“Claire,” he said, “this is Patrick Fitzpatrick.”
“Well, hey.”
“Say, I’d just remembered, I never gave Tio an answer about that colt.”
“Fitzpatrick! That you?” It was Tio.
“Yes, it is.”
“You callin regardin that colt?”
“Yes, I—”
“You gonna take him?”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
“You should, he’s a good colt. Bill us at Tulsa. Honey, you still on?”
“Sure am. Where’re you?”
“I’m down to the granary with the accountants. Can you load that horse yourself?”
“Sure can.”
“Carry him out to Fitzpatrick. Listen, I gotta go. Bye.” Click.
Patrick said, “Do you need directions, Claire?” He was happy. Then Tio came back on.
“You oughta breed ole Cunt to that mare of yours, Fitzpatrick. Think on it.” Click. Pause.
“Uh, yes, I will need directions.”
Patrick said, “Let’s just wait a second and see if Tio comes back on.”
There was a pause, and then Claire said, with a little fear in her voice, “Why?”
“I hate repeating directions,” said Patrick. His was an odd remark. He had no such attitude. He was starting to make things up. The last Army officer in this area he could think of who did that was General George Armstrong Custer.
13
INTERMITTENTLY BEHIND THE CORRUGATED TRUNKS OF THE cottonwoods Patrick could discern a sedan with an in-line trailer behind it. He was replacing planks on the loading chute, ones that had been knocked loose while he was gone; and he could see down to the road from here, to the sedan, the dust from the trailer and the changing green light on the metal from the canopy of leaves overhead. Cole Younger was the first dog to detect the car turning in, and his bellowing bark set Alba and the hysterical Zip T. Crow into surrounding the outfit. Patrick left the spikes and hammer at the chute and started down the hill. Once past the orchard he could hear the horse whinny inside the trailer and he could read the word “Oklahoma” on the plates. Was that Sooner, Hoosier or Show Me? The door of the sedan was open, but glare on the window kept him from seeing. He could make out one dangling boot and nothing else. Claire kicked Zip T. Crow very precisely and without meanness as the dog stole in for a cheap shot.
The car looked like it could pull the trailer a hundred in a head wind. Patrick had a weakness for gas gobblers; and a rather limited part of him, the part that enjoyed his seventy-mile-an-hour tank, had always wanted to rodeo out of a Cadillac like this one. He took a hard look: oil-money weird, no doubt about that. Like Australians, loud with thin lips, hideous Protestant backgrounds, unnatural drive to honky-tonk as a specific against bad early religion and an evil landscape: bracing himself against Claire.
She got out wearing knee-high boots, washed-out Wranglers, a hot-pink shirt and a good Ryon’s Panama straw. Long oak-blond hair disappearing between the shoulder blades in an endless braid.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you, Claire?” The dumb grin forms. No drool in the mouth corners yet.
“Just right,” she said. “And you, Patrick?” There was sweetness in her inquiry. Claire just kind of stood there and let the sun hit her, only her thumbs outside her pants.
“What do we have in the back?” asked Patrick.
“Got Tio’s horse.”
“Aged horse?”
“Four.”
“Is he broke to ride?”
“He is,” she said, “but he’s rank.”
“What’s he do good?”
“Turn around,” she said. “He’s real supple.”
“What’s he do bad?”
“Bite you. Fall on you. Pack his head in your lap. Never has bucked. But it’s in him.”
“How do you like him shod?”
“Just double-ought plates. Had little trailers in the back. We skipped that. He’ll run and slide. He’s still in a snaffle bit. You do as you like. But don’t thump on him. He can get right ugly.”
“Why didn’t you take the horse to one of the guys around Tulsa?”
“We’re gonna be here most years. We wanted to be able to see how the horse was going. Plus Tio wanted someone who was staying home with his horses.” The advent of the husband into the conversation dropped like an ice cube on a sunbather’s back. Could Claire have known the extent to which the horse was part of the arranging?
“How come you call him American Express?”
“Tio billed him out as ranch supplies. We named him after the card.”
“Right …”
“Tio would give you what you wanted for your mare. You could go on and bill the accountants in Tulsa.”
“She’s just not for sale. But I appreciate it.”
