What about ’em?
What he said, about time and grass and water. In a couple years, that flock could be four thousand head. Once prices come back, the man that owns four thousand sheep is a rich man.
The players’ heads turned toward the trading post, where Goulding had stepped again into sunshine. He sported a cowboy hat of battered straw, and he carried in one hand a hen inverted by its leg shanks. In the other, he carried a shovel.
Shit, said Palmer. I think I’m gettin the picture.
The sleepers were nudged awake, and the cards were collected and stowed. The men rose in unison and dusted their seats and drifted toward the corrals.
Goulding hefted the prostrate bird as he approached. You ever seen this in Texas?
You aim to bury that thing?
I’ll show you. Come on.
They walked together onto the hot and dusty hardpan, and when they’d reached the morning’s finish line, Goulding handed Palmer the hen, which flapped and settled again in helpless resignation. Goulding started to dig.
You see them stakeposts out there?
Palmer followed his nod and saw that the turnpost for the morning’s races was but one of a dozen like stakes arrayed in a giant oval.
We bury the chicken up to its neck, see? Then all the riders wait in a big group over thereabouts. Each man gets a run at the bird. You pull it free, then you ride like hell, cuz they’re gonna be coming after you. The man that rounds the course and crosses the finish line with the chicken’s head in his hand is the winner. Give her here.
They traded. Goulding cupped the bird with both hands, its wings firmly pinioned, and he lowered it into the hole. Move some dirt, cowboy.
Palmer carefully backfilled the hole, and together the two men pressed and smoothed and stamped the ground until only the chicken’s head and neck were visible, rooting and twisting like some hatchling newly born.
They returned to where the Navajo men had formed into a circle. Goulding spoke to them in their language, and with a shuffling of feet a place was made for Palmer to stand among them. At the center of the circle lay an empty pop bottle, and when all were finally in place, Goulding stepped into the circle and bent and spoke again and spun.
The bottleneck when it stopped was pointed at one of the jockeys. The smiling boy stepped away and hurried to the corral.
They continued in like fashion, repositioning themselves around the circle after every spin, every departure less enthusiastic than the last. Palmer was the eighth thus chosen, after the man with the silver earrings, and as he walked from the circle to his horse, Goulding’s voice called out behind him.
Cinch her tight, cowboy! Once the racing starts, it’s no holds barred!
Mike appeared from the trading post in new dungarees and a white and ironed blouse that seemed oddly formal to the occasion. She carried a patterned blanket under her arm, and when she’d descended to where the riders were clustered, she laid it on the ground and spoke a few words in Navajo. Goulding stood beside her and spoke again at length, and there followed a lively discussion among the men on horseback. Then, one by one, each rider removed some piece of jewelry and held it aloft and tossed it onto the blanket.
Goulding moved to stand alongside Palmer’s stirrup.
You got five dollars?
Palmer frowned. He leaned and dug into his pocket. I suppose I should’ve asked before you got me this far.
Goulding chuckled. Winner gets the rug and everything on it. Them’s big stakes in these parts.
He took the bill from Palmer and walked it to the blanket and set it down with great ceremony. Mike then bent and gathered up the corners and carried the rug and its weighty cache to the shade of the lean-to.
One by one the riders turned their horses, and when they’d regrouped at a distance, Goulding stood alone at the start line with the chicken’s neck worming luridly between his boots. He called out a name, and the younger of the two jockeys removed his hat and flung it and rolled back from the others. He circled at a trot, then roweled his big pinto forward at a gallop.
I can’t bear to watch this, Mike said to Lottie, and she turned and walked toward the trading post.
Four strides from his target, the boy gripped the saddle horn with his left hand and dropped his weight to the offside, his right hand cupped and trailing, and as he lunged at the twisting bird, the other riders pulled rein, their horses backing and squatting.
The boy missed. Whoops of derision went up from the mounted gallery, and the horses relaxed again. Then another rider removed his hat and flung it to the ground.
