Cooksin

by Rick Alan Rice

  Jarvis, standing a little crooked, but upright, told Frank he'd be more than happy to join him. He led his favorite riding horse from its stall, and quickly saddled it and made ready for the ride. Jarvis wasn't really much for shooting prairie dogs. Like everyone his age in this part of the country, he'd done a little of it, but he never really liked the carnage. The practice was to position one's self on a rise over-looking a prairie dog village, and to spend an hour or so getting the little animals in the sites and squeezing rounds off one by one. Usually the dogs would become wary, as soon as a few of their number's brains had been blown out, and they would run for cover. Curious creatures, they would soon enough wander back into the open and the shooting would start up again. When the ammunition was spent, the shooters would often go down and collect their kill, not for food but for disposal. They would collect the carcasses in a burlap sack, and then take them out to the dump. This was the part that had turned Jarvis off on the sport. After walking a few prairie dog towns and seeing a few of these grim harvests, he just didn't have much stomach left for it.

  The largest prairie dog population on Walker Ranch was about five miles north of the house, and it was also the best killing ground, lying just below a high rise. There a gunman could lie flat on the ground, steadying his aim by using his elbow as a tripod, and site down on the dogs below. The spot had the advantage of perspective and firing angle. Colored a light brown, like their surroundings, the prairie dogs could be hard to see if viewed on a flat plain. The view from this hill seemed to fatten the targets.

  Frank and Jarvis rode quickly to the site, talking little along the way, which was a relief to the younger man, whose ribs felt the jar of every hoof-step. But somehow he was happy to be there, glad to be in tandem with the boss.

  Jarvis wasn't the type to get poetic about his relationship with Frank Walker, but it was no secret that he idolized the older man. Frank was the closest thing to a father figure he had ever known – that is, in the traditional sense. He had learned much from Reno Lang, his natural dad: he had gotten his sense of what it was to be a man, to be capable and competent, and to stand up for what he believed. But Frank Walker offered some things that Reno never had, namely a sense of future, a confidence that hard work and commitment could lead to rich rewards, that work wasn't just survival, but investment and opportunity. Frank Walker modeled success, which was something Jarvis had not seen elsewhere. It was seductive, even hypnotic, and it had stolen Jarvis completely away from his natural home. Now twenty-five, it had been years since Jarvis had spent any time with his real father. In Jarvis' mind – indeed, in his life – Frank Walker had supplanted his natural parentage. It was he whom Jarvis admired.

  When they reached the killing grounds, Frank dismounted and ground-tied his Appaloosa, who had no complaints about the tether and seemed pleased to graze in position. He pulled his Winchester from the scabbard affixed to his saddle, and positioned himself on the ground, lying flat on his stomach, pointing the weapon in a northerly direction. Down below a horde of busy ground squirrels hurried from one dugout to the next, standing occasionally on hind-legs, scanning the horizon for predators, then scurrying off to the safety of a burrow, only to reemerge a few moments later. Mostly they watched for hawks and owls, who swooped down on them with impunity, snatching up the unwary, killing them and then either transporting them back to their aviary or devouring them on the spot. A few such birds stood innocently among the burrows, apparently digesting their last meal, and lulling the target species into careless disregard. Lying unseen, beneath soap weeds and rocks, were rattlers, whose daytime tactic was passive aggression. They mostly hunted at night, when they'd slither right into the holes of their chattering, squeaking prey. In the heat of day they happily bided their time, striking only those dogs that wandered within their perimeter. The one prey the ground squirrels never seemed to notice, until it was too late, was the human with the long rifle, who now took up a position on the hill above.

  Jarvis climbed, with some difficulty, off his horse and, at Frank's insistence, lay down flat on the ground, next to the assassin.

  "Nice day for this," said Frank, matter-of-factly, as he adjusted the sites on his rifle.

  "Nice day for just about anything," Jarvis said, trying to find a comfortable position. He found it painful to rest his bruised torso fully upon the ground, but discovered that if he put his weight on one knee, and held himself up off the dirt a little, it went much better.

