Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  The driver ignores this last part, barking orders to the men in the back of the truck, then jumping back inside and putting the pickup into gear.

  “You’re not going to just leave me here, are you? Holy fuck! I just had a nasty accident. I came off my Ducati and my arm’s busted bad.”

  When he hears Ducati, the driver perks up and scans the terrain. Spotting Shane’s overturned cycle, he catapults out of the truck with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning.

  “Hijole! Es uno Panigale!” the driver exclaims, running over to the motorcycle.

  “Yeah, that’s right, a Ducati 1199 Panigale R Superleggera,” Shane confirms, pride transcending pain for the moment. “So … are you going to help me or what?”

  At the driver’s command, the two outriders leap out of the back of the pickup and hustle over to right the bike. The driver climbs on and, seeing the key in the ignition, fires up the machine.

  “Escuche ese motor!” he shouts, revving the engine, and the two moustachioed men, clearly the driver’s minions, gush sycophantic enthusiasm. The boss pops a wheelie and races off on the Ducati, creating a cloud of dust while his underlings wave their hats and holler like hands at a rodeo. Shane is unhappy with this turn of events, but hopes allowing the joyride will work to his advantage.

  The motorcycle weaves through the scrub brush and onto the highway. Now the boss opens up the throttle and zooms off down the blacktop for a few hundred yards before making a skidding turn and racing back to brake behind the four-by-four.

  “Padre, qué máquina,” he says admiringly, and his two companions bob their heads frenetically in agreement. The boss man gestures at the motorcycle. “Ayúdeme lo levanto en el camión.”

  They start lifting the Ducati into the truck — no easy task given the bike’s weight and how high the truck bed is jacked up — and Shane is relieved they will take the motorcycle along with him. After much heaving and grunting, the bike is secured and the tailgate slammed shut. The boss calls out, “Vayamos,” and everyone begins climbing back into the pickup.

  Shane is miffed that no one is helping him, but thinks he now has a good measure of these men and their machismo. He hops to the passenger side on his own. The door is locked, so he raps on the window. The boss lets out a big laugh and starts up the engine. Realizing they mean to leave him and abscond with the Ducati, Shane bellows in rage and starts pounding on the truck.

  That elicits from the boss a string of expletives that need no translation. He leaps from the vehicle and races around to come at Shane, who, injured or not, is prepared to take the guy on. But he suddenly finds himself staring down the barrel of a large silver-plated handgun. He feels a wobble in his abdomen and knows that if he weren’t so dehydrated, he’d probably be pissing his pants.

  The boss is shouting as he forces Shane to his knees, presses the pistol against his forehead, and cocks the hammer. Shane is certain he is about to be die. His insides lurch in terror. But one of the minions starts yelling entreaties at his pistol-toting boss from the back. At first Shane figures the tirade is against the firing of the gun, but when he hears the words la migra — which he knows from watching movies is Mexican slang for “border patrol” — he realizes the henchman’s only concern is trouble with the authorities.

  The boss relents, uncocking the pistol with a pronounced flick of his thumb to underscore his displeasure. He mutters unhappily as he sticks his weapon into the back of his waistband, and Shane realizes the young punk is actually angry at being deprived of the opportunity to commit murder. Unloosing a final curse, the boss shoves Shane down hard onto the ground with the sole of his boot. Shane’s broken wrist bangs against the asphalt, and although the pain is excruciating, he fights hard not to black out, fearing the men now mean to run him over with the pickup and make his death look like an accident.

  He is wrong on that account at least, for the truck peels off, leaving him curled up on the highway clutching his injured hand. His heart wants to hammer its way out of his chest, so he stays put, willing himself to calm down. The surface of the highway is scorching hot, while the wind blows a steady veil of dust over his face and lips. He rises, picks up his leather jacket, and labours back toward the creosote bushes by the roadside to once again shelter from the sun and wind.

  As he is hopping over, the sunlight glints off of something. Shane sees that it is the helmet he used earlier to prop up the motorcycle. The helmet is of questionable use to Shane now, but he has so few possessions left, and he holds out some hope of getting his Ducati back, so he summons the energy to hop over and fetch the helmet.

