In Open Spaces

by Russell Rowland

  So I rode quickly, hoping to get out there before he did something boneheaded. I made it to the other side, heard nothing, and found a perfect spot to wait, behind a lone bush that was tall enough to hide me and my horse, but not tall enough to block my aim.

  I didn’t have to wait long. After a minute, I heard a rustling, then a whoop from Art, and both antelope bolted out into the open, less than fifty yards away. They were headed perfectly, running directly in front of me, from my right to my left. I shouldered my rifle, aimed at the lead, set my sights on his neck, and fired. The pop was echoed by another one, and I saw Art riding wild from the trees, rifle to his shoulder.

  The antelope fell, its rear end tumbling forward, over its bowed, grounded neck, straight into the air, then twisting around the legs, following in parallel flight, until the whole torso flopped onto its side and slid forward, pushing the snow in front of it. The other animal darted to its right, angling back into the trees.

  Art galloped toward the fallen antelope, whooping and hollering, his rifle above his head like a spear. I trotted toward him.

  “I got him, Frank. I got the son of a bitch.” He swung down off his horse and ran toward the animal, limping a little and laughing.

  My pride almost got the best of me. I knew I was the one who hit the antelope, especially when I got there and saw the wound in the side of its neck, six inches above my aim. Art’s bullet would have had to make a ninety-degree turn to hit him from where he shot. But he wouldn’t have heard a word of it, and I was going to give the meat to him anyway. So I swallowed my tongue, nearly choking on the damn thing.

  The antelope’s side rose and fell, but just for a few seconds. His round, black eyes were wild, then sleepy, then dead, and he twitched, his legs jerking a few last spasms. Then he was still, stiff.

  Watching death affects people differently, of course. Bob had never gotten used to it. When he was a boy, around twelve, he held a sheep’s head while Dad slit its throat. Bob lost his breakfast and was never able to do anything like that again. Jack was the opposite, driving the blade of a knife into an animal’s neck without a thought—not cruel, as if he was enjoying it, like some people I’ve known. But nearly heartless. I could butcher without thinking about it too much, but when the knife hit the hide, it always chilled my heart for a second or two.

  I found death sad, but so peaceful that the sadness seemed secondary, almost insignificant. Since the night I’d watched Katie come to the end of that agonizing struggle with her body, I’d figured death could sometimes be a good way to end things.

  The antelope was a buck, an older one. He was gaunt, his hide hugging his ribs, and he wouldn’t have lived much longer. His meat would be tough, and sour, but Art rejoiced in the kill as if he’d never have to worry about food again.

  “Let’s go after the other one,” he shouted. “We got to get one for you.”

  I shook my head. “No, Art. Don’t worry about it. We have to haul this thing back to your place, then I have to get home. I don’t want to work my horse any harder. We probably won’t even find it.”

  I could see the relief in his eyes, but I appreciated the fact that he’d thought of me. After all, he had what he wanted.

  We gutted the antelope and hefted the corpse up over the haunches of Art’s horse, tying its front legs to the back ones. Then we started for his place.

  It had warmed up enough that the surface snow was softening. It no longer had the slick sheen of ice, but looked rough, with shades of gray.

  “You don’t have to go with me, Frank. Really.”

  “I don’t mind keeping you company, Art. Besides, I’m worried you might get lost.” I winked.

  “Smart aleck.”

  We rode silent the rest of the way. One of the nice things about winters during the Depression was that the snow covered the awful, bare ground, giving you a chance to forget how bad it looked. And the winter was free of the Depression haze of dust that kept us from seeing as far as we were accustomed. I liked to gaze out across the whiteness and picture the miles of waist-high grass that was once common and expected in Carter County. I’d close my eyes and imagine it that way again. But when the snow melted away, I knew that the gray, bald earth would resume its annoying habit of killing that fantasy.

