by Robert Greer
“Good.” He massaged one temple as if he was some how shifting the gears in his head. “Spoon really stared that Rodue fella down, didn’t he? Wonder if he knows something we don’t.”
“Got a feeling Spoon saw something in Rodue that we couldn’t.”
“My take too,” he said, adjusting his belt. “I’ve asked Ricky Peterson to do a little checkin’ up on Rodue while he’s tryin’ to figure out how the coalition should deal with Koffman and Acota. I’ve got a feelin’ Rodue knows about as much about runnin’ security for an energy exploration company as I do. My bet would be that Rodue’s no more than hired muscle.”
“Safe bet. Especially seeing how he went after Willard.”
“I’m hopin’ he took his aggressions back to Billings and Acota headquarters with him, but in case he didn’t, keep an eye out for him when you’re out workin’. I’ll let Spoon and your mom know to do the same.”
“Mom?” I asked with surprise.
“Absolutely. She’s another set of eyes, and havin’ another set of eyes focused on a problem never hurts. Besides, I’ve seen her shoot the head off more than a few rattlesnakes with that .410 of hers.” Dad smiled. “Your mom has never taken kindly to having snakes in
her midst.”
“She wouldn’t shoot Rodue,” I said, chuckling and turning to head for my pickup.
Dad’s response was both chilling and matter of fact. “She would if she had to, son.”
I knew he was right.
Deadpan, Dad said, “All’s fair in love and war, TJ, and since we’ve had ourselves a hostile action out here in our valley, I’d say we’re on the cusp of our own little war. Now, hurry on into town and get those culverts before Ranchers and Farmers United closes.”
I sprinted for my pickup and quickly headed down the half-mile gravel lane that led from our house. It was lined on both sides by a five-rail fence made of four-inch-diameter oil rigger’s pipe. I’d seen cattle trailers bounce off that fence and leave barely a dent in it, and I’d heard my mom say more than once after a truck loaded with steers had drifted off the road and into the fence that the problem was just about always with the driver and rarely with the truck. “People,” she was fond of saying, “have a hard time keeping on the straight and narrow.” As I watched our house disappear in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but think about my dad’s comments about her and smile. There was no question that she could handle a .410 better than either of us, and none whatsoever that, armed with one, she was pure death to rattlesnakes.
I waved at Spoon as I rolled slowly past the machine shop, where he stood in the doorway toweling off his hands. I wondered as I bumped toward the highway what kind of darkness he’d seen in Matt Rodue. I reminded myself to ask him as soon as I got back home.
Hardin seemed sleepier than normal when I arrived twenty-five minutes later. I suspected that most people in town were hiding from the unseasonable heat. As I waited at a stop sign at the intersection of Center Avenue and Third and watched the time and temperature display on the First Interstate Bank flash eighty-eight degrees, I found myself wondering whether twenty years down the road I’d still be riding into Hardin for supplies in a pickup with ninety-five thousand miles on it. If I’d still be breaking Willow Creek ice in the middle of the winter to open up a watering hole for livestock; if my mother and father would still be alive; if Spoon would still be around; and even if we’d still own the ranch.
Even if I finished college and went on to vet school, as my mom had always wanted, I suspected that, like my dad, I’d always be shackled to the land. Although in most ways that wouldn’t be bad, I knew there was more to the world than the fourteen thousand acres of Willow Creek Ranch, or Hardin, or even Montana.
My wanderlust had only surfaced in the past year, and it had more to do with listening to Spoon than anything else. I’d listened to him talk about where he’d been and where he was going, drinking in his travel tales and wishing they were my own. As near as I could determine, Spoon had been in nearly every state in the Union. He’d picked apples in Washington State, worked in a steel mill in Pittsburgh, and farmed in Indiana, Ohio, and Kentucky. He’d broken horses in New Mexico, repaired bridges in the Mississippi Delta, and hauled trash on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.
