by Taylor Moore
The old man had a twinkle in his eye. “Time to work off them pancakes, sonny.”
Asadi walked outside to find the winds had died down and the air was crisp and dry—a thick cloud of vapor puffed from his mouth with each breath. Looking around, he could see the ranch was more beautiful than he’d realized. When they’d driven in the day before, the storm clouds had blocked their view. But now that they had passed, there lay before him a blanket of powdery snow as far as the eye could see. Above him was a cloudless sky, the color of ice.
He climbed into the white Ford pickup with a flatbed and Butch cranked the motor. The old man turned to him with a smile. “Ready to feed?”
Asadi nodded, not knowing what he was agreeing to, but certain he would like it. So far, everything on the ranch had been fun. And the distraction hadn’t come a moment too soon. He was beginning to dwell on his family, particularly his brother, Faraz. Asadi worried he would be unable to control his tears.
Butch let the truck idle for a minute, then mashed the accelerator with his foot a couple of times. He rubbed his palms together vigorously, cupped his hands and blew into them. Butch placed one hand on the steering wheel, the other on a gear shift and put the vehicle in drive.
They rolled across a winding path that rose and dipped over a set of foothills leading to a tower called a wim-meel. Beneath it stood a cluster of several dozen black cows, milling about near a wooden corral. Butch put the truck in park, climbed out, and Asadi did likewise. The old man pointed to a large rectangular contraption on the back of the vehicle which he banged with his fist a couple of times. It made a hollow clang.
“It’s broke.” He patted a brown sack similar to one they’d used to feed the horses. “Back to basics.”
The old man pulled out a pocketknife, slit the top of the bag open, and began pouring out pellets in a line away from the truck. The cattle, which had already gathered around and were bawling, jockeyed for position to get first dibs on feed. After emptying three-quarters of the sack, Butch walked back to the truck, where Asadi was sitting atop the flatbed.
Butch handed the bag to Asadi. “All right, you saw what I done. Now you do the same.” He pointed toward a clump of cattle on the other side of the truck, eager for their breakfast.
Asadi froze with fear. Could he wade through the crowd of gigantic beasts and live? He didn’t budge from his perch.
Butch smiled. “You can do it, Asadi. Trust me.” He pointed again at the same spot and gave a nod in that direction.
Asadi reluctantly moved forward, let his legs dangle over the side, and dropped off the edge. At the sound of his feet hitting the ground, the awaiting cattle were startled and scattered in every direction, a response that frightened him as much as the cows. He retreated until his back was flat against the side of the truck.
Butch let out one of his hooting laughs. “See! They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” He pointed at the bag. “You’re holding their pancakes, sonny. Now, get to feeding!”
Asadi mustered his courage and marched forward, one foot in front of the other, straight through the herd. To his great surprise, they parted. He emptied the contents of the bag, turned back to Butch. But before he could get a reaction, he heard the shuffling of hooves behind him, and the huff of a big wet nose under his arm.
Although Asadi knew the big black cow was only nosing for food, the sudden invasion killed his confidence. He yelped, sprinted back to the truck, and threw his arms around Butch. The old man roared with laughter, put his gloved hand atop Asadi’s head. “Good job, sonny!”
Asadi was laughing too when he heard an aw hell from Butch, who was watching a shiny silver truck drive up. It was massive, as big as any he had ever seen. It was even bigger than Garrett’s, and that was saying something. The woman, wearing brown overalls and a dirty white T-shirt underneath, pulled up beside them, rolled down a window, and leaned out. She was the tiniest of creatures, with speckled dry skin that crinkled like paper. Her wiry hair was a reddish-gray, cut short like a man’s.
Butch rested an elbow atop the flatbed on his truck as if preparing for a long exchange. Asadi noted he didn’t look happy about the interruption but forced himself to be polite. “Kate Shanessy, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Kate’s eyes hid so deep within her sockets Asadi could not tell their color. She didn’t return Butch’s greeting—just jumped right in—speaking rapid fire in a booming voice that carried over the knock of her big diesel engine.