The pattern repeated. As each of the riders swooped and missed his grab, there was a chorus of jeers, followed by a reordering within the group as legs were hitched and cinches already tightened were tightened yet again.
The garden of hats grew to half a dozen before a rider, the second of the young jockeys, grabbed enough neck for the hen’s back to hump. The bird was squawking now, one wing partly exposed, her throat and hackles twisting and flailing wildly.
When the brave with the silver earrings whooped and flung his hat, the others began jostling in earnest. The rider circled and gathered speed and came at a jerking gallop. As he swung low and lunged at the easy target, the bird exploded from the ground in a welter of dirt and feathers, and the waiting riders burst forth like a swollen levee breached.
The lead brave’s horse was a line-back mustang, short and compact, and he rode it low over the pommel with his shoulders rolling and his topknot bouncing wildly. The flapping bird he held aloft like a bagful of money. His lead, which was eight to ten lengths at the outset, narrowed with every stakepost as the others, kicking and whooping, closed the distance behind him.
The first to reach him, midway down the backstretch, were the two young jockeys. They flanked and crimped the fading mustang, and as arms flailed and hooves clacked, a plume of red blood burst from among them, spattering Palmer where he leaned, dusty and blinded, a length behind the leaders.
Palmer reined to the outside as a cry went up and the horse that was before him stumbled, horse and rider pitching forward into the piston-churn of hooves and hocks. From this new vantage Palmer could see the outside jockey holding firm to the leader’s wrist, with the chicken, or what was left of the chicken, flapping raw and bloody over the outside jockey’s pommel.
The horses leaned through the final turn and thundered for home. Palmer kicked and cursed and gained on the outside as Henry’s ears flattened and the trailing horses one by one began to fall away.
Slowly, gradually, Palmer inched the bay horse forward, until he was nearly abreast of the trio. Then, with a hundred yards to go, he made his move.
Swapping the reins to his outside hand, he leaned and clapped the fist that gripped the flaccid birdneck, then he used his thumb to pry the fingertips away, one by one, until the prize was in his grasp.
He jerked it free as the horses crossed the finish line, and he held it aloft as he stood in the stirrups, dirty and bloody and grinning crazily, loosing a warbling parody of an Indian war cry.
The huddle was again in session by the time Palmer had cooled his horse and pulled his saddle and returned still grinning from the corral. Only this time it was Goulding who appeared vexed, glancing over at Palmer as he argued with the others.
We got a problem?
Palmer spoke to Goulding’s back, and to the wall of baleful stares that encircled the taller man.
Goulding sighed without turning. Seems like Mr. Cly here thinks he crossed the line with the bird still in hand.
Palmer looked to the man in the silver earrings. His arms folded and his jaw set, obsidian eyes glinting under his dirty hat brim.
That a fact.
What’s more, it seems the others agree with Mr. Cly. I’d have to say they’re downright settled on the subject.
I thought you was the referee. What do you say?
Goulding turned to face him. I’d say you want them trinkets, you’ll have to shoot your w
ay out of this valley.
Hell, there’s a good fifty dollars of loot in that blanket.
Goulding nodded. And then some.
The Indians stood shoulder to shoulder, joined as in arms to repulse some threat to their sovereignty.
Palmer leaned and spat. Fuck it, he said as he turned. They want it that bad, they can have it.
He marched toward the corral and took down his saddle and carried it to the tent, where Lottie stood watching in the doorway.
What’re you lookin at? he snapped, and she nodded over his shoulder.
Look behind you.
The man in the silver earrings stood apart from the others, and when Palmer turned to face him, the Indian walked forward and reached into his pocket and proffered the bill that Palmer had wagered.
That’s mighty white of you, Chief, Palmer said as he reached for the bill. But the Indian snatched it away and turned to where the others watched, and all of them burst out laughing.
Goulding stared into the fire. I don’t know what to say.
Palmer plucked a brand from the fire and lit his smoke. Don’t worry. It ain’t the first time I been poorly used, and I’m guessin it won’t be the last.
Still.
