Cooksin

by Rick Alan Rice

  Every ranch-hand Jarvis had ever known who had gotten married had eventually given up cowboying, and every time it had been the wife's decision. It's a low-paying, seven day a week occupation that the women usually wouldn't live with. Harve Tate had a wife for a while, and the two of them tried living in a little house trailer out away from the other Walker buildings, but that only lasted three months. She left Tate and he moved back into the bunk with the boys, having chosen his career over this woman. The thing was, cowboying was going to be the last work any of these guys was going to love doing, and they all seemed to have an intuitive understanding of that. A woman had to offer some pretty strong incentives for them to want to give it up. Most of them would eventually find just such women and, over time, become changed into respectable, working-class husbands and fathers. That's the way the West was tamed – one cowboy at a time.

  On this morning, Jarvis had more time than he was accustomed to, and his thoughts were occupied with domestic speculation. He lay in the first floor bedroom of the Walker home, recovering from the beating his body had taken. His naked torso was wrapped tightly with white tape, primarily to restrict his breathing, which had become an anguished labor. His rib cage was bruised black and every inhalation brought piercing pain, as the cartilage creaked and the blood sacs squeezed the swollen muscle. Given that the bruises had been applied with a redwood two-by-four, Jarvis thought that, all in all, he had taken it well. He was going to be down for a few days – Doc Hardin had told him to "let those ribs heal" – but he wasn't obsessed with suffering. It was odd for Jarvis to have leisure time for idle thought, so he lay there enjoying the drift of his mind.

  Jarvis had never been a dreamer. It could probably be said that he had never even been a thinker, but that would have been casting blame on the innocent. He hadn't exactly been raised in an intellectual environment, nor even a protected one. His father had been an itinerant cowboy, and he liked it that way, enjoying the advantage of employment practiced at a distance from his family. When he was "home," which was usually for the summer months, between the spring and fall roundups, he was often drunk and abusive. Reno Lang was not a large man – Jarvis got his size from his mother's family – so as soon as the boy became big enough to risk the fight, father and son had a showdown. Fourteen year old Jarvis was already six feet tall and one hundred seventy pounds, and he held his own in the confrontation. Reno never raised his hand against his son again, but when Jarvis was out of sight, and Reno was alone with his wife, he continued to be quick with his hands. Rita Lang never talked about what was happening within her family. They were uneducated people who were barely making it on Reno's wages, plus the income from the laundry Rita took in. There wasn't much room for expectations of justice, and even less for high hopes. When young Jarvis got the opportunity to work for Frank Walker, he snapped at it. His rapid rise to foreman was more than he had ever imagined for himself. Somehow fate and good fortune had smiled on him and he had been elevated. This morning, lying on the bed, wrapped in bandages like a war wounded, he was blissfully happy. And he was dreaming – just staring at the shadows on the wall, and dreaming.

  Jarvis was seeing himself several years from now. He was older, a little gray around the temples, thicker around the middle, but bigger in all ways substantial. He appeared in this vision to be a patron of some kind, surrounded by people, some of whom looked like him. And he seemed powerful, important to the lives of many of his neighbors, but benevolent, too. Spectral Jarvis was serene in a way that the dreaming Jarvis was not. He was encased in a glow of well being that emanated from his own bearing and attitude about himself, and he was solid, like the trunk of an elm. His eyes were clear and his actions were focused and decisive. He acted on instincts that were based on good, and there seemed to be an aura of firm order around him. This future Jarvis had stepped through some doorway that had taken him to a higher level of maturity and strength, and he had hit the mother lode in return on his investment. Future Jarvis was rich, figuratively and otherwise.

  But where was this door? Jarvis lay there wondering. It was new turf for his trodding, a gift of imagination visited upon him by a man wielding a board. Before this delivery he would not have thought to feel yearning for such a divinely remote vision. Now, seeing the Jarvis of his dream, he wondered where that port-hole to respectability lies. He would be more than happy to walk right through, if only he knew where and what it was.

