The Bones of Paradise

by Jonis Agee

  Hayward shrugged and tried to act as casual as Graver, but his heart pounded. The man had never asked for help before, and with Cullen gone wherever he got to after he shot off old Higgs’s hat and acted rude at supper yesterday, he guessed it wouldn’t hurt.

  He climbed over the fence while Graver used the gate to the corral, and they stood eyeing the dozen heads that stared back and circled restlessly until the bay gelding Hayward liked stepped out of the crowd toward him. He always had to know what was going on, sticking his big nose in every kind of business. That was what Hayward liked about him and he usually carried a biscuit in his pocket as a reward. Graver watched as the bay ambled over and nuzzled him. Finally the horse took his shirt cuff in his teeth and tried to lift his hand. Hayward laughed and gave him the treat. As he chewed, he blew warm air on the side of the boy’s neck.

  “Got yourself a friend there,” Graver said, and there was no criticism in his voice so Hayward nodded and smiled at the horse. “Which horses do you think we should use?” Graver gazed at him, and Hayward straightened his shoulders and scrubbed the gelding’s face with his fist the way he liked.

  “And let’s not play any tricks on her guests. She’s got enough on her plate as it is,” Graver said as if they were just two cowboys doing a job, so it didn’t rankle. It was good Cullen was gone.

  It took him a few minutes to choose the horses and Graver didn’t grow impatient, just folded his arms and leaned back against the fence rails. There was a lot to like there, Hayward realized.

  “The gray with the striped legs for the judge. You could set off dynamite on her back and she’d mosey along. Take that tall sorrel for the lawyer, he’s gun broke, and he’ll give him a ride.”

  Graver turned to pick the lariat off the fence like he was working for Hayward now.

  “And that little black for my mother, he’s got a shuffling trot that’s easy to sit. Are we going, too?”

  Graver squinted at the house, then back at the horses, and finally let his eyes settle on him. “Be a good plan, don’t you think?”

  He took a minute to reply, like he was thinking it over the way Graver did, then gave a sharp nod and took another rope from the fence and dropped it over the bay’s head. “You can use J.B.’s chestnut. He needs the experience.”

  They had the horses saddled, pack animals fitted, rifles in their scabbards, and were leading them to the house when Frank Higgs came out of his and asked them what the Sam Hill they were doing. Graver waited for the boy to answer.

  “My mother wants to take her guests hunting,” Hayward said, shoulders squared, chin up but not too high.

  Frank glanced at Graver, the house, then back to the boy with a short nod.

  “Hold the next two hands in for skinning and dressing the meat when we get back,” Hayward said. Even Cullen wasn’t able to give orders anybody would follow. Frank tipped his hat, a grin playing happily on his face.

  As they mounted, Larson Dye from the Box LR came jogging up on a fat old spotted mare, bristling with guns.

  “Good,” he panted, “worried I’d be too late for the huntin’ trip.” The mare eyed them suspiciously, like they were the source of all her recent troubles, took a deep breath, ducked her head, and kicked out with her right hind. Larson grinned and patted her. “She loves a good chase.” The mare reached around and tried to bite his leg, but her teeth snapped harmlessly in the air.

  Hayward made a note to stay out of her way, and Larson did the right thing bringing up the rear of their cavalcade as they departed. The lawyer stopped at the fork and said he had some business to attend to in town. Hayward was happy to see him go, but Graver frowned, and he wondered what that meant. Graver naturally took the lead, and Hayward fell in beside him, just as naturally, seized by a sudden sadness that his father was gone. The moment should have been them. Then he thought about Star, the Sioux girl he’d met on the reservation, who was gone, too. He wished he knew who killed them. He and Cullen talked about it all the time. Cullen thought it was the Indians they’d argued with on the rez last fall.

  They’d been out about an hour, the sun high and distant as it headed into the afternoon, a light breeze on their faces, which was good since the game wouldn’t smell them as they came down the tall hill. In the past, he and Cullen found antelope in the washout the other side of the next hill, so he pointed in that direction.

