by Brad Smith
Ray hung up the phone and then grabbed his jean jacket and went outside. It was cold and gray, and there were snow clouds building to the west. The horse trailer was still hitched up to Pete’s pickup. Ray got in and backed it around to the double doors of the barn.
Inside the barn it was warm from the heat of the animals. The stallion was standing in the corner of the stall, his eyes blinking at the daylight. As he looked for a lead rope, Ray’s eyes fell on Pete Culpepper’s old western saddle in the corner. Ray looked at the saddle for a moment and then looked at the big bay stallion, and the horse looked back haughtily, and then Ray nodded, and damned if it didn’t appear that the horse nodded back.
Snow was beginning to fall when he came out of the barn. He led the horse to the house and tied the reins to the railing of the front porch. Then he went inside to get a heavier jacket and his ball cap. He pulled on a wool coat and searched the house in vain for his Tigers’ cap before settling for Pete’s Stetson.
It had been a few years since Ray had ridden a horse, but he hadn’t forgotten much. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to forget, the only important rule being don’t fall off. The big saddle was custom-built and generous, and sitting it was like sitting in an easy chair. The stallion was his usual contentious self at first, chomping the bit and twisting his head around to try to bite Ray’s leg. Reaching the side road, Ray galloped him out for a mile or so, and after that he settled down.
It was maybe fifteen or sixteen miles to the Stanton farm, Ray figured. Except for the last couple miles, he could keep to the side roads all the way. He kept the horse on the grassy shoulder, holding him alternately to a walk or an easy lope. The snow fell steadily, but Ray was comfortable in the heavy coat and the hat.
They passed, horse and rider, through farm country where family farms still existed, although many of the owners were specializing these days, cash croppers and dairy farmers, fallow hog operators and turkey ranchers. But it was farm country and always had been. Many of the families had been here for more than a hundred years, and although they’d had to change with the times, they were still on the land.
“Maybe do you some good to see a little bit of how real people live,” he said to the horse. “Life ain’t all rolled oats and horny mares, you know.”
The animal offered no response, just kept the pace, his ears up and forward at every little thing, acutely aware of his surroundings. Whatever his personality defects, the horse was an intelligent animal.
“You and Sonny probably deserve each other,” Ray continued. “You were both born to it. Neither one of you ever did a lick of work in your life and probably never will. I got half a mind to take you up to Kitchener and sell you to the Mennonites. They’d teach you something about honest work. A few days in a hay field, and you wouldn’t be so quick to kick and bite at people.”
They were passing a brick ranch house near the town line when a German shepherd came bounding down the drive, all bared teeth and loud bark. Ray touched the horse with his heel, and the animal jumped beneath his hand; he seemed to go from a walk to a gallop in a single stride. Ray had to grab the saddle horn to stay aboard. The dog was left in the jet stream.
Ray gave the animal his head then and let him run. He put his weight in the stirrups and leaned forward over the horse’s neck, and he felt the sheer explosion of power beneath him, the horse’s head reaching out, ears flattened, the huge leg muscles eating up the ground underneath. He let the horse run until he ran himself out and finally chose to stop on his own, pulling up finally into a trot, his head high, snorting loudly and proudly, sidestepping a little as if he was on parade.
“Well, all right,” Ray said then. “All right.”
* * *
Jackson sat in his office, watching periodically out the window where the snow continued to fall heavily. After two hours he began to think that Ray Dokes wasn’t going to show. He’d been under the impression that the horse wasn’t that far away. He’d received a call an hour earlier saying that the old man had regained consciousness in the Bahamas and that they were shipping him home later in the week. Jackson had no way of predicting the old man’s mental capacity, but chances were he’d at least be ahead of Sonny.
Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looked out to see a strange sight coming down the lane. A snow-covered man on a snow-covered horse.
Jackson grabbed a hackamore from the tack room and met them at the corner of the barn. Ray reined the horse to a stop there, and he looked down at the big man, pushing the Stetson’s brim back with his thumb.
“Howdy,” he said.
Jackson brushed the melting snow from the horse’s neck to get a better look at the chestnut brown of the coat. Some of the color came off on his hand.
“Sonofabitch,” he said.
“Yup,” Ray said, sitting the big horse like he’d just come off the Chisholm Trail.
“Sonofabitch,” Jackson said again, like there was nothing else he could think to say. And then, with something close to appreciation: “You beat him with his own horse.”
“We still got a deal?”
“I gave you my word, Ray. You better hope the racing commission doesn’t find out.”
“I figure if Stanton Stables doesn’t complain, then nobody else will. Nobody else has reason to.”
“Sonny might, if he figures things out.”
“I doubt it.”
Ray got down off the horse. He unfastened the cinch and pulled the saddle off and set it on the top rail of the fence. Jackson pulled the bridle from the horse and slipped on the hackamore.
“He’s a hell of a horse,” Ray said.
“I know it.”
“He’s a bit of a peckerhead.”
“I know that too.”
Ray took the bridle from Jackson and looped it over the horn of the saddle. When he turned he noticed that Jackson had a cell phone clipped to his belt. Ray pointed with his chin to the house and asked, “Sonny here?”
