by Logan Miller
He drifted to other thoughts and ideas and words people had said to him and he became enraged in the instant. Marlo had brought up his daughter in conversation. It was a veiled threat, to be sure. His daughter! No wickedness, no invention of evil was beyond that cocksucking faggot. Beyond his people, whoever the fuck they were. Who was the top? Who did Marlo answer to? Probably some homosexual in Quito taking cock right now.
But such personal ramblings were a distraction: find the perp or perps and recover what was stolen and bring swift violence upon them. He was out hundreds of thousands personally. Marlo was too. And whoever was above him. They would demand retribution. Recovery and retribution. Those were the rules of the trade. The violence was the glue. Money was the king like every other business. But violence held it all in place. Violence kept the machine oiled and running. Violence made the trade valuable. Violence made you rich.
You did not shy from it.
And Marlo had brought up his daughter…
“Where to?” Sparks asked.
Gates took in a long breath. He exhaled and stared across the lumberyard and the vast rolling scrubland where it met a horizon of pearlescent sky. Somewhere out there he could see a coyote loping through the mesquite and high above the dark shape of a hawk following him, embroidering the heavens with its calligraphy, some mysterious ritual of nature millions of years ancient. He envied the unthinking virtue of pure instincts. He had fucked his in so many ways, perverted and contaminated them with counterfeit pleasures and foul-hearted lies. He could no longer trust them. His conscience lied to him. That’s what tormented the most. His conscience had become a liar, a cruel and ruthless deceiver.
“Let’s head back up to the forest, Lester,” he said. “I want to look around some more. See if we didn’t miss anything.”
“You want me to drive? You look tired.”
“No.”
There was one more name on the list of logging permits Ranger Ortiz had given them: JAKE BOYD.
The ring was closing. Perhaps around nothing.
Jake Boyd?
That fuckup was too stupid to plan a heist. He didn’t have the sand either. And there’s no way Caleb would be involved. He was too good for this shit. Too good. He was marrying an angel.
Gates threw the cruiser in gear and turned onto the interstate. Several hours later they drove back up the wilderness road to the top of the mountain.
22.
Caleb pulled down the potholed driveway and passed a flatbed semi leaving their place. He gave a friendly wave to the driver and wondered who he was and what he was doing there. They weren’t expecting any deliveries, so far as he was aware. Then he squinted against the harsh sunlight into the wood yard and thought he saw Jake sitting in the cab of a brand new John Deere backhoe loader.
He drove closer and it was indeed his brother. Jake jammed the horn and revved the diesel. The stack thundered and spewed throaty black exhaust.
“Isn’t she sweet?” Jake shouted, hanging out the cab with one hand on the steering wheel and a boot heel on the ladder. “She’s got both AC and a heater for year-round comfort. The 310SK, bro. Our dream machine!”
Caleb stepped out of the truck and stared up at his brother.
“What are you doing?”
“I got six months free financing from Equipment Depot. No money down—not a goddamn penny. I wanted to surprise you for all your hard work. You’ve been working so hard. It’s a gift from me to both of us.”
“A gift?” Caleb’s face creased around his eyes and the skin on his forehead and brow folded in ridges of frustrated bewilderment. It was hard to react to such remarkable stupidity with anything other than pity. “A gift?” he repeated, still trying to make sense of the yellow machine that right now reminded him of a hideous monster with a scorpion’s tail. “A fucking gift?”
“Relax. You’re always stressing. Put a little of me in you.”
Jake jumped down from the loader. He scanned the prairie and mesa for snooping eyes and ears and then threw his arm around his brother and leaned in as if to reveal a secret. He could see no sign of two-legged life. There was a sun glare kicking off an aluminum roof several miles to the east. That was all.
“I’ve been doing some research on the Internet,” Jake said. “Long and hard. Lots of reading, brother. Lots of it. You see, we got over two hundred plants in the woodshed—ten-footers, some eleven, and a few twelve. I measured them last night. Now, according to my research, there should be about three pounds per plant. At two thousand a pound, that’s like a million dollars. Tax free.” He pumped his fist into the air. “Millionaires, brother. Millionaires. Can you fucking believe it—I never thought I’d be able to say that word about us.”
“Are you fucking retarded? I swear to god you must’ve been dropped on your head as a child.”
But Jake was too intoxicated with their gold-plated future to hear anything beyond his own opinion. His research had endowed him with the misleading genius of newly acquired knowledge. In one evening of study he had become an expert. He cradled Caleb’s face with both hands and kissed him on the forehead.
“It’s money in the bank, little brother. Money in the bank. We’re rich. Goddamn fucking rich motherfuckers. I feel like I’m dreaming. But I’m not. We’re not dreaming. This is real. Do you want a beer?”
Caleb grabbed Jake’s wrists and shoved him away from his face. “This is your problem. You don’t think.”
“Been doing a lot of thinking, actually.”
“You’re so damn impulsive. You’re taking the loader back now.”
“I ain’t.”
“Yes you are.”