  I hadn’t been to Art’s for almost a year. One side of the barn had collapsed, and once we were inside it, I noticed he’d propped beams between the ground and the roof to keep the building from falling in on itself. We hung the antelope from the rafters, which made me nervous, then went into the house for a cup of coffee.

  Art’s brother Sam sat in a corner of their shanty, his torso unbalanced and incomplete with the empty shirtsleeve pinned to its shoulder.

  It’s a sad fact of life on the land that a large measure of a man’s worth lies in his body, so that a mutilation like Sam’s has the immediate effect of making him less valuable, less of a person than before. There is no way around it, and the results, except in cases of an unusually strong spirit, are predictable. If they don’t move to town, they become exiles, usually hermits, because nobody knows what to say to them.

  Sam had always been a loner anyway. He said hello, but that was all he said while I was there. A bottle sat on the table next to him, on the armless side. He didn’t touch it that I noticed, and it seemed to be coated with dust. As though he’d quit drinking once he couldn’t pour with that hand. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, or preparing to do anything, or to have just completed anything. He looked to be in a state of suspension, between life and death, and much closer to the latter.

  Art and I sat and drank weak coffee, had a cigarette, which I supplied, and played cribbage with cards that were almost white from wear. We didn’t talk, but if I had said what was on my mind, I would have asked Art why he hadn’t covered the broken window on the east wall, or why there were mice, both dead and alive, all over the floor. And once I saw the reason for that, I might have asked why he hadn’t thrown out the dead cat under the wood stove. The place was freezing, but it stunk anyway, and I couldn’t believe anyone could ignore and live with such a smell.

  I kept my stay as short as was polite, thanked Art for the coffee, shook Sam’s left hand, and took off, taking the dead cat with me.

  “Oh, thanks, Frank. I kept on meanin’ to get rid of that thing.”

  Riding back, I tried to focus on the fact that it felt good to help a friend. And I looked forward to seeing Muriel, who was supposed to be arriving in the next few days for a visit.

  But as I approached the house, I had a sense that something was off somehow. For one thing, there was a strange vehicle parked out front. Not that this was unusual during that period. We often had strangers stop by, often families with their belongings loaded onto an old Model A truck, making their escape from failed homesteads. But this car was brand-new, a big black Ford sedan. And any time someone with means came by anybody’s place in those days, it generally meant bad news. Foreclosure, or repossession. Something bad. So I didn’t even bother to unsaddle my horse. I rode over to the car to check it out. It had Montana plates, but I didn’t recognize anything else about it. I tied Ahab to the fence and entered the big house with a slight feeling of anxious irritation.

  I entered the front door, and heard lots of activity toward the back of the house, in the kitchen. But there was a man sitting alone in the living room. He stood when I came in. He was tall, wearing a very nice black suit, his hair slick and flat against his head, with a knife-straight white part down one side. This guy was no drifter.

  “You must be Blake,” he said.

  I’m afraid my assumptions about this man and what he might be there for brought out the mistrust in me.

  “Yeah,” I said, and I was just about to say, “Who the hell are you?” when he spoke again.

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Up in Alzada.”

  “Oh, christ. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you meant here.”
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  The man shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Yeah. Of course you would assume…”

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” I asked.

  Just then, Muriel appeared from the dining room. I didn’t recognize her for a brief moment. She wore a fashionable navy-blue dress, with a string of pearls dotting her neckline. And her hair had been cut short and curled. It was a dramatic change from the young girl who usually wore nothing but cotton print dresses, with her hair in a bun.

  “Blake!” She looked pleased.

  “Muriel, what are you doing here?”

  “Well, we weren’t planning to get here until Tuesday. But we were in Billings, and we heard about the murder. So we drove right up.”

  “What murder? Who got murdered?”

  By now, others had begun drifting into the living room—Rita, Mom, Bob, until the whole family had filtered in from various rooms in the house. They all looked concerned, even scared.

  “Somebody shot Harold Baldwin,” Mom said.

  “Really?” Everybody was looking at me, so I realized I was the last to learn this bit of news. “When?”

