The Bird Saviors

by William J. Cobb

  Crowfoot's trailer is perched atop Wild Horse Mesa, as remote as you can get without being an all- out survivalist. There's a crooked gate at the base of the mesa and one narrow, rutted road up. No one can surprise him with an impromptu and unwanted drop- in. The way he likes it.

  Crowfoot is left staring groggy and uncoffeed at the drought- chapped yard with its sad, rusted swing set, a stack of bald truck tires tumbled in the dust, and a barbecue grill made from a sawed- in- half fifty- five- gallon drum. He makes coffee and washes the dishes, rationing the water. He gets what water he has from a two- hundred- gallon plastic tank, shuttled in the back of his pickup. He stands there moody and hungry, listening to the echo of Johnny Cash stuck in his head. A flock of Grackles flies to the juniper near the mesa cliff edge. The crows have all been shot or driven out and the smaller black birds are taking over.

  He moves slowly and quietly. Gata de la Luna isn't one to face if she rises on the wrong side of the bed. At the moment her naked body fills his single- wide trailer like a suitcase bomb. A stripe of morning sunlight illuminates the wrinkles of her Navajo sole. The lines of her footprint seem cryptic and deliberate.

  Crowfoot believes that if he were skilled in that way he could read her future while she sleeps. He isn't so sure he can't. The same bar of light snakes up her leg and makes her left butt cheek glow bold as a Russ Meyer audition. She's a latter- day rustic shepherdess, has her own palm- reading shop, her fingers in every pie.

  She filled him in on Señor Hiram Page and his crooked ways. What she knows could put the man in prison, but she's not one to testify.

  As he notches the tongue of his death' s- head buckle into its tooled leather belt, Gata stirs, rolls over, pushes the darkness of her hair from her face. She stretches and the foot on the coffee table upends a tray of weed and an ashtray. Both thump to the floor in a small, ashy cloud.

  Oops, she says.

  Crowfoot steps over the mess and leans down, kisses her instep. You're forgiven.

  Where's the fire, jackrabbit?

  I tried not to wake you. I was a mouse.

  She grins. I doubt that. If you were, cats be running scared.

  I thought I'd look for that gold plater. Maybe catch them at prayer time. Feeling holy and all.

  I'm warning you.

  I know. I heard you.

  And you're going to go after him anyways.

  Did I tell you how beautiful you are in the morning?

  She throws a pillow at him. Don't change the subject. I'm on to you.

  All I need is that address, he says. You know you're going to tell me, so just quit dancing around the obvious.

  What's in it for me?

  He leans over again, this time kissing higher up her leg. What about a good time?

  Later, with Gata de la Luna's molé yet lingering on his lips, Crowfoot heads west on Highway 50, toward the zombie subdivisions of Little Pueblo. A developer's dream before the Big Fall. Since then the banks have foreclosed on most of the homes, and anyone with a job and money has cleared out, afraid of zealots and squatters.

  He trolls down side streets where most of the homes sport graffiti tattoos. A few are burned, baring charred walls, garages gaping open like hospital cadavers, their insides full of cardboard boxes, washer- dryer sets, toppled trash bins. Old cars sit jacked up and tireless on cinder blocks. Plastic bags drift across the vacant lots or are impaled in cactus gardens. On a nearby ridge looms an abandoned line of ranch homes halfway built, some with scaffolding still in place, like a shabby Easter Island.

  To reach the FLDS compound strangers have to pass a roadblock manned by rifle- toting Saints. Crowfoot avoids that, parks his pickup in a dry gulch behind the neighborhood. He creeps through a no- man' s- land, what was once an off- road shooting range, picking his way through tumbleweeds, yucca, and spent rifle casings.

  Beyond the shooting range twist the trails of a motor- sports park, where back in the day kids rode motocross bikes for the sheer mayhem of it, whining across the desert like mutant mosquitoes. Now it's silent as a nuclear test site in Nevada. Drifts from the dust storms cover the old motocross trails.

