by Sarah Dreher
Begay looked them over, individually and slowly. He turned his shaggy head and looked at the truck. He looked at Tom Drooley. He looked back at them, and back at the truck, and generated a thought. "That the trading post vehicle?"
"Yes," Stoner said. She felt like gagging.
“What's the problem?"
"No problem. We need gas."
"That all?"
"As far as I know," Stoner said.
"Coulda got that yerself."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
Begay shuffled to the pump, waving listlessly at a fly that was trying to gain a foothold on his head. He sucked from a can of Colt .45 Lager and unscrewed the gas cap. "Hear anything about Claudine?"
"She's out of the hospital," Stoner said.
He motioned for her to crank the pump. She did.
"God damnedest thing," Begay said, "takin' her like that. Makes you think, don't it?"
Stoner doubted that he had much experience with that particular form of exercise. "Certainly does," she said.
“‘Skins are talkin' Ya Ya sickness." He took a swig of beer and watched the numbers of the pump dial. "Goddamn assholes.”
“What's Ya Ya sickness?" Gwen asked.
He shrugged heavily. “What are you girls doin' out here?"
Stoner started to say "women", to correct him, but thought better of it. “We're on vacation."
He glanced at her. "Must be nuts, comin' to this hemorrhoid on the rectum of the universe."
“We have friends here," Gwen explained. "The Perkins'."
"Well, now, ain't that sweet?" Begay belched and spat in the dust. “Where ya' from?"
"Boston," Stoner said.
"Never been there."
"Have you always lived around here?" Gwen asked.
"Born on the rez. Old man was a mixed-blood. That's how I got this fuckin' Navajo name."
"If you're unhappy here," Stoner suggested,"why not move?"
"Too much trouble."
She was inclined to believe him.
"Besides, who'd buy this shit-house?” He waved toward the office and garage. "That comes to nine-ninety. Want me to put it on the tab?"
"I'd rather pay." Stoner handed him a twenty.
"Think I can change that?" He gave an oily laugh. "Sweetheart, you ain't aware of the facts of life out here."
She stuffed the money back into her pocket. "I guess you'll have to put it on the bill, then."
Begay turned his attention to the dog. "Hey, old Tom. See you got yourself a coupla good-lookin' gals to go riding with. Wouldn't like to tell me your secret, would you?"
Tom Drooley sneezed.
"Smell that old storm comin'?" Begay looked back at Stoner. "This hound's got a good nose for storms. Not much else, though."
Stone smiled noncommittally.
“Well," Gwen said, "we'll be moving along." She started to climb back into the truck.
“Whoa, Sweetheart," Begay said. "You gotta sign for that gas."
"Oh," Stoner said. "Okay."
"Come on inside."
It was the kind of invitation responsible parents warn you against. She hesitated.
Begay grinned, revealing a row of broken and yellowed teeth that looked like a vandalized graveyard. "I ain't gonna bite."
Gwen started for the office. Stoner ran to catch up with her. The protective gesture didn't go unnoticed. Begay gave her a knowing wink. It made her skin crawl.
While the man made a great show of searching for his account book, she looked around. The inside of the shack achieved the impossible task of being even worse than the outside. A broken-down easy chair, springs sagging, rough upholstery nearly worn through, was placed directly in front of the television set. A litter of beer cans, cigarette butts, and empty Cheese Curl packs suggested that this was the spot on which Larch Begay was most likely to be found on any random day. In the corner, a sheet-less cot was unmade, the blankets rumpled, the pillow stained with grease. A makeshift table held a hot-plate, several empty tin cans, and a pile of food-encrusted dishes. Behind the cash register, a shelf contained various bits of unidentifiable hardware, and one very identifiable pistol and box of shells.
She forced herself to look around the room in a casual, uninterested sort of way.
Her chest felt tight. It was hard to take a deep breath. She tried to relax her shoulders and open her lungs, but all she could manage was a quick, shallow gasp.
