The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair

by Percival Everett

  He stopped at a Texaco mini-market gas station. The dog sat quietly while he pumped five dollars of regular into the tank. He made kissing sounds and talked to the dog while he screwed on the cap. While he was inside paying the cashier he watched an over-sized Buick with Oklahoma plates pull up alongside the pumps just beyond the truck. The pit bull was out before the car had stopped good and the driver could open his door. There was a small collie in the car, and the pit bull wanted it. There was a little girl in the back with the collie and she was screaming, she was so frightened.

  Luke ran out. The man held at bay behind the wheel glared at him. Luke found that he himself was afraid to reach for the dog’s collar to pull him away. The pit bull was not barking, but growling in a low rumble and leaping at the window, his jaws snapping, sounding like a big book being slammed shut.

  The man looked at Luke. He realized now that the dog was with him. “Do something,” the man mouthed the words behind the rolled-up window.

  Luke took the rope from the bed of the truck. He formed a loop and dropped it over the dog’s head. He gave a strong yank and jerked the dog off her feet. He climbed into his truck from the passenger side and slid over, pulling the dog in behind him. He held fast to the rope while he started the car. He took off, the passenger-side door swinging shut as he curved out onto the highway.

  The Okie was out of his car and yelling at him. “What kind of idiot has a dog like that!”

  Luke threw the rope at the dog’s face. “Christ,” he said. “I drag you away from a slaughter and—” He stopped. He’d taken the dog, he guessed, because he had failed to see anything vicious in her face. Now, he didn’t know what to think. “Bad dog!” he said. If the dog heard him, she wasn’t impressed. Luke began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. What was he going to do with this dog? He couldn’t take it back to Questa: he’d return it and they’d beat the shit out of him. He couldn’t let it go in Taos: the damn thing would kill every dog in sight. And what if the asshole whose dog it was called the cops and reported it stolen, description of truck and thief included? No, the guy was dogfighting. He wouldn’t call the police. Would he?

  Luke cursed the dog. Then he decided that this was all Cindy’s fault. He pulled into the parking lot behind the plaza and considered that. If Cindy hadn’t told him about the geek from Texas, then he wouldn’t have blown off his ride and ended up with Muñoz at a dogfight. So, here he was, thirty-seven dollars down the drain, a savage dog beside him and some crazy dogfighting banditos hot on his tail. All the fault of a woman. Cindy. She should have this dog.

  He started the truck. Dusk was corning on. It would be late when he reached Red River. Especially since he had to go around the other way, through Angel Fire and back through Eagle Nest to avoid Questa and the boys.

  It was late when he rolled down the mountain into Red River, and he was asking the same question then that he had been asking the whole way. “What the hell am I doing?” There was no place he knew to look for Cindy. Hell, he didn’t even know if they were in Red River. He had it in his mind to cruise up and down the single drag of town with an eye out for her. He was beginning to think that maybe he had taken a fall off that bull and dinged his head up pretty badly.

  Up and down the road, the dog looking out the window at the car lights and store lights and people.

  Luke studied the Texans, the dog, the night. He stopped the truck and led the roped dog behind the tavern where he tied her to the bumper of a shiny car. He walked back to his pickup, smiling at pretty, narrow-nosed, blonde women, climbed into his pickup, and drove away toward Oregon.

  Esteban

  The van had pulled off the road east of Flying Mountain and followed a faint, tire-rutted trail. It just sat there, dusty blue on the white flat. Nothing moved. There was no breeze. Cole Dixson parked his rig beside Winston Keeler’s.

  “Anything?” he asked, taking his rifle from its rack.

  Keeler continued to peer through the field glasses. “Nope.” He lowered them, reached into his jeep through the window, pulled out a shotgun.

  “What do you think? Sleeping?”

