There’s nothing Lee can think of that might mark the southwest corner of the square. How, he wonders, did the Perry cowboys know where to turn east in what would have been unfenced, wide-open prairie? And then he remembers the railway tracks and how they would have been right where they are now, and he decides to go south until he sees the tracks running parallel to the Number One Highway, and then change direction for the last time. There’s a picnic grounds in a shady spot just north of the highway. If he can find it, he’ll stop there and rest the horse again before the last leg of the ride. That’s how he’s thinking of it now: the hundred-mile ride.
He’s in community pasture again, and to the east he can see a herd of maybe four hundred cows and calves stretched out over the land, the way the buffalo would have grazed in the past. The horse doesn’t seem bothered by the cattle, although he has his ears forward and is obviously curious. He’s not the kind of horse that Lee would expect to have much experience with cattle.
The bulls are still in with the cows and he can see one lying off by himself in the sun, his sizable head and shoulders giving him away. Lee remembers a story Lester told him about the days of the old cattle ranches, and how thousands of cattle died one winter when the snow and ice came, storm after storm, and the ranch hands couldn’t do a thing to help the herds. He imagines what the prairie looked and smelled like in the spring with dead cattle everywhere. Those storms had marked the end of an era.
Lee hears the whinny of a horse behind him. The Arab’s ears rotate and his head goes up and he answers. Lee looks back and sees a small herd coming toward them, heads high, led by a big bay with a white blaze. As they get closer the bay breaks into a lope and the others follow. Eight of them, Lee counts, heading straight for him. The little herd is picking up speed, the bay tossing his head, and when they reach Lee they split and pass him on either side, the bay kicking out in their direction, and then they’re all off in a gallop through the pasture, good-looking ranch horses, six sorrels and the bay and a blue roan. At first Lee tries to hold his horse back, but then he lets him go. The horse, with some memory of the wild in his genes, instinctively runs with the herd, not toward a particular place, but away, running from something without knowing what it is, wanting to take his cue from horses rather than the man on his back. And then Lee feels a surge and the grey horse surprises him by trying to get out in front of the bay. He wants to be in front, Lee thinks, the little bugger wants to lead rather than follow, and Lee feels his heart pounding with the excitement of it, holds on to his hat to keep it from blowing off, exhilarated by the feel of letting go and the power of the horse, ears flat back, at full gallop beneath him. And they run for a mile before the bay slows and the Arab does get out front, and the bay splits off to the east and his little band follows him.
Lee gets the Arab pulled into a circle and slowed up and then stopped, the two of them panting at the lip of a cactus-covered drop down into another coulee. Lee can see the railway tracks and the highway off in the distance, the trucks and summer RVs passing like Dinky Toys. He’s now at the southern end of the square, he realizes, three-quarters of the way around; just one leg to go and he’ll have done the whole hundred. The horse is lathered as they move forward again, and content now to walk. Both horse and man welcome the cooler air as they amble down into the shade of the picnic spot.
The picnic grounds are neat with the garbage cleaned up and wood carefully stacked for the two barbecue pits, although the tables that were once painted red are now the grey colour of weather-worn pine boards. Someone has taken a sweep with a mower through the open space along the bank of a shallow, slow-moving stream and several decent-sized poplars provide shade for the picnic area. There are no cars. No people. It’s quiet. The coulee is far enough off the highway that you can barely hear the traffic once you’re down in the trees. The horse heads for the water and splashes with his nose before drinking.
A rapping sound behind Lee makes him twist in the saddle to find the source. There’s Blaine Dolson’s oldest boy, sitting at one of the picnic tables, rapping his knuckles on the surface as though he’s trying to get Lee’s attention. Lee wonders why he didn’t notice him when he rode into the picnic grounds. Perhaps he was lying in the grass.
“What’re you doing here?” Lee asks the boy.
“Just out for a walk,” says the boy.
“That’s a long walk from home.”
The boy doesn’t answer.
“Which one are you anyway?” Lee asks. “I get you Dolson kids all mixed up.”
“Shiloh,” he says. “The oldest.”
