by Neil Mcmahon
About fifty yards out, a bunch of crows and magpies were having a party, hopping, fighting, and tearing with their beaks at something buried. Thumb-size horseflies and yellow jackets swarmed around with a buzz I could feel in my teeth. The old D-8 Cat that was used for maintenance was parked off to the side as usual. It wasn’t run often these days, but I could make out fresh ridges from its tracks, leading toward the quarreling scavengers.
The ranch hands must have butchered some cattle, and the remains were ripening in the hazy afternoon heat. It seemed a little strange that they’d take the trouble to bury them—usually they just pitched things over the edge, same as me. But as I drove closer, I could see a hoof sticking up out of the mess.
That was it, then.
There was one good thing—the flies were too busy to bother me. I dropped the truck’s tailgate and started tossing out my own load of trash.
The real reason I’d been working alone on Saturdays for the past few months was that I had the job site to myself, without the havoc of a crew around. Every week, I’d try to save a tricky task like cutting stairs or rafters and use Saturday to get through the part that required the most concentration.
Sometimes my buddy Madbird came along, but he liked the peace as much as I did. He’d take off on his own to work on the wiring, and I’d hardly be aware of him except for the occasional crash of a tool or part being thrown and some muttering in Blackfeet that I assumed was cursing.
I’d spend the last hour cleaning up and thinking about what was on the slate for Monday, then make this dump run. I’d come to look forward to it. It was the ritual start of the weekend, full of the anticipation of Saturday night before the crash of Sunday morning. And if you ignored the crater of garbage, you couldn’t ask for finer country.
The ranch was about ten miles northwest of Helena, up against the foothills of the Rockies. The view went on forever. This time of year, the larches were turning yellow, big bright splashes on the bottle green slopes. There were no buildings in sight, no sounds in any way human. All in all, it was like the kind of magazine cover that made dentists in Omaha go out and buy a couple thousand dollars’ worth of trout fishing gear.
The original owner was Reuben Pettyjohn’s grandfather Nathan, who’d fought with renown in the Civil War but had been on the losing side. Like a lot of his comrades, he’d left the South in disgust when the carpetbaggers invaded and had made his way west. He’d had the good luck and sense to acquire this gold mine of property, roughly fifteen thousand acres of well-watered hay fields, pasture, and timber. His descendants had added lease rights to more big chunks of state and Bureau of Land Management grazing land, and parlayed it all into a network of property and other interests that stretched through Montana and beyond.
I, on the other hand, was the kind of guy who’d always bought dear and sold cheap.
I slung the last bag of trash into the pit and gave the truck’s bed a quick sweep. Then I paused, realizing that I’d been hurrying, not enjoying this as usual. The reason was that smell. It clung to me like a second skin, putting an unpleasant edginess in my head that was amplified by the buzzing of the insects.
But there was something else bothersome. I’d kept glancing at that hoof as I unloaded, and now I tried to focus on it through the debris and flapping birds. It seemed oddly shaped.
And I almost thought I could make out an arc of extra thickness on it, like an iron shoe.
I told myself I was full of shit, and there was no reason I should care anyway. Even if it was a horse, there was nothing strange about one of those dying on a ranch. There were several working plugs here besides the Balcombs’ thoroughbreds, and their passing wouldn’t create any stir. I closed the truck’s tailgate, got in, and started the engine.
I switched it off again—honest to God, I don’t know why. Maybe because of old habits I’d developed during the years that I’d worked on a newspaper in California, maybe just because of a prickly sense that something was really wrong.
I rummaged through the spare clothes I carried and found a hooded sweatshirt to cover my head and neck. I made a mask of my bandanna and pulled on a pair of gloves. Then I started picking my way across the pit. The surface felt queasy underfoot, like I was walking on boards laid over quicksand.
The crows backed up, but not far, and they screamed at me to get off their turf. The flies and hornets stayed, and so did the smell.