  Keeler looked at the sun, raked sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Doors are closed. Probably empty.” He spat tobacco juice. “I been here half an hour waiting for you and ain’t shit moved.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The men made their way cautiously toward the vehicle, moving away from each other as they drew nearer. Waves of heat rose from the ground and the van looked unreal in the haze. From about thirty yards it was clear to Cole that the front seats were empty. He fanned Keeler onto the rear. At the van, Keeler stood to the side of the rear door and pounded on it with the butt of his shotgun. Nothing. Cole nodded, widened his stance and raised his rifle. Keeler jerked open the door, took a quick glance, fell back a step.

  Cole stepped closer. All four were dead, lying on the floor. One was a kid. “Jesus.”

  Keeler pointed at a hibachi next to a wheel well. “Trying to hide and cook,” he said. “Dumbshits.”

  The sun was beginning its downward slide. Cole parked in a diagonal space in front of the border patrol station in Henning. Keeler pulled in beside him. They went through the door, Keeler tossing an arm around Cole’s neck, saying, “You can’t let this stuff bug you.”

  Vivian, the dispatcher, sat at her board. She leaned back and swiveled in her chair as they walked the length of the counter and around. A thin white hand pulled some of the platinum blonde hair from her face. “Pretty bad?” she asked.

  Cole lit a cigarette and nodded, shook the match out, leaned against the inside of the counter. Keeler fell in behind a desk, tossed his hat on the rack behind him.

  “Your brother called,” Vivian told Cole.

  “Yeah?”

  “Wants you to call him back.” She switched the air conditioner in the window beside her down to low. “How many?” she asked.

  “Four,” Keeler said.

  “One was a kid,” Cole said.

  “He said it was important,” Vivian said.

  Cole looked at her.

  “Your brother.”

  “He’s a goddamn lawyer. Everything’s important.”

  Keeler laughed. “How’s it feel to be the black sheep of your family?”

  Cole exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Funny.”

  “What do your folks say, black black sheep?” Keeler laughed again.

  Vivian shook her head. “Winston, you’re retarded.”

  “That’s impossible, Viv,” Keeler said. “I ain’t never been tarded in the first place.”

  “Where’s everybody?” Cole asked.

  “Tuck’s ridin’ the corner.” Vivian glanced at her pad. “And Bernard, he’s out at Pancho Villa. A couple of campers say they got shot at.” The phone rang and she answered. “Puede hablar más despacio?” She switched the air conditioner off altogether. “Dónde?…Si…Si.” She hung up. “Somebody shot Bernard.”

  Cole mashed his butt out. “Where is he?”

  “The clinic in Mimbres.”

  Keeler was up, hat in hand. “You got gas in your ride?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  “You call me you hear,” Vivian said as they left.

  Babies cried in the clinic waiting room. Cole and Keeler stood at the unmanned desk. Most of the patients were children. Latin parents were often superstitious about their own illnesses, but conscientious about seeking medical care for their young ones. Cole glanced about the room. Mothers looked away from his uniform. He knew some of them were illegals and they knew he knew. He’d seen most of them for a year or more and had known it.

  “Hey!” Keeler shouted down the corridor.

  A young woman came from a room and walked toward them. “Que le ocurre?” She tugged at her nurse’s whites.

  “I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” Keeler said. “We’ve got a friend here and we want to see him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He was wearing a un
iform like ours!” Keeler said.

  “Bernard Walker,” said Cole.

  The woman didn’t answer, pretended to look through papers on her desk.

  Cole and Keeler exchanged glances. Cole tapped on the papers in front of her. “Walker.” He studied her eyes. “Es grave?”

  She laughed. She gestured for them to follow her down the hallway. They did. In an examination room they found Bernard, flat on his stomach on a table, his gray beard pressed into a pillow with a paper slip. There was a white towel draped over his rear.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Keeler asked.

  “Son of a bitch shot me in the ass.”

  Cole pulled up a corner of the towel and peeked.

  “Get away from there now,” Bernard said.

  “You don’t look very shot.” Cole let the towel down.