"That truck oughta be due for an oil and lube," Begay said.
"I'll mention it to Ted," Gwen said and signed the account book.
Begay crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. "That Stell's some good looker. You been friends long?"
"About a year," Gwen said. She looked over at Stoner. "Are you all right?"
"Sure."
"You're as white as a ghost."
Begay looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowed.
Stoner forced a smile. "I'm fine. Really." She took a deep breath and felt as if she had slammed into a door. Something coiled around her chest like a giant Anaconda and forced the air from her lungs.
"I take it back," she gasped. "Better go outside."
She tried to move. Her legs were paralyzed.
She tried to speak, but no words came.
"Your friend's offended by my house-keeping," Begay said with a laugh.
"Stoner?"
She wanted to reach toward Gwen, but the walls were receding, melting. She was in open air, in darkness. Gray clouds boiled over-head. She was falling, tumbling...
Gwen caught her. "Easy," she said, and began to lead her to the chair.
The feeling passed.
“Want a drink of water?" Begay asked.
Stoner shook her head. She felt completely herself. Whatever had gripped her had just as suddenly let go. She forced a laugh. "That's what I get for spending too much time in the sun."
"Are you sure you're all right?” Gwen asked.
"Positive."
Begay dragged a folding chair from behind the counter. "Here, you better set down a minute." He shoved her down roughly. "I got something to show you while you rest."
She had to admit it felt good to sit. She was so tired...
Begay opened a glass case near the door and swept out an armful of objects, spreading them on the counter.
Jewelry. Silver jewelry inlaid with turquoise and coral. Belts, necklaces, bracelets, rings, bolo ties. All obviously hand-made. Even through their patina of dust and tarnish, they were breathtakingly beautiful.
Begay folded his hands over his stomach. "Genuine Navajo."
"They must be valuable," Gwen said, one hand stroking Stoner's shoulder.
"Took 'em in pawn. Tourists go nuts for 'em." He reached into the case and drew out a turquoise and coral hatband. "Look at this. Got it from a boy up at Coal Mine Canyon. Paid twenty-five dollars for it. It'll bring me three-fifty easy."
"If it's worth that much," Gwen asked, "why would he sell it to you for so little?"
"Had something he wanted and couldn't get anywhere else." He grinned slyly. “Whiskey."
"I thought liquor wasn't allowed on the reservation," Stoner said.
Begay chuckled, admiring the hatband. “Works to my advantage, don't it?"
Gwen gave her shoulder a warning squeeze.
"Yes," she said, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. "I can see how it would."
He turned back to her. "Someday I'm gonna have enough to get out of this piss-hole.”
"I certainly hope it works out for you," Gwen said.
"It will." He gave Stoner a knowing wink. "Something tells me it won't be long now. Not long at all." He looked at her hard and meaningfully, as if they shared a secret.
She couldn't figure out what he was getting at.
Begay put the hatband back in the case and blew his nose on an unspeakable cotton handkerchief. "You want any souvenirs," he said, "you come to me. I'll give you a real good deal." He licked his lips. "On account of you're friends
of the Perkins'."
"That's very generous of you," Gwen said. “We'll keep it in mind. Stoner, are you ready to go?"
Begay turned to her. "That what they call you? Stoner?"
"That's right."
"Interesting name; A person wouldn't be likely to forget a name like that."
"True," Stoner said. "I've never forgotten it." She managed to pull herself to her feet and stumble from the house.
As soon as she hit the outside air, her tiredness drained away.
Tom Drooley had jumped out the cab window and crawled under the truck to sleep. Gwen coaxed him out.
"You take care of these pretty gals, Old Tom," Begay said. "This country can get a mite rough."
Not as long as I have my rolling tire and six feet of plastic, Stoner thought. She managed to get Tom Drooley between herself and the passenger window.
Gwen climbed behind the wheel and started the motor.