“Seen a plane flying over a few times last week. Real low to the ground.” Kate sandwiched her palms together until they almost touched. “What’d ya’ make of that?”
“Government,” Butch answered without hesitation. “Probably flying the Canadian to make sure decent folks like us ain’t using the little bit a water God gave us.”
She spat out the window and gave a little snort. “Wouldn’t put it past ’em. But the ones I seen wasn’t following the river. Was running a straight shot. South to north, then back again.”
Butch looked over his shoulder, as if following the path of an imaginary airplane. “You see any markings?”
Kate shook her head. “Nothing I could identify as peculiar. Just a regular twin engine—no different than any other, I guess.”
“Well, Kate, there’s folks with money buying up land around here all the time.” Butch shot her a wry smile. “Hell, might be some rich doctor out of Dallas looking for some hunting property and a new wife.”
“Ain’t interested.” Kate’s face crinkled into a frown. “Got a mare about to foal and that damn plane got her stirred up good.” She grabbed the bolt-action rifle sitting beside her on the bench seat and raised it to where they could get a good look. “I don’t care who it is. Come over my barn again and they’ll get a neighborly .270 round up their ass—I’ll tell you what.”
Butch chuckled. “Ah, truth of the matter is it’s probably just a land man scouting where to put their next oil well.”
“Them oil companies use helicopters,” Kate corrected, “and there ain’t nobody drilling around here but that greedy bastard Kaiser.”
Hearing the words ass and bastard, Asadi giggled. Kate turned and squinted at him so hard it looked like her eyes were completely closed. “Who’s your helper there, Butch?”
Butch put his gloved hand atop Asadi’s head and rested it there. “This here is the latest addition to the Kohl Ranch. Damn good with horses and works a lot harder than my worthless two sons ever did, that’s for sure.”
Kate craned her neck out the window and pursed her lips as she studied Asadi from head to toe. “Bridger knock up a Mexican or something?”
Butch shook his head. “Nah, ain’t nothing like that.”
“Must be nice to have some company.” Kate kept her eye slits trained on Asadi. And though her lips lay as flat as the horizon, he could tell she was smiling. “Know I could use some companionship myself since Fred died. Girls don’t come around much less they need a loan.”
“Well, that’s unfor—”
“Bridger don’t want this boy no more or what?”
Butch looked to Asadi, still struggling to keep up. “No, it ain’t that. The boy don’t belong to Bridger. He came up with Garrett and he’s not—”
“Garrett!” Kate’s eyes went so wide Asadi could finally see they were the prettiest shade of green. “Didn’t know he was back! And didn’t know he had him a woman.” She gave a confident sort of nod. “Well. Good. For. Him. I always thought he was too good a catch to stay a bachelor.” For the first time since she pulled up, Asadi was fully convinced Kate was a woman. She patted her heart with a dusty hand. “He still handsome as he used to be?”
“Hell if I know,” Butch snapped. “He’s covered himself in long hair and tattoos. Looks more like one of the Manson family than one of my own.”
“Well, Butch, you the one brought them boys up like mountain men. No sense bitchin’ about it now if Garrett turned out looking like one.” Kate shook her head and
spat in the snow. “Hell, he was never one to make a fuss over his appearance, anyhow. Not even in high school. Hunting and horses were all he ever cared about.”
She laughed and popped the door a couple of times with her palm like she was telling her truck to giddyap. “Well, I can’t sit around listening to your sorry ass all day. Got crap to do.”
Butch looked as though he was about to say something right as she mashed the gas and the massive diesel engine snarled. She was already rolling up the window before he could stop her. Asadi laughed again at hearing the word ass.
15
Since it was only a little after breakfast, Garrett assumed the Crippled Crows wouldn’t be open. But he hoped he might catch the owner, Ike Hodges, in there early, checking inventory on liquor or mopping up puke—whatever dive bar owners did when they weren’t pouring drinks.