  “Damn pea-shooter twenty-two.” He scratched his beard on the pillow.

  Cole stepped back and looked at the prone figure. “You’re not a very long person, are you?”

  “Who was it?” Keeler asked. He was at the window, peering out at the dusty alley through drawn blinds.

  “It was a kid.”

  The doctor came into the room. “Somebody shot your friend in the ass,” he said.

  “So we see,” said Cole. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. How was he before?”

  “Comedian,” Bernard said.

  “The bullet didn’t penetrate very far. It almost bounced off.”

  “It hurts like hell.”

  “You’re just embarrassed,” Cole said.

  “Am not.”

  “Butt-wound Bernard,” sang Keeler.

  “Cut that out.”

  “That’s a good name for you. Butt-wound.”

  “Stop it before it sticks.”

  “Lie still,” Cole said. “You might shake something loose. You get a good look at the kid?”

  ‘“You get a good look at the kid?”’ Bernard repeated. “Hell no. Look at where he shot me. I got eyes in the back of my head?”

  “I thought you might have been running away or something.”

  “You know, I won’t always be stretched out on this table.”

  Cole turned to the doctor. “When can he leave?”

  “He can get up now.’ Then to Bernard, “Change the bandages a few times a day.”

  “Okay, doc.”

  Keeler left the window. On his way by he slapped Bernard through the towel. “Let’s roll, butt-wound.”

  “Fuck! Keeler, I swear—”

  “We’ll be waiting outside,” Cole said. “Where’s your rig?”

  “Out on the road.”

  In the waiting room, Cole stopped to call Vivian. Keeler went on outside.

  “Border patrol,” Vivian answered.

  “It’s me, Viv, Cole. Bernard’s okay.’

  “What happened?”

  “Bernard’ll tell you about it. You go on home. See you tomorrow.”

  He stepped out onto the street. With the coming night a cool breeze was starting up. He found Keeler slipping on his jacket. Cole lit a cigarette.

  “You oughta give that shit up.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll give ol’ Bernard a ride home,” Keeler said.

  “All right.”

  “What’s eatin’ you?”

  “I gotta call my brother.”

  “Why don’t you two get along?” Keeler asked.

  Cole fell in behind the wheel of his jeep. “It’s not just him, it’s the whole damn family. They way they stay on me you’d think we were related or something.” He cranked the engine.

  Keeler laughed. “See you tomorrow.”

  The freshly resurfaced Highway 9 split the desert, which lay poorly lighted by a waxing crescent moon sitting low in the west. All the pink of dusk was gone. Cole looked at the sky, found the pole star, then Cassiopeia. It had been a long day and, like the moon, he wanted to follow the sun into hiding. The mild nature of Bernard’s wound had made the immediate business of the matter light, but the fact remained that he had been shot. That was bad. And the van was strange. Something didn’t sit right with him. He recalled the scene, the bodies, no identification for any of them, the hibachi. The van’s tags were from Texas and were hot, didn’t match the van. The men were Mexican. So what? That didn’t make them illegal. He tried to recall everything. There was a sack of jerky and bread, but nothing to cook. Why the hibachi? To keep warm? Why was the grill on it? And the way the bodies were lying about. It was like they knew they were dying, yet no one kicked over the fire. Cole didn’t like it.

  The tail-draft of a speeding semi rocked Cole’s rig. He swayed in his seat. He sat erect as he spotted a figure scurrying across the road and through his headlamps’ beams. A glimpse of legs. A glimmer like that of metal. He swung the jeep off the road and across the flat. His lights found the small form, a boy, still running. The boy darted quickly to the left and Cole turned the wheel crisply to stay with him, but he was gone. Cole circled tightly, letting his high beams illuminate the desert floor. There was no place to hide, but the boy was gone. Cole stopped and searched with a hand-held spotlight. A chilly wind kicked up and blew sand through the light.

