Two Sides of the Same Coin

by Jake Mactire

  “Yeah, Jeff, you look really good in that picture. Why ya all dusty? Didn’t cover?” Mike was asking if I got bucked off.

  “Hardly, it was tinder dry, and no matter how often they sprinkled water on the arena dirt, it dried up and started blowing around right away.”

  He put the picture back and noticed something else that caught his attention. When we were gettin’ ready to go in the hot tub, I’d just shucked my clothes and left them in a pile just outside the bathroom door rather than putting them in the hamper like I usually would. Mike had picked up my red jockstrap and was twirling it around his finger.

  “So, when ya gonna model this for me, Jeffy?”

  “You’re gonna have to earn that, buddy, work for it.” He raised his eyebrows, and just then the printer stopped. “Come on, let’s put these together and see what we get.” I picked up the papers from the printer and headed back downstairs to the living room.

  “Let’s spread these out on the floor; I think there’s too many of ’em for the dining room table.” We began placing the papers down in rows. I set ’em down and Mike straightened ’em up.

  “I’ll be damned, Jeff, you were right; the ranches on the edge of the national forest are all gettin’ hit.”

  “Yeah, it’s in several different jurisdictions, so I bet nobody’s put this together. It looks to be an organized operation.”

  “Look here.” Mike had grabbed the fireplace poker and was usin’ it to trace some of the forest service roads right across the map. “These roads are all interconnected. They wouldn’t even have to take a trailer full of cattle out on the highways. With the cuts in forest service staff the last few years, the chances of ’em getting pulled over by a ranger is slim to none.”

  “Yeah, and if they’re processin’ the cattle in the middle of the forest, by the time their trucks hit the highway, there’d be nothing but meat. No hides, no brands, no proof. I’d bet they got forged papers showin’ a bill of sale for the cattle too.” Mike gave me a real serious look and then stated the obvious even though we hadn’t brought it up yet.

  “What I can’t figure is why would they go and kill Pedro? Shootin’ at me and Wayne got us the hell away from there.”

  “Yeah, but they hit Wayne, right?”

  “They did, yeah, but….” Mike’s face screwed up with concentration. “Maybe they just meant to scare us off and hit him by accident.”

  “Could be, but it still don’t explain why they killed Pedro. He was shot in the back about hundred and fifty yards from the timber. At that range, it’s a hell of a lot easier to miss somethin’ than hit it.”

  “It just don’t make sense. Could Pedro have seen ’em close enough to be able to identify ’em? They mighta killed him for that.” Mike looked at me.

  “It’d have to be somethin’ like that. But why hit Wayne?” I asked.

  “Those bullets were awful close to me. One time I stumbled over a loose rock or tree root or somethin’. It made me move sudden like. I figure if I hadn’t moved, my head would look like a dropped melon.” Mike had a real serious look on his face.

  “Somethin’s not right here, buddy. They got a pretty profitable scheme goin’ on. It just don’t seem right to mix a murder charge in with it. There would be heat on ’em for rustlin’, but nothing like for murder.”

  “How do ya figure profitable, Jeff? I know they wouldn’t do it if it weren’t, but you got an idea of the math?”

  “Sure. Let’s figure the average steer is a thousand-two-hundred pounds on the hoof. Processed weight is about sixty percent of that. For the most part the stuff that’s processed out can be sold for dog food, fertilizer, that kinda stuff. So let’s figure each ranch has lost fifteen cattle. I know I’m bein’ a bit conservative here, but this is just to show ya. How many ranches did you say got hit?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Okay, so twelve times fifteen is a hundred and eighty. So we got a hundred and eighty beeves processed. If the processed weight is sixty percent, that would figure out to about seven hundred twenty pounds of meat per beef. Now if they trucked the meat to Seattle, and sold it in good restaurants sayin’ it was free range, grass fed, organic, they’re gonna get a premium price. Let’s say five dollars a pound. So we got seven hundred twenty pounds of beef at five dollars a pound. So that’s three thousand six hundred dollars per head; now three thousand six hundred times a hundred and eighty is about six hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars. They probably do the processin’ themselves, and that’s the biggest cost. If they sell the byproduct at fifty cents a pound, that comes to four hundred and eighty pounds times fifty cents so two-hundred-forty dollars per head times a hundred and eighty is about forty-three thousand two hundred dollars. So before their costs, they got just about three quarters of a million dollars.”

