by Rex Burns
Jo glanced back, surprised to see him so close behind her, and raised up in the saddle to let her horse slow when it would. Wager drew up beside her, his own horse dropping into a ragged gait that he couldn’t figure out, and a few moments later both animals slowed to a hard-breathing walk.
“You said it before, Gabe: we should enjoy what we have.”
“It beats crying over what we don’t have.”
“And after all, it’s your vacation, too, isn’t it?” Jo mopped at his face with her bandanna. “You’ve got dirt all over. I didn’t think you’d be so close behind me.”
“I didn’t either. But I got the feel of it for a little while. It was …” He groped. “It was pretty exciting.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
The trail to the T Bar M was a dozen or so miles shorter than going by car, but it was still a long ride. Though they started early, by the time they wound their way down and up the steep walls of White Creek Draw, the horses were damp with late-morning sweat and swinging their tails irritably at the deerflies drawn to their matted flanks. At the top, Jo and Wager walked the animals to rest them, angling toward the tall skeleton of a windmill that marked a stock tank just beyond the low trees cresting the ridge. A tangle of cow trails converged on the large metal tub, and in the distance a scattering of white-faced Herefords looked their way with dull curiosity.
Jo watered the horses sparingly while Wager found the brake handle for the windmill. He locked it open as Rusty had asked them to. On the way back, they would close it again, to leave the tank filled with clean water and the green algae floated over the rim into the mud.
“The fence should be in another mile or so. Dee said the gate was at the foot of a cliff.”
Wager finished his sandwich and rinsed his mouth from the canteen hanging on his saddle. Then, like his horse, he gave a little grunt as he swung into the stirrup.
The landscape grew noticeably drier in the miles they traveled from the mesa that sheltered the Rocking V ranch. Since passing the fence, they had seen no cattle at all, and Jo guessed they had wandered toward the draws and gullies where grass was heavier and the cliffs offered shade. Topping a sandy ridge, they saw the river below swing in a large curve between steep walls; the wind lifted from the canyon and brought a steady, faint rush from rapids that streaked the water white.
“I bet it’s over where those trees are.” Jo pointed to a swatch of paler green in a wide valley that slid toward the river, and they angled toward it. The piñons began to thin, and now the wide, sandy spaces between the gnarled trunks were patched with sagebrush and long weedy clumps of grass. Occasional thickets of hackberry and squawbush filled the narrow cracks where water collected from the high ground above, and in the open stream beds towered the scarred trunks of cottonwoods. They nudged the horses up the spongy sand and a few minutes later paused to look down at the scattered buildings of the ranch.
The main house sat in the deep shade of a row of cottonwoods, and another tree gave shelter to a long, single-story building that must have been the bunkhouse. The barn, its roof a patchwork of different-colored wooden shingles, stood near a network of weathered corral fencing, and a scattering of small buildings sagged emptily. Near the house were parked a couple of cars and a familiar truck, and on a small rise glinted the bowl of a television dish. As they approached, a large police dog began to bark loudly and ran toward them.
Wager and Jo reined in their nervous horses as the chained dog stopped to bark a steady stream.
“I’ve never seen a dog that big!”
It looked like a small donkey, its size made larger by the hair rising stiffly along its spine. A heavyset man came onto the porch. His voice reached Wager in a distant call: “Smokey—Smokey—get over here!”
The man hooked the dog’s chain into a short leash and stood waiting as Jo and Wager clucked their horses forward. His face was a smudge of short beard, and he did not smile as they halted and said hello. Instead, he came slowly down one of the wooden steps and waited silently, his shadow a small pool under his feet.
“You’re Mr. Watkins?”
“He’s not here. I’m the cook.”
“I’m Gabe Wager. We’re staying over at the Volker place. Is John or James Sanchez around?”
He took another long moment to answer. “Yeah.”
Wager kept his voice polite. “Can we talk to them?”
“Over there—the bunkhouse.” He pointed to the low building that looked like a cinder-block motel. Most of the doors were closed, but one on the end stood open to the breeze. Wager and Jo said thanks and turned toward it.
“That’s western hospitality?” Jo whispered.
“Western Transylvania, maybe.”
“Don’t say that. This place is spooky enough!”
Wager didn’t know if “spooky” was the word, but he felt the man’s eyes on their backs as they crossed the silent yard. The stillness was a contrast to the Volkers’, where someone was always busy with some chore around the outbuildings—Henry fussing with a tool, his mouth busier than his hands; Joaquin coming in from or going out to one of the ranges in a rattling pickup. Something was always going on there. But there was no sound of a hammer or whine of an electric tool; a rooster crowed from one of the smaller sheds, but the only other sound was the wind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the cook still staring after them; the German shepherd, lying in the cool sand under the porch, watched them too.
Wager dismounted and dropped his reins over a saw-horse made into a roping dummy and sporting a two-by-four head and a pair of wide cowhorns. “John? John Sanchez?” He rapped on the doorframe, and in the answering silence a curl of white paint spiraled into the sand. “James?”
“Just a minute.” The voice croaked with sleep, and they heard the rusty creak of springs. “Who is it?”