The hoof was shod, all right.
The short length of foreleg sticking up had been chewed on, probably pulled free by coyotes. It looked like they’d tried to dig down to the rest of the carcass, layered over by a foot or two of junk, but something had stopped them.
I figured out where the head would be and clawed trash out of the way. A triangular piece of plywood about three feet across was wedged in as a protective covering. Measurements were scrawled on it with a heavy carpenter’s pencil.
I recognized them. I’d written them there myself, framing a gable dormer a couple of weeks earlier. I’d carried the scrap here to the dump, too. But I sure hadn’t left it anywhere near this spot, and I couldn’t believe that the Cat had dragged it here by accident.
My uneasiness climbed a notch. Somebody had taken the trouble not just to bury the horse, but to protect it from predators that might have exposed it.
I got hold of a corner of the plywood and worked it free. Flies settled instantly on the horse’s bleared gummy eye. The lips were stretched tight above bared teeth. The dark brown coat was matted and dulled by death. A blue nylon construction tarp was wadded up underneath like a tawdry shroud.
But the real ugliness lay in how it had been killed. A chunk of flesh the size of my fist was gouged out of its neck. Bits of spine showed under the raw blood-crusted meat. I’d seen plenty of dead game, including some that had been shot up pretty badly by inexperienced or unlucky hunters. But this was a difference of kind.
My brain didn’t want to believe what my eyes told it—that the wounds had been made by a shotgun, at very close range.
Worse still, I glimpsed another, lighter-colored horse under the first one.
I swallowed hard and pulled away more of the junk with one hand, swatting at the bugs with the other. I guess I was hoping I’d find something that would convince me I was mistaken, help me make sense of this. Instead, I saw more big wounds behind the shoulder and on the flank, and enough of the second horse to tell that it was gouged in the same way.
Then I yanked free another good-size scrap of plywood. I just got a glimpse of the gut piles, spilling out of the ripped-open bellies, before the stink exploded in my face.
My own guts heaved up a thin stream of bile. I tore off my bandanna and stumbled away, hacking and spitting out the sour burning taste.
Hunched over, hands on my knees, I could feel the warm still air wrapped around me, hear the insects droning and see the crows flapping. But for a few seconds all that was a screen, and something inhuman and pitiless was on the other side, watching me. I think I yelled, like I was trying to wake up out of a nightmare.
There might have been more I could have seen, but I was done looking. I shoved the scraps of plywood back into place and kicked some trash over them.
As I slogged across the pit to my truck, I thought I could hear a new sound in the distance, like the rippling purr of a small engine.
I twisted the key in the ignition and got the hell out of there.
FOUR
The ranch roads were all rough and this one was worse than most, washboarded and studded with rocks the size of tire rims. There was no speed you could drive at that wouldn’t rattle your teeth. Bad as I wanted to be gone, I took it slow.
But within two or three minutes, I saw another dust cloud coming toward me. At its core was a vehicle of a startling arrest-me-red color, doing at least forty. This wasn’t the small engine I’d heard. This was an extended three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive, diesel-powered Dodge Ram, about the biggest, newest, shiniest pickup truck that money could buy. It b
elonged to Doug Wills, the ranch foreman.
Stockmen tended to be tough but good-natured and easygoing. But Doug was one of those guys who had to turn everything into a contest and come out the winner. That was probably why he was foreman. I’d heard he’d once been a pretty good bull rider, but he was thirty-five or so now, and like a lot of ex-jocks, he didn’t like being over the hill. He didn’t like me much, either. That had been simmering since I’d started working here.
Doug drove with that same aggressiveness, so his speed was no surprise. He came charging head-on like we were playing chicken, finally slamming on his brakes and ending up with his bumper barely a foot from mine. He jumped out and stomped toward me, shoving his Resistol cowboy hat back on his head. He was built like a badger, thick and powerful, with a bristling black mustache and a red meaty face.