  Mike’s eyes were wide as he looked at me. “And who said crime don’t pay?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got a pretty good little business goin’. Maybe that’s why they play for keeps and shoot to kill.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Mike, I think we’d better let the sheriff in on this. How about after my meetin’ with Mary Grace and her photographer, you and I talk with Sheriff Johnston. Let’s give him what we got, and then he can get to work on it. If you’re up for it, we can have dinner in the cantina after we talk to the sheriff.”

  “You bet. I love their red chile pork burritos.”

  “You got it then, buddy. It’s a date.” I stretched and looked at the clock. It was almost three. Mike saw my glance and looked at the clock.

  “I better be headin’ out to the bunkhouse, Jeff. I had a really good day today; thanks for it.” I walked with him toward the back door.

  “I had a good day too.”

  He turned to say good night, and I put my hands on his shoulders and pulled him to me. We wrapped our arms around each other. The kiss this time was gentle and exploring. I nibbled gently on his lower lip. We broke the kiss and then headed back for more. I grabbed his head and pressed it forward to mine; I could feel the hard muscles in his back and shoulders. He seemed to melt against me.

  “You taste like beer, Jeff; it’s good.” I nuzzled my face against him. He continued on. “I know you got a big day tomorrow with the interview and Mary Grace and all. I better get out to the bunkhouse and let you sleep.”

  “Good night, Mike. I hope ya have real sweet dreams.”

  “You too, Jeff. See ya tomorrow.” He turned and walked out the door. Halfway across the yard, he turned and looked back at me. We locked eyes and gazed at each other, slowly both of us began to smile. He waved at me, and I returned it, before closing the door, turning around, and heading up the stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  I WOKE up at about seven-thirty and decided to take a shower right away. Mary Grace and the photographer were scheduled to come around ten. I decided that if pictures were going to be taken, I would get all duded up. I put on a tight pair of jeans, one of my rodeo buckles on my belt, and a flashy Wrangler PBA shirt. I also wore a pair of my good boots, a cognac colored ostrich skin pair. I put water for coffee on to boil, and went to my studio in the spare shed. Like I’d mentioned before, I tend to be a bit of a neat freak, so the studio was clean and in good working order. I had several castings in various stages of development as well as six finished sculptures. Everything was pretty well laid out for a show and tell session and tour. I headed back to the kitchen, took a handful of coffee grounds, and threw ’em in the pot to boil. I got a box of doughnuts outta the pantry for breakfast. Just as I was pourin’ a cup of coffee, I heard the back door slam, and Mike walked in from the mudroom.

  “Mornin’. Don’t you look nice? All duded up for Mary Grace?” He tipped his hat to me and sat down at the kitchen table. Without asking, I got him a mug of coffee.

  “More for the photographer than Mary Grace, but yeah, I didn’t want ’em takin’ pictures for an exhibition with my clothes all dusty and muddy and shit on my boots.”

&n
bsp; “Sounds good, and thanks for the coffee. So how’d ya sleep, Jeff?”

  “Not long enough; how about you?” Mike leaned back in the chair, long legs crossed in front of him. He looked up at me. He looked tired.

  “Yeah, not long enough for me either.”

  “So are José and Josh back at the bunkhouse yet?”

  “Yeah, they were there and asleep before I went to bed. They know you got the interview thing with Mary Grace?”

  “Yeah, I talked to José about it. He told me he figures that I’m only gonna be able to cowboy about twenty-five percent of the time, so no big deal. Want a doughnut?” I handed the box to Mike. “What’s José got for you to do today, Mike?”

  “Dunno. He and Josh are still sleepin’. I reckon they’ll be up pretty soon. I shoulda stayed in bed longer, but I wanted to come up here and see you.”