  Crowfoot recognizes the tracks of turkey, deer, and coyote in the deep sand. He scares up a long- eared jackrabbit, a gray blur on the brown prairie, weaving past pale green clumps of sage and the tall white blooms of yucca. A stray horse watches from the top of one of the motocross hills, unmoving. Crowfoot carries a lever- action . 30-.30 wrapped in a serape. The Saints think themselves superior, holding M- 16s, but truth be told, the rapid fire makes them cross- eyed shots.

  The first house he nears reminds him of Mosca's boxcar fortress of solitude. Naked fence posts mark a border. A spool of barbed wire sits near one of the posts. It could have been left there years ago, another project abandoned. The wire is rusted now and the posts half covered in sand. Closer to the house, a jumble of lost toys litters the dead grass— armless dolls, a G.I. Joe with a melted head, a plastic Wiffle- ball bat with a dent in it, a kiddie pool full of sand.

  Crowfoot approaches at a fast walk, head down, hands in pockets, as if his car has run out of gas and he's just hiking to a station. At the house corner he flattens his body close to a wall, stops at the first window he reaches. Behind the glass he glimpses a cluttered bedroom, a mess of clothes on the floor. A middle- aged woman rummaging in a cardboard box. She doesn't see him. She sighs and shakes her head, grabs an armful of clothes, and stuffs them back in the box.

  The next window is the kitchen. There he sees another woman feeding a baby, trying to coax it to open its mouth. A pot steaming on the stove.

  At the second house he watches a woman working bread dough on a wooden table. When he opens the door and steps in, she looks up with annoyance, her hands covered with flour, a white streak on one cheek. Before she can speak he asks, Are you Rebecca Cisneros?

  She wipes a bang of hair from her forehead with the back of one hand. Who's asking?

  He tells her who he is. That an old friend of his, Israel James, said she might need help.

  Don't be teasing me. I'm in hell and I don't need another devil to poke me.

  I'm not.

  I don't know what to tell you. She looks down at her ankles. I'm a hostage. More like a slave. You got something to cut me free, go at it.

  On her ankles are shackles looped through a ring bolted to the floor. About an eighteen- inch span of chain.

  I can't run, she adds. I tried once and they caught me. Her eyes go pink and liquid. After that, they chained me. To teach me a lesson. She shakes her head. But I'll try again.

  I can bust these, says Crowfoot. We'll manage somehow. Plus I got the law on my side.

  Don't get the law involved, she says. They're in cahoots. Otherwise I'm game. She looks out the window with glazed eyes. Sure, let's do it. Much more of this and I'm eating rat poison. She unties her apron and then stops. He's back, she says.

  They hear the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway, the hum of an engine coming to a stop. A door slams.

  Crowfoot holds a finger to his lips. He points to his chest and shakes his head, then makes a flapping motion with his hand. Becca nods and shoos him. He backpedals to a shadowed spot against the far kitchen wall, behind a washing machine topped with a laundry basket. With one twist of his hand he unfurls the serape and flips it over his head, making a cowl.

  The faint whoosh of a door opening. Hey! a voice calls. Where you at? I got you something.

  I'm back here, calls Becca.

  He wears a washed- out T- shirt and has short dark hair parted on the side. A skinny young guy. Fuzzy white puppy in his arms. With the dog licking his face, he says, Check this out. You said I never bring you nothing, and you said you got no friends. What about two stones with one dog?

  Becca wipes her sweating hands on her apron, goes back to kneading the bread dough. That's nice, she says. I always wanted a puppy.

  What's the matter? I thought you'd be happy.

  What do you want me to sa
y? I'm baking bread. You're so happy you go play with him.

  There's just no pleasing you, goddamnit. I'm telling my uncle I've had enough. You can work your debt off with someone rougher than me, that's for damn sure.

  I don't owe anyone a thing.

  Right. Keep telling yourself that. The man shakes his head, making kissing faces at the white puppy. Just give up that ring, all will be hunky- dory.