Begay leaned against the side of the truck. “What's your pal's name, Stoner?"
"Oxnard," she said quickly. "Mrs. Bryan Oxnard."
"Is that a fact?" Larch Begay grinned. “Well, I'm right pleased to meet Mrs. Oxnard."
"Pleasure," Gwen muttered. She put the truck in gear and pulled away in an explosion of dust. “What's with the name business?" she asked.
"I just didn't want him to know too much."
"As my mother used to say," Gwen said, "Mr. Larch Begay is one unsavory character, sorely in need of a woman's civilizing influence." She put her hand on Stoner's knee. “What happened to you back there?"
"I don't know. All of a sudden I felt very odd."
"I thought you were going to faint."
"So did I."
“Well," Gwen said, "if this climate is going to affect you like that, we’re getting out of here. You scared me half to death."
"It might be the climate, but I doubt it. Probably Jimmy Goodnight's iced tea. I never do well with tea."
She wished she believed it. Something told her the things that had happened were a lot stranger—and more frightening—than that.
Over the San Francisco Mountains far to the west, a column of purple clouds had begun to form. The wind rose, hurling curtains of dust across the road. The clouds picked up and moved. Rain fell in veils behind them. The declining sun painted the tops of the clouds with gold.
Gwen glanced uneasily at the storm. "Do you think it'll reach us?"
Stoner shrugged. “Gwen, I think we should stay clear of Larch Begay."
"Granted, he's every woman's worst nightmare, but is there a particular reason?"
There was, but she couldn't put into words. Something in the way he looked at her. Something in the way he said her name. Something that told her Larch Begay had been behind the things that had happened to her at the service station. She didn't know how or why, but... "Just a feeling, I guess."
Gwen smiled. "Don't worry. I'm not tempted to seek out his company."
Stoner put her arm around the dog. "Funny, Tom Drooley doesn't seem to mind him."
"I'm afraid Tom Drooley falls a little short of being the world's smartest dog," Gwen said.
Tom Drooley reached across Stoner's lap and licked Gwen's face.
"Seems perfectly intelligent to me," Stoner said.
Gwen gagged and wiped her face on her sleeve. "Did you notice Begay's eyes? I don't know what's wrong with him, but I hope it's not contagious. The only time I've ever seen eyes like that was on one of our dogs that got conjunctivitis."
“Well," Stoner said, "we'd better keep Tom Drooley away."
The clouds were on the move, billows of smoky black, angry and boiling. Tongues of lightning flickered through the sky like probes searching for a place to grab earth. To the south, where the sun still shone, the land glowed.
Tom Drooley's ears began to twitch.
"I'm glad we're nearly home," Gwen said. "I'd hate to be stranded in this."
"Don't worry. If worse comes to worst, all we have to do is burn a tire."
"Poor Jimmy Goodnight." Gwen shook her head sympathetically. "If the best hero he can find is Larch Begay..."
The trading post came into focus behind the swirling dust. The windows showed light like strokes of orange paint. Stell was at the kitchen door.
"Put the truck in the barn," she shouted over the wind. "And close up. The horses are spooked."
The wind grabbed the truck door as Stoner opened it, and slammed it forward. The hinges made a popping, creaking sound. She reached for the handle as the first crack of thunder broke. Tom Drooley flew over her arm and into the house.
Fighting the wind, she pulled the barn door open and let the truck inside.
"Go up to the house, " Gwen said. "I'll settle the horses and be along.”
She managed to slip through the banging door and headed for the kitchen. Dust scoured her nose and eyes. Grit blew into her mouth. The wind screamed past her ears.
Stell was slamming windows. "I closed up the bunkhouse," she said as Stoner shook sand from her hair. "Glad you got back in time. These storms are sudden and awful.”
“Where's Tom Drooley?" Stoner asked as she drew water and rinsed the dust from her mouth.
"Under the bed."
"Darn. I forgot to bring in your groceries."