  Behind them the judge muttered something to his mother. She replied with a single word as Graver waved for quiet and pulled out his rifle. Hayward did, too. He could hear the others do the same. His horse lifted its head, ears pricked, and filled its body, ready to whinny. He put a hand on its neck to check it, and the horse released the air in a long sigh as a turkey exploded into the air. Larson Dye’s fat mare huffed up behind Hayward, and Dye pulled the trigger so close to the bay horse it lurched sideways and bucked. Guns went off all around him, and Hayward felt the air next to him singe his cheek.

  “What the hell!” he shouted, regaining control of his horse and spinning to face the others. Graver jumped off his mount and picked up the turkey, so riddled with bullets the flesh and feathers hung off in strips. He threw it down with a disgusted noise in his throat.

  Dulcinea’s face was white and she clutched a rifle, while the two suitors checked their loads and avoided his eyes.

  Graver looked at the ground, nodded as if he’d come to an agreement with himself, mounted, and turned his horse to face the group. Hayward thought he should be doing this, but knew he couldn’t, and that brought back his bitterness.

  “This boy here has a real future ahead of him,” Graver said. “Hate to see it cut short by carelessness. Let’s take turns. Mrs. J.B. first, then Foote, and Larson, you go after that. Hayward and I will back up the shooter. That meet with your approval?” He didn’t wait for replies, just turned his horse and trotted on ahead with Hayward beside him. When they were several yards beyond the others, he asked, “You okay, son?”

  Hayward didn’t mind being that now. He wasn’t low-rating him, and he was glad Cullen wasn’t there to see Graver stand up for him.

  “Let’s head over to that washout to the right.” Hayward was proud of the way he was handling himself as Graver eased his horse in the direction he’d indicated. The boy was glad he hadn’t killed him, and he wondered if Graver knew it was him who’d shot him. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, but he couldn’t yet.

  Graver slowed his horse and stopped, sat absolutely still, as did the others. A tall, regal buck appeared, with a wide rack of antlers. He was packing good weight from the rich spring grass, his tan coat glossy in the sun. He sniffed the air, but the wind blew their scent away from him, and he lowered his head, pretending to eat as he observed them. They stood still. Then the buck grabbed a mouthful of grass and lifted his head to stare at them again and shifted his front feet as if ready to spin away.

  “Mrs. J.B.?” Graver said softly, “Dulcinea?”

  “He’s so beautiful,” she breathed, and Graver lifted his rifle in a fluid motion and fired. The deer raised up as if to leap, took a step, then collapsed.

  “Oh,” she sighed.

  Immediately the suitors complained that they should have been given the shot. Graver ignored them and rode ahead to check on the deer. It was clean through the head. A good kill. After they dressed the deer and loaded it on the packhorse, the hunters pushed toward the wash.

  All their shooting probably drove away every critter in the valley, but the buck was there, so maybe not. The judge and Larson Dye muttered complaints to one another, and Hayward smiled at the idea that they were finally getting together on something. Larson at least should have known better, but he wanted in on the thing, so he didn’t much care how he cast his vote. At least that’s what J.B. had always said about him. Another pang of regret made his stomach ache. Why didn’t he pay more attention to his father? He should’ve been learning everything there was to know about running a ranch, getting the men to listen. Instead, his father treated him like
an expensive hunting dog he let loose to roam and come to nothing. Why didn’t he send him to live with his mother if he didn’t want to raise him? Hayward didn’t know who to be madder at, him or her. Or maybe himself.

  He looked ahead at the wash, cut so deep they couldn’t see what was in there until they were on top of it. Sweetgrass had to grow there since game was always hunkered down eating, resting. Last spring the boys found a couple of cows holed up with some deer after a late blizzard, all packed in safe and sound; they looked at the boys like they were ruining the party.

  Suddenly Larson Dye’s horse squealed and there was some general thrashing behind them, but when Hayward looked back, Dye was settling his hat and smiling. He suspected there was more to that man than they knew. He must have been a hand when he was younger. Maybe J.B. underestimated him. Maybe he used that when he talked J.B. into the deal for the road between their two ranches. Turned out they had the maintenance while he only had to build it, a loose term since all he did was drive his cattle up and down a path and then put in some old fence posts to mark it. That road had been a curse on them ever since. They were out there filling and scraping and no end of things since it was only two ruts of sand and weeds.