  “You’re just gettin’ too lazy to make your own coffee.”

  “That must be it.” We both laughed a bit. He looked at me. “We got quite a bit done on the computer yesterday. I hope it gives Sheriff Johnston something to think about.”

  “Me too, buddy.” Just then I heard a knock on the door. I heard it open, and I heard a cheery, “Hello!” Mary Grace was here. She walked into the kitchen followed by a younger, skinny guy with long hair.

  “Good morning, Jeff, Mike. This is Ryan, our photographer.”

  “How do?” I said as I held out my hand. He shook it and turned to Mike and shook hands with him.

  “Coffee for ya?”

  “That sounds great, Jeff!” Mary Grace smiled at me, and Ryan nodded. I poured two more mugs. Mary Grace took a small sip and set the mug down.

  “Got any milk, Jeff? I forgot how strong you cowboys like your coffee.”

  “Sure do.” I moved toward the refrigerator and pulled out a carton. From behind me, I heard Ryan sputter and turned to see Mike and Mary Grace trying hard not to laugh.

  “That stuff would take off paint!” Ryan rasped.

  “I can get you some hot water to thin it down.”

  “No, I’ll just add milk too.” I noticed as he poured, he had more milk than coffee in his mug.

  “So what’s the plan today, Mary Grace?”

  “I thought we could get some pictures of you here in the ranch house and maybe one or two of you and Mike. Then some pictures of your studio and finished works. After that, you could walk me through your casting process and how you make sculptures. That would be just about it.”

  “Sounds easy enough.” We sat and chatted while finishing our coffee. I noticed Ryan didn’t drink much more of his. He then excused himself to go get his photography equipment. We moved into the living room. Ryan got back and was ready to shoot.

  “Jeff, Mike, how about you guys stand in front of the fireplace. I always loved your river rock fireplace,” Mary Grace said. Mike and I moved over to the fireplace. I put an arm around his shoulders, and he draped his arm over mine. Ryan started clicking the camera.

  “That’s a great shot! Our buyers love cowboys, so you two should be a great hit.”

  “As long as my art is a great hit.” Mike moved off to the side, and Ryan took some pictures of me. One of my works of a bull rider was on the mantel, so Mary Grace had me lean against the mantel next to it. We then moved out to the yard, got more pics, and finally to my studio where Ryan took several pictures of me pretending to work. I put on my apron, mask, and gloves for some realism. Finally, we were done with the pictures. I began to walk Mary Grace through the process of creating a bronze sculpture.

  “First thing I do is make a plastic sculpture of what I’m gonna do in bronze.”

  “Is it exactly like the sculpture you make?”

  “It’s pretty close. Then I make a plaster cast around that. I cut the cast in half, and get the plastic out.”

  “Doesn’t that leave seams?”

  “It would if I was to use that to make a sculpture, but what I do with that is pour wax in it to make a wax carving. Then I can smooth down the seams, and put details in on the wax.”

  “Oh, okay! The lost wax process; I’ve heard of that.” Mary Grace seemed excited now that we were talking about something she knew.

  “Yep. I make a plaster cast of the wax dummy and heat it up to get rid of the wax. Then I melt the bronze, heat the plaster cast up to the same temperature as the bronze, and pour the metal in.”

  “Why do you heat up the cast?”

  “Couple of reasons: first, I don’t want it to crack due to the differences in temperature. Next, I don’t want air in the casting from the bronze cooling quickly when it hits the plaster.”

  “What comes next?”

  “I let it cool, break off the plaster, and smooth and polish the metal. Then ya got a bronze sculpture.”

  “Where did you get your equipment, Jeff?”

  “Most of it I made from plans off the Internet.”

  “When did you first get interested in doing bronze sculptures?”

  “When I was just a little guy, we went down to California on a vacation. I remember going to the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum in Los Angeles. There were bronze sculptures there by Remington, and I was fascinated. I began reading about Remington and bronze casting. I got Dad to help me, and we made the first sculpture when I was eleven. At that time, I would do the carving and plaster casting, and he did everything with the metal. As I got older, I took over doing the metal mixing, melting, and casting, first with his supervision, then by myself.”

