Hard Twisted

by C. Joseph Greaves

  Hope you come lookin for sheep shit, he told them. We’re havin a special today.

  Introductions were made, and hands shaken, and Lottie noticed that although they appeared to be around the same age, Palmer addressed the man as mister.

  Fella name of Hunt up in Bluff, he told me you might have some sheep down here to work, or maybe to lease. I guess he wasn’t foolin.

  Goulding’s smile was lopsided, laconic. Well. Your information is good, but your timing is plumb lousy. The government came in here yesterday and gave me twenty-four hours to move this flock across the river. And it looks like they’re just about ready. Hey, Paul!

  A young man on horseback came at a trot.

  Paul, these here are the Palmers, and they’re lookin to lease some sheep. You seen any sheep around these parts?

  The young man tilted his hat and smiled. I say we give ’em the whole bunch right here and now for a rag dollar.

  That’s why you’ll never make a trader, son. You about ready?

  Ready as we’ll ever be.

  You tell Morris to take her nice and easy. Head straight for the Garden, and wait there for the wagon. I’m figuring Monday afternoon is about right. North side of Bell Butte, just south of the Lee place.

  You got it. And, Harry?

  Yeah?

  Tell sis I want beefsteak and apple pie when we get back. And cold beer.

  You get these lambs across in one piece and I’ll bake that pie myself.

  The boy winked at Palmer as he turned his horse. Ain’t no call to be makin threats. He touched his hat to the girl. Miss. He trotted off, circling the herd and closing on the other rider.

  I’d like to never seen so many sheep in my life, Palmer said as the riders called out to the drovers and a dog barked and the herd began to bunch in bleating protest.

  There’s near fifteen hundred head. Was a time they’d fetch a pretty penny. And I believe they will again, but first I need grass and water and time.

  And a pair of trusty hands.

  Goulding grunted. Tell you what. Tomorrow is Sunday. We generally have horse racing on Sundays. And just to show we ain’t licked over this sheep business, I believe we’ll have us a real do. That gelding of yours fast?

  He’s no Gallant Fox.

  Well then, maybe we’ll have us a chicken pull too.

  And them sheep?

  The woman appeared in the doorway. She pouted theatrically, and Goulding nodded and turned to watch as the flock boiled forth into the crossroads, its massive dust cloud rising and twisting like the smoke from a prairie grassfire. Like a windblown cottonfield, rippling as it moved.

  You all stay and join us for supper, Goulding said, his eyes still on the sheep. It’s a long ride back to Bluff.

  They ate by kerosene lanterns; Palmer newly shaved and washed and Lottie in her best chambray shirt and Goulding’s beautiful wife, whom he called Mike, shuttling the mutton and potatoes in steaming platters from the kitchen to the table. Goulding at the window, watching the sunset, the stone monuments arrayed behind him like a departing armada.

  It sure is quiet without them sheep, he said over his shoulder. I forgot what quiet sounds like.

  Mike brushed a loose strand from her face. Ten years we’ve been out here with nothing but the sound of our own voices. And now he’s forgotten all of a sudden.

  A hand-crank phonograph played faintly in the bedroom, and a yodeling cowboy song ended with silence and a rhythmic scratching. I’ll get that, Goulding said.

  They all sat up when he returned, and they followed his lead as he shook out his napkin and tucked it into his shirtfront.

  It’s always a pleasure to have visitors, he began as a kind of benediction. A man lives in raw country like this, he learns right quick to appreciate the value of good company. He lifted his water glass in toast, and the others did likewise. Mike and I love nothing better than to share our little slice of heaven with the world. Here’s to a pleasant visit.

  I never understood how these tradin post operations worked, Palmer said to fill the silence after the glasses were touched and sipped and set down again and the platters were being passed. The angle in it, I mean.

