No Good Brother

by Tyler Keevil

  Without saying anything else, or looking at any of us, she drifted out of the kitchen, down a half-built hallway. She hummed to herself, quite happy now, and seemed to move as lightly as a ghost, haunting her own house.

  Sam would ride Shenzao. That went without saying. In the stable, the reins and saddles and halters hung from pegs fixed to the wall opposite the door. Sam got a saddle, which looked too big and heavy for her, and went into Shenzao’s stall and told us to follow her in. She was tall for her age but still had to toss the saddle up to get it over the horse’s back. She adjusted it, then did up the cinch beneath Shenzao’s belly: it had a buckle and worked like an oversized belt. As Sam worked the horse waited patiently and obediently, as if the two of them had done this a hundred times before. It was the same when Sam fitted the halter and reins.

  ‘There,’ she said, patting Shenzao’s neck. ‘Now let’s get you guys saddled up.’

  ‘I want the tamest one,’ I said.

  She turned to the stall next to Shenzao, and clicked her tongue. A spotted horse hung his big shaggy head over the stall door.

  ‘Old Marley’s okay. He just plods along.’

  I reached out to touch him, and he tried to bite my hand. My bad hand, no less – as if he wanted one of my three remaining fingers.

  ‘Friendly.’

  ‘He does that.’

  She told me to fetch a saddle, which I did, and she helped me fit it. Then she left me with Old Marley. He had wet and rheumy eyes and looked at me dopily. When it became clear we weren’t going anywhere soon he lowered his head and nibbled at the straw on the floor of his stall.

  Sam had walked down to the last stall, near the wall, where Jake was waiting. He’d picked a big black stallion, its coat sleek and glossy as a grand piano.

  ‘That’s Thunder,’ Sam said.

  ‘Is he broken in?’

  ‘I’ve ridden him.’

  ‘I don’t want to get thrown again.’

  ‘Well, hold on this time.’

  ‘You’re funny.’

  Jake wanted to fit his own saddle, so she guided him through it. He listened patiently and obediently and did everything she asked. His expression revealed a juvenile earnestness that, more than anything, seemed to reflect the change that had come over him. And myself, for that matter. We were not so delusional as to believe Sandy had actually come back to us, but something surely had. It felt as if what we’d lost all those years ago wasn’t completely gone: it had merely been misplaced for a time, waylaid, waiting to be found.

  We rode in a line, with Sam and Shenzao up front, Jake in the middle on Thunder, and me bringing up the rear on Old Marley. I’d only ridden a horse a handful of times in my life – at our uncle’s farm. The animal felt too round beneath me, as if I were straddling a beer keg. It was a precarious predicament and I seemed to always be tottering in the opposite direction to the horse’s movement, wobbling back and forth atop its back. But Old Marley just plodded along, as Sam had promised, and though not enthusiastic about my presence he seemed at least indifferent to it.

  Sam had shown us how to hold the reins: pinched between the thumb and forefinger loosely, with the straps wrapped around the first three fingers (an impossibility for me, with the right hand). We were supposed to keep the reins taut, but not tight, and never jerk on them. You had to steer the horse gently, she said – not tug it around.

  She led us across the paddock at a walk. The temperature hadn’t risen above zero – it hovered at five below – and you could hear the frosted grass crackling beneath the horses’ hooves. At a gate on the far side of the paddock, Sam reined in and slid from her saddle. She raised the latch and opened the gate for us and Jake managed to direct his horse through.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to me.

  Old Marley had taken to munching the frozen grass. I limply flicked the reins and heeled him but he ignored me. Sam had to take the reins and click encouragingly and coax Marley along: for her, he came obediently.

  ‘Good work, Poncho,’ Jake said. ‘Show him who’s boss.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Sam shut the gate. From there we followed a dirt track that meandered through the woods. Sam told us it didn’t appear on many maps, and only riders from the ranch used it, for accessing the park trails.

  ‘Does Delaney ride?’ Jake asked.

  ‘You’re riding his horse.’

  ‘I thought they were all his horses.’

  ‘Well, that’s the one he likes to ride.’