On those occasions when he’d had a drink or two to bolster his tales, a sadness deep inside him bubbled to the surface, and he’d end up telling stories about the 50-caliber machine gun he’d manned on the aft deck of the navy patrol boat he’d served on during Vietnam. A gun he’d affectionately called Bertha.
Spoon had been to places and seen things I could only dream of, and of late I’d begun to imagine seeing those places too. The ranch, as far as I was concerned, would always be there, massive, imposing, peaceful, and sometimes even tragic. Although I’d often wondered how I would keep it going if it ever became my responsibility, I’d never questioned whether I could.
There was only one other vehicle, a longbed dually pickup, parked in the narrow, rectangular parking lot of Ranchers and Farmers United Feed Supply when I pulled in. One of the store’s clerks, a man I knew only as Swenson, was straining to help a customer load a generator into the truck bed. I watched Swenson, perspiring and cursing, struggle with the generator as I got out of my vehicle and headed for the store. The air-conditioning
inside beat the hell out of the weak, intermittent AC in my truck, a unit my dad had been promising to repair all summer. I was enjoying the newfound comfort until I realized that the only other person in the store was Becky Walterman, the daughter of the store’s owner, likely home for a long weekend from the University of Wyoming. A lump filled my throat.
Becky and I had dated during the last two years of high school, committed to one another with the kind of bond that only first love can generate. When she’d gone off to Laramie following graduation and I’d stayed at the ranch, the bond had stretched and ultimately broken. I’d seen her only a few times since we’d amicably called it quits, and I’d had the sense that while I was marking time, Becky was moving forward.
I walked slowly toward Becky and the store’s ten-foot-long maple masterpiece of a checkout counter, which had been nicked, gouged, and smoothed to its golden tan patina by more than seventy years’ worth of use. I was hoping to find the right words to say when Becky called out cheerfully, “TJ, I bet you’re here for those culverts.”
“Sure am,” I said, thankful that she’d spoken first.
“They’re sitting out by the loading-dock doors. I’ll cash you out and get Swenson to help you load them up.” She smiled, scooted into the cramped space behind the counter, and eased her supple competitive-swimmer’s
body behind the antique cash register. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she looked. A deep summer tan highlighted her hazel-gray eyes, and her stylish, jet-black hair, shorter than I remembered her wearing it, glimmered. She’d always been a head shorter than I, but somehow, as she stood smiling behind the cash register, she seemed taller.
I reminded myself that, even dressed in faded jeans and an untucked old work shirt, I was still the lean, athletic, six-foot-two, all-state high school basketball star I’d once been. “It’s gonna be a charge,” I said.
Becky looked disappointed, as if she’d been prepared to ring up a cash sale on the register and signal once and for all that we were done. “Hear you’re headed for Missoula in January.” Retrieving the tally book her dad reserved for his long-term customers’ charges, she pulled out a charge slip. Seeing the surprised look on my face, she offered a disclaimer. “Heard it from Harriet Rankin. She’s sorta sweet on that hired man of yours, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, put on your glasses, TJ. I’ve seen the two of ’em eating here in town at the Merry Mixer restaurant twice.”
Thinking I needed to defend Spoon in order to protect him from being hurt in the same way I had been, I said, “She’s helping him search out his family roots.”
Looking unconv
inced, Becky said, “I see.” She totaled up the bill and slid the charge slip my way.
“How’d you like your first year at Wyoming?” I asked, hoping to take the edge off what had become a difficult conversation.
“Loved it. Made the swim team and the dean’s list.”
That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear about the college boy who’d beaten me out. I wanted to know what was so special about him, what he did for her that I didn’t, couldn’t, or hadn’t been able to do. But instead of asking, I methodically folded the charge slip into thirds and slipped it into my shirt pocket. “Hope you have a great sophomore year.”
“I’m looking forward to it. And I know you’ll knock ’em dead up at the U of M in January.”