  The .22 caliber rifle was the weapon of choice for most prairie dog hunters. It had plenty of range and velocity, and its small projectile was more than sufficient for the size of the quarry. It also was not particularly loud, so usually four or five kills could be made before the dogs realized what was happening and ran for cover. Frank, however, loved his big Winchester deer rifle, even though the charge was much too large, and tended to explode the target on impact, leaving virtually nothing left to collect, and even though its deafening charge tended to make the little targets scatter on the first shot. It slowed down the killing, but Frank didn't care. He approached prairie dog hunting with the kind of patience most men reserved for lake shore fishing.

  "Look at the little bastards," Frank said, as he took aim on a particular large subject.

  "There's a shit-load of 'em," Jarvis said, stating the obvious.

  Frank found something wrong with the way he had the rifle sited, and took another moment to adjust. "Damned rabbits got nothin' on these things," he said, seemingly absent-minded, talking without purpose and mostly to himself. He re-aimed his weapon, drawing a bead on the fat one, about sixty yards away, and pulled the trigger. The Winchester roared and the recoil sent the butt biting back hard into Frank's shoulder. The bullet smacked into the chest of the prairie dog, standing on its back feet, like a bravely condemned man, and the animal exploded in a burst of blood and body fragments. The impact of the bullet knocked the carcass backwards a good fifteen feet, sending the shapeless hunk of bloody fur rolling sickeningly across the ground.

  "Good shot," said Jarvis, as immediately an alert went through the town and prairie dogs scattered in all directions, seeking the safety of a burrow.

  "God-damn I love this rifle," said Frank, looking up from his firing position to see what destruction he had wrought. "I had old Ed Downing do some work on it for me. I swear to God, that guy can fine-tune a weapon." Downing was Longmont's main man when it came to weapon sales and service. If a man wanted to hunt safely and efficiently, he was widely known as the man to see. Ironically, he would eventually die of a head wound, suffered while cleaning his own 12 gauge shotgun, making the one mistake common to amateurs and pros alike: not realizing the thing was loaded.

  Jarvis scanned the killing grounds for activity, but it had all gone underground. "I'd say you scared the shit out of Dodge," Jarvis said.

  "That is the problem with this thing," said Frank. "If ever a guy could figure out a way to shoot a 30 caliber round without having it make so much noise – well, then he'd have something." Frank lay the rifle down flat on the ground, and propped himself up on his elbows, getting into a more comfortable position. "Now we'll have to wait for a while, until they start getting brave again."

  Jarvis lay on the ground next to Frank, half hoping that somehow Frank's cannon shot had elevated the little beasts' level of understanding, so they would save their souls and stay hidden until the humans had passed.

  "You want the next shot?" Frank asked.

  "No, thanks," Jarvis said, humbly. "I don't think my body's up to the kick." Frank grinned. "I guess you heard Pete Parker came by yesterday."

  "I saw him out in the yard," Jarvis said. "What'd he have to say?"

  "He's pretty upset about what happened – blames the whole thing on me and claims that I don't want to see him get back in business."

  Jarvis looked at Frank, almost stating the obvious – that Pete wasn't born yesterday, and that he was not wrong where Frank's attitudes were concerned – but he held his tongue. He coul
d sense that Frank wasn't in a mood to reconsider his position.

  "He was making a lot of noise about getting the law involved, making a lot of threats."

  "The law?" Jarvis asked. "Why would he want to go and do that? It was just a personal thing, between me and Jake and Py Mulvane. It's not a big deal."

  "I know, I know . . ."Frank said. "But old Pete's pretty sore about it. I think you'd better lay off Mulvane for a while. Let me worry about Pete and Jake Jobbs."

  Jarvis looked at Frank. "What are you gonna do?"

  Frank started to answer, and then he noticed movement down below, in the prairie dog town. A single dog came up out of his burrow and stood up on his hind legs, looking around and sniffing the air. Frank picked up his rifle and brought it to his shoulder. He quickly drew a bead and squeezed off a shot. The weapon sounded and at almost the same moment the prairie dog exploded in a burst of red, just as had the first, and its lifeless body was knocked sprawling in the dirt.