“He’ll be sleeping,” Jackson said.
“Lend me your phone, will you?”
Jackson gave him a look and then handed the phone over.
“What’s Sonny’s number?”
Jackson told him, and Ray started for the house. Climbing up the front steps, he punched in the number and then sat down in one of the big wicker chairs while it rang. After five rings Sonny’s voice message came on and Ray hung up and dialed again. He did this four times, and then he heard Sonny’s aggravated voice: “What?”
“It’s Ray Dokes.”
There was a long silence. “What do you want?” Sonny demanded at last.
“There’s a couple things we have to talk about,” Ray said. “I understand you’ve been harassing Etta Parr.”
“I hold a note on her farm. I wouldn’t call it harassment.”
“I would. Well, she’s got the money to pay you off. And then you’ll have no reason to go near her again.”
“If I get my money. I doubt she’s got it.”
Ray stretched his boots out and looked over as Jackson, who had been watching Ray in wonder, now turned and led the big horse into the barn.
“Sonny, I want you to think back three years,” Ray said then. “Remember that meeting we had at the golf course? After you raped my sister? Remember that, Sonny? Well, I have to believe that was maybe the worst day of your life. But I’ll tell you what—if you go near Etta again—I mean, if you even so much as drive by her house—then I’m gonna find you and give you a brand-new worst day of your life. Understand?”
Sonny was silent on the other end.
“I’m gonna have to hear you say you understand, Sonny.”
“So long as I get my money,” Sonny said, trying to maintain an attitude.
“You’ll get it. Now the second thing. Remember that big bay you had stolen? The one you were gonna electrocute up at Burnside’s place? Remember that horse, Sonny?”
“What about him?” Sonny asked after another long pause.
“Well, I pai
nted him brown and won the Stanton Stakes with him yesterday.”
Ray could hear Sonny’s breathing change on the line.
“Well, I guess you’ll be going back to jail then,” Sonny said.
“I don’t think so. You see—nobody knows it was me who put in the fix. And I have it on pretty good authority that you collected a large sum of money from Billy Coon on the race. And I also heard that other people bet the horse with Billy, on a hot tip from you. Now what do you think Billy Coon’s gonna do when he finds out it was your stallion that won the race under a phony name? I figure Billy and the cousins might take you out to the rez and make beef jerky out of you, Sonny.”
“You think you’re pretty fucking smart.”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t. But then everything is relative. Anyway, I want you to remember what we talked about here today, Sonny. I really think you should take it to heart.”
Sonny realized that the conversation was about to end and he got brave. “I’ll catch up with you one day, Dokes,” he said. “You’re having fun today, but you’re fucking with the wrong man here. Eventually I’ll find you, asshole.”
“I’m sitting on your front porch, Sonny. Come on down.”
Ray hung the phone up and reached out to place it on the railing. The snow was tapering off now, and he could see a sliver of blue sky on the horizon. He lit a cigarette and propped his boots up on the railing.
* * *
Sonny hung the phone up, and after a moment he got out of bed quietly and walked carefully to the window, the pain shooting through his knee as it did every morning. By moving to the right edge of the window and sliding the blind back with his fingertips, he could just see the end of the porch below. A pair of boots were propped on the railing there. The man wearing the boots, Sonny knew, was the architect of the pain in his knee. Sonny stood anxiously watching the boots, and after a moment he began to wonder whether he’d locked the front door when coming in last night. He considered for a moment going down to check it, but he knew that the action would put him within six feet of the man wearing the boots, and Sonny just didn’t have the parts to make such a move.
So he watched and he waited, and after about twenty minutes he saw Ray Dokes walk down off the porch and start across the yard. When Ray got to the fence he lifted the saddle from the top rail and then he cast one last glance at the house. Then he threw the saddle over his shoulder and started down the lane.
Sonny got dressed and went downstairs and ate a bowl of cereal. After a time his nervousness passed, and he began, as was his way, to focus on the positive aspects of the past twenty-four hours. For one thing, he’d gotten himself straight with Billy Coon, and it hadn’t cost him a dime. He had that crazy fucking stripper to thank for that; Sonny still couldn’t figure that one out, but he didn’t really care one way or the other. So long as he made out on top.
And he had his horse back. Ideally, he would have liked the animal to turn up dead, but this could work too. The horse could win some big races as a five-year-old and then turn out to be a top stud after that.
The land deal in Holden County was on shaky ground, it appeared, if Homer Parr’s place was in fact out of the running. But that could be a blessing as well. Sonny had lately begun to second-guess himself with regard to his grand plan for Holden County. Maybe he would just pull back a little, take the land he had, and concentrate on building the golf course. Hell, he could even design the thing himself. Any idiot could design a golf course.
He began to warm to the idea, and he stood in the kitchen looking out the back window to the rolling field behind the barn, and in a matter of moments he managed to convince himself that he would be a natural at course design. Soon he was mapping out the front nine in his head, and before long he was diverting creeks and elevating tees and creating pot bunkers.
Sonny made just one crucial mistake while mapping out the front nine for his new course. He should have done it while looking out the front window. Because then he would have seen the black Navigator coming up the drive. He would have seen the vehicle park in the yard, and he would have seen its occupants pile out.