  Jake petted the horse’s neck, looking pleased at that.

  ‘Well, he’s mine for now.’

  The track linked up with one of the Capitol State Forest trails, which hikers, bikers, and equestrian riders all shared – though we encountered nobody else, it being the dead of winter. The trail ran in a smooth, straight line for a time, up a gentle incline. Sam quickened the pace to a light trot and when Thunder and Old Marley followed suit I had a hell of a time sitting in my saddle. I teetered around like a drunk. On top of that the jolting motion sent little shocks of pain through my calf, where I’d sliced it up on the dock.

  The long incline steepened and then wiggled into a series of switchbacks, which we ascended more slowly. Rime prickled the trunks of the trees, and dark clouds, charcoal grey, hung down so low they seemed to rest on the mountaintops. As we climbed higher the snow began to fall: delicate flakes that caught in the manes of the horses like confetti.

  At a break in the trees Sam pointed down to the right. Below us the ranch had come back into view, surprisingly small, with its outbuildings and field and enclosure. It looked like a fairytale house: completely encircled by pines, at the end of a valley, with the single drive the only access in or out. As far as boltholes go, the Delaneys had picked a good one.

  From there the trail ran level for a time, perpendicular to the slope, before angling upwards again towards the ridge. Patches of old snow dappled the ground, and the air tasted a lot colder and thinner. Sam had given me gloves and a winter jacket (they had a selection of stock at the ranch) but I could still feel the frost seeping into me. I felt it the most in my bad hand: the busted joints and damaged nerves ached something fierce.

  At the top of the ridge we reached a plateau and an altitude marker: Larch Mountain Pass, 1024 feet. We reined in and sat in our saddles, three abreast, looking out. From there the trail continued back down the other side. Mighty peaceful. A strip of grey highway cut through the pines of the next valley. Sam said that it was the Number 12, which we’d taken that morning. She pointed out the parking lot we had passed on the way back, where the trail ended, and further north the buildings of Elma, partially hidden by the lattice of falling snow.

  I shifted about in my saddle, and grimaced.

  ‘How you holding up, Poncho?’ Jake asked.

  ‘My ass is sore, my calf is killing me, and my shoulder still aches.’

  ‘Some outlaw you are.’

  ‘We could ride on,’ Sam said, ‘and right into town, but it’s pretty far.’

  ‘And we got dinner to make,’ Jake said.

  Sam guided Shenzao around and started back the way we’d come.

  ‘Be careful,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘It can be a bit trickier, going down.’

  That proved true. The horses had a tendency to trot, which bounced me around in the saddle and aggravated my leg. I had to lean back to keep myself upright. But at least I didn’t need to steer: Old Marley knew the way and all I had to do was hold on and endure it.

  When we came out of the switchbacks, the snow had settled on the ground, creating a fine layer that the horses’ hooves left prints in. Jake slowed down Thunder, letting me catch up, so he and I were riding side-by-side. Sam was about ten or fifteen yards ahead.

  ‘There’s something I got to tell you,’ I said.

  ‘Me, too.’

  I explained what Sam had said in the grocery store, about the killings.

  ‘You think he knows she saw?’ he asked.

  ‘
Reckon he suspects.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I heard about other things, worse things.’

  ‘I know you don’t like backing down,’ I said, ‘but I think we got to go, man.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  That threw me. I hadn’t expected that. I’d been gearing up for another argument.

  I said, ‘I thought you were all set on some kind of showdown.’

  As he rode, he got out a pack of Maria’s menthols (he’d used up all his Du Mauriers) and flipped open the lid with one hand and held it up to his mouth, withdrawing a smoke with his teeth. Then he exchanged the pack for a lighter and managed to light it, still just using the one hand. It was a neat trick. He already looked more comfortable in the saddle than me.

  ‘There are other factors involved, now.’

  He nodded at Sam, swaying so easy and natural in her saddle just ahead of us.

  He said, ‘She’s going to come with us.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Maria’s not going to allow that.’

  ‘It’s her idea. I think it’s partly why we’re here.’

  ‘What the hell are we going to do with a kid?’

  ‘Take her home. What do you think?’