“I knew you were the oldest,” Lee says. “I just couldn’t remember your name. But Shiloh. Sure, I remember now.”
“Your horse looks pretty hot,” the kid says, getting up from the picnic table and wandering over. “You better cool him down before you let him drink.”
“I figure he knows what’s best for himself,” Lee says.
The horse lifts his head from the water and turns to look at the stranger who’s appeared out of nowhere. Lee dismounts, carefully putting his weight on first one leg and then the other, and uncinches the saddle and lifts it off. He turns it upside down on the ground and lays the sweaty pad out to dry. Then he leads the horse into the creek and lets him drop and roll in the shallow water. He stands again and shakes himself, and Lee gets soaked. The splash of water feels good, like being under a garden sprinkler on a hot day. The boy follows as Lee leads the horse to the grass near the picnic tables. Lee is limping, walking like an old man, even though he tries to cover it up. His hip joints don’t seem to engage properly.
“What’s wrong with you anyway?” Shiloh asks.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Lee says. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.” He notices the boy’s backpack on one of the tables. “Don’t suppose you have any food in that backpack?”
“Cookies,” Shiloh says.
“Haul them out of there, then,” Lee says.
Shiloh gets out the bag of Oreos. “There might be a few crumbs left,” he says, handing Lee the bag.
Lee fishes in the bottom for a couple of half-pieces of cookie and a handful of crumbs. He’s starving, and realizes that the lunch he had at the Varga place is long used up. He finishes what’s left and then tosses the bag into the nearest barbecue pit.
Shiloh says, “I didn’t know you had a horse over at your place.”
“This one’s not likely going to stay,” Lee says. “It’s a long story, but he belongs to someone else. You could say he’s on loan for a couple of days.”
“Handy with cattle, do you think?”
“Not likely,” Lee says. “But you never know.”
“So how far’d you come on him?” Shiloh asks.
“Long enough that I’m going to wish I had my own personal masseuse by the time I get home. Or a hot tub, maybe.”
Lee looks past Shiloh and sees a pair of outhouses in the trees across the trail from the picnic tables. He hands Shiloh the reins while he goes to relieve himself in comfort— well, not exactly comfort because the smell is powerful, the flies are thick and there are two wasps buzzing in and out of the quarter moon that is cut in the door marked hombres. While he’s got his pants unzipped he decides to lower them so that he can see the damage done to his calves. His jeans stick to the skin rubbed raw and he has to peel them away to see the abrasions. There’s no skin left in weeping patches on the inside of each calf around the tops of his boots. Two more raw spots blossom under his seat bones. Astrid always said he didn’t have enough meat on him. A little extra padding would have helped. He gingerly pulls his pants back up, thinking about a pleasurable soak in the big old clawfoot, but also the sting of water on a fresh wound.
When Lee steps back outside, he sees that Shiloh has taken the horse over to a patch of long grass near the entrance to the picnic grounds. He’s let the bit drop down and behind the horse’s chin so he can graze properly.
“You okay there?” Lee calls. “Because I wouldn’t
mind stretching out for a few minutes.”
“We’re good,” Shiloh calls back.
Lee looks around for a water tap and sees one near the picnic tables. He has a long drink, and then lets the ice-cold water run over his head and neck. Once he’s cooled off, he lies on his back on top of a table. He puts George’s hat over his face to block out the light, but then he has to take it off again because of the smell. He can hear birds in the trees and the faint sound of traffic from the highway. He drops off, even though he doesn’t mean to.
When he wakes up he can’t see Shiloh and the horse. He notices that the saddle and pad are gone. The boy’s backpack is gone too. It doesn’t register at first, and then he realizes Shiloh has taken the horse.
“Well, Jesus Christ anyway,” Lee says, and hurries up to the top of the coulee.
He’s just in time to see the rodeo. Shiloh’s trying to get on the horse, but the horse keeps stepping sideways and snaking around so that he’s facing the boy. Shiloh tries again and this time he gets a foot in the stirrup and is about to hop into the saddle when the horse moves his hip away once more, and Shiloh is dragged around in a tight circle, hopping on one foot until he can get the other out of the stirrup and back on the ground. Lee can see from the horse’s ears that he’s none too happy about this new development. Lee is about to shout a warning when suddenly Shiloh gives up on the stirrup, grabs hold of the horn and vaults, gymnast-style, from the ground into the saddle. The horse stands for a second and then—before Shiloh can get himself organized—jerks the reins out of his hands, gets his head down and bucks like a Calgary bronc.