  Maybe the chains around her ankles put a crimp on her feelings, you think?

  The man freezes. The puppy keeps licking at his face. He stares at Crowfoot crouched by the washer- dryer, covered with the serape, aiming a rifle. As the young Saint stares, Crowfoot seems as if he's shimmered into being, an apparition out of time. Like an Arapaho ghost come to right the wrongs of centuries past.

  The man licks his lips and blinks. He looks at Becca and sets the puppy on the floor. Where'd you come from?

  Don't matter.

  With the rifle still aimed at the man's chest, Crowfoot raises himself to his full height of six feet four inches and shrugs the serape off his shoulders. Looking at the dude in the T- shirt, he can't help but feel contempt. The man has no chin to speak of and a huge, hillbilly Adam's apple. Acne scars pock his cheeks like the surface of an ugly moon. He resembles nothing more than a weakling with moneyed friends. Which he is. Which makes him all the more loathsome to Crowfoot, who is all about muscle and no cash in the pocket but what he earns.

  Take those chains off that woman, ugly.

  The man raises a hand slowly. Wait a minute. We're not alone here. You give this a thought, Tonto.

  Crowfoot moves across the room. Tonto? You want your brains splattered, is that it?

  Listen. What I think is—

  He smacks the man in the face with the rifle butt. The weak- chinned Saint falls back and whimpers, squealing high- pitched and hurt.

  I said get those chains off her. Now.

  She owes us eight thousand dollars, he whines. I got signed

  papers saying she agrees to pay it off in three years' labor. It's all legal. You take her and I'll get the law on you. She owes me big time and I think—

  Crowfoot kicks him in the ribs. He scrabbles backward and Crowfoot comes on, angling for another boot. Listen, stupid and pathetic. You know what I think? I think you don't deserve to breathe. I think you—

  He keeps the key on a chain around his neck, says Becca.

  Crowfoot bends over the man, who now whines how he'll get even, yes, he will, you bet your fuckin' life on it. Crowfoot gets a hand on the chain and, once he has the key in his fist, rips it free.

  She's our ward, hisses the weak chin. You know who Hiram Page is? He gave me her as domestic help. And the law will back him up. We keep her chained so she don't run off.

  Crowfoot unlocks the jerry- rigged shackles. Becca thanks him and rubs her ankles, says, We should go, quick. His cousins live next door, and his dad is two houses down. We don't want to mess with them. We'll be lucky to get away with them not seeing us as it is.

  The weak chin wipes a smear of blood from his mouth and curses Crowfoot. You got no right to treat a white man like this, he says. I've got friends, shithead. I'm part of something bigger than you and you'll find it out and you'll be sorry. You just wait. I'll cut your balls off and use 'em for a purse.

  Crowfoot pulls a roll of duct tape from his back pocket and peels off a strip a foot wide. Weak chin keeps talking. I'll get you stomped, he whines. Stomped and beaten and shot and take you to court and have you thrown in jail. Mark my words. You'll regret—

  Crowfoot slaps the duct tape over the man's bloody mouth. He tells Becca to step outside and look around. If you see anybody, come tell me. If not, chill.

  We have to hurry, she says. They catch you here they'll hurt me bad and you they'll—

  Comprende, says Crowfoot.

  She smiles. Okay, she says. I'll go but you hurry.

  After she closes the door Crowfoot pulls out the long knife from his hip sheath. He holds it in front of weak chin's face. Tonto? he says. The man's eyes go wide as Crowfoot grabs his dark hair and yanks up his head. Here's something to remember me by, ugly. He cuts a quick gash at the top of the man's forehead. Blood streams down his face as the man squeals and twists.

  Crowfoot says, Who's Tonto now, ugly?

  Outside the back door, Becca peers at the blood on Crowfoot's hand for a moment before realizing what it is. He notices her looking. I gave him a haircut, he says. That will make them blink twice.