“It’s staying put,” Jake said. “This is the first tool of our expansion. We’re going to build this little business into a big business just like we always said we would. Build it into an empire.” He paced and gestured with prophetic certainty. “I can see it so clearly now. Brother Firewood is going to dominate New Mexico and then we’ll move on up into snowy motherfucking Colorado and take over Denver. Brother Firewood: We get your fire raging. Now that’s a catchy slogan. We’ll shoot some commercials—hell, buy our own camera. Make some YouTube promos. Viral-fucking-videos. You know what that means—they go fucking viral, which is great for us. It’ll get our names and faces out there. Hey, let’s be real. We’re a couple of good-looking young guys. People want to buy from good-looking people. It’s true. They’ve done studies on it.”
He paused and turned to Caleb for affirmation. But all he got from his brother was that same look of continued bewilderment.
“Hey, bro. If you don’t appreciate what I’ve done for our business today by purchasing this acquisition, then I’ll pay for the whole thing out of my share. A hundred percent.”
“What share? What the fuck are you saying?”
“He’s coming tomorrow. You’ll see. Edgar is coming tomorrow. How many times do I gotta fucking tell you? He’s gonna buy everything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do,” Jake said. “These hills grow some great weed. Top-dollar. You don’t know because you haven’t been doing the research like I have because you don’t believe yet. I’ve been studying.”
“We’re supposed to be laying low. Not drawing attention to ourselves.”
“It’s only a backhoe. It’s not like I bought a Ferrari or anything fancy.”
“It’s a fucking hundred thousand dollar piece of machinery—you might as well have bought a Ferrari. You don’t get it, Jake. You’re like a fucking child.” He was so thoroughly mystified and frustrated that all he could mutter was—“Fuck.”
Caleb kicked the dirt and then glanced over at the woodshed. The door was wide open, the padlock hanging from the metal staple.
“Why the fuck is the woodshed open? It’s supposed to stay locked and shut at all times.”
“I know, but I’m working.”
“What about that delivery guy that was just here? He could’ve seen the marijuana. Or smelled it.”
“You think I took him inside? You think I took him over there and said look at our shit? You think I’m that stupid?”
“The shed is supposed to stay locked and shut goddamnit.”
“You know what, you’re the one who’s lost his mind,” Jake said. “You need to relax, little brother. I think the war got to your head. Seriously.”
“You just don’t get it, Jake. You really don’t.”
“‘First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, and then you win.’”
“What?”
“Mahatma Gandhi.”
Jake climbed back up the ladder and swung into the cab. Before closing the glass door he said, “It’s got AC.”
He throttled the diesel and spun into the wood yard and scooped a heap of firewood into the loader and carried it over to the splitter and dropped the load with a dry tumbling clatter. He spun the wheel and drove back across the yard for another haul. He was all smiles and discovery.
Caleb could only shake his head. What could he do at this point? Take a ratchet to the side of his brother’s skull? He would just have to wait until tomorrow and see how it played out.
He exhaled and looked skyward and then down at the ground. He pulled his can from his back pocket and took a pinch of tobacco and tucked it into his bottom lip. He flicked the moist shavings from his fingers and put away the can. He spit and shook his head again and took a few steps toward the woodshed when he felt a prickling of his senses and it wasn’t from the nicotine rush. He turned and looked over his right shoulder and stopped.
Two men were sitting atop horses at the head of the driveway where the dirt met the blacktop. A dog stood below them. The sun was directly overhead and their faces had no shape or features from this distance and if they were staring at him or looking in another direction he could not tell.
He studied them for a long moment and they put their heels to their painted horses and moved at a walk down the driveway toward him. He watched them the entire time and did not take his eyes from them until they slowed and halted at the end of the driveway where it widened in front of the trailer. They were both shirtless and had on jeans and tattered hightop sneakers with raven hair down to the middle of their backs and they looked full-blooded Native American. They were barrel-chested with long arms and he figured they were at least six feet tall when standing on the ground. The man on the right had a hunting rifle slung across his back with a length of nylon rope. The other man wore a large caliber handgun from a tan leather holster on a black leather belt.
Caleb searched his memory and tried to put them somewhere in it but he could not. He had never seen either of them before.
“How you doing?” he said.
They did not answer at first and looked around the yard from atop their horses. Their dog caught a scent and darted into the piles of firewood and then leaped atop the seam of two cords and then dropped from sight back into the labyrinth.
“Can I help you?” Caleb asked.
The two horsemen said something to each other in Tewa. The one with the rifle nodded to the other and pointed toward the woodshed. The horses were wet up to their bellies and dust clung to the wetness and Caleb figured that they had just crossed the Chama. They were riding without saddles and sat on woolen blankets and held leather-braided hackamores in their right hands.
“You sell firewood?” asked the man with the handgun.
“Yes, sir.” Caleb waved his hand across the yard. “As much as you want.”
“How long you been down here?”
“All my life.”
They nodded and looked around without emotion.
