.
"Bobby said to turn them loose," Kevin said, reluctantly. "He told us he's supposed to be in charge while his dad's gone." Kevin hesitated, torn between his friendship for Bobby and fear of the foreman. He decided to plunge ahead. "Bobby said not to say nothing to you."
"He did, huh? Well, I don't give a good goddamn what that little shit said," Martin answered, anger contorting his normally calm face. "Nobody's going to turn those Ridgebacks loose on that old man. They'd tear him to pieces." Martin removed his hat and wiped the sweat from the band while he fought for control. "There's already been some dead stock up in the north pasture, ripped up real bad. I know those dogs did it."
The younger man digested this for a moment. "You going to do anything about it?"
"I can't prove anything." Martin replaced the hat. "But if I could, those dogs would be off this place—Bobby or no Bobby. You know what those dogs were bred for, don't you?"
Kevin shook his head no.
"They were bred to chase down runaway slaves. Those dogs can even climb trees, did you know that?" Martin jerked his head, dismissing Kevin. "Go on now. I'll handle Bobby and the dogs." With that he started back to the bunkhouse.
Over by the car, Bobby had given up chasing the two hired hands and was back in the car.
Boyce and Nash walked over to see what was going on.
"Martin looked kind of serious," Nash said. "What's going on?"
"Man, I wouldn't want to be in Bobby's shoes tonight," Kevin said. "Mr. Strickland looked mad enough to bite a nail in two."
"Yeah, I never seen him this upset in a long time," Boyce chipped in. "You'd think Doralee was back in town."
That brought a few nervous nods.
"Ain't nobody can get to him faster than Doralee," Nash said. "You remember that four-day drunk he went on last year? Nobody knew where he was."
More nods.
Bobby, over in the Caddy, was still beating the dust out of his clothes. It was getting down to a thin cloud now.
Nash stared at the departing back of the foreman. "That was when Doralee ran off with that car salesman from Dallas. She took Nicky up there to live with her. That was when the shit hit the fan."
"Yeah, it did," Boyce said, remembering. "Me and Mr. Roberts finally found Martin holed up at Jake Rainwater's, crazy drunk. I didn't think nobody but Mr. Roberts could talk to him. Martin hit me when I tried." Boyce smiled, showing where two teeth were missing. "He don't even know he did it. I told him a horse kicked me."
"Well," Kevin said, putting an end to the talk, "it looks like he wants to be by himself. So I say we let him. I say let's get over to Jake's and spend some of this money that's burning a hole in my jeans."
"That sounds like the best idea I heard all day," Nash seconded. "The wind's shifted. I think we can make it over to the car."
The three ranch hands, eager to be on their way, piled into the Caddy convertible, all scrambling for the front seat. Kevin made it first.
Nash and Boyce had to settle for the back.
Kevin looked at them and grinned his usual shit-eating grin. "You boys are getting slow. I guess that comes with age."
Boyce grinned back and knocked Kevin's hat off. "You pups need to learn to respect your elders."
Bobby yanked the gearshift down into drive, punched the gas pedal, and spun a rooster tail of gravel all the way to the highway. They were in a good mood, ready to blow off a little steam.
"I still think Mr. Strickland ought to come with us," Kevin said. "He s
pends way too much time around here. You'd think he didn't like us none, the way he acts sometimes."
Nash Tippins leaned forward and said in his slow drawl, "Ain't that at all. He likes us just fine. I wasn't going to say nothing about what I found out this morning, but you boys ain't going to let it go." Nash paused to consider his words. And to roll himself a smoke.
The rest of the group squirmed impatiently in their seats, waiting for him to speak. There was no way to rush the easygoing ranch hand. Finally, when Nash had his cigarette rolled and lit, he resumed his story. "It's his boy, Nicky, that's got Martin all worked up. He ain't doing no paperwork tonight. He's waiting for Doralee to call and he don't want nobody to know about it."
"How come you know so much about what he's doing?" Kevin asked suspiciously. "You been kissing up, bucking for a cushy job?"
"No, nothing like that at all," Nash said. "I was building a fire in the stove this morning. That's when I found this scrap of paper that wasn't burned up all the way. It had Nicky's name on it."