As it was, Sonny didn’t see Billy Coon and the cousins until they were standing in the kitchen beside him.
* * *
It was Wednesday before they sorted out all the financial arrangements. Ray showed up at Etta’s shortly before noon. She was in the backyard, picking up branches from a windstorm the night before and piling them onto a small fire she’d built on the edge of the orchard. The snow from Monday was melted already, and the grass still showed green.
Ray parked behind Etta’s car and got out. She looked at him and then dumped an armful of branches on the fire and came over. She was wearing jeans and a khaki jacket and Ray’s old ball cap.
“That was quite a storm,” she said.
“Fifty-mile-an-hour winds, the radio said.”
“Well.”
He sat down on the picnic table. “I brought your money.”
She stood in front of him and looked into his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that. I can’t take that money.”
“There you go, thinking too much. You made a decision, and you’re gonna stick to it. Are you better off with it or without it?”
“With it,” she admitted.
“Do you intend to spend it on frivolous purchases?”
“Hardly.”
“Then here you are.” He took an envelope out of his pocket. “Besides—you can’t say no to Robin Hood.”
She smiled. “When’d you see Elizabeth?”
“I just came from there.”
“How is she?”
“She’s the same as she’s been, and I guess she’s the same as she’s always gonna be. Maybe it’s time we learned to accept that certain things are just the way they are.”
“Maybe,” she said cautiously.
He reached forward and put the envelope in the pocket of her coat. “There’s enough there for the mortgage and an extra ten grand. Buy Homer some new golf clubs for Christmas.”
“Homer’s golfing days are about finished.”
“Then buy your boyfriend something. The salvage man.”
“The salvage man is a priest, Ray.”
“Oh … well, I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” She came forward and kissed him on the mouth, briefly and sweetly, then she stepped back.
“You and Mr. Culpepper headed for Texas then?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She sat down beside him on the table, and she slipped her arm through his. He could smell the wood smoke on her.
“And what will you do in Texas?” she asked.
“So far all I’ve heard is that we’ll be drinking bourbon and eating rattlesnake chili.”
“Well … it sounds like a shit kicker’s theme park. What about your parole officer?”
“I told him I had a job in Timmins, working the mines. He said I could check in by phone. I expect they have phones in Pecos.”
“I expect they do,” she said in a drawl.
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. Well, maybe a little,” she admitted. “You just keep finding new ways to get yourself in trouble.”
He stood up then and smiled at her.
“What about your tractor?” she asked. “It’s yours now, bought and paid for.”
“I was thinking maybe you’d hold on to it for me.”
“Does that mean you’re coming back?”
“I guess maybe it does.”
* * *
When Ray got back to the farm the first thing he noticed was that the real estate signs were gone from the front of the property. He drove down the lane and parked in the yard. Pete had his truck up on jacks, and he was checking the brakes in preparation for their drive south.
Ray walked over. Pete was replacing the rear brake drum, apparently satisfied that the linings would get them to southwest Texas. He slid the drum on and then fitted the wheel ov
er the lugs and threaded on the nuts. Ray handed him the wheel wrench, and he tightened the nuts.
“What happened to the For Sale signs?” Ray asked.
Pete released the jack, and the truck came down with a thud. Then he straightened up and wiped his hands on his jeans. He gestured to the barn.
“Chrissie’s gonna rent the place for a time,” he said. “That way I can leave the horses and the old hound, and she can look after things. Don’t forget, we got a mare in foal.”
“We?”
“I got the taxes paid off. We might just decide to head this way again come spring.”
“What about that woman’s been waiting on you?”
Pete shrugged. “You never know—I might not be near as charming as I remember.”
The door to the house slammed, and they turned to see Paulie, hurrying to the barn, a bucket of water in his hands, steam rising from the bucket. Paulie had the Stetson jammed down tight to his ears and his tongue clenched in his teeth.
“Paulie’s gonna stay on here awhile,” Pete said then.
Ray watched as Paulie disappeared into the barn, and then he looked at Pete and he smiled.
They ate in town that night, the four of them, at a steak place by the tracks that was done up like a warehouse. It used to be the mercantile. It was a pretty quiet evening, and Pete picked up the bill. When they got back to the house Pete and Ray packed up what they needed to pack, and then they sat in the kitchen and had a rum and Coke with Chrissie and Paulie. They sat there at the old arborite table, not saying much, and it felt like the end of something, but it felt like the beginning of something too.
Pete headed off to bed first, and Ray went maybe a half hour later. Chrissie and Paulie were still at the table, playing cribbage for a nickel a point. Pete and Ray were up early the next morning and they put a pot of coffee on, and while they waited for the coffee to brew they loaded their bags in the back of the truck.
They were on the road at first light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editor, Jennifer Barth, for her insight and patience. Thanks also to the indispensable Ruth Kaplan; my jockey advisor, Laurie Gulas; the good doctors Beth Blake (people) and Roberta Borland (horses); and my horse-painting expert, Mori McCrae. My eternal gratitude to my friend Jennifer Barclay.