  When he picks it up, hiding underneath is what looks like the same scorpion he encountered previously. Whereas earlier, the sight of the arachnid made Shane recoil in fear, now he is filled with rage — although it has little to do with the creature itself. He starts pounding at the scorpion with the helmet. The ground is relatively soft, but finally he catches the creature against a rock and mashes it into a messy pulp.

  A little wiser now to the ways of the desert, Shane gives the helmet a shake to ensure nothing else lurks inside before pushing it onto his head. The instant shade and especially the protection from the blowing dirt make the effort to retrieve the helmet worthwhile. He returns to the roadside and plops himself down to wait for help.

  Lapsing in and out of consciousness, and without a watch, Shane loses all track of time. His pain and nausea become as constant as the blowing desert wind that covers him with a layer of grey grit. At first, he periodically wipes away the film from his visor, but eventually, too tired and discouraged to bother, he lets the world outside grow dimmer and more distorted, as if some giant cancer is eating away at reality.

  When a vehicle does finally appear down the highway, Shane tries to rise, but instead keels over onto his side. As he struggles to his knees, fearful the vehicle will pass him by, a wave of nausea overwhelms him. Failing to remove his helmet in time, he throws up inside it. The smell of his own vomit generates a second spewing, and violent spasms make him feel as if his insides are tearing themselves apart. Clawing with his good hand, he finally manages to remove the helmet and crawl toward the road. The wind blows dirt into his face, blinding him in one eye, but he crawls on.

  To his relief, the vehicle stops. He hears doors slamming, followed by the sound of approaching feet. Two pairs of legs, one pair adult-sized and the other child-sized, enter his field of vision, but Shane has no strength to look up at the associated faces. He is fighting just to keep the inky vortex of unconsciousness at bay.

  The child’s legs move away to the side, and when they crouch downward, Shane can see they belong to a girl of about eight or nine. She has a stick in her hand, and with it she flips over rocks and pokes around in the dirt. Something she unearths makes a sound, and Shane feels a pang of horror grab his groin, for although he is new to this environment, movies have taught him what a rattlesnake sounds like. Sure enough, he sees the serpent hoisted up on the girl’s stick. Its triangular head is raised in his direction, and the two holes in its face that distinguish it as a pit viper are clearly visible.

  Shane abhors snakes, and the sight of this venomous reptile with its cold, catlike eyes causes him to tremble uncontrollably. At the same time, he is mesmerized and unable to look away.

  “It’s a big one, Mommy,” the girl squeals gleefully, as if talking about a puppy. Shane wants to shout at her to be careful, but his dry lips seem to be glued together. He can only watch in dismay as the girl lowers the rattlesnake to the ground, pins it with the stick, calmly seizes the serpent just behind its head, and proceeds to hold up her prize triumphantly.

  He fully expects to hear the mother scream in alarm, but instead she quietly chides the girl. “Stop playing with it, Gracie. Get it in a sack and let’s see what’s wrong with this fella.”

  It’s all too much for Shane, and he begins to pass out. His last thought before blackness spills in to mercifully eclipse the unrelenting sun is that everyone in this part
of New Mexico is either a criminal or, to quote the movies, just plumb loco.

  THREE

  When Shane comes to, there is a woman hovering over him, backlit by the sun. There is something angelic about her, although, judging from the worry lines etched on her face, she doesn’t exactly reside in paradise.

  “Is he a bum, Mommy?” Gracie’s voice asks from behind the woman. Although she was fearless earlier with the rattlesnake, the girl now keeps her distance, as if frightened of Shane.

  “Hush, child. It ain’t polite to talk about folks like that. I’m sure he can’t help it if he’s fallen on hard times.”

  “My arm’s broken,” Shane manages to croak.

  “I can see that,” the woman replies. “Someone beat you up, Mister? They sure did a number on you.”

  Shane wants to explain about the crash and the robberies, but doesn’t have the words in him.

  “Water,” is all he manages.

  “Sorry, ain’t carrying none, Mister. Our spread’s not far from here, though. We can call the doc and get you tended to. Can you make it to the truck?”