“Gabe Wager.”
A rustle of cloth and the jingle of coins or keys in a pocket being jerked over knees. “Who?”
“Wager. We talked up in Leadville at the rodeo. I was a friend of your father’s.”
James came to the door still tucking his shirttail into the front of his jeans. He was barefoot and his black hair tangled stiffly at the back of his head. “What the hell are you doing here?” His eyes, no longer sleepy, stared at Wager. “Is something wrong? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s wrong. We’re staying over at the Volkers’ place. We wanted to come by and say hello.”
He scratched at his face beneath the soft whiskers and stared at Wager. Then he blinked and looked at Jo for the first time. “Well, that’s—ah—that’s neighborly.”
“Can we water our horses?” asked Jo.
“Oh—sure. I’ll show you. Let me get my boots. We got a trough around by the barn.” He jammed sockless feet into his boots and led them around the bunkhouse toward the large building. “You rode over? Which way’d you come from?”
Wager pointed. “That way. Through your east gate. How’s John?”
“He’s fine. He’s out riding fence today. I—ah—wasn’t feeling too good, so John let me sleep in.” The young man busied himself with the squeaking pump, and in a few seconds water splashed into the frayed wooden trough. The horses snorted thirstily and pushed closer. “Was it a long ride over? Did you come across the mesa or along the river?”
“The mesa,” said Jo. “The east gate.”
“That’s right—you just said, didn’t you?” He finished pumping, and the horses sucked noisily. “That’s a hot ride. Nice day for it, though.”
It was Wager’s turn to nod. Behind James, the barn doors hung open to the shade. The building was of un-painted timber; the central portion of squared and notched logs rose about twenty feet to the peak of the sloping roof. Later additions had been framed to the sides with rough-cut boards. The only sound of life from the rambling structure was a flutter of sparrows that nested somewhere inside the gaping hayloft door. The dirt in front was unscarred by animal or tire tracks, and that
was something Wager wondered about: where was the farm equipment—the tractors and haybalers, the rakes and carts, the machinery that, at the Volkers’, was lined up for use or maintenance? “Do you run many cows here?”
“Enough, it seems like. I don’t know how many for sure. Mr. Watkins wants to let the range build up some. And beef prices aren’t all that good anyway.”
“We didn’t see any cattle at all coming over,” said Jo.
“It’s a big ranch. They’re spread all over hell and gone.”
Jo pulled the horses away from the water. “How big is it?”
“God, I don’t know how many acres. It goes north along the river a long way. But most of it’s not worth spit.”
“You don’t seem to have many hands for a place that big,” said Wager.
“There’s enough,” said James. “Me and John. This time of year, we don’t need any more than that.”
Wager looked at the gaps on the barn roofing and at the ranch house with its white paint beginning to blister. “You have a cook, though.”
“Yeah—Maynerd. He ain’t much help. He ain’t much of a cook, neither. But he keeps an eye on the place when nobody’s around.”
“How long has Watkins owned the ranch?”
“I guess a couple of years. I’m not sure.”
“It belonged to McGraw before he bought it?”
“I don’t know. I only been here a little while.”
“Watkins must have a lot of money.”
“Why’s that?”
“To pay the taxes on this place—to keep it going.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Wager. Watkins meets his payroll. That’s all I know.”
“Are you and John going to a rodeo this weekend?” asked Jo.
“Yeah—there’s one up in Grand Junction. Four go-rounds, so we might pick up some money.”
“Is John riding well?”
“Yes ma’am, he is! Anymore, it’s just like getting ground money when he enters.”
“What’s ground money?” asked Wager
“That’s pay for working the rodeo grounds,” answered Jo. “You don’t have to win it, you just get it for doing the job—a sure thing.”
“That’s John, all right—a sure thing.”
“How about you? How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there; I’ll get my permit—at least John says so. He says I’m way ahead of where he was a couple years ago.” He pumped up more water for the horses; Jo let them drink lightly again.
“Maybe we can see you there,” she said. “I think Gabe’s ready to look at some city lights.”
“How long you been around here?” asked James.
“About a week.” Wager smiled. “We’re just getting to know the country.”
James nodded, a tiny frown pulling his dark eyebrows together.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to your father’s funeral,” said Wager. “I didn’t know where it was.”
“What? Oh—yeah. Well, it wasn’t nothing big. Family only, you know. And me and John was all the family he had.”
Wager nodded. “As far as I know, the sheriff doesn’t have any leads on who did it.”
“I see.”
“But your dad seemed to be worried about something just before he was killed.”
“Like what?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“I thought he might have said something to you when he came out here.”
“No, he didn’t. John’s already told you, god damn it, we didn’t talk about nothing. And what the hell are you doing poking your nose into this, anyway? It’s no damn business of yours!”
“Take it easy, James. All I’m trying to do is find out who killed your father. Wouldn’t you like us to find out?”
The youth took a deep breath, and underneath the silky black whiskers, Wager saw his mouth tighten around whatever he almost said. “Yeah. Sure I do. Even if he wasn’t much of a father.”