“How’s she bred?” Claire asked.
“Rey Jay.”
“That can’t hurt.”
“The only way blood like that can hurt you is if you don’t have it.”
You had to reach through to get the butt chain, past the dust curtain and the levered doors. Through the interstices of a green satiny blanket, the horse’s color could be seen: black and a mile deep. Looked to be fifteen hands. Squeezing his butt back till the chain indented a couple inches: a bronco. She said, “This colt can look at a cow.” She said “cow” Southwestern style: “kyao.”
“I believe I’ll unload him, then, and put a saddle on him and put him before a very kyao.”
She said, “If he don’t lock down, give him back.” Patrick thought: I won’t give him back if all he can do is pull a cart.
The stud unloaded himself very carefully, turned slowly around on the halter rope and looked at Patrick. A good-looking horse with his eyes in the corners of his head where they’re supposed to be; keen ears and vividly alert.
Claire looked at her watch. “Y’know what? I’m going to just let you go on and try the horse. If I don’t get back, Tio’s going to pitch a good one.”
“Well, call me up and I’ll tell you how we got along.” A rather testy formality had set in. The electric door at closing time.
She scribbled the accountants’ address in Tulsa for training bills and then she was gone, the clatter of the empty trailer going downhill behind the silent anthracite machine to the great space toward town. Patrick tried to conclude something from the aforegoing, rather cool, rather unencouraging conversation, then suddenly grew irritated with himself, thinking, What business is this of mine? I’m just riding a horse for a prosperous couple from Oklahoma. Nobody else even knows I’m out of the Army. I shall do as instructed and bill the accountants in Tulsa.
Patrick absentmindedly led the horse toward the barn, trailing him at the end of the lead shank, the horse behind and not visible to him. And in an instant the horse had struck him and had him on the ground, trying to kill him. Patrick cradled his head and rolled away, trying to get to his feet, the stallion pursuing him and striking down hard with his front feet until Patrick was upright, hitting him in the face with his hat. Patrick stood him off long enough to seize the rake leaning up against the tack shed and hold the stud at bay. The horse had his ears pinned close to his head, nostrils flared, a look of homicidal mania that will sometimes seize a stallion. It was Patrick’s fault. He was in pain and he blamed himself. The horse’s ears came up and he began to graze: He had no recollection of the incident. Patrick picked up the lead shank and led him correctly to the barn, the horse snorting and side-passing the new shapes in its interior, until Patrick turned him into a box stall and left him.
He hobbled toward the house, and Mary, who had heard or sensed something, came out. Patrick knew it was less than serious injury; but it hurt to breathe and he wanted to know why.
“What in the world happened?”
“New stud got me down.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Can’t get my breath. You take me to town?”
Mary drove the Ford while Patrick scan
ned the road for potholes. She had some theory, some fatal Oriental notion, that this horse represented an intricate skein of influences which had already demonstrated itself to be against Patrick’s best interests. Patrick couldn’t help thinking that it was the horse Tio sent him.
“Mary, you haven’t even seen the horse.”
“That horse is employed by the forces of evil. You watch. The X-rays will show something broken.”
Patrick sat on the bench outside the X-ray room, his green smock tied behind. Mary had gone on and on about the horse and its relationship to Patrick and the universe; and about how Patrick had to think about these things and not just go off and drive tanks or break any old horse or see the wrong people. Patrick sorted through his incomplete knowledge of the world’s religions and, as he awaited his X-rays, tried to think just what it was she was stuck on this time. He began with the East, but by the time the nurse called him, he had it figured out: Catholicism.
The doctor, staring at the plates, said, “Four cracked ribs.”
They taped Patrick and sent him home. In the car Mary said, “Now do you understand?”
“No,” he said.
“There-are-none-so-blind-as-those-who-will-not-see.”
“Yeah, right.”
Patrick, apart from hurting considerably, disliked the monotonous pattern he had long ago got into with Mary, bluntly resisting what he saw as signs of her irrationality. He had to think of another way, though the burdens of being an older brother impeded his sense. And something about his own past, the comfort of the Army, the happy solitude of bachelorhood, the easy rules of an unextended self—some of that came back with the simple pain, the need to hole up for a bit. For instance, a friendly hug would kill him.