"They'll be fine in the barn until this is over," Stell said. "Take a look out the window and see if Gwen needs help."
The wind had shifted and picked up speed. The barn was barely visible through flying sand. The door blew crazily back and forth on its hinges. Gwen chased it, caught it, hung on for a second before it was ripped from her hands.
"I' d better go," Stoner said.
"If you can't get it, let it go. That truck's not worth getting killed for."
Her presence seemed to enrage the wind. It struck her in the back like a fist, and sent her stumbling forward.
"Go back!" Gwen waved her away.
She ducked the flying door and slipped inside the barn. The horses were nervous, stamping the floor sharply, kicking at the stall doors. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath.
"Stell says… leave it," she panted.
"Damn it, Stoner, I was having a good time."
"You what?"
"I was enjoying it."
"That's nuts."
"It is not."
Stoner dug grit from the corners of her eyes. "Could you enjoy it some other time? I was worried about you."
"For God's sake!" Gwen kicked the side of the barn in anger. "I'm sick of being worried about. You're as bad as my grandmother."
"Gwen..."
"I can take care of myself, Stoner."
"I didn't say you couldn't."
"Then stop treating me like a child."
She felt lost in a heavy, gray confusion. "Gwen..."
"You're so damned overprotective. I don't need to be protected."
"I don't understand this," Stoner said. "Everything was all right five minutes ago."
Gwen slammed her hand down on the truck hood. "Five minutes ago you hadn't come tearing out here to worry about me."
Frustrated, Stoner threw her arms up in the air. "Okay. Fine. I won't worry about you. Let the damn wind blow the damn door halfway to Louisiana, and you with it. God forbid I should worry. God forbid I should care. God Forbid I should love you."
"Don't love me!" Gwen screamed at her. "I don't want you to love me. I don't want anybody to love me, ever again."
”Gwen..."
"People say they love you, but it's a joke. A trap. Step out of line just once... just once... then you find out how wonderful that love is."
Stoner grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Goddamn it, Gwen, I'm not your grandmother."
Gwen glared at her.
"Look, she's being a shit. I don't blame you for being hurt, but don't take it out on me."
"I have a better suggestion," Stell said from the doorway. "Come into the house and both of you stop taking it out on the horses. They're upset enough as it is."
/>
Gwen looked at Stell, then back at Stoner. "Oh God, Stoner," she muttered, "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry won't get this door shut," Stell said.
Gwen gave an apologetic half-smile. "You're right."
"I'm always right," Stell said as she went for the door. "Let's move it."
They managed to close and bolt the door, and were halfway across the yard when the hail struck. Ice pellets the size of mothballs pummeled the ground and rattled like a snare drum on the barn's tin roof. Stell peeled off her slicker and covered their heads. By the time they reached the back porch it was coming down in golf balls. The wind shrieked. Dust swirled and scoured the buildings and blew into their eyes. The rain hit from every direction. It pounded on the windows and blew under the door. It slammed against the trading post walls and flew beneath the porch roof.
Stell shepherded them inside. The temperature plummeted. They were cold and wet, and then the electricity went.
Stell and Stoner lit the hurricane lamps. Gwen stood in the corner and looked miserable.
"Come over here," Stell said, and held out her hand.
Gwen came to her reluctantly. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"Hell," Stell said. She grabbed a towel from the back of the bathroom door and rubbed Gwen's hair. “We all get wretched in these storms. I'd hate to hear what the horses would say if they could talk." She gave Gwen's hair a final rub and brushed it into shape with her fingers. "One thing to say for it, though, it takes you straight down to what's ailing you." She sat on the bench at the table and patted the seat beside her. "So, while Stoner makes us a fire-which I don't know why she hasn't already-what do you say you let the weight off that particular hurt?"
Stoner grabbed a load of wood and papers and got to work.
"It's just my grandmother," Gwen said. "I try not to think about it."