Per Garrett’s recollection, a few Renegade fleet trucks were parked out front the day before, along with about two dozen Harley-Davidsons and a couple of empty potbelly cattle trailers. The dilapidated establishment welcomed oil field hands, slaughterhouse workers, feedlot cowboys, and the kind of girls attracted to that sort. It wasn’t considered family-friendly, as it was home to some less than legal activities: gambling, drugs, and prostitution to name a few.
Garrett pulled into the caliche parking lot at Crippled Crows, glad to see it devoid of all but one vehicle. He didn’t know if the red pickup belonged to the owners but had a sneaking suspicion it did. The late-model Dodge Longhorn was parked by a door near the back entrance, which meant it probably didn’t belong to a drunk customer who’d left it there the night before.
Garrett nestled his GMC in on the other side of the Dodge, hidden from the main road. Not only did he want to keep a low profile, he thought the owner might be more apt to spill the beans if their conversation was private. Instead of trying the back entrance, Garrett eased around the building and went in through the front door. He suspected he’d be less likely to end up with a shotgun in his face if he came in looking like a boozehound wanting an eye-opener, rather than some goon sneaking in the rear.
He walked in to find it as dark and dank as he’d imagined and stinking to high heaven of stale beer and cigarette smoke. “Oilfield Blues” by Comanche Moon was playing low in the background. Through the dimness Garrett could see particleboard walls plastered with posters of Budweiser girls and Miller Lite ads. A big banner over one of the pool tables was promoting a Saint Paddy’s day event from three years ago.
The whole place was constructed of concrete, steel, and corrugated tin. If it ever failed as a beer joint, it might make a decent barn for storing farm equipment or hay. It’d only need a few upgrades. Garrett stepped to the bar and stared at the man behind it who leaned over the counter writing in a notepad.
In a voice as coarse and unfiltered as the Camel cigarette he was smoking, the barman barked out a salutation. “Read the sign, moron, we’re closed.”
“Looking for Ike Hodges. Was hoping he might help me out with a couple of things.”
The guy didn’t hesitate in his response. “He ain’t exactly the helping kind.”
“That’s a shame.” Working to keep his cool, Garrett took a stab at a joke. “I’ll probably need a shot of penicillin just walking through the door here. Hate to think it was all for nothing.”
The bartender didn’t flinch, just took a few seconds to finish up with whatever he was tallying on his paper and looked up. “Ain’t you that Snake Eater nearly bit the dust over in Afghanistan several years back?”
Garrett was going to have to work a little harder. He could feel the back of his neck getting hot. “What of it?”
The rangy barman stood erect and leered. He had short salt-and-pepper hair and wore something between a gunfighter’s handlebar mustache and about a week’s worth of stubble on the rest of his face. He exhaled a big cloud of smoke and added, “Well, if you’d introduced yourself as a gen-u-wine hero, before asking for favors, I might’ve been nicer.” The barman smiled. “You’re friends with Deputy Dawg Sanchez, aren’t you?”
Garrett smiled back. “Been best friends since grade school.”
“Well, you can tell that sumbitch this ain’t no company store, and just because he won’t take a bribe, don’t mean he can walk his tab.”
With that joke Ike Hodges brought the temperature down a few degrees and took the situation from near fisticuffs to some good-natured old-fashioned ball busting. It was a skill Garrett assumed the barman had honed over the years, coaxing broken beer bottles out of the hands of cattle haulers and oil field trash.
Ike sauntered over from behind the bar like John Wayne and cast out his long arm for a handshake. “Welcome to the Crippled Crows. How can we ruin your life?”
Garrett laughed and shook the big calloused hand. “Garrett Kohl.”
“I told you, I know who you are. I followed your story real close for a while.” Ike moseyed back behind the bar and took two Coors Light longnecks out of the refrigerator, uncapped the bottles, and slid one to Garrett. “This your flavor?”
It couldn’t have been more than nine-thirty, but Garrett knew never to turn down a drink when the bartender was buying. “Cold is my flavor.” He’d have preferred a Shiner Bock but doubted Ike carried anything beyond the redneck holy trinity. Garrett sat on a stool in front of the bar and took a big swallow. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you recognize me? It’s been a while since all that came out in the papers and I don’t exactly look like I did back then.” He stroked his beard to emphasize his point.