  "You know, Pete Parker's a hell of a good man," Frank said. "I grew up with him. Hell, I've known him since we were kids, and he's always been a straight shooter and an upright guy. He was the same age as my brother – quite a little older than me. His family used to get together with mine – you know, picnics and holiday gatherings, that type of thing. In fact, Pete Parker was the first guy I ever did any kind of rodeo with. It wasn't much, just kids horsin' around in the corral, but when Pete was a kid he used to jump on steers and cows, and ride 'em like he was a bronc buster. Hell, he got us all to doin' it, and we used to have a big time. He was always wild and a lot of fun to be with."

  "So it sounds like you're old friends," Jarvis said. "Why's he think you got anything against him?"

  "I don't have anything against him." Frank laid his rifle back down and rolled over on his side, getting more comfortable. "Or at least I didn't, until he decided to take up with Jobbs. It just pisses me off, for more reasons than one. I promise you, I'll get that son-of-a-bitch Jake, if it's the last thing I do. I won't have a man come into my home, into my employment, and have him do the things he done. As for Pete . . ." Frank shook his head. "I've waited for years for him to get to the point where he was ready to sell his land. I could see it comin': he was gonna give in to the bottle, and eventually it'd be mine. He'd have no more use for it. Hell, when his wife died, I figured it was as good as done. Pete seemed to die right along with her – and God-damn it he seemed to stay dead until that fuckin' Jake Jobbs came along!" Frank seemed beside himself, lying there in the dust, thinking back on it all. He seemed incredulous. "Who would've believed it?

  That worthless bastard! It's like he's robbing me all over again! Now he's got Pete talked out of selling out. I just can't believe it!"

  "I think Jake's got somethin' goin' with Pete's daughter," Jarvis said, somewhat ingenuous. "At least that's the rumor around town." He glanced back out at the prairie dog town and noticed that a couple more dogs were showing their heads, but he didn't do anything to bring it to Frank's attention. Instead he asked – "Do you know her?"

  "Who, Pete's daughter?" Frank asked. "No, not really. I mean, she grew up here – you know, went to school here and all. But she was older than my kids, so I never really knew anything about her. She was always real good lookin', but I don't ever remember hearin' about her being involved with any of the local boys, or anything like that. Somebody, I can't remember who, told me that she was always real smart, and that she just didn't seem to want to associate with anyone from Longmont. Then she was gone for a long time. I don't know where she went."

  Frank looked out at the prairie dog town and noticed the same movement Jarvis had. He quickly picked up his rifle, positioned himself for a shot, and squeezed the trigger. This time he missed his mark Dirt flew up near a burrow, where a prairie dog stay half-hid, the bullet doing no damage, other than to create a crater near the tunnel entrance. Frank didn't seem to care. With the dogs back in hiding, he laid his weapon back flat on the ground.

  Jarvis was secretly glad for the intended victim, and he was eager to distract Frank from further killing. "That is a nice piece of property Pete Parker's got there," he said.

  Frank made an expression that said he thought so too. "It's got everything," he said. "Water, shade, grass that hasn't been grazed in years. It's easy to access, easy to ride. There aren't a lot of places for cattle to get lost in, not a lot of water gaps to worry about. The fences are all bodark and they've been there forever. Don't require a lot of maintenance. It'd be perfect for my operation. Hell, I'd love to have that land to graze brood cattle. It's close to my house, so I could keep an eye on things. If a cow was calving out there, we'd have no trouble gettin ' to her. I've often thought about getting that property and putting a calving barn right there in that southwest corner, above the pond – you know, above the ravine, there. Hell, its perfect!"

  "It's got everything, alright," Jarvis said.

  "But that ain't the half of it," Frank said, the lines around his eyes narrowing into a knowing smile, almost a twinkle.

  "What do you mean?"

  Frank drew in a big breath of air. He seemed to examine the sky for a moment, to study the horizon. "I mean – oil."