Lee can’t believe that Shiloh survives the first buck, but he does, and then the kid gets his legs under himself and rides the horse, for a few seconds at least. The fourth buck launches him, and Lee holds his breath and waits for Shiloh to hit the dirt, hoping that he doesn’t come down on the saddle horn or land on his head like Pete Varga in the graveyard—and thinking about the horse too, whether he’ll be able to catch the animal if he runs off, and how pissed he’ll be at this god damned kid if the horse does run off. And then thud, Shiloh is on the ground. Lee can almost hear the air leaving the kid’s lungs. He’s lying on the ground, not moving, his backpack underneath him, but hanging on to the reins with a death grip. Not that the horse is trying to go anywhere. As soon as he’s rid of the upstart rider, he drops his head and rips at the dry grass.
Lee runs. He forgets about his burns and blisters and runs for the kid, who is now gasping, his eyes wide, trying to suck air into his lungs.
When Lee reaches him, he kneels down and pries the reins out of Shiloh’s hand, saying, “Relax. Relax and breathe. You just got the wind knocked out of you.”
The boy struggles to breathe, nothing, nothing, panic in his eyes, but finally he draws a breath and then another, and Lee sits down in the grass beside him. The boy’s breathing is getting closer and closer to normal.
“Are you hurt?” Lee asks.
Shiloh lifts his arms, and then moves his legs. Everything seems to be working.
“Just my pride,” he says, and then Lee starts to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Shiloh asks, sitting up now, anger quick to surface.
“Come on,” Lee says. “You were trying to steal my horse and you got bucked off. It’s right out of Roy Rogers. If anyone tried to steal Trigger, he sure as hell got himself bucked off. I wouldn’t be laughing if you’d busted anything, but you’ll live. Hey, you lasted a few seconds there. Didn’t make the bell but you did all right. You’ll make a cowboy.”
Shiloh doesn’t say anything then, just drops his head and stares at the ground.
“So what are you doing out here?” Lee asks. “And don’t tell me you went for a walk.”
“I hitchhiked,” Shiloh says. “Got picked up by a couple of freaks who were supposed to take me to Calgary but they went and dropped me in the ditch. Anyway, they did me a favour. I don’t know anyone in Calgary.”
“So how are you getting home?”
“Walk, I guess.”
Lee stands up and brushes the dust off the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s get going, then,” he says.
He throws the reins over the horse’s neck and steps up into the saddle, then holds out his hand to Shiloh. “Here,” he says. “Neither one of us has much weight for him to carry.”
“No way,” says Shiloh. “I’m not getting on that crazy animal.”
“Come on,” Lee says. “He’s had his say. He’ll be fine now.”
Shiloh looks skeptical but he takes Lee’s hand and Lee lifts him up behind the saddle. The horse steps sideways and tosses his head, but then he walks off as though this is just another part of the job he somehow inherited by wandering into Lee’s yard.
“So have you ever heard of Ivan Dodge?” Lee asks. The hot sun is now behind them and it’s a relief not to be heading into it.
“No,” Shiloh says. “Should I have?”
Lee reaches into his pocket and pulls out the old watch. “This could be his pocket watch,” he says. He knows it’s probably not, but it belonged to some old-time cowboy. He tells Shiloh the story of the hundred-mile race and he makes up a part about Ivan losing his watch and how Lee found it, the very watch, in a coulee. When he’s done telling it as best he can remember he puts the watch back in his pocket.
“Is that it?” asks Shiloh.
“Well, it’s a pretty good story, don’t you think?”