I thought I saw a flash of parting sadness cross Becky’s face as I turned to leave. Perhaps it was simply a look of pity. “I’ll do my best,” I said, heading for the loading dock.
Minutes later, Swenson stood next to the skidster he’d used to load the two culverts into my pickup. Sun rays twinkled off the culverts’ galvanized metal, punctuating the fact that Mother Nature was still in charge of the thermometer. “Hot enough for you?” Swenson asked, removing his cap and wiping his brow.
“Sure is.”
“How are your ma and pa?”
“Fine.”
“Well, tell ’em I said howdy, and be sure and crank up the air in that truck of yours on the way home.” Slipping his cap back on, Swenson jumped into the skidster, grabbed a half-finished Coke off the seat, took a swig, and headed toward a shed near the back of the property.
As I stood there sweating and wondering what it would be like to load farm and ranch supplies all day long for the rest of my life, I decided that what I needed to prepare me for the uncomfortable ride home was something that would take my mind off Becky and all the wouldas and couldas I’d probably conjure up on the drive back to the ranch. A trip to Dandy Tom’s Sundry Shop and a vanilla malt seemed just about right.
Dandy Tom’s, four blocks due north of the Ranchers and Farmers United, was a place I’d frequented since before grade school. The place sold the best rock candy and malts I’d ever tasted. As I parked diagonally in front of the store, thinking about everything from ice cream to cows and what exactly college life might be like, a pickup pulled into the neighboring spot on my driver’s side. I didn’t notice the Acota logo on the door until I was nearly out of my vehicle. When Ed Koffman eased his considerable bulk out of the other truck, we nearly bumped shoulders. “Young Mr. Darley,” he said, uttering my name as if he were introducing me to someone.
The driver’s-side door opened seconds later, and the expressionless Matt Rodue stepped out. Dressed in his customary gray, he sported aviator sunglasses. To my surprise, he clutched a black Stetson in his right hand instead of his Johnny Reb cap.
Koffman broke into a broad, toothy grin. “Thought I saw one of your daddy’s pickups down at Ranchers and Farmers United.” He glanced toward the front door of Dandy Tom’s. “Got yourself a sweet tooth, I see.”
I wanted to tell him that the pickup I was driving was mine and that I’d paid for it on my own, but I thought better of it. “Figured I’d enjoy a malt on the ride home,” I said, heading for Dandy Tom’s.
Koffman nodded understandingly. “Good medicine on a scorcher like this.”
I’d reached the sidewalk when Koffman caught up with me. He sounded almost breathless. “You know, you’re heir to an awful lot of land out there at Willow Creek, TJ, and every acre’s worth its weight in gold. I’ve talked to your folks about securing your future, but frankly I haven’t gotten very far. Thought I’d talk to you on my own. Mainly because I’m not quite certain how much you share their enthusiasm for ranching.”
I glanced at Rodue, who’d begun to impatiently twirl his Stetson in his hand, then back at Koffman. All of a sudden a granny gear somewhere deep inside me overrode all my manners. “Take a hike, Koffman. And take your fucking trained ape with you.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, TJ. I wouldn’t resort to cursing and name-calling if I were you. Orneriness doesn’t become you. Your mom would be disappointed, surely.”
I don’t know where the courage I summoned up came from, or if what I saw as courage wasn’t simply foolhardiness. Wagging an index finger in Koffman’s face before tapping him twice in the chest, I said, “You won’t ever move a grain of dirt on our land. Much less any coal. Not now, not ever, and if—”
Rodue grabbed my left hand and bent it backward until I choked out a painful “Oomph.”
“You’re an arrogant smart-ass, son, and an imprudent one at that,” said Koffman. He waved Rodue off, but Rodue refused to let go. He inched my hand backward as I tried not to scream.
I was at the painful point of screaming “Please let go!” when a voice called out from a pickup that had pulled up next to us. “Let go of the boy’s hand, Rodue.”