“You cut that engine and stay put,” he half yelled. “Mr. Balcomb wants to talk to you.”
I didn’t have any clear take on Laurie Balcomb’s husband, Wesley. The word was that he’d made a fortune from the stock market in New York, or oil in Texas, or merchandising on the west coast, or a dozen other ways, depending on who you listened to. The one thing that seemed certain was that he didn’t know anything about ranching. In spite of that, he was making sweeping changes on the place. By most accounts, he was pleasant and treated his employees well. Not all agreed, or cared for the direction the Pettyjohn Ranch was going in.
Like Laurie until today, he’d never spoken directly to my crew or me. All his instructions about our work got communicated through intermediaries. I didn’t exactly fault him for that, but while it was easy to understand how a woman wouldn’t feel comfortable coming on friendly to a construction gang, most men would at least say hello to other men working on their property.
The fact that Balcomb suddenly wanted to talk, plus Doug’s acting over the top even for him, was a big red flag.
I cut the pickup’s engine, thinking that might calm him down some.
“What’s this about, Doug?” I said.
“You fucked up, is what.” He looked sullenly pleased.
“I did? Balcomb told you that?”
“Mister Balcomb.”
“Fucked up how?”
“You can ask him.”
I almost said, Let’s you and me go take a look at what I just found in that dump.
But I caught myself. The last few minutes had been time enough for me to go from being shocked to spooked. That smell was still strong in my nostrils, along with the sight of those gaping wounds and ripped-open bellies. I couldn’t imagine who had done it or why, but I was damned sure going to be careful about getting on their radar.
I scanned the horizon. I could see at least a mile across the flat hay fields and pastures, but no more dust clouds were disturbing the hazy blue sky. I’d heard that Balcomb had a habit of making people wait for him—a power statement among businessmen, like hesitating before accepting a handshake. I decided it was my out.
“How long’s he going to take?” I said.
“As long as he takes.”
“Look, I’ve been busting my ass all week. I’m hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I’m not going to sit here until he decides to sashay on down.”
Doug’s face took on a knowing look. “He said you’d try to get away. Don’t even think about it.”
“Get away from what, for Christ’s sake? I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to have done.”
He snorted. “Nobody’s believing you anymore.”
On top of being scared, I was starting to get seriously pissed.
“Tell him I’ll see him Monday,” I said. “If he’s in a big hurry, I’ll be at O’Toole’s. I’ll even buy him a beer.”
“Don’t you start your smart-ass shit with me.” Doug shoved a pointed forefinger at me through my open truck window.
That jacked up my touchiness level another big notch, partly because my left eyeball was sitting on a piece of plastic.
“You better step back,” I said. “Unless you want your foot run over.” I reached for the ignition keys to restart the truck.
“You ain’t going nowhere, goddamn it!” His hand jumped through the window again, and this time he grabbed my collar.
I jerked up on the door handle and drove the door open with my shoulder, slamming it into him and tearing his grip loose from my shirt. When my feet hit ground, they slipped on the hard pebbly surface and I almost went down. Doug was already coming at me, low and dangerous, like he was going to throw a steer. I had a couple of inches in height on him, but we were about the same weight and he had a formidable compact strength. I knew that if he got hold of me, that was it.
His windmilling right fist caught me just below the heart, close to a spot where a couple of my ribs had once been broken. I felt sparks pop in my head and caught that tongue-touching-a-battery taste in my mouth of being on the edge of knocked out. It hadn’t happened for years, but the memory was right there. His left hand came clawing in, trying to grab my shirt again. I blocked it with my forearm and managed to stick a short left onto the point of his nose. It only stung him, but it slowed him down long enough for me to jump back and get some range.
I slammed my left into his nose again, this time with power. It was the kind of shot that could blind a man with pain, and would have taken the fight out of many. Doug’s breath exploded in a grunt, but he kept coming, blundering forward with his forearms covering his face.