To the north, they see another small herd of cattle. About twenty cows and calves are spread along the flat, most of the calves stretched out in the late-afternoon sun. Lee and Shiloh notice a coyote that is sitting in the grass watching the cows. He turns his attention to horse and riders briefly, but decides they’re far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry about them. He settles on one cow that is grazing on the edge of the small herd, her calf asleep in the grass nearby. The coyote stands, shakes himself nonchalantly and then approaches the sleeping calf. When he gets too close for the cow’s comfort, she takes a run at him. The coyote backs off, sits and gives himself a scratch behind one ear, and then approaches again. Once more the cow runs him off.
“Cheeky bugger,” Lee says.
He stops the horse and they watch as the coyote approaches the sleeping calf several more times, and each time is chased off by the cow. Finally the coyote decides he’s had enough and he moves off to the north and disappears.
“He knew all along he wasn’t going to get close to that calf,” Lee says. “He was just having fun.”
He asks Shiloh if he’s good for a jog.
“Whatever,” Shiloh says. “I’m in no hurry.”
“We might as well get home before tomorrow,” Lee says.
He urges the horse up into a trot and the animal pricks his ears forward as they head eastward, and then breaks into an easy lope. Lee can feel Shiloh immediately find the horse’s rhythm. The kid can ride, Lee thinks. If the horse hadn’t caught him off guard, maybe he could have rode through the buck, and then what would have happened? Lee would be walking the last leg of the hundred miles, just like the old Perry cowboy, the one who lost the race.
They’re silent for a long time and the horse slows up to give himself a rest and Shiloh says to Lee’s back, “My dad says you’re lucky.”
Without stopping to think, Lee asks, “How’s that?”
“How you got all that land, all paid for.”
Lee isn’t sure how to respond, how much Shiloh knows about Blaine and Vicki’s situation. At the same time, Lee is on the defensive, wondering what Blaine has said about him, his private business.
“It was passed on to me, just like Blaine’s land was.”
“Yeah, but it’s different,” Shiloh says.
Lee lets it go. It is different, and compared to Blaine he is lucky. He wouldn’t let anyone get away with calling Lester lucky. Everything Lester had was earned through hard work and frugality. As for himself . . . he agrees. So far, just lucky.
“My dad’
s going to buy another herd of cows, you know,” Shiloh says. “That’s why he’s working construction. Maybe this fall.”
“Good,” says Lee. “I hope that works out for him.” He feels bad for the kid. An idea comes to him. “You ever have a 4-H calf?” he asks.
“Course,” says Shiloh.
“I could use a hand once in a while, there on my own,” Lee says. “You want another calf, you could earn one by helping me out. Few hours on a Saturday here and there, maybe after school. When your dad doesn’t need you at home, that is. Think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Shiloh says. “But we’re pretty busy at our place. I might not have time.” Then he says, “You can drop me near town, I guess. When we get there.”
“I could drive you home from my place,” Lee offers.
“I’ll walk from town,” says Shiloh.
A dust devil blows across the prairie, carrying dirt and sand into their path. Lee automatically closes his eyes. When he opens them again he thinks he can see Juliet in the distance, but it’s just a mirage.
Handyman
Norval is sitting on the bottom step in the church basement, and Joe is standing at the top of the stairs looking down at him, obviously perplexed. When Norval tries to stand he realizes that one foot has gone completely to sleep and it crumples—the oddest sensation, no feeling at all, as though his foot has been amputated—and he has to put a hand to the wall to keep from falling over.
“What are you doing down there, Norval?” Joe asks, and Norval mumbles something about resting his feet.
He takes his hand away from the wall and brushes off his khaki pants, and now he can feel the pins and needles as his foot comes back to life, and he realizes that even with the foot awake, he has the sensation that he is floating.
“Is that your new lawn mower out there?” Joe asks. His deep voice booms down the stairwell.
Norval nods and manages to say that he just picked it up at the hardware store.
“We could use a new one here at the church,” Joe says.
Norval lifts his foot and rubs his ankle, floating on one leg now, and says that Joe can have his old one if he wants to fix it up, and if it’s better than the old one he already has. They talk about lawn mowers—gas versus electric, whether a riding mower is really necessary for anyone with a small property—while Joe stands at the top of the stairs and Norval floats around at the bottom, like a man in a life raft.
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