  Oh, it ain’t overly complicated. Goulding spooned potatoes as he spoke. The Navvies need their staples, like flour and coffee and sugar. We buy in bulk up in Durango, or down in Flagstaff. Potatoes and onions, crackers and candy. Salt. Canned goods. Yard goods. We either sell for cash or trade for sheep or hides or wool. And blankets, these Navajo women weave the most beautiful rugs and blankets, oh my. They earn cash money from lambs in fall and wool in spring. In between, we either trade in kind or we take pawn. Jewelry mostly, some belts and bridles. Wonderful silverwork. Mike and me, we provide a market for their wool and their weavings, and we build up a nice little flock for ourselves to take to the market in fall.

  We did, his wife corrected. Back when there was a market.

  Goulding nodded. Nowadays, you can’t give away the sheep. Lose money just driving ’em to the railroad. But, we’ll still buy one or two head from each family, just to tide ’em over. They’re so god-awful poor. He cut the lamb with his elbow raised in a sawing motion. I’m kinda long in sheep just now.

  What about this government business?

  Goulding chewed. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.

  This strip of land we’re on, between the river and the Arizona state line, it used to be Paiute country. Fierce warriors, the Paiute. Gave the Mormons holy hell for years. So the big shots up in Salt Lake worked out a deal to move ’em off the strip. That was back in ’23. Then the strip became public domain. The Navvies moved in, and then the wildcatters. Oilmen, some prospectors. That’s when Mike and I come, back in ’25. Then last year, once they finally figured there wasn’t any oil to speak of, the federal government went ahead and made it all part of the Navajo reservation.

  Palmer had stopped eating. And they let you stay on?

  They had no say in it. This here is what’s called a school section, so it never become part of the reservation. We lease it from the state of Utah. Problem is, what with this drought and all, and with the size of my flock the way it’s got, there just wasn’t enough forage. So a couple of judges showed up here yesterday, drove up from Shiprock with the police, and they served me with a notice.

  The heck you say.

  Goulding shrugged. There ain’t no help to it now.

  Mike stood and refilled their glasses from the pitcher. She smiled at Lottie, who smiled meekly in reply.

  Palmer set down his napkin and cleared his throat.

  Me and Johnny Rae here, we got us a little bit saved. Not much, but a little. What we ain’t got is a situation for ourselves for the winter. When I heard you had sheep, I thought maybe we could work ourselves some kind of deal. Like maybe we’d ride herd for a percentage of the lambs and wool. Somethin like that. I been a stockman all my life, mostly in Texas. I’m dependable, and I’m hardworkin, and I’m honest as the day is long. Oh, and a army veteran to boot.

  Goulding chewed. Well, he said, scraping at his plate. I appreciate you coming all the way down here. That shows gumption right there. But I already got me a couple Navvies lined up to herd. And what with Morris and Paul on the payroll, I’m afraid there ain’t much I can offer just now.

  Except some fresh rhubarb pie, the woman said, rising to gather the plates.

  They woke in the morning to a singsong chant that was faint at first and dreamlike in their somnolence. Each rose, blinking, to an elbow and looked across the tent floor to the other.

  What the hell?

  Palmer slid barefoot from his cot, and Lottie, covering herself with the tentflap, joined him in the doorway.

  Look!

  Far down the valley, a dozen or more riders approached in a long, single file. They were an irregular assortment on horses and mules, some alone and some with other horses ponied behind them. All appeared to be men. All sang the same lilting chant with their faces lifted skyward, and it rang high o
n the cliff walls, growing louder as they approached.

  Looks to me like a war party. Hang on to your scalp.

  Mike had emerged from the trading post, and she stood now at the threshold with hands on hips. She watched the riders for a while, then disappeared inside.

  Come on, let’s get dressed.

  By the time they’d stepped into sunlight the chanting had reached a crescendo. Mike was outside, as were several Indians from the little mud hogan that stood beside the trading post. A young Indian boy moved to Mike’s side, and she took his hand in hers.

  Hey! Get that pop set out! Goulding called from the upstairs window, and Mike and the boy hurried inside.

  As the party reached the corral area, the chanting suddenly stopped. All of the Navajo men wore dark hats with tall crowns, some over bandannas, some adorned with feathers, and some with bands of quill or beadwork. They wore stiff Levi’s and snap-front shirts, and some wore a kind of tunic under a belt of silver conchos. All wore skeins of red trail dust. The horses were cayuse mustangs mostly, but some of them were pintos, and a few were good-looking quarters under saddle or being ponied.