14
THE NORTHBRANCH SALOON IS A GRAND SPOT IN THE AFTERNOON, thought Patrick. There will be no one there, there will be the sauce in the bottles and that good jukebox. And he could start getting Claire off his mind and just sit at the bar and think about her; then go about his business without this distraction with her off his mind and his mind thereby liberated for more proper business. At this point he knew his father would have asked, “Like what?”
“Hello, Dan,” he said to the bartender on duty. “George Dickel and ditch, if you would.” There was a TV on top of the double-door cooler. The host was getting ready to spin the roulette wheel. A couple from Oregon stared, frozen, at his hand. Patrick gripped his drink and looked up at the “North Dakota pool cue” overhead—it had a telescopic sight; he preferred it to the “North Dakota bowling ball,” which was simply a cinderblock. Claire puts her hands in her back pockets. Around the top of the bar are boards with names and brands on them. American Fork Ranch, Two Dot, Montana. There’s a machine that will play draw poker against you. Hay Hook Ranch. Raw Deal Ranch. Bob Shiplet, Shields Route, Livingston, Montana. Clayton Brothers, Bozeman, Montana. I also don’t think she is being accorded treatment commensurate with her quality by that Okie hubby. And what’s that ailment he’s supposed to have?
She could be the queen of Deadrock, like Calamity Jane, an early Deadrock great. She could be Calamity Claire. Maybe not such a good idea. Maybe bad. There were three views of the original Calamity on the north wall. In one she is dressed as an Army scout. In another she leans on a rifle and wears a fedora on the back of her head. The last is an artist’s rendering on the cover of a dime novel, a Victorian heroine of the kind Patrick was crazy about.
DEADWOOD DICK ON DECK,
OR
CALAMITY JANE, THE HEROINE
OF WHOOP-UP
Oh me oh my. “Make that a double, Dan.” Dan moves past the cross-buck saw, the set of Longhorns, the old-time handcuffs, the horse hobbles, singletrees, ox yokes and buffalo skulls; and fetches the big bourbon. I thought whoop-up meant to get sick to your stomach. Patrick declines to order a Red Baron pizza. He looks out on the empty dance floor, the drums and amplifier, wagon wheels overhead with little flame-shaped light bulbs. Romance. Lost in the crowd, we dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Hear that, Mamas? Don’t let the sonofabitch happen. Lost souls on the big sky. Hell in a hand basket.
Ease past the L. A. Huffman photos of the old chiefs toward that jukebox, now. Get something played, vow not to stay here too long and fall down. No sick-dog stuff.
Jack Daniels, if you please!
Knock me to my knees!
“Dan, triple up on that, would you?”
“Sure about that, Pat?”
“Damn sure. Got troubles.”
“Well, get the lady back.”
“Never had the sonofabitch. I’m just panning for gold.”
“Beats wages. Beats havin’ your thumb up your ass.”
“You haven’t dragged that triple up to me yet.”
“Not going to.”
“Oh dear …”
“Come back tonight when there’s some company to drink with.”
“Oh, piss on it. Is that how it is?”
“That’s how it is. You’re on the allotment.”
“Well, goddamn you anyway.”
“See what I mean?”
“Go fuck yourself.” The front of Patrick’s brain was paralyzed with anger.
“Tried all my life.”
“Good-bye, Dan, you sonofabitch. I’ll see you.”
Patrick pulled off into the IGA parking lot, suspended in the heat against distant mountains with a special, silly desolation. He got out and walked toward the automobiles, four rows deep, clustered around the electric glass doors with labels protecting the unwary from ramming their faces.