Palmer shook out the flame and leaned back and looked off down the valley, where the shapes of the giant monuments appeared only as darkness torn from the surrounding starlight.
What I don’t understand is you trustin these people with your sheep.
Mike rose and lifted the coffeepot from the fire and topped the mugs all around.
Come on, Johnny Rae. Let’s us girls powder our noses.
Lottie followed the slender woman into the bullpen, then through a back passage to the wareroom, then up the narrow stairs. A kerosene lantern burned in the kitchen, and Mike filled the coffeepot from a pitcher.
I’ve been wanting to thank you for all your help today. It’s been nice having a woman around the place.
Yes, ma’am.
Mike turned to face her. You’re not much of a talker, are you?
Lottie shrugged.
That’s all right. I’m not either. Not really, anyway. It’s been my experience that the more a woman talks, the less she seems to say.
Lottie smiled. Yes, ma’am.
How long have you and Jimmy been married?
I don’t know. A few months, I reckon. Seems like longer.
Mike nodded. Not that it’s any of my business, but isn’t he a little old for you? Harry and I thought you two were Mormons at first, but...
Lottie looked at her with no expression at all.
Like I said. None of my business.
Mike wiped her hands on the apron that hung by the basin, and she lifted the pot by its handle.
We’d best be getting back.
Twenty-three years.
The woman stopped.
That’s how much older. I figured it from papers I seen.
Mike set down the kettle.
Are you happy, Johnny Rae? That’s the only thing that matters. When I followed Harry out here, my family all said I was crazy. But they didn’t know Harry, and they didn’t know how I felt about him. She touched the girl’s cheek with her long and slender fingers. Does Jimmy make you happy?
Lottie turned to the window. To the scissored cameo of two men paired by a fire, black shapes brightly haloed against a larger backdrop of nothingness.
He may not always act like it, but Jimmy needs me.
That may be, but you didn’t answer my question.
Lottie faced the woman. Yes, ma’am. She nodded once. I guess he makes me happy. Some of the time, anyways.
Lottie woke to the creak of a buckboard wagon.
She slid from her cot and crossed the empty tent to the door in time to see a gray-haired Indian seated high on the springseat behind one of the Appaloosa horses. In the bed behind him was a canvas tarp lashed to the gunwales with lengths of baling twine, and behind that stood the second Appaloosa haltered and half-hitched to the back of the rig, all of them standing in near relief in the cool light of dawn.
The Indian sat with his head turned toward the trading post. He raised a hand, and Goulding in the doorway responded in kind. Palmer stood beside the taller man, and when the wagon rolled and tilted forth into the crossroads, the two men turned and disappeared inside.
They were seated at the upstairs table when Lottie entered from the stairwell. Mike rose and smiled and crossed to the kitchen to fetch a plate from the warmer.
Morning, honey. I hope you like pancakes.
Goulding watched the girl eat. Palmer smoked, his eyes out the window. When Mike returned, Palmer stubbed his cigarette onto his breakfast plate and pushed it away.
Well. We could look in on ’em at least. If that would ease your mind any.
Goulding nodded, still watching the girl. I’d be obliged.
If this Oliver is as hard as you make him out, there could be trouble.
Goulding frowned. I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. Bill Oliver is a fair man. A tough man, but fair. If they find water, and if they stay out of John’s Canyon, there shouldn’t be cause for trouble.
And if there’s no water?
Goulding sipped his coffee and set the mug down on the table.
Let me tell you a story about Bill Oliver. He must be pushing seventy-five now, but he was sheriff in these parts for a good many years.
Wait a minute. His wife name of Mary Jane?
You know her?
Palmer glanced at Lottie. We met her one time in Blanding.
Goulding nodded. Well, back in nineteen and twenty-three, they had a spot of Indian trouble hereabouts. The Posey War, some call it now. The last Indian war in the West.
War, Mike snorted, clearing Palmer’s plate. Foolishness is what I call it.