  As he lay there contemplating his expanded universe, there came a gentle knocking at the door. "Jarvis, are you awake?" Lily Walker's voice could be heard, but only barely loud enough. She seemed hesitant to disturb. "Jarvis?"

  "Come in," he answered back, his voice sounding harsh by contrast.

  The door opened and Lily hurried inside, and then closed the door behind her. Jarvis grinned when he saw her, but she seemed clearly to have a purpose for her visit, and she was straightforward and cold.

  "I heard about what happened," Lily said. "I mean between you and Jake." Jarvis could not easily ascertain her mood and didn't quite know how to respond.

  He just looked at her stupidly, slumping to an idiot half-grin, hoping she would rescue him from himself.

  Lily looked at his bandages. "It looks like you got hurt pretty bad," she said. Jarvis nodded that it was nothing. "I'll be okay."

  Lily, standing near the door, still holding the knob, as if she had come with something to say and was planning to leave quickly after saying it, seemed to soften for a moment. She let go of the door and moved across the room, walking a slow semi-circle around Jarvis, skirting his perimeter as a ewe might an injured wolf. She moved toward one of the blouse-curtained windows, seemingly pulled along by a momentarily distracting thought. She didn't look at Jarvis, except for one artfully sly peak that timed so well with her movement that it almost went unnoticed. But in that clever second she saw his nipples, peaking through the hairiness of his chest, and she noticed his pectorals, expanded through rigorous labor, and his shoulders, browned by the sun.

  Jarvis watched her, feeling his breathing go shallow as she passed before him, like a cat quieting in striking distance of unwary prey. But what was she thinking? He felt a twinge between his legs just watching her float across the room. Her vulnerability was hypnotic. Having little experience with girls, Jarvis was unequipped to recognize Lily's behavior, which was a vestige of her childhood. Caught as she was, halfway between adolescence and maturity, her girlish manipulations – the ones that had worked so well on her father all these years – now surfaced as a part of her personality, something of which she was not fully aware herself. It kicked in whenever she was in the presence of a man. Her head tilted in certain ways that made her eyes seem huge and liquid. She shifted her weight on her hips and gently twisted at the ends of her hair. It was all adorable, but given the flower of her womanhood it also generated odd signals that were difficult to understand. There were calls for approval and discipline, attention and flattery. She seemed to want to be held, but also seemed likely to run away. She seemed agreeable, then contrary, then agreeable again. It made Jarvis' head swim, the way the signals mingled with her sex. He had no idea what she wanted or was about. All he could do was look at her as she moved, and drink her in like a potion, which left him looking stupid, like an admiring dolt.

  "What happened to Jake?" Lily asked.

  The grin fell off Jarvis' face, and he looked away for a moment, disgruntled. "I don't know," he said. "I think the boys loaded him into his pickup and sent him away. Your daddy cleaned up on him pretty good."

  The news seemed to make Lily steam, but then it passed. She looked out the window, then over at Jarvis. "My father says you got into it with Py Mulvane. Is that right?"

  Jarvis seemed to think about it for a moment, and then said – "Yeah, that's about right."

  Lily folded her arms in front of her disapprovingly. "What was that about?"

  Jarvis frowned and his eyes seemed to dart about for an answer. "Well, you know... We was in town, buying
feed, and things got a little rowdy. You know how the boys get..."

  "I know how you get," said Lily, pouting out her bottom lip. It was an accusatory gesture, coming from her.

  "Now I didn't start it, if that's what you're getting at," Jarvis said.

  Lily glared. "I can't get a straight story from anybody – but I know Py Mulvane, and he isn't the type to start a fight. But you are!"

  Jarvis shook his head, offended by her intervention on the side of that damned Py Mulvane. "Well, what if I did? What's it to you?" Lily looked quickly away from him and back out the window, as if he was to understand that she found him unfit for her eyes. "I know what it is," Jarvis said. "I know what's got you all in an uproar. It's all because of Jake Jobbs, isn't it? You're all upset because of what your daddy did to Jake." Jarvis paused for a second, waiting for a reaction. When it didn't come he prodded – "He only got what he had coming to him."