He squeezed between a new low Buick with wire wheels and a big all-terrain expeditionary station wagon when suddenly a great malamut–German shepherd crossbred cur arose behind the glass to roar in Patrick’s ear. He thought his heart had stopped. Then his head cleared. He leaned inches from the window: fangs rattled against the glass, spraying the inside with slobber. Patrick looked around and crawled up onto the hood, growling and knocking his own teeth against the windshield wipers. The monster tore around the interior in an evil frenzy, upending thermoses, a wicker picnic basket, a jerry can, clothing, backpacking gewgaws and a purse. Patrick clambered over the car until the beast’s eyes were rolling; then he went inside to buy a six-pack, feeling happy among the pregrown ferns, vanilla extract and Mexican party favors. The summery youngsters seemed especially healthy as they gathered around the newest rage—alfalfa sprouts—heaped cheerfully next to the weigh-out scale, plastic bags and wire ties. As if to confirm his good fortune, he went through the six-items-or-less line with nobody in front of him but without having had any success in guessing the identity of the dog owner. So he sat on the curb and tipped back a can of Rainier while he watched the expedition vehicle. He felt a criminal tickle at the base of his neck.
In a moment an extraordinarily well groomed couple came out with one bag and a magazine, the man in the lead, and went straight to the car. He opened it, yelled “MY GOD!” and quickly shut it. The beast arose once again in the windshield, revealing a vast expanse of whitening gum, and sized up his owners.
“Are you sure that’s your car?” Patrick called out in a friendly voice.
The husband whirled. “Absolutely!” he shouted. His magazine fluttered to the pavement.
“I’d let that old boy simmer down,” Patrick suggested unoffendably. The wife pertly noted that sled dogs were a little on the high-octane side.
“I can see that!” Patrick cried like a simpleton.
Something about that challenged the husband, and he pulled open the door of the car. The rabid sled dog shot between the two and landed huge and spraddled in front of Patrick, gargling vicious spit through his big, pointed white teeth.
I must be close to death, thought Patrick, feeling the Rainier run down the inside of his sleeve. I always knew death would be a slobbering animal, I knew that in Germany and I knew that upon certain unfriendly horses bucking in the rocks. It is every last thing I
expected.
He did not move his eyes. The owner was coming up slowly behind the dog, murmuring the words “Dirk, easy, Dirk” over and over. And death passed by like a little breeze: Very slowly the lips once more encased the teeth while Dirk, double-checking his uncertain dog memory, seemed to lose his focus. The owner reached down and gently seized the collar with a cautious “Attaboy.”
“Buddy,” said the owner, “I feel real bad. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
“I’d like some money,” said Patrick.
“You what?”
“Money.”
“How much money?”
“Enough for one Rainier beer in a can. And you buy it. With money.”
The owner returned Dirk to the all-terrain vehicle. His wife waited, not wanting to go in there alone. The husband headed into the store, and Patrick gestured to her with the rest of his six-pack. He made her a toothy grin. “Want a beer, cutie?”
No reply.
In a few minutes, the Rainier appeared in Patrick’s vision. He took it without looking up. “That fucker needs a sled.”
“He’s got one,” the owner shot back.
“I mean your wife.”
No fist swung down to replace the Rainier in his vision. All Patrick had to watch was the slow rotation of a bright pair of hiking boots; there was the sound of cleated rubber on blacktop, the door, the V-8 inhalation and departure. The high lonesome will never be the same for them, thought Patrick, however Dirk might feel. The sky will seem little.
I’ve been through quite an experience, perhaps the number-one Man-Versus-Animal deal for many years here in the Rockies. But I better get myself under control before it’s lights out. God has made greater things to test us than ill-tempered sled dogs; God has made us each other.
15
WHEN PATRICK WAS FIFTEEN AND IN NEED OF REASONS TO stay in town late, he invented a girl friend, whom he named Marion Easterly. Claire reminded Patrick of Marion. Marion was beautiful in mind and in spirit. He pretended to be hopelessly in love with Marion, so that when he rolled in at two in the morning, he would claim that he and Marion had been discussing how it was to be young and had merely lost track of time. His parents, vaguely susceptible to the idea of romance in others, bought the Marion Easterly story for a year. Patrick had typically been up to no good in some roadhouse. He created a family for Marion: sturdy railroaders with three handsome daughters. Marion was the youngest, a chaste and lively brunette with a yen for tennis and old-fashioned novels about small-town boys in knickerbockers. When Patrick got locked up, Marion was never around. So gradually his parents began to view her as a good influence on their son. If he would just spend time with Marion Easterly, the disorderly-conduct business would fade, boarding school would seem less obligatory and Patrick would grow up and become … a professional.
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