  The next morning Cole entered the station to find Bernard standing at his desk.

  “You’re in early,” Bernard said.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Cole asked.

  “A little bullet can’t keep me home.”

  “Viv ain’t come in yet,” Bernard said. “State police called. They want your report on that van soon as possible.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “I guess one of the dead guys was a local.”

  “Huh.”

  “What is it?”

  Cole pulled out a cigarette. “I knew something was funny out there.” He lit up. “How big was the kid that shot you?”

  “Hmmm.” Bernard studied the top of his desk. “I can’t really say. I was rollin’ on the ground when I saw him.”

  Cole sat at his desk.

  “Why?”

  “I chased a kid with a rifle across the desert last night. I lost him.”

  “How big?”

  “Twelve, maybe.”

  “Could have been him.”

  Cole picked up the phone and dialed the number of the state police. He was put through to a lieutenant.

  “…and that’s all we found.” Cole told him the story. “It was weird about the stove and nothing to cook and all. And there was something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There weren’t any tracks. I mean, no tracks at all. Not even the van’s.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I was told one of the dead was a local.”

  “The kid. He lived over in Hachita. One of our men recognized him. His mother says his younger brother is missing, too. The two left on horseback day before yesterday to camp and hunt. Esteban Hireles.”

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out.” He hung up, leaned back and looked out at the street.

  Vivian came in, her hair not unlike the sun pouring through the window. She put her lunch in the small refrigerator and her bag in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

  “Hey, Viv,” Cole said.

  “Cole.”

  Bernard came out of the men’s room.

  “I thought you were shot,” the woman said.

  “I was.”

  “Where?”

  “Norm of Mimbres.”

  “No. Where on your body?”

  “Look at the way he’s walkin,”’ Cole said.

  A big grin came over Vivian’s face. “You got shot in your fanny?” She laughed.

  “Christ,” muttered Bernard and he tried to go about his work.

  “Keeler’s callin’ him Butt-wound Bernard,” Cole said.

  “I like that,” she said. “Butt-wound.”

  Bernard ignored her.

  Cole stood and put on his hat. “I’m gonna go out and ride the
corner. Tell Keeler for me.”

  “Will do,” Vivian said.

  Cole went west and south and patrolled the area where the border of New Mexico made a ninety-degree turn down into old Mexico. Then he went north, up to where the van had been.

  Someplace out in the desert was Esteban Hireles, lost, tired, afraid. Cole figured that he must have seen what happened to his brother. The boy must have seen all four killed and probably who did the killing. It crossed Cole’s mind that he might not be the only one looking for the kid.

  Most of the morning was gone and the day was growing hot. He stood near where the van had been and looked around. He spotted a place far off that seemed green. He got into his jeep and drove to it. It was a little water hole. In a wash nearby he found the tracks of horses. They were partially blown over and certainly didn’t lead anywhere, but he knew that both boys had been there.

  He drove back to the road. The place where he had seen the boy the previous night was not far from where Bernard had been shot. There were rocks near there, places to hide, and a couple of water holes. He gulped water from his canteen.

  Cole drove off Route 9 over the desert. He would check the water holes and look for signs. He found one, two, and at the third he discovered a small mound of human feces. From where he stood he could see two big gatherings of rocks. He took his canteen, but left his rifle.

  It was about 105, 110 degrees. The afternoon sun was beginning to slow Cole. Not much was moving out there, except a couple of Gila woodpeckers flapping by on their black-and-white-striped wings. Cole climbed up into the rocks, scaring a few rock squirrels from the shade. He reached into a crack without looking. He felt the rope of a body before it struck, but he couldn’t pull back in time. The rattler hooked in and he sent the snake flying with the whipping of his hand. He fell. It was a bad spill. He believed his leg to be broken. He couldn’t walk, so he had to cut and suck the bite. He crawled into some shade and drank some water, tried to stay calm, slow his heart. He cursed himself for being so careless, stupid.