  Hayward’s mind was so taken with the injustice it took a moment to register the movement when a bullet thudded into the hill over his mother’s head. Then a gun fired right behind them. They stopped and turned to see Larson Dye grinning happily.

  “Got him,” he announced. Dye pursed his mouth, glanced at the hill to his right, and shrugged. “Whoever it was, I think I got him.” He smiled with less certainty.

  Dulcinea stared at the hill the shot came from while Graver shook his head. The judge and Dye stood in their stirrups and scanned the grass. It was quiet. She started to speak, but Graver held up his hand. He was pretty coolheaded in light of being shot at a second time in the past two months. The boy’s mouth was dry, and he wondered if it was Cullen wanting to add to his trophies after he shot up Higgs’s hat. Graver held his rifle at his waist, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot as he moved behind them, stopping to whisper, “Stay here and protect your mother,” and set off for the lowest hill, followed by the judge and Larson Dye. In a moment they were gone. It was like the shot had cleared the air and then it got busy again with birds swooping and arguing. Little goldfinches, swallows, and a killdeer complaining as usual.

  “A silly prank,” his mother said, hesitant.

  His stomach sank at the idea of Cullen hurt out there. Maybe Graver would finish him like a broke-legged steer, or worse yet, drive away his horse and leave him to die. He lifted his reins to go find his brother.

  “I’d feel better if you stayed with me.” She kept her eyes down and it occurred to him that she was frightened.

  “Guess we better head back,” Hayward said. He couldn’t imagine what Cullen was thinking. Who was he going to shoot? He was so mad at the world, maybe anyone would do. The realization made his hands shake and his bones feel light. Kill Drum, Hayward wanted to tell him, end your misery, but he noticed that most of the time a person looked away from what really bit hard on their mind. Animals were different, you bite them, they bite you, or they run away. His mother flashed in his head, her teary face the day she climbed into the buggy, arms empty of him, because he was hanging on to her skirt, legs, feet, anything he could grab. He ripped off the little watch on the chain around her neck, and tore the collar of her traveling coat, but it did no good. He ran after that buggy for a mile until his legs gave out and he lay there in the dirt, unable to find the breath to cry anymore. He wrapped her gold chain around his wrist so tight his hand turned purple and ached something fierce. It took Frank and his father both to hold him down and unwrap it. Damn her. His father told a different version of the story the time he asked about that day. Seemed like old people couldn’t keep their memories straight.

  They were half a mile from the ranch house when they came upon Cullen riding out to meet them. Hayward looked at his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to be favoring it. He wore a fresh white shirt, was clean-shaven and bathed. Cullen glanced at the deer on the packhorse, smiled at his brother, and refused to look at or speak to their mother. “We got more company,” he said.

  “Someone shot at Mother!”

  Cullen stared at him a long moment. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “When did you get back?” Hayward asked.

  “Hour ago. Had to check on things at our ranch. Without Drum around, the men think it’s a holiday. Only half listen to Stubs, and Carter and Sergei the Russian gone missing again.” He combed his horse’s mane with his fingers. “Almost had to pistol-whip Faro Jack and Dance Smith to get them off their behinds to feed the stock. Drum will have some work to do when he gets back.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Old man’s holding court in your parlor right now though, wait till you see it! I’m heading right back to get a front row seat. You better light a fire under you, don’t want to miss this fun!” Cullen spurred his horse into a dead run, leaving them to eat his dust.

  His mother’s face was pale when Hayward glanced over, and it hit him: she was afraid of Cullen. His heart pounded. What if he lost her again? What if she got shot like J.B. and he didn’t have anyone left? He felt the surge of fear and helplessness that made him cry himself to sleep as a child. He looked at her.

  “You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you?”

  She smiled gratefully, and that was enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Didn’t know whether you’d remember me, Dulcie.”