  Lily shot Jarvis an angry look and then quickly turned and headed for the door, but Jarvis fired another shot. "You don't hit a man with a board," he said, as she reached for the doorknob. "It shows you what kind of a man Jake Jobbs is that he wouldn't try a man in a fair fight."

  Lily stopped and removed her hand from the door. She walked over toward Jarvis, lying on the bed. "Jake Jobbs is more of a man than you'll ever be," she said, vitriolic. "A real man wouldn't start a fight. He wouldn't try to make something awful out of something good, like you did picking on Py Mulvane."

  Jarvis was moved to sit up in the bed, but winced with pain as he tried. It didn't stop him from coming right back at Lily. "Where do you get these ideas?" he said, flabbergasted. "What you see in these people... I just don't know."

  "Py Mulvane is the sweetest person I have ever met in my life," Lily said, stating it as straight fact. "He's honest and tender. He doesn't have a mean bone in his entire being."

  "And Jake?" Jarvis pressed. "I suppose he's sweet and honest too?"

  "Jake is sweet," said Lily. "I don't believe all those stories about his stealing and thieving. Besides, I don't care what he's done and who he's been. He's the only man I've ever known who treated me like a real person, like I had intelligence and some value as a human being. Jake listens to me and treats me with respect."

  Jarvis blew air in a way that sounded his disdain. "He's damn near forty years old, Lily! Don't tell me about all this respect crap! What do you think he does it for?"

  "Because he cares about me!" said Lily, her voice cracking as if she might be about to cry.

  "Because of what he's gettin' off you – that's what I'd say!"

  Lily drew back, eyes wide and deeply offended. "You go straight to hell, Jarvis Lang!" she said. "I hope those ribs of yours never heal! I hope you get infection and just die!" Then she turned and fled the room.

  "You're wrong about Jake Jobbs!" Jarvis hollered after her. "He's just using you, Lily!" But Lily slammed the door behind her, leaving Jarvis lying alone in the room. He lay back flat upon the bed and looked straight up at the ceiling. Damn he loved that Lily Walker. He thought about her the rest of the day and on into the night.

  * * * * *

  About three o'clock that afternoon, Wayne Morrison looked up from his work in the equipment yard to see a cloud of dust rising on the eastern horizon. He put down his wrench and began using an old rag to wipe grease from his hands. "It looks like someone's comin' in the back way," he said to Harve Tate, working on the ground, next to him.

  Harve looked up to see what Morrison was talking about. "Whoever it is, it looks like he's in a hurry."

  "That's what I was thinkin'," Morrison said. "I'd think it might be Pete Parker, but I've never seen him move that fast."

  There was a field road that entered at the back of Walker Ranch and led right into the yard around the Walker residence. It was mostly used for moving tractors and implements from one quarter to the next and, usually pounded by heavy tires into a fine powder, it was largely impassable during the wet months for anything other than heavy equipment. Because it was an access road, rather than a county road, and led nowhere other than to Walker property, general travelers never used it. Only Pete Parker had been known to come across the flats via that route, though he had to drive across his own open pasture and then through a drainage ditch to meet up with it.

  Morrison looked over at Willy Bushnell, working on an Aermotor head over by the main house. "Hey Willy!" Morrison yelled. "Tell Frank there's someone comin' in the back road!" Willy immediately dropped what he was doing and went to the house, as instructed.

  Tate and Morrison, standing together and watching the approaching dust cloud, looked at each other at the same time. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" asked Tate.

  It had been on their minds all morning that they hadn't heard the last of what had happened yesterday at the feed store. You just don’t administer a beating like the ones taken by the Parker ranch-hands without something coming of it. Morrison had been surprised that it hadn't involved the police, or at least hadn't as yet. It seemed like it still could. The whole Walker crew worked all morning with such speculation peppering their conversation. They were also talking about the beating Jake Jobbs had given Jarvis Lang, especially the savagery of hitting a man with a board the way he had. On the other hand, Jarvis had started the whole thing and probably had it coming. None of them could understand what he had against Py Mulvane, a kid most of them paid no attention to at all. They figured it was Jake who Jarvis was really after, mostly because he was jealous of the older guy’s relationship with Lily. But that was all secondary to the talk about what Frank had done to Jake Jobbs, the beating he had doled out. They all wondered what the law might do with that.