It all got started when a couple of Ute kids name of Sanup’s boy and Joe Bishop’s little boy got into a fracas at a sheep camp. Killed some sheep, set a bridge on fire. That sort of thing.
Mike returned and took her seat at the table as Lottie chewed and listened.
Anyways, Oliver arrested both boys and brought ’em to stand trial up in Blanding. And old Posey, he come into town with some of his braves to keep an eye on the proceedings, him being head troublemaker and all. There weren’t no love lost between Posey and them Mormons, I can tell you that. It was a powder keg is what it was.
Mike snorted again.
The trial was held in the basement of the old schoolhouse there. Then, at the lunchtime recess, all the good Mormons went home to break bread with their families, leaving Oliver in charge of the two prisoners and a crowd of hostile Indians. Which, if you’d ever met Bill Oliver, you’d have to say was about a fair fight.
If he’s seventy-five now, he couldn’t have been no spring chicken in ’23.
Goulding grunted. Like I said, a fair fight. Anyways, Joe Bishop’s boy had him some kind of wooden crutch, and just as Oliver was mounting up outside the schoolhouse, why, he went ahead and bashed Oliver with the crutch and grabbed for Oliver’s gun.
Palmer grinned and leaned back in his seat. No shit.
One of two things happened next, depending on who’s doing the telling. Either Joe’s boy got the gun and pulled the trigger on Oliver, or Oliver squeezed on the prisoner before losing his gun. Whichever it was, the gun jammed. So Joe’s boy hopped onto a little racing pony that Posey’s boy Jess just happened to have saddled up and waiting, and off he went with Oliver in pursuit. Only now Joe’s boy got the gun to working again, and he turned and shot Oliver’s horse out from under him.
What about that other boy?
Sanup’s boy, he took off with Posey. They run straight to Westwater and warned the other Utes to get ready for a shooting match. Well, sir, that started a stampede for high ground, with a posse on their tail and old Posey fighting a rearguard with his thirty-aught-six Springfield rifle.
Palmer shook his head. Sounds like a goddamn jackpot.
That night in Bland
ing, all the good Mormons turned out with their torches and pitchforks. Then the next day, while another posse set out to scout for Posey, Bill Oliver had the bright idea of rounding up every Ute man, woman, and child he could find and holding them hostage until Posey surrendered. And that’s what he done. First in the schoolhouse, then they built a big stockade out of barbwire, smack in the middle of town. He held over eighty prisoners under armed guard for nearly a month.
I guess he didn’t take kindly to havin his horse shot.
Goulding sipped his coffee. By now the whole area was crawling with Mormon rifles. Not to mention U.S. marshals, and newspapermen, and every crackpot vigilante in riding distance of the Four Corners. Hell, there was even talk of bringing in airplanes with machine guns.
Mike took her husband’s plate and carried it to the kitchen. Like I said, plain foolishness.
So what all finally happened?
Well, let’s see. Joe Bishop’s boy got shot dead. Some say it was the posse, and some say it was Posey himself, upset over him starting all the ruckus. The rest of the Utes eventually surrendered and went into the stockade. It wasn’t for a month or so that they finally found old Posey’s body, hid up in a cave. Turns out he’d been shot on day one, only nobody knew it until a federal marshal discovered the body. Only then did they let them other ones loose.
Palmer lit another smoke. And what about Oliver?
Oh, he retired, eventually. Went back to his cattle. Him and his boy Harrison run their herd out there in John’s Canyon. Near as I can tell, the years haven’t mellowed him one bit. He sees sheep in that canyon, someone’s liable to get himself ass-kicked. Or worse. He’s not a small man.
Them Injuns of yours know to give him a wide berth?
Goulding grunted. They been warned. There ought not be a problem this time of year, since that there is winter range for cattle. He sighed, pushing away from the table. But come September, things could get mighty interesting.
They set out after breakfast, riding double and following the sheep track northbound out of the valley. In late afternoon they met the Knee brothers south of the Mexican Hat bridge. Paul, the younger, reined his horse and crossed his hands on the pommel.
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