  Jarvis looked at Frank, not understanding. "Oil?"

  "Oil," Frank repeated. "A couple years ago I had a guy out from the U.S. Geological Survey. I paid 'em some money to take a look at my property and tell me what they thought the chances were of finding oil in this area. I went in on it with Wes Witherspoon, and what we got from it was a map. The government boys think there's an oil field that runs from just west of Frederick all the way over to Louisville. They don't know for sure – there ain't no way of knowin', other than to have some drilling crews come in and sink some holes – but they thought it was better'n fifty-fifty that oil is going to be discovered here. The best prospects are for that property of Pete Parker's.

  He may just be sitting on a fortune over there." "Does Pete know that?" Jarvis asked. "Oh yeah, he knows it," said Frank.

  Jarvis shook his head. "What's he plan to do about it?"

  "I don't think he's thought anything about it," Frank said. "Hell, he's been good as dead for years now. He was too drunk to be rational even before his wife died. He hasn't been thinkin' well enough to see his opportunities, and hasn't had the money to exploit them even if he was. His God-damned daughter showin' back up may have changed things – her and God-damned Jake Jobbs!"

  Jarvis seemed incredulous, but also concerned. "You've know the old guy for years, though – that's what you were just sayin'. How good can you feel about buying his fortune out from underneath him?"

  Frank nodded that Jarvis didn't understand. "No, you don't get it," he said. "The offer I've made to Pete Parker – it'd make him a wealthy man. And at his age, and given all the problems around bringing in oil wells – hell, I'd be doin' him a favor if he'd only accept it! He'd get all the benefits and none of the worry. He ain't bein' swindled, if that's what you're worried about."

  Jarvis seemed to think on it for a moment. "Well what would be holding him back?"

  Frank's eyes narrowed. "Because Pete's not a businessman – he's a rancher.

  It's all he's ever been. It's all he knows. I thought it wasn't going to make any difference, but then . . ." Frank stopped and looked out at the prairie dog town, where again he spotted movement. They just couldn't let their curiosity rest, the little ground squirrels. They just couldn't seem to stay hidden until the danger had passed.

  "But then what?" Jarvis pressed.

  Frank raised his rifle to his shoulder and looked down the sites. "But then Pete goes out and buys this God-damned Charolais bull . . ." He pulled the trigger, and another prairie dog bit the dust.

  CHAPTER 25 – Conduit

  In the yard, under the huge, spreading elm that reached over Parker ranch house and kept it safe from rain and sun, Tory was readying a picnic spot. Jake watched from the doorway of his one-man bunkhouse as she held two corners of a blanket, gave it a shak
e, and then floated it to the ground so that it landed in a square. He saw her get down on hands and knees to finish the job, tugging at the wool to pull it flat. Then Pete emerged from the house and walked over to see what she was doing. They were talking, but a light breeze seemed to steal the sounds of their words, and Jake couldn't hear what was being said. It was chit-chat, small-talk, the kind of banter such as Sundays are made on – of that he was sure. It was purposeless, loving exchange. Pete calmly stretched, reaching toward the sky and bending back at odd angles, trying to realign his vertebrae and unbundle his muscles. Then Py appeared, on an errand, delivering a handful of dinner plates to Tory, who expected their arrival and had places on the blanket all picked out for them. Pete's pigs noticed the activity and they came walking across the equipment yard, grunting and snorting, talking in noisy pig-talk, as if Pete and the others were fluent. Barred from entry to the grounds by the surrounding fence, they stuck their snoots between the pickets and groveled without dignity, piteous at not having been asked. Jake saw Py become animated as he described something to Pete, broadly gesturing details and dimensions, though again the human voice didn't carry in the wind, or at least not in Jake's direction. He couldn't hear what Py was saying, but he could see that he looked happy. Jake could see his grin and thought how goofy Py looked, the blackness around his eyes giving him a sunken appearance, distorted in some way that brought to mind a happy, consumptive scarecrow. Jake was touched by his cheerfulness.