  What no one had considered was what Pete Parker might "do with it." Many of the younger hands on the ranch didn't even know who Pete was, though his spread was within a couple miles of the Walker residence. Pete had been "away" for a long time, a full generation in "cowboying" terms. Those who had known him, when he was a regular at the auction barn, the stockmen' s diner and the pool hall, had assumed that he had retired to the bottle, and to his stock tank. Now he was rumored to be back, reborn on the strength of a prize Charolais bull, a prodigal daughter and a blackguard ranch-hand.

  Wayne Morrison walked toward the center of the equipment yard, eyes trained on the oncoming cloud. He could now see a small dot at the base of the billow, a spot of faded blue beneath a fog of airborne dirt, growing larger. He looked back over toward the house and yelled – "It looks like Pete Parker's truck!"

  Harve Tate took off his work gloves and threw them to the ground, next to his tool box. "This could be good," he murmured to himself, and he began ambling over toward Morrison.

  Frank Walker appeared on his front porch, still pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. One pants leg rode up high over his boot. He moved quickly to the railing and leaned over it, looking in the direction of the approaching visitor. It was Pete Parker all right. He watched as the pickup moved rapidly up the access road, down the fence line, and past the Walker corrals. Frank moved to meet him in the yard, hurrying down the front steps and on to the fence surrounding the ranch house.

  Pete's pickup clanged loudly as it turned the corner at the back of the equipment yard and rambled on up to the house, seeming to set up a draft that impelled all those in the yard to converge upon it. Pete was surrounded by Walker cowboys before ever bringing his pickup to a stop. He hit the brakes so hard that the truck's tires bit into the dirt and skidded before coming to a halt. Inside the truck, Pete seemed animated. He killed the engine and shoved the gear shift into first, then pushed the driver's side door open and jumped half-way out, standing beside the truck with one leg on the ground, the other on its runner.

  Frank looked across the fence and said, "Hello, Pete." His tone was less than peremptory. He seemed to be waiting to commit himself until after he heard what Pete was here to say.

  Pete looked Frank in the eyes, seemingly uncowed by the strength of his forces. "Frank, I've c
ome here to tell you to back off my boys. I've got two hands over there beaten up pretty bad. You’re responsible for it and I want it to stop!" Pete spoke forcefully – more forcefully than he had in years.

  Frank was a little amazed at Pete's verve, but he didn't let it show. "It seems to me you got it wrong, Pete. Why don't you come on in. We'll pour some coffee and talk about it."

  "I don't have the time," Pete said tersely. "I got work to do – and thanks to you I'm shorthanded and will be for a while. I don't know if what happened yesterday was part of some scheme of yours to keep me out of business, but . . ."

  Frank chuckled, as if the idea were absurd. "Pete, what happened yesterday was I showed up at the feed store to find Jake Jobbs wailing on my foreman with a two-by-four. What was I supposed to do – just let him be beaten to death?"

  "That ain't the way I heard it," Pete said. "I've been told your boy Jarvis forced a fight on young Py Mulvane – and Jake stepped in to stop it."

  "With a two-by-four inch piece of wood, Pete?" Frank took the high moral ground, as if he found the idea contemptible. "That's a coward's act, but I've tried to tell you about Jake Jobbs. You just won't listen."

  "I'd say it's what any sensible man would do if he was out-numbered six-to-one – and if he could see that a man was gonna be hurt bad if he didn't do something to stop it."

  "You're exaggerating, Pete," Frank said. "And I resent your implying that for some reason I somehow arranged this whole thing."

  "Maybe you didn't arrange it," Pete said, "but you encouraged it. I don't know what's become of you Frank, or what you got goin' here on your ranch – all this fuckin' boxin' and all this violence. I think you've gone sick in the head or somethin', and all you can think to do now is intimidate people . . ."

  "Now wait just a minute . . ." Frank tried to interject, but Pete was not to be headed.