  “Last night,” Muriel said.

  “Do they know who did it?” I asked.

  Nobody answered, but several shook their heads. And then everyone dropped their eyes to their shoes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I never did figure out just who you are.” I addressed the stranger. “Since Muriel keeps saying ‘we,’ I assume you’re with her.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Muriel said, stepping forward. “You didn’t meet Stan?”

  “It’s my fault,” Stan said. “I was so anxious to tell Blake here about the big news, I didn’t think to introduce myself.” He stepped forward to shake my hand. “I’ve heard so much about all of you that it’s easy to forget that we’ve never met. Stan Grant.” He reached out his hand, and we shook.

  “We’re engaged,” Muriel said.

  “Engaged?” I couldn’t hide my surprise, as we’d heard nothing about a suitor of any kind, much less a fiancé. “Wow. Well, congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Stan said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, dinner’s ready,” Helen announced.

  “Yes. Let’s eat,” Muriel said.

  We sat up to a table of fried chicken, cooked carrots, potatoes, and pan-stirred gravy. We learned that Stan was an executive for the Amalgamated Copper Company in Butte, and that he and Muriel had met several months before when Stan’s car broke down in Spearfish. Muriel explained that she hadn’t mentioned Stan sooner because she didn’t expect anything to develop with Stan living five hundred miles away. But after traveling to see her several times, Stan had proposed. They were to be married in the spring.

  I managed to extract this information despite a nervous energy, a palpable feeling that everyone else had something else on their minds.

  “So they haven’t caught the guy who shot Harold?” I asked.

  “They don’t have any idea who did it,” Muriel said. “It could be a woman, you know.”

  “It probably was a woman,” Dad said, prompting an elbow from Mom.

  “No witnesses,” said Stan.

  “Did you guys come through Alzada?” Bob asked.

  “No!” Muriel said. “Stan wanted to. But I was too scared. My lord, there’s a killer out there.”

  “I bet no one’s leaving their houses up that way,” I said.

  “No doubt,” Dad seconded.

  The discussion continued, spirited and laced with an element of fear. And as speculation bounced around the table, I was struck by two things. First was that Stan seemed to be as charming and likable as he first appeared. He had an unusual but infectious laugh—a singular explosion of joy, a “Ha” that economically conveyed as much delight as most people express in a good long belly laugh. My first impression was of a man who was hard not to like. But despite his natural manner, and the good feeling that both his presence and the news of their impending marriage brought to our table, there appeared to be two people in the room who were not happy. Both Mom and Rita were conspicuously silent in the midst of the banter. But Stan did not know them well enough to notice.

  “Mrs. Arbuckle, this is a fine, fine meal,” he declared.

  Mom nodded—a single, curt bob of her head.

  “We don’t expect anything less from Mom,” Muriel said. “She’s a victim of her own standards.”

  “Oh, stop this nonsense,” Mom insisted. “This certainly isn’t anything special. And I didn’t do it alone.”

  We who knew her were prepared to close the subject. But not Stan.

  “Mrs. Arbuckle, your humility is admirable, but not necessary. I’m used to my mother’s cooking, which I won’t comment on because she’s not here to defend herself.”

  We all chuckled, and I even caught a hint of a smile on Mom’s face.

  It actually wasn’t hard for me to imagine the source of Mom’s displeasure, although Stan remained blissfully unaware of it for the rest of the evening. Muriel represented the last hope for Mom’s dream of a college graduate in the family. It now appeared she was going to come up just short. I’m sure the suddenness of the announcement was a big concern as well. It was clear that Stan had at least ten years on Muriel.

  But for Rita to appear so distant, even depressed, was very unusual. I made several attempts to catch her eye, to question with a look whether she was okay. But she did not look my way.

  “Now what exactly is it that you do at the mine, Stan?” Helen put a napkin to the corner of her mouth.

  “I’m the business manager.” He finished swallowing before he continued. “It sounds important, but all I really do is take care of the books.”