Wager said, “Some of the people your father worked with said he was worried. That was after he visited the ranch, and before he went home and was killed. I just wondered if he might have mentioned anything to you. That’s all.”
“He didn’t say nothing to me. I don’t know what he was worried about.”
The shrill chatter of excited sparrows filled the silence of the barnyard. The horses, pulled away from the water again, sighed and stamped against the sting of flies.
“Did your father leave a will?”
“A will? Yeah—some lawyer sent John and me a letter about that. But there wasn’t much. His truck and his place was all he had.”
“And you and your brother get that?”
“Hell, no. The hospital put a lien on it. His insurance run out after a couple of days, and the hospital put a lien on the property to cover the bills. John told the damned lawyer to sell the place and pay them off so we wouldn’t get stuck with the hospital bills.”
“So you don’t get anything.”
“Between the doctors and the lawyers, I don’t expect too damn much’ll be left. If there is, John and me want to give it to Mama. We’re doing all right—but she could use it. Hell, she earned it.” He glanced at the sun. “I better get on to work. Appreciate your coming over to talk, Mr. Wager. I sure do.”
They trailed after him toward the bunkhouse.
“I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but Cookie’s kind of funny about people dropping by. He don’t like it.”
“I noticed,” said Wager.
“Well, it’s his kitchen.”
Jo swung into the saddle. “Are you getting many rafters this year?”
“Rafters? Oh—you mean the river? Yeah, we got some. The sonsabitches camp anywhere they want on the property. Start fires, leave their crap behind.”
“I thought Watkins set up a campground for them,” said Wager.
“He did. But some of them don’t want to pay to camp and they think they got a right to go any damn where they please. We spend four or five nights a week running them off.” He looked at Wager. “Some people just don’t have the sense to stay off other people’s land.”
CHAPTER 9
“YOU ALMOST THREATENED him.”
“He took it that way, didn’t he?” Wager ducked under the water and came up blowing hard from the cold.
They stood waist-deep in the creek behind their cabin, the shock of the water easing into comfort, and scrubbed off the dust and sweat of the long day’s ride. On the shady side of the corral, the horses—rubbed with clean hay and fed an extra ration of oats—stood head to tail, wearily content to switch the flies off each other’s face and to enjoy the dry breeze of a long evening. On the bank, reflecting the clear green of the sunless sky, two wineglasses and a bottle rested half submerged on a ledge of water-smoothed sandstone that the stream had carved into the stony bank.
“Turn around—I’ll do your back.” Jo squirted a palm full of biodegradable soap from a plastic bottle and scrubbed at Wager’s tender muscles. He had expected his legs and bottom to be sore after the day’s ride, but there didn’t seem to be any reason why his back and neck should ache, too.
“OK—my turn.”
He dipped under the current again, a wave of noisy bubbles over his head, and popped up. Jo handed him the bottle, and he massaged the thin foam across the smoothness of her back. Beneath his dark hands her shoulders looked pale and fragile, and the way she arced against his fingers’ pressure made her flesh, despite her toughness, seem vulnerable to some pending but unknown threat. It was a note of vague sadness that seemed to drain some of the remaining light from the grass and earth that surrounded them, and to leave her pale form even more isolated against the coming darkness. Wager’s hand slid down the wet softness of her body, and he rested against her as if to keep her anchored in the current that pulled ceaselessly at them both. He felt himself between the taut swell of her buttocks, and despite the cold wate
r, his own flesh stirred. She, too, felt his throb and pressed back against him; then he reached to feel the flat suppleness of her stomach and the soft rise below that and finally the tangle of warmth that opened to him as she slowly leaned forward against the stony bank and reached to guide him gently into her.
Their sighs were no louder than the murmur of the creek, and overhead, the rustling, liquid sounds of the willows echoed their slow rhythm and rose in the wind and stilled into a crystalline moment that stretched like a high, tense, inaudible note; then they rustled again as the wind stirred to become alive, and the creek—its sound louder under the cooling sky—once more tugged at their flesh.
Their eyes said what neither would speak; silently, they gathered the glasses and bottle, the towels and sandals and soap, and picked their way over the stubbled trail to the cabin.
“I’m cold now.” Her flesh drew into a shudder.
“Let’s get warm again.”
“Let’s.”
Later she murmured, “James didn’t have any marks—you know, from up at Leadville.”
Wager stretched against the hard pad of mattress and pulled her closer beneath the thin blanket. Above, the peaked ceiling flickered with shadows from the fireplace, where a piñon log flared its hot fragrance into the room. It was appropriate, Wager thought, to have the curiously mixed and deep moment—a moment of love and fear and union that had given him a glimpse into a new area of himself—bracketed by the questions and suspicions of police work. But this time he wasn’t the one who brought it up. He smiled wryly. This time he did not try to bury whatever he had discovered, to hide it in the cushioning routine of his work. Yet it happened—Jo’s comment hung in the air like a summons. And it unmoored that moment and nudged it into the flow of time and away from him toward memory. Its loss left him holding more tightly to her slender form.
“Gabe? What’s wrong?”