  Henry, who had stood with his ears pricked at the chanting, now paced and blew in his pen. A pair of leopard Appaloosas in the pen opposite glanced up for but a moment, then returned to their hay.

  When Mike and the Indian boy reemerged from the trading post, each struggling with the handle of a heavy ice chest, the two largest of the riders dismounted and handed off their reins and intercepted them in their progress. They hefted the chest and carried it on their shoulders to a table that had been set up downhill from the corrals in the shade of a thatched and sagging lean-to. Mike produced a bottle opener from her pocket and rewarded them each with a soda pop.

  By now Goulding had emerged from the trading post and was speaking to the other men in Navajo. At one point several of the men looked across at Palmer, where he stood outside the guest tent. Then all dismounted, and there followed a general milling as the horses were untacked and watered and blankets were carried to the lean-to and arranged about it in sun and shade.

  C’mon, let me introduce you, Goulding said as he approached the tent. Lottie hung back while Palmer followed the tall man first to the corral and then to the lean-to, where Goulding spoke and Palmer nodded and shook hands with each of the Indian men in turn.

  Can I help with somethin? Lottie called to Mike as she passed, and the older woman stopped.

  Why, thank you, Johnny Rae. That would be lovely.

  Inside the cool of the bullben, Mike bent behind the counter and set a row of packages on the bartop.

  Here. You can take these down to that table and open them and just set them out. Tell Harry I’ll be down in a jiffy.

  They were boxes of Tootsie Pops and Butterfingers and Baby Ruth candy bars. Lottie stacked them and carried them down to the lean-to, where the men parted and watched as she set them out and tore with her teeth at the paper wrapping. When she stepped aside, the men continued to stare at her and none of them moved toward the candy.

  Go on ahead, she told them. They’re for you.

  Thank you, the tallest of them said as he reached for a Butterfinger, and the others crowded in behind.

  Ready, get set, go!

  The horses exploded at the drop of Goulding’s hand, and he turned and spat in their billowing dust cloud. They were a pair of lean quarter horses, and the jockeys who rode them were the youngest and slightest of the men.

  The others whooped and jostled and shouted in Navajo words of encouragement or hex as the horses galloped neck and neck to a stake some quarter mile distant, where they braked and skidded in a churning shower of reddish earth.

  Look out! Goulding called as he backed toward the onlookers, restoring the line with his bootheel.

  The horses were a mirrored pair as they bobbed and dug for home, their nostrils flared and their tails aloft like battle jacks, the jockeys’ quirts wheeling and cracking over and under as they thundered past the line to shouts and catcalls distinguishable to Lottie even in that strange and halting tongue.

  Half of the spectators drifted toward the loser’s blanket, on which coins and bracelets of turquoise and silver were scattered. Lottie and Palmer watched as the men laughed and elbowed one another and pocketed their winnings.

  They do love to gamble, Goulding said as he moved to stand beside the two. You watch, after the racing they’ll commence with the cooncan.

  The horses had returned from their cooling trot and stood now slick and heaving, their great veins tumid over tight and rippling muscles. The jockeys slid to the ground and were variously consoled or congratulated. Then another pair of horses appeared, and the same jockeys stepped into the stirrups and turned them and moved them off at a trot.

  You got an opinion on these ’uns? Goulding asked.

  Palmer studied the horses. The ease of their gaits and the length of their strides. The shape of haunch and head.

  These boys must know who’s who. It ain’t like they never seen each other before.

  That’s true, Goulding replied, but you watch. They’ll match best to best so’s to make it a fair race.

  The other Indians were clustered together, drinking the grape and orange sodas and mouthing the candy bars and Tootsie Pops, licking their fingers and wiping the melted chocolate on their pantlegs. There was much discussion and chin-pointing, and soon hands were in pockets and rings and bracelets were removed and brandished like talismans.