  Oh, Lord. They're going to be after you.

  Crowfoot puts his hand on her back and tells her he doesn't care. It's history now, he says.

  L o r d G o d c o m m a n d s Ruby to quit counting birds. You are like the starving man eating his boot, he says. Next you will consume the newly dead. I cannot abide such foolishness. Standing beside the woodstove, stirring Lila's oatmeal, he commands the very sun to rise and shine. His back stooped, he wears a face like a jump- start mummy. Morning light floods the cracked windowpanes and shines upon his wrinkles and glass eye. His wiry gray beard casts its own oblong shadow upon the faded wallpaper roses.

  You've got a daughter to care for, he adds. I can't be your babysitter all the time. I have the Lord's work as well.

  Ruby watches him and does not reply. She has a diaper bag packed and when Ward's car pulls into the driveway, she grabs Lila, rushes out barefooted, and jumps in the passenger side breathless.

  Go, she says. Hurry!

  Ward blinks and puts the car into gear, hesitates. But you forgot your shoes.

  No, I didn't. She raises her day pack in the air. Got some sandals in here. But hurry or Lord God's going to come out here and yell at us.

  Ward can see the front door opening as he eases forward. Why would he yell?

  I told you. He doesn't want me leaving the house. He doesn't want me doing anything except what he has in plans for me. And I'm not doing that.

  Ward pulls away as Lord God's shadowy form lurches onto the porch. Ruby refuses to look back. Lila is supposed to be in a car seat, she says. But we can't do normal things around this house. I'm going to hold her.

  I'm sorry, says Ward. I don't want to get you in trouble with your father.

  It's not your fault. It's his. He doesn't want me to work with you.

  Ruby brushes her face with the sleeve of one arm. Her eyes are pink and shiny. I hate him. I wish he'd die in a car wreck so I could laugh at his funeral.

  Now, come on, says Ward. He probably means well.

  No, he doesn't. He just means to protect himself and his clan. He wants to marry me off to some weirdo and make me wear prairie dresses and have ten more kids and I'm not going to let him.

  Okay, now, says Ward. Everything's going to be all right.

  No, it isn't, says Ruby. You're just saying that to make me feel better.

  Ward drives to a Wal- Mart and gets out, tells Ruby he'll be back in a few minutes. He returns carrying a car seat. She's changing Lila's diaper. When he sees the naked squirming legs on his backseat, he stops and waits in the hot sun. She finishes and glances up, then smiles.

  You didn't have to do that.

  Well. We can't be driving around like barbarians, now, can we?

  They return to the prairie west of Lake Pueblo to count birds in the shadow of a water pipeline and along several ravines. In the first hour they see a Sage Thrasher, which Ruby calls a Hookbeak, several Western Meadowlarks, and a Burrowing Owl. By noon they sight eight Horned Larks and five Lark Sparrows. Both species are dwindling across the Great Plains, with most of the land converted to industrial agriculture years ago, and now that the drought has settled on Eastern Colorado, Kansas, and Nebraska, many of the bird populations have all but vanished. Pueblo is west of the depopulated zones: Here most of the land is too arid for farming.

  Ward uses a small spiral notebook to record his sightings of the Horned Larks. He has his own system of species identification and record, with lines like a prisoner recording his days scra
tched upon a cell wall with chalk. Beside the numbers he adds the circle- arrow and circle- cross symbols for male and female. He has given Ruby her own notebook and kids her that she always sees the birds first, which is true.

  You're better at this than I am, he says. You should be the ornithologist.

  Maybe I will be, says Ruby. She sees Ward smile. He wears a different face here on the prairie. In a side canyon they come upon the Great Horned Owl nest in a cliff Ward had discovered earlier. He shows her the midden below it, a litter of bird bones and owl droppings. She finds a Raven skull bleached white by the wind and sun. She keeps it in honor of the bird. Smooth and white and graceful, with large eye sockets and the white upper beak part of the skull itself, it's a natural piece of art.