Ike tilted his bottle at Garrett. “A good bartender never forgets a face.”
Garrett nodded, truly impressed. “I wouldn’t mind that skill.”
“Also overheard a couple of roughnecks in here last night talking trash about you.” Ike held the Coors between his middle and index fingers and rocked it back and forth. “Curious what I heard?”
“Maybe a little.”
“These two young bucks made it clear if you were back in town looking for work with Renegade, you’d better keep looking.”
Garrett laughed. “Any reason why?”
“They heard you were kind of a straight arrow. Said something about things running a certain way around here, and they didn’t need anybody coming in and messing up a good thing.”
Garrett chuckled. “Well, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Ike grunted. “The rest, you won’t.”
“Okay, lay it on me.”
“Said you got your ass handed to you by the Taliban. That you’d left all your buddies up in the mountains to die.”
Garrett felt the heat on his neck again. “Then I’ve just got one more question.”
Ike smiled. “I know what it is, and it’s one you won’t get answered.”
“Not going to give me their names?”
Ike shook his head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know the kind of hurt you can put on them if you got a mind to.” Before Garrett could argue, Ike interrupted. “And they’re just a couple of dumb kids, that’s all. Beating their asses won’t change a thing.” Ike held up two fists with scarred knuckles. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” He grabbed his Coors and took a hefty swig. “Plus, I have a feeling they won’t be so quick to judge anyone who puts on the uniform anymore. At least not in my bar.”
Garrett immediately regretted it but had to ask. “How’d you manage that?”
Ike stuck his hand under the bar and pulled out a black billy club, the handle wrapped in a swirl of silver duct tape, the business end gnarled and scuffed. “I escorted them out back and explained in a way they could understand it was time to go sleep it off.”
There was definitely more to the story, but Garrett let it go. “Look, Ike, you don’t have to defend me. I can take care of myself.”
The barman slammed the club on top of the bar with a sharp clack. “I wasn’t defending you, I was defending us.” He held out his left arm, rolled up the sleeve
of his flannel shirt, and displayed a forearm covered in tattoos. Pointing to the profile of an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter dead center, he looked up and locked eyes with Garrett. “Mogadishu. 1993. Saw more than a few guys like you pass on to Valhalla that day.”
Valhalla was a term used by special operations forces in a reference to the Viking heaven, a place where warriors live on for eternity. The Battle of Mogadishu was more popularly known as Black Hawk Down. It was clear now, Ike Hodges was a combat veteran himself, most likely flying for the army’s 160th Special Operation Aviation Regiment (SOAR). Night Stalkers were the elite of the elite of military helicopter pilots.
Before Garrett could apologize, Ike continued. “And don’t try and tell me what I can and can’t do in my own bar. I’ll take care of business how I see fit. Are we clear?”
If Garrett had learned anything from his careers in the military and law enforcement, it was that sometimes only one answer would suffice. “Yessir.” Figuring it was better to change the subject, he moved on. “So, how’d you wind up here in Shangri-La? Assuming you must have pissed off God something fierce to get planted in the middle of the Texas Panhandle with a run-down honky-tonk.”
His response was a hearty laugh and the answer of in more ways than you can imagine. But he went on to speak for a good half hour about what brought him to his current station in life. If nothing else, his stories were interesting as hell.
Ike was from a ranching community off the Canadian River near Adobe Walls, a place of historical note given two pivotal battles that took place in the area. In the first, famed frontiersman Kit Carson led three hundred soldiers against two thousand Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache warriors. The second battle occurred when Quanah Parker and seven hundred braves clashed with twenty-nine buffalo hunters camped at the outpost. Among the defenders were gunfighter Bat Masterson and army scout Billy Dixon. Dixon ended the siege with his fabled thousand-yard shot, and later won the Medal of Honor at the nearby Battle of Buffalo Wallow.