  ‘Vancouver won’t be safe – for her or for us.’

  ‘Maria’s got family out in Hope. Sam’s grandma and aunt.’

  ‘How are we going to get her across?’

  Jake blew smoke and looked at me. ‘You going to sit there and debate this with me?’

  ‘I’m just talking through the practicalities. They’ll arrest you at the border.’

  ‘There’s the boat. You’ve been harping on about taking it back, fixing it up, right? Here’s your chance. We’ll get Sam home, and after that, if I have to, I’ll turn myself in.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘I stole a horse. I don’t know what the charges are for that, but it can’t be too bad.’

  ‘Shit, Jake. Let’s just hold on, here.’

  ‘You wanted to go, we’re going. First thing tomorrow. The Delaneys are coming tomorrow night. We’ll be long gone by then – hopefully back in Canadian waters.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘You said it yourself. We didn’t do it for the money.’

  ‘What about Maria?’

  We rode in silence, the horses’ hooves thudding the dirt. Jake exhaled a cloud.

  ‘Right now, Sam’s what matters. Maria knows it and I know it and you know it, too.’

  ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  He reached over, and we sort of gripped each other’s forearms, in a strange and awkward handshake – the closest we could get to shaking while riding on horseback.

  ‘What are you crackers talking about?’

  We’d fallen further behind, and Sam had pivoted Shenzao to look back at us.

  ‘You, cowgirl,’ Jake told her.

  She waited for us to come abreast of her, and then jerked her head at the trail and said, ‘This is a nice straightaway. If you want to let them run, here’s the place to do it.’

  She said it like a challenge, and without waiting for a response flicked the reins and took off down the trail, riding low and still as Shenzao stomped the earth beneath her, kicking up bursts of snow and dirt.

  ‘What do you think, Poncho?’ Jake asked. ‘You want to try it?’

  ‘Ah hell, Lefty. No. You go.’

  He heeled his horse, which loped off down the track. I intended to follow at the usual pace, but Old Marley saw the fun they were having and took off in pursuit. I cried out and let go of the reins – which Sam had warned me not to do – and grabbed hold of the pommel and hung on. The falling snow flew towards my face, stinging my eyes, and I jolted along, riding blind. Then I heard Jake yell, ‘Yee-haw,’ and I did the same and for a few seconds my fear and panic dissipated, blown clean out of me by the wind rushing past and the snowy ground scrolling beneath me and the hoofbeats resounding in my ears.

  I wouldn’t have been able to stop, but Sam had reined in at the turn-off and Shenzao stood sideways across the path, effectively blocking us off. Old Marley slowed up of his own accord and as he did I tipped crazily to one side, nearly falling from the saddle, but managed to right myself. Sam sat there smiling, her cheeks all pink with cold. She leaned sideways in her saddle to gather up my reins and handed them back to me.

  ‘Thanks, Calamity,’ I said. ‘I think that’s your nickname, from here on in. Calamity Sam. Like Calamity Jane – the cowgirl.’

  She smiled, pleased. ‘Poncho and Lefty and Calamity Sam,’ she said.

  ‘You’re part of our gang, now,’ Jake said.

  ‘Like heck,’ she said. ‘You’re part of mine.’

  And Shenzao shook herself and struck the ground with a forehoof, as if agreeing.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  We arrived back at the ranch full of frosty giddiness, our blood all up and pumping from the ride in the cold. My tailbone ached and my calf had started bleeding again and I couldn’t feel my fingers, but it didn’t matter. I limped around the house, massaging my bad hand with my good one as warming pain crept back into those mangled digits. Sam put some kind of crazy Cuban music on and started dancing like a dervish. Jake, well, he went on through to the kitchen and shook instant coffee into four of the mugs from Sam’s dinner set. Then he splashed a bit of Delaney’s whisky, liberally, into one of them.

  ‘You want your coffee Irish, Poncho?’

  ‘May as well.’

  ‘What’s Irish?’ Sam asked.

  ‘It’s Irish if there’s liquor in it.’