“Where you guys from?” Caleb asked.
“The Pueblo.”
“Which one?”
They exchanged a few words again in their native tongue and nodded as if in agreement and continued to look about the place.
“Where are you riding from?” Caleb asked.
There was a long pause and he thought they might not answer him at all.
“The mountains,” said the man with the rifle. He adjusted himself on the riding blanket and set his hand on the rifle rope and adjusted that as well.
“Camping?” Caleb asked.
“Just up there for a time,” said the man with the handgun.
They did not have any bedrolls or canteens or any of the instruments of a long trail ride.
“That’s quite a ways,” Caleb said.
“We have good horses.”
“Where you heading now?” Caleb asked.
“Nowheres,” said the man with the handgun, shrugging.
Jake spun the loader around and saw the two men on horseback towering over his brother and he did not like the look of them. He saw the rifle slung across the man’s back. He drove the loader across the yard and jumped down from the cabin and interrupted the conversation.
“How’s it going?” he said. “This is private property.”
“Most homes and businesses are these days,” said the man with the handgun.
The horsemen did not make eye contact with him. They continued to look around the yard as though they were taking inventory or looking for something they had lost and suspected it to be here.
“Where you get your wood from?” asked the man with the handgun.
“Lots of places,” Caleb said.
“Locally?”
“Yes.”
“Carson?”
Caleb spit tobacco juice. “Sometimes.”
“Lots of wood up in Carson,” said the man with the handgun.
“Sure is,” Caleb said.
“It’s good this year, no?” asked the man with the rifle.
“Good as any other.”
“How far up you go to get your wood?”
“As far up as we need to.” Caleb spit again.
“That’s where we came from,” said the man with the rifle. “Carson.”
There was a pause and the brothers were looking up at them on their horses at a sharp angle against the sun and they could not see the whites of their eyes or any color whatsoever in the dark pools that held them. The silence was cutting and the brothers wondered if it cut both ways.
“You got any smoke?” asked the man with the rifle.
Jake took his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them up.
“Not that kind,” said the man with the rifle. He pinched his thumb and index finger together and raised them toward his lips in the universal joint sign. “The other kind of smoke.”
“No,” Caleb said.
“We don’t smoke that kind,” said Jake.
“You should.” The horsemen looked at each other and laughed.
Caleb studied them. He watched their hands and he watched their guns. He wondered if these men knew more than they were leading on. He wondered if they were connected to what was in the shed. If the marijuana was theirs and the dead boy was associated with them. He looked at his brother and figured he was thinking the same.
Jake tapped out a cigarette from the pack and lit it with his lighter.
“We got beer,” he said.
“We don’t drink,” said the man with the rifle. “Our wives won’t let us.”
“We just smoke.” They both smiled. Perfect white teeth glowing from behind brown skin. “The other kind of smoke.”
They continued to look around the yard. Their horses stood still.
Several pieces of split oak tumbled from a loose stack of firewood and their dog bolted out and ran with his nose to the ground across the dirt and through the open woodshed door and disappeared inside.
“Gwambo smells something,” said the man with the handgun.
“Can you call your dog please?” Caleb said.
“Do you got cats?” asked the man with the rifle.
“No, we ain’t got no cats,” Jake said. “Call your dog.”
“Can you please call your dog?” Caleb repeated.
Jake’s eyes darted from the two horsemen and across
to the woodshed. Caleb’s eyes darted as well.
“You don’t have to worry about him,” said the man with the handgun. “He’s a good dog.”
“Are you sure you don’t got cats?” asked the other man.
Inside the woodshed they could hear the dog yapping and its paws running across the tarpaulin and then the clang of loose tools and the thump of the dog pounding against the wallboards and more barking and then pawing and scratching and a general disorder of things.
“Gwambo. Get over here,” said the man with the rifle.
“Gwambo,” called the other.
“I’ll get him,” Caleb said, trying to stay calm and not give the incident any undue importance.
“No, he might bite you,” said the man with the rifle. “I got him.”
But Caleb had already started limping for the woodshed when the man with the rifle turned his horse and loped past him.
“No,” Caleb said. “I’ll get him.”
But it was too late. The man and the painted horse had split the distance to the woodshed in three strides.
Jake had started toward the woodshed as well. He wondered what he would say if the horseman saw the marijuana pile or got close enough to smell it. He wondered what he would have to do to him and the other fellow. They had guns.
The horseman loped to within a few feet of the shed and was about to dismount when the dog shot out of the doorway with something in its mouth, startling the horse. The horse rose up and its back legs kicked out and nearly threw the rider as the dog scampered around the spooked animal. The horse bucked and reared in a cloud of dust and the rifle barrel knocked the rider in the back of the head and he tugged on the hackamore and clenched his thighs and read the horse’s movements before the horse had made them. He finally gained control and caressed the horse’s neck with his hand and leaned and whispered calm sentiments into its ear. The horse snorted and whinnied and stamped the earth. The rider continued whispering and smoothing his hand along its neck.