  Shane nods and, with the woman’s help, struggles to his feet. Swallowing hard, he explains, “Knee’s screwed, too.”

  The woman looks at the leg he is favouring and slides under his good arm to take up the weight. When Shane’s hand is resting across her bicep, he can feel the firm definition of muscles beneath her denim shirt.

  “Grab his stuff, Gracie,” the mother instructs, and the daughter scampers to obey.

  “Ew!” she complains as she picks up the vomit-splattered helmet and holds it as far from her body as her little arms will allow. Shane and the woman move in unison toward the pickup truck, an old Dodge that looks like it’s from the ’70s. It is rusted and dented, with various body parts having been replaced over the years, resulting in a mishmash of colours. The truck looks as worn as Shane feels.

  The woman helps Shane hop to the passenger side, and he crawls in, noting without comment the abundant cracks in the seat’s upholstery, some of which are spilling stuffing. Gracie enters from the driver side and seems reluctant to get close to Shane, causing her mother to growl, “Git over, child, you’re crowding me.” Gracie grudgingly complies, but stuffs Shane’s leather jacket and helmet in between them, and then, for added separation, reaches down onto the floor and retrieves a canvas sack.

  “Don’t squish ’im,” she tells Shane, placing the bag on the seat. He realizes it holds the rattlesnake they encountered earlier and presses up against the door, giving Gracie her desired space.

  The truck has a manual transmission. The mother puts it into gear, and there is an audible grinding as the clutch engages. The girl keeps stealing glances at Shane, while he warily keeps his eye on the bag with the snake. Eventually, once he’s reasonably sure it won’t come crawling out, his gaze wanders to the woman who’s helping him.

  He estimates she is in her midthirties. Her dirty-blond hair is pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail and shows a few wisps of early frost. In addition to the lines he noted earlier, there is a puffiness under her grey eyes, plus a scar on her chin that to Shane, a possessor and creator of scars in his own right, looks fresh. Still, he likes what he sees.

  “Thank you,” he offers.

  “Uh-huh,” she says without glancing his way. He gets the impression that she feels inconvenienced helping him. The pickup pulls onto a dirt side road, then, after a few dusty miles, turns into a gate overhung by a large sign that says Rancho Crótalo, the letters burnt crudely into a rough slab of barn board.

  The property is composed of the same desert scrub brush as the rest of the godforsaken terrain, and Shane wonders what kind of a ranch it is that manages to prosper here. As they drive farther, he makes out a one-storey dwelling flanked by a cluster of tin-roofed outbuildings. There’s no livestock in sight.

  They pull up in front of the ranch house, and the driver gets out and hollers, “I need some help here!” Gracie grabs the sack with the snake, much to Shane’s relief, and dashes straight toward a big barnlike building. She passes a shirtless boy in coveralls who has emerged in response to the call, but stands watching with a slack-jawed look.

  Two women come out of the ranch house. One of them, a buxom, solidly built Hispanic woman, is carrying a shotgun, cradling it with confidence. Worried the Chicana has misinterpreted the call for help, Shane stays in the cab. The other one, however, a slender thirtysomething redhead wearing a sundress, comes bounding straight out to the vehicle.

  “What’s the matter, Tammy, Tammy, tell me true?” she asks the driver in a singsong voice.

  “Found this fella lying out near the highway. He’s busted up pretty bad. Call Doc Sanchez, will ya, Maybelline.”

  The redhead tears back into the house, her waist-length hair forming a flowing mane behind her, and Shane is relieved that someone is finally taking his condition seriously.

  “For cryin’ out loud, Yolanda, put down that goshdurned gun and give me a hand,” Tammy calls out as she comes around to Shane’s side of the truck. “You, too, Vern,” she adds, spotting the boy standing there. “Git over here.”

  The command stirs Vern from his trance, and he hastens over to assist. In his eagerness he seizes Shane by the broken hand, eliciting a howl of pain. Tammy slaps the boy across the back of his head.

  “Mercy, child, can’t you see it’s broke?”