I spun to his left and looped around with a hook that caught him square on the ear. It knocked him stumbling across the uneven ground.
“That’s enough, Doug,” I yelled. I was gasping for breath and my legs felt weak. “Back off!”
He glared at me with his teeth clenched, then charged, this time with no show of style or defense—just his hands outstretched to rip me apart.
I speared my left straight at his unprotected face and caught him once more square on the nose. A spray of blood burst out, and he let out a sound that was half bellow and half scream, like a bull calf getting cut. This time I sidestepped to the right, and as he crashed past, I planted my feet and drove my right fist at his jaw with everything I had. I felt the shock run through my shoulder and clear down to my toes. That straight right had always been my best punch.
Doug hit the ground with a thud like a dropped sack of grain. He wasn’t out cold, and he kept moving—not trying to get up, I was glad to see, just twitching. His mustache and chin were blood-streaked and his eyes were vague, like he didn’t know what had happened. I’d been there. But he looked OK, and I couldn’t see that my staying around would make things any better.
When I put my truck in gear, I felt a twinge in my right wrist. It was jammed and starting to swell, but it didn’t feel really sprained. I had to drive off the road to get around his Dodge, and jolting over that really rough ground got my ribs reminding me of where he’d tagged me. But I thought I’d dodged another bullet there—I didn’t feel that piercing stab like when they’d been busted.
Before I went around a bend a half mile farther on, I caught a glimpse of Doug in my rearview mirror. He’d gotten up and was opening the door of his truck.
I had planned to swing back by the job site on my way out, but I decided just to get on into town. I’d been lucky, and I didn’t like to push my luck.
FIVE
By the time I got to the ranch’s main road, another mile farther along, I was holding tight to the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. I hadn’t been in a ring in almost twenty years, and I’d had only a few barroom scuffles since—nothing like a flat-out fight in the sober light of day. The experience hadn’t gotten any prettier.
It brought another memory of Celia that wasn’t pretty, either.
After she’d teased me at the creek that time, it hadn’t taken me long to figure out who she’d been practicing for. Pete Pettyjohn, Reuben’s oldest son, was a nineteen-year-old golden boy—good-looking, popular, and the heir apparent to his family’s empire. When
I was a little kid, I’d had a serious case of hero worship for him.
But as I’d gotten older, I’d come to understand that there was something off about Pete. Usually he was friendly, but then out of nowhere he’d turn stone-cold or even menacing. He’d already started drinking pretty hard. Still, it was obvious that Celia had her sights set on him, and while Pete played it cool, he seemed to be around her a lot. It bothered me for selfish reasons—I was childishly jealous, afraid she’d cut me out.
One afternoon soon after the swimming incident, I wandered down to the stables to visit with her. She was alone in the corral, working with a young mare that she’d been grooming for barrel racing. I was happy just to watch her. I stopped a distance away so I wouldn’t interrupt, thinking I’d say hi when she took a break.
But before she did, Pete came driving along in one of the ranch trucks.
As he was passing by, the mare started to buck, tossing up rear hooves and hopping sideways, trying to throw her. It was so unexpected and fast that I stood poleaxed for a couple of seconds. Then I started running for the corral, but Pete was way ahead of me. He vaulted the rail, caught the horse by the bridle, and wrestled it down to where Celia could slide off the saddle. She sagged against him like she was badly shaken. He walked her to the gate with his arm around her waist.
I started to get a glimmer of just how good a rider she was.
They hadn’t noticed me yet, and if I’d had any sense, I would have backed quietly away. Instead, I kept trotting toward the corral. I guess I wanted her to know that I’d tried to help.
As they came out the gate, I called out to ask if she was all right. Her head swung toward me and her eyes flared, like she’d been caught doing something wrong. But she bounced back in a heartbeat—gave me her brilliant smile and said, “Little boys ought to know better than to sneak around spying on people.”