  Tookie Edson extended her thick, muscular arm and Dulcinea gazed up into the sunburned face that looked preserved rather than aged by ranch work. At six feet, Tookie towered over the other two women and most of the men crowding the parlor. She and her twin brother, Evan, bought their place twenty years ago and built the Crooked Post 8 into a ranch equal to the Bennett holdings. Tookie, as usual, came dressed in identical attire to her brother’s: tan gabardine western trousers and jacket, white shirt, except where he wore a bolo tie with a silver slide, she tied a green silk kerchief around her thick, red, roughened neck. Her broad, honest face and watery-brown eyes peered so earnestly Dulcinea laughed and gave her a quick hug instead of shaking her hand. Her stout body pressed briefly, but long enough to experience the hard muscle-packed flesh as solid as a fence post except for the loose pillow of her breasts.

  Dulcinea caught a glimpse of Evan, holding a glass of whiskey, deep in discussion with Drum seated beside him on the sofa. She was clearly at a disadvantage here. Tookie sensed her discomfort and said, “Drum invited us to supper. We was just coming back from town, ran into Rivers and his wife, Rachel, on the way here, riding in that big brougham with Stillhart from the bank. I think that other one is his niece or daughter or something. She was in the carriage behind them—” She raised her eyebrows and smiled mischievously. They glanced at the young woman, dressed in a brown velvet gown with a scoop neckline trimmed in seed pearls, which also lined the sleeve cuffs. The dress hung on her skinny figure as if it were made for a larger woman. She stood alone in the far corner and pondered the book of Keats’s poetry Hayward had read from earlier.

  “Looks like a dry cow in spring,” Tookie drawled, crossing her arms across her broad chest and tugging on her earlobe.

  Vera had enlisted Rose to serve drinks as she hurriedly prepared enough food for the additional guests, banging pot lids and slamming pans on the stove to let them know how she felt about it. Rose kept her head down as she brought the drinks. Following her, Lily carried a platter of fry bread cut into small pieces that she offered each guest.

  “First time some of them have had Indian fry bread, I bet,” Tookie said when Rose brought her a glass of sherry and Lily stepped from behind her mother’s skirts to offer up the morsels. Tookie picked pieces one by one and placed them in the cup of her hand until she’d emptied half the plate. The little girl’s eyes grew round until she couldn’t stop from giggling and chancing a look at the
giant woman. Tookie gave her a theatrical wink and Lily laughed out loud. Rose glanced between the two and smiled.

  Cullen waved Rose off and gave the banker’s young friend a glass of whiskey. He smiled, took the book from her, and opened it casually as if thoroughly acquainted with its contents. He stopped at a page and read lines to her, his eyes overly bright, until she retrieved it and placed it on the table. He leaned close, said something, then weaved his way toward J.B.’s study, and the young woman followed without a backward glance.

  “Now what do you make of that?” Tookie asked between pieces of fry bread. She chewed with her mouth slightly open, then drained the glass of sherry.

  Dulcinea shook her head. “Did you catch her name?”

  Tookie shrugged. “You know I ain’t good at this social business, Dulcie. Evan might’ve. He has an eye on her, too. Young Cullen’s getting to be quite a ladies’ man, though. Have to give him that. Just like J.B.” She glanced at Dulcinea’s face and reddened. “Didn’t mean—”

  Dulcinea lifted her chin and smiled. “That’s okay. I know J.B. could be very charming.”

  Tookie’s eyes widened with sympathy and she awkwardly patted the other woman’s arm with a hand as big as a draft horse hoof. “You’re a good woman, Dulcinea, no matter what anyone around here thinks. I always liked you. J.B., he, well, he missed you every day of his life, well, you know.”

  Dulcie covered her hand with her own. Her arm was growing numb from the attentive patting, and she murmured, “Thank you,” when what she wanted to do was yell at the top of her lungs, Then why didn’t he stop me from leaving? Why didn’t he go get our son? As if on cue, Drum limped over, his eyes bright with contention, the heated oak of whiskey rolling off him, which surprised her. He’d always been a man who could hold his liquor. Perhaps his recent injuries had caught up with him. When he spoke, his voice was the same old Drum with not a splinter of weakness.