  “Now who’s being humble?” Muriel softly slapped Stan’s upper arm. “Stan started out as a clerk, and worked his way up. He’s very good at what he does.”

  Stan tilted his head and smiled shyly. “Well, I also had an advantage. My father has been with the mine pretty much from the start. He’s helped me a lot.”

  Muriel again jumped in. “But Stan works very hard.” Then to him: “You didn’t just have this position handed to you because of your father. You always make it sound that way.”

  Stan looked as though he needed to be rescued.

  “Well, I don’t think anyone here knows enough about mining to even ask an intelligent question about it,” I said.

  “I could say the same for ranching,” Stan added.

  “It doesn’t seem that anyone knows enough about ranching these days,” Mom said with a trace of anger. “It doesn’t matter what you know when there’s no water.” Although she still sounded angry, I knew it was a good sign that Mom had voluntarily joined in on the conversation.

  Stan nodded thoughtfully. “It’s tough. We get more people coming through looking for work than I can ever remember.”

  I nodded. “I know what you mean. We have two or three guys stopping in every week, offering to work for pennies.”

  Stan turned to me, surprised. “Really? Out here?”

  This brought a smile to everyone’s face, except Rita’s.

  Stan emitted one of his “Ha” s. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “It does seem strange, I know,” I assured him. “So far from everything.”

  Stan nodded. “It’s got to break sometime soon.”

  If only he’d been right.

  It seems that the laws of nature work against those of us who play cards so that we rarely end up gathered in numbers divisible by four. This was one of those rare occasions, and it was clear to all present that we had no choice but to take advantage of the opportunity. With Stan being a numbers man, I was a little surprised and disappointed that he wasn’t as adept at cards as he was at turning a charming phrase. But the latter skill adds as much to a card game, if not more, than talent, and by the end of the evening, my stomach hurt from laughing, and my tongue was sore from too much coffee and
cigarettes. Even Mom was loose after a few games. Stan also broke out a bottle that he had brought along to celebrate their announcement.

  But Rita, who was my partner for most of the night, stared at her cards with wide-open, blank eyes. She constantly had to be reminded when it was her turn to bid, or to play a card. Even after downing several drinks, something she rarely did, Rita remained quiet.

  Around eleven o’clock, when the black and red cards began to blur together, we stood and straightened our stiff knees, groaning, sticking our chests out and stretching our arms.

  “Hey,” Dad said, suddenly looking up at me. “I didn’t think to ask…did you and Art get anything?”

  “Yeah. An antelope. An old buck.”

  Dad nodded. “Did you go up there?”

  I shook my head. “Yeah. Boy.” I just continued shaking my head, and everyone dropped their eyes to the floor, understanding the state of the situation. “It was bad,” I said.

  A long pause followed.

  “So…” Stan looked around. “Where do you want me to sleep? In the barn?”

  Mom smiled, the skin around her eyes pinching. “All right. If that suits you.”

  “Hey, as long as there’s a sheep out there that I can use for a pillow.”

  When Mom chuckled at his joke, it was clear that a remarkable transformation had taken place. I caught myself smiling broadly.

  “More than a pleasure,” Stan said as he shook my hand.

  “For us all,” I replied. “I look forward to more nights like this.”

  He nodded. “I’ll need some time to practice my five hundred,” he said, referring to our card game.

  I carried Teddy out into the clear, clean night, my spirits buoyed by good company and a few glasses of expensive whiskey. A full, white moon dominated the sky. The light was so bright that it shone off the big weathered house, which was still unpainted, making the weathered gray siding also appear white. We walked along the path, just wider than a shoe, Rita in front, Teddy and I just behind, and George in the rear. The crickets called. As ridiculous as it seemed at the time, I couldn’t help but think as we walked the hundred yards from one house to the other that someone had killed a man just fifteen miles from where we were walking. Someone who was still out there somewhere. I kept my ears alert. I also noticed that Rita was walking very unsteadily.