  He added whisky to mine. Then he got out the kettle and plugged it in and reached for the power-switch next to the socket. Something popped and the whole room went dark.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I heard Jake say.

  Sam laughed and said, ‘You blew the power.’

  ‘Maria said not to use that switch.’

  Jake swore and admitted he’d forgotten. I heard Sam crossing the room, then a click, and the lights flickered back on. She’d reset the master breaker, on a fuse box beneath the stairs. Jake plugged the kettle into another socket, and made our coffees. Sam asked if she could have hers Irish too, and after a moment’s hesitation he gave her a single drop.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, tasting it, ‘that’s good stuff.’

  A few minutes later Maria appeared in the kitchen doorway – her hair tousled, her eyes puffy as if she’d been sleeping or passed out – and looked around in bewilderment.

  ‘What happened with the power?’ she asked.

  ‘I screwed up.’ Jake took one of the grown-up Irish coffees over to her, and held it out. She just looked at it. ‘Go on. We’re celebrating tonight.’

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked.

  ‘Things are looking up, aren’t they?’

  ‘For some of us.’

  She leaned there against the doorframe as if she needed it to hold her up.

  ‘Hey,’ Jake told her, touching her elbow, ‘we just had fun on the ride, is all. It’s going to be okay, now. You’ll see.’

  He sounded as convincing as ever. Maria took the cup of coffee, and had to straighten up to drink it. She smacked her mouth a little, taste-testing it.

  ‘You want to stiffen this up a little?’

  ‘Take it easy before dinner.’

  ‘Your big feast.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  From across the room, Sam called, ‘Can I cook with you, Jake?’

  She was bouncing on the sofa, having a little-kid moment.

  ‘Sure can. But somebody better put together our barbecue before that happens.’

  While he prepared his whisky sauce, Sam and I set to building the barbecue. We tore open the box and laid all the parts across the floor of the lounge. It was a basic clamshell set-up: a steel dish, like a giant wok, with a matching lid and three chrome legs that stuck out from the bottom. It came with a cheap tin wrenc
h, tiny and awkward to handle. I showed Sam how to assemble the legs and then started to attach them. They screwed right into the underside of the dish. I did the first two. As we worked, it was hard not to notice my mangled crab-hand. Sam was too polite to mention it, but she eyed it up some.

  ‘I work on the boats,’ I said. ‘Or I did, until recently.’

  It had defined me for so long, I didn’t know what I amounted to without it.

  ‘I got careless one day,’ I said, ‘while we were docking alongside a barge, to get ice for our hold. Crushed it between their hull and our gunnel. Bye-bye fingers.’

  I wiggled them, embarrassed, and she nodded. ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘It hurt like a son of a bitch,’ I said. ‘It still does, most of the time.’

  I used my bad fingers to hold the chrome leg in place while I worked the wrench around with my left, snugging up the nut. Oftentimes I found it easier to go southpaw.

  I said, ‘I don’t mind, though. It’s a good reminder.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of how easy it is to lose what matters.’

  I finished that leg, and offered her the wrench. I held the third leg in place while she twisted on the nut. Her face was focused and diligent as she did this, taking it very seriously. When we were done we flipped the barbecue over and stood it up.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said.

  Jake called over to us: ‘How’s that barbecue coming, Poncho?’

  ‘Just need to fit the lid hinge, Lefty. Me and Calamity got her done.’

  ‘Why Calamity?’ Maria asked.

  She was stretched out on the sofa, nursing another Irish coffee. She’d put milk and ice in to cool it – an iced Irish latte – and every so often she cracked an ice cube between her teeth.

  ‘It’s my nickname,’ Sam said. ‘Like the cowgirl.’

  She said it in that way kids can: like, get with it, Mom.

  Maria said, ‘Seems everybody has a nickname but me.’

  I promised her we’d think of one, but we never got around to it.

  When we’d finished fitting the lid, Jake and I carried the barbecue outside. By then the snow was really coming down. A thick layer, three or four centimetres deep, covered the porch, and extended out in a big white sheet that stretched over the drive, the paddock, the stable and bunkhouse. The flakes swirled around us in the blackness, as if we stood at the mouth of a vortex.