  “When did you sell your first piece?”

  “About three years ago. Then about two years ago, I thought I would try to get a name for myself. I approached several galleries in San Francisco. It took a while, but I got one to exhibit a couple of pieces, and I’ve sold a few.”

  “Great, Jeff, that should wrap up our interview, thanks!” She turned off her recorder.

  “Thanks, Mary Grace. If ya got any questions, please let me know.”

  “I sure will, Jeff. We have to take a couple of pictures of you in the snow with the Santa hat over your cowboy hat too.”

  “Just tell me when. It’s comin’ up on the end of September, so it shouldn’t be more than a month or so.” She and Ryan said their goodbyes and left.

  It was after noon, so I wandered into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I called the sheriff’s office, only to find out that he was outta town until tomorrow evening. I figured I’d see him on Sunday for dinner, so I could give him the map papers and talk to him about what Mike and I thought. I was tired as hell from little sleep last night, so I kicked my boots off, went in to the couch, and within just a couple of minutes, I was sound asleep.

  I was having this great dream where Mike and I were riding through a forest, laughing and joking with each other. I looked at him and then at me, and realized we were bare assed naked. Up ahead was a cabin. We rode up to it and started to dismount. Then I stepped on something with my bare foot that tickled. I kicked my foot, but it still kept tickling. I realized something was tickling my foot; I could feel it through my sock. I opened my eyes, and there was Mike, a big grin on his face, running his finger up and down my foot.

  “Hey, buddy. You sure know how to wreck a good dream.”

  “Was I in it?”

  “I believe you were.” I looked around and noticed it was dusk. “What time is it?”

  “It’s after six.”

  “Wow, so I slept about four hours. I guess I musta needed it.”

  “Yeah, I was lucky enough to get a nap in too. José, Josh, and me got the scales for the cattle in place and put water troughs in the corral too. Wasn’t much to do, so I headed back to the bunkhouse and got some shut eye.”

  “And ya woke up hungry and thought you’d come and see if we were still on for dinner.” Mike grinned at me.

  “You got it. One thing though, are we gonna have to stop by Sheriff Johnston’s house to give him the stuff we put together?”

  “I called earlier; he’s outta town now. I fi
gure we can give it to him Sunday when we have dinner there. Now let’s go eat!” I pulled on my boots, grabbed a jacket, and we headed out to my truck. As we walked across the yard, I noticed lights from the TV in Wayne’s trailer.

  “Looks like Wayne’s home,” I said.

  “He musta got here sometime this afternoon. Think we should go say hi?”

  “Yeah, let’s do that. He might need something.” We walked over, and I knocked on the door. After a few moments, Wayne opened it.

  “Evenin’ boys. What are you two up to?”

  “We saw your lights on and thought we’d stop by and say hello and see if you need anything,” I answered.

  “That’s real kind of ya. I reckon I’m all set here. I got a bunch of them Swanson TV dinners and beer, so I don’t need to go out. I still got some pain pills, so my side ain’t botherin’ me too much. You boys wanna come in?”

  “How about a rain check on that, Wayne? We were just on our way up town to get a bite to eat. You wanna come by for coffee or breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Let’s see how I’m feelin’. It would be nice to catch up with ya, Jeff. Seems with one thing or another, we ain’t had much time to visit since you got back.”

  “I’d like that a lot, Wayne.”

  “Good, I’ll see ya tomorrow then. Mike, you keep out of trouble there, ya hear?” Wayne smiled a big smile at Mike.

  “Hell, Wayne, we done had enough trouble to last a long time. I’m done with trouble.” Wayne laughed. It was nice to see him feeling better. I reckoned that the pain meds might have something to do with it though.

  “Night boys, have fun.”

  “Night, Wayne,” We chorused.

  We got in the truck and headed off down the road to Winslett. When we got there, we found a parking spot and ambled down the street to the cantina. We settled in a booth, and the waitress came by right away. She was a girl who was a couple of years younger than me. I remembered her from high school.

  “Evening guys, anything to drink?”