"What did the note say?" Kevin demanded.
"Well, most of the paper was burned," Nash answered, "but I could make out a little piece of it. I think Nicky's run away from home again."
Boyce Gates adjusted his hat in the rearview mirror. "Jesus, how old is Nicky now, thirteen, fourteen?"
"Yeah, something like that," Bobby said. "Anybody know where the kid went?"
"The letter said Nicky might be on his way here," Nash replied. He elbowed Boyce out of the way and adjusted his own hat. "I guess that's why Martin's staying, in case Nicky shows up."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble to me. That's why I ain't never having any kids," Boyce pronounced solemnly, finally satisfied that his hat was cocked at the precise angle that would guarantee maximum female interest over at Jake's.
"I think we can rest pretty easy about there not being any little Boyces," Nash said.
"And why's that?" Boyce wanted to know.
"You gotta get a woman to have sex with you first."
Boyce let the remark and the accompanying hoots pass before turning his attention to Kevin. "Say, I heard you talking to Strickland about some dead stock over in the north pasture. What was that all about?"
"Mr. Strickland says the Ridgebacks killed a couple of cows up there."
"He gonna do anything about it?" Boyce asked.
Kevin shrugged, nervously watching Bobby out of the corner of his eye. "I don't know. He didn't say."
"You let the dogs loose like I told you?" Bobby casually asked.
Kevin said nothing, just stared straight ahead.
Bobby laughed at Kevin's silence. "Don't worry about it. I knew you didn't have the guts to do the job so I took care of it myself." He cracked the knuckles of his right hand slowly, thoughtfully. "One of these days I'm going to have to show old Martin who's boss."
Night had fallen and Bobby reached out to turn on the headlights, flashing them at an oncoming pickup running without lights.
The driver shot them the bird as he passed.
"Was that Jesse?" Bobby asked, looking into the rearview. "That was his own self, Jesse Black Eagle," Kevin said. "He's crazy as his grandfather. After we have a friendly game or two over at Jake's, remind me to have a talk with Jesse about road etiquette."
Nash grinned. "Jesse's pretty handy with his fists, but I guess you already know that since he kicked your butt in high school. He might teach you a few things about etiquette."
Boyce looked a little troubled at the direction the talk was taking. "If I find me a girl that'll talk to me, I don't want you to start no trouble, Bobby. You can't get no girl while you're in jail." At the thought of jail, Boyce's look went from troubled to apprehensive. "The last time I was in the lockup there was a couple guys that said they liked the way my jeans fit. One of them said I had a nice ass. He was a real big guy, too."
"They was just funning you," Nash said. "What did you say to the guy who liked your ass?"
"I told him I had the hemorrhoids real bad."
"Did that work?"
"He said that was okay, his old lady was always on the rag," Boyce answered. "All I know is that I slept on my back the whole night. And I got a bad sinus condition, too. It drains down the back of my throat and I got a cold on account of that. You know how hard a summer cold is to kick…?"
Bobby took his eyes off the road, reached down to turn on the radio. He didn't want to hear any more about Boyce's summer cold.
"Bobby, watch out!" Kevin grabbed the steering wheel and gave it a sharp jerk. The Caddy swayed across the road, running off onto the shoulder before Bobby could react. When he did find the pedal, they spun around several times before sliding to a shuddering halt in the dust.
Bobby smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Are you fucking crazy, Kevin? You trying to get us all killed?"
"There was somebody walking along the road. I didn't think you saw him." Kevin laughed, but his face had gone pale. "I was afraid you were going to run over the guy."
Boyce dabbed at his bleeding lip where he had hit the headrest. "Kevin, I think you're the one who fell on his head today, not Bobby. There ain't nobody out there."
"Yes, there was," Kevin insisted. "I didn't get a good look, but there was someone out there. I swear it."
Bobby made a U-turn in the middle of the deserted stretch of blacktop and drove back a mile. Everyone in the car scanned the night for Kevin's hiker.
There was no sign of anyone.
Bobby made another screeching U-turn and headed back toward Jake's. "You satisfied?"