  Okay. Suppose I like that sorrel. Now what?

  That’s his blanket there. What’s your wager?

  Palmer leaned and reached into his own pocket. How about a paper dollar?

  That’s fine. Come on.

  They walked together to where the men stood. Goulding spoke in Navajo and a discussion ensued among the others. Some shook their heads and drifted off, while others glanced at Palmer and at the girl who stood behind him and then huddled in further conference. At last one of the men bent to his bag and produced a silver ring with a band of inlaid turquoise. He showed it to Palmer and gestured with his head in Lottie’s direction.

  Palmer nodded. Yeah, sure. Why not.

  The man, who wore looped silver earrings, crossed to the far blanket and tossed down the ring. Palmer bent and weighted his dollar among the coins and baubles on the blanket at his feet.

  The horses approached the line together, their eyes rolling and their necks arched as they jigged and strained against the bit shanks, the jockeys talking to them and to each other and sawing on the horses’ mouths. Goulding raised his hand again and counted again and set them off in another churning dust cloud.

  These too were evenly matched. They streaked in tandem toward the distant stake, their polls bobbing like pistonheads, and as they neared the turn, the brown horse nosed in front and cut sharply so that the sorrel was forced wide and showered in its rival’s dust plume. The brown horse straightened and pinned its ears and flattened out on the home stretch, and it held a two-length lead until, halfway to the finish line, it suddenly broke stride.

  A cry went up from the watching men as the sorrel thundered past while the rider of the brown horse slid lightly to the ground, running and checking his limping mount and lifting its injured foreleg.

  An argument erupted among the bettors, and while some ran to tend the hobbling animal, the others joined together in a circle with lowered heads and lowered voices. Grave faces, listening and nodding. Then, as the horse was led on past, the men who were huddled parted and turned, and Goulding was summoned to join them in their deliberations.

  Will he be okay? Lottie asked Palmer as she followed the horse’s progress toward the corral.

  Looks to me like maybe a tendon. I don’t think they’ll shoot him. Less maybe they bet on him.

  When the huddle broke again, a smiling Goulding crossed to where they stood.

  Good news for you. They asked me to rule, and I ruled your sorrel the winner.

  Palmer looked past him to
where the losers were still talking and shaking their heads. Shit, he said. Don’t seem fair to reward a poor judgment on horseflesh.

  Goulding shrugged. Fair is where the fat lady sits.

  Palmer left them and crossed to the blankets where he retrieved first his bill and then the turquoise ring. He stepped to the Indian in the silver earrings and pressed them both into the startled man’s hand. The man tried to protest, but Palmer turned his back and walked to where Goulding and Lottie waited.

  Goulding, hand to chin, said nothing. They stood together and watched as the next pair of horses was saddled and led to the waiting jockeys.

  Don’t worry, Palmer told him. I’ve always been lucky with chickens.

  The Navajos were arrayed in groups of three and four wherever there was shade. Some were still eating, and some were napping, and one yet tended to the injured horse, wrapping its foreleg in a kind of poultice. Another pair loitered by the doorway of the trading post, while a quartet sat cross-legged around a jar in whose lid a slot had been cut. They dealt cards and played them on their blanket, depositing coins at long intervals into the jar slot.

  Looks like some kind of rummy, Palmer observed from where they sat in the tree shade. Man could grow whiskers earnin a dollar at that rate.

  Lottie sipped at her soda pop. Maybe these ones ain’t the high rollers.

  By God, you might be right. Maybe the big chief’s on his way right now. Got himself a gold-plated Packard and big bag o’ wampum.

  They reclined in the shade and watched the game and watched the light shifting on the vermilion buttes that blazed beyond the players like ingots in the noontime sun. A hot breeze blew from the west, and it tousled the horses’ manes and flipped one of the playing cards on the blanket. Lottie finished her pop and shifted and rested her head on Palmer’s shoulder. He did not caress her, nor did he shrug her off.

  Call me crazy, he said, but I think a man could hang his hat in these parts. Mike and Harry, they got a pretty sweet deal down here. And I think Harry’s right about them sheep.