  Vern blushes all the way to his hairline. This time he is careful to grab Shane by the armpit. Collectively, they help him out of the truck. As Shane stands up, there is a loud ringing in his ears, and he blacks out again.

  When he comes to, he is lying inside on a sofa in what appears to be a parlour or living room. He looks around the sparsely furnished space and guesses from the construction that this is one of the homestead’s original rooms. In addition to the cloth-upholstered sofa on which he lies, there are three mismatched wooden chairs clustered around a large, scuffed-up steamer trunk that serves as a coffee table. The only attempt at decor is an old sepia-toned photograph that dominates one wall. It shows a serious-looking couple in frontier attire posed in front of a crooked canvas tent. Everything about the picture’s subjects screams hard luck and desperation, and if they were the founders of this ranch, he surmises that their descendants have not fared much better.

  In the adjoining room an argument has ensued, and as its volume escalates to audible levels, Shane realizes he is the subject of the debate.

  “What was I supposed to do, just leave him lying there to die?” Tammy shouts.

  “He’s un vagabundo,” another voice shoots back, and from its Hispanic flavouring, Shane deduces it belongs to the gun-toting Chicana. “He’ll rob us blind … or worse. And who’s going to pay Sanchez? Does that bum even have any money?”

  “I brought him here, I’ll take care of it!”

  Presently Tammy steps back into the living room and stands looking critically at Shane.

  “Doctor’s on his way, Mister. Listen, I don’t mean to sound cold, but you carrying any money?”

  “This kid out on the highway stole my wallet. I’ve got nothing on me right now, but I swear I’m good for it. I’ll get some sent.”

  “Where you from, Mister?”

  “Shane. My name’s Shane.” She grins at this, as if he’s just told a joke. The smile softens her face, letting its prettiness surface.

  “Okay, Shane, so where do you hail from?”

  “The Yukon, Canada — way up north. But I’ve been living in Columbus, Ohio, the past couple of years.”

  “Well, you’re in Columbus, New Mexico, now, Shane. How’d you end up all the way down here?”

  Shane sees no advantage in relating the specifics of his recent tortuous odyssey. “It’s a long story,” he says.

  “Yeah … always is. Bet it’s a real tear-jerker, too. The thing is, Doc Sanchez usually likes to be paid in cash.”

  “Look … it’s Tammy, right? Tammy, I meant what I said about being good for the money. If
you can bring me a phone, I’ll make a call right now.”

  “Phone’s on the kitchen wall. I can help you over if you’re up to it.”

  “Thanks.” He smiles, forgetting that he’s not wearing his dentures. He reads the distaste in Tammy’s face. Her aversion is apparent in the uncertain way she approaches him to offer support. Embarrassed, Shane waves her off and hops into the kitchen on his own, sending tremors through the ancient floorboards with each jump.

  Unlike the stark parlour, the kitchen is cozy and well used. A jumble of blackened, well-tempered cast-iron pans and skillets hang in an array from the ceiling above an open grill. A crudely mortared brick wall holds an oven big enough to roast an entire side of beef. Garlic braids and herb garlands are hung wherever there is space above rows of simple wooden cupboards all painted a uniform glossy white. Instead of a tap, an iron hand pump overhangs the sink. It is clear that this room is where most of the house’s activity takes place.

  Yolanda and Maybelline sit at a long plank-top table with bench seats, watching Shane hop into the room. Tammy gestures toward the phone — an old rotary model the likes of which Shane hasn’t seen in years — hanging on the wall.

  When he picks up the handset, it occurs to him that calling someone to ask for money will not be a simple matter. His live-in girlfriend, Brandi, recently kicked him out, cleaning out their joint bank account in the process. For tax purposes, and as a sign of his commitment and trust (now proven to be misguided), the million-dollar condominium they shared was deeded in her name. The bottom line is, he has no home to telephone, and no ready funds to access. As he ponders who might lend him some money, he realizes, too, that all his telephone numbers were stored in his cellphone, which was among the possessions stolen by the youth on the highway.

  There is one person he can definitely reach, and who will wire him some money, but there is a tightening in the pit of Shane’s stomach at the thought. He and his father have not spoken in over two years, and their last exchange was not a pleasant one.