"I guess I was wrong. It's just that I was sure…," Kevin reluctantly shook his head. "Sorry, Bobby."
"It's all right. You were probably expecting to see Nicky. Watch it, though. You almost cost Boyce another tooth, and he ain't got too many left as it is."
Bobby mashed down on the gas pedal and they cruised off into the night. When they were gone, the figure Kevin had seen rose up from the ground where it had hidden from their lights. The figure resumed its trek toward the Broken R Ranch. Walking in dusty snakeskin boots.
Martin Strickland tried to wait by the phone, though he was too keyed up to sit still. The sun had gone down about an hour ago, bringing the familiar chill to the air. He took a poker and prodded the fire in the potbellied stove that sat in the middle of the bunkhouse like some benign Buddha. A loose board squeaked when he walked back to his desk. The quiet was stretching his nerves to the breaking point.
"Damn you, Doralee, why didn't you keep an eye on Nicky?" The thought of his son hitchhiking had Martin scared more than he wanted to admit. The boy was thirteen and could take care of himself. Still, you never knew when you might get picked up by the wrong guy. There were a lot of sick sons of bitches out there. Martin looked at the drawer where he kept the bottle. A drink would taste real good, but he knew if he took the first one he wouldn't be able to stop.
Pushing back the chair, he climbed to his feet and walked outside. He would be able to hear the phone. It was his habit to take a look around the ranch every night before going to bed. Besides, the dogs needed to be fed.
He got within twenty feet of their pen before he noticed the gate was open.
"Damn," he said with the fatalism of a man who is beyond surprise. The bag of dog food fell at his feet, splitting open, spilling on the ground. He gave the remaining contents a sincere kick, which made him feel a little better. "This has got to be a joke. If you turned those dogs loose, Bobby," he vowed beneath his breath, "I'm going to kick your skinny little butt, and your daddy ain't going to be able to stop me." Martin gave a shrill whistle to summon the dogs.
After a few minutes, he realized they wouldn't be returning. Not until morning. They were out on the ranch somewhere, five of them, running around in the night, looking for something to kill.
Martin pitied anything that met up with them. He'd gotten a good look at the cows they had ripped apart and it was the most brutal thing he'd ever seen.
; The night chill crept under his clothes, causing him to shiver. He was tired. Sometimes he thought about quitting the Broken R, but he knew he was too old to get on with another spread. The ranching business was about gone to hell, anyway. Mr. Roberts was renting the grazing land from the Navajos and his option was up next year. Word had it the Navajos weren't going to let him renew. Their strip-mining operation was a lot more profitable. If that happened, he would be out of a job anyway. He didn't have anything put aside. He'd lived his life like Bobby and Kevin, and all the rest of the hands, spending his pay every Saturday night at places like Jake's, buying drinks for his friends, whoring, and gambling. When Doralee had taken Nicky, Martin had quit thinking about the future.
When he stooped to pick up the busted dog-food bag, he heard the phone ring. It rang five more times before he reached the bunkhouse and then quit. "Damn it, Doralee, I told you to let it ring."
Martin pushed into the bunkhouse and stopped.
Someone had been rummaging around in his desk. Caught against the window was the vague outline of a figure holding the phone. As Martin's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw it was a man wearing stained denim and a cowboy hat that looked like it had once been white.
"I think it's for you," the stranger said.
Chapter 8
Amos Black Eagle sat on his trailer steps and tried to find a position that didn't cause his arthritis to ache. He didn't find it.
In the meantime he watched his grandson, Jesse, work on the pickup. That old truck hadn't been much when the boy bought it, but a little money and a lot of hard work had made the Chevy into something real nice. The old man smiled when Jesse pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away some imaginary dust.
"That is indeed a fine vehicle," Lefty Thunder Coming said in his gravelly voice. "A truck like that would bring a man much pride. I used to have a nice truck back a few years ago, a Ford Ranger." He shrugged philosophically and spat in the dust. "But I lost it in a poker game up in Pagosa Springs. I had two pair, kings and queens, the other guy had three deuces. I thought the son of a bitch was bluffing." Lefty hung his head at the memory. "It is a shameful thing to get beaten by three deuces."