I looked toward the street to see Spoon behind the wheel. He was leaning across the front seat and toward the open passenger window. The barrel of 20-gauge shotgun poked from the window, aimed not at Rodue, but directly at Koffman.
My fingers had gone numb when, responding to a nod from Koffman, Rodue finally let go.
“Good show,” Spoon called out as another pickup, its driver oblivious to what was happening, rolled by.
As the nose of the 20-gauge disappeared, the suddenly twitching Koffman said, “Same to you, Mr. Witherspoon. That is, if you’re into either bluffing or theatrics. Just remember this, though,” he added, glancing at Rodue. “We never bluff.”
Ignoring Koffman, Spoon said, “Get in your truck, TJ, and I’ll trail ya home.”
Rubbing my hand in an attempt to restore the circulation, I ran to my pickup. As I slipped the truck into gear, Spoon called out in as piercing and determined a voice as I had ever heard from him, “Neither do I, asshole. Neither do I.”
Fourteen
I continued to shake like someone with the DTs until Spoon and I had descended into the Willow Creek valley. A few minutes later, as we made our way down the ranch lane and home, I noticed a car parked near our house that I didn’t recognize. When I rolled down my window to get a better look, Ricky Peterson waved at me from our front yard, where he and my dad stood talking. Only then did I realize that the late-model BMW was his. “Talk to you later,” Ricky yelled as Spoon and I drove by. He and dad turned and walked toward the house.
Spoon wouldn’t tell me why he’d followed me into town or how he could possibly have known that Koffman and Rodue would be there to greet me as I left. As we walked toward the tack room and bunkhouse, I peppered him with questions. When I pressed him to tell me how on earth he’d known where I’d be in Hardin, or that I’d be in trouble, he simply said, “A mother cow knows when she’s got a calf with a problem, TJ.”
Why we didn’t go straight to my dad and tell him what had happened in town, I can’t say. Maybe it had to do with me not wanting to run to him for help like some schoolboy. I can’t speak for Spoon, but for the longest time afterward I rationalized that his silence had something to do with Ricky Peterson’s being there. Deep down, however, I knew our silence had more to do with the bond between Spoon and me: a strange blood-brothers kind of connection that had caused him to follow me into Hardin in the first place and save me from both embarrassment and harm.
As I looked around Spoon’s cramped but comfortably appointed quarters, I realized that he’d made use of nearly every one of the old saddle blankets and rugs that had been in the tack room on the day of his arrival. Weavings were draped over sawhorses, and several more rugs had been framed and hung to the walls. The rugs and saddle blankets had been mended, rewoven, or patched so that not a moth hole, tear, or corner of an unraveled edge remained visible.
“When’d you set out all the blankets and rugs?” I asked, certain they hadn’t all been on display the last time I’d visited.
“A couple of days ago,” Spoon said, beaming. “Can’t see the flaws, can ya
? Got Harriet to thank for that. She’s quite the reweaver and seamstress.”
“She sure is,” I said, examining one of the rugs. “Heard about the two of you hanging out in Hardin,” I added with a teasing grin.
The smile on Spoon’s face disappeared. “Then I expect you ain’t heard the truth.”
“Sorry,” I said, embarrassed.
“No need to be. Just never been real big on havin’ what’s private between two people fanned by rumors.” The look on Spoon’s face softened. “Now, why don’t you tell me what it was you said to Koffman and Rodue that caused you to end up in that Chinese hand clasp.”
“I sorta told Koffman to shove off after he rubbed me the wrong way. Nudged him a little, too, but only with one finger.”
Spoon laughed. “Sounds to me like you disturbed the man’s space. It’s a wonder he didn’t call the sheriff on the spot and charge you with assault.”
“When all’s said and done, he might. After all, you did point a shotgun at him.”
“And I’da used it if I had to.”
“Think we should tell my dad?”
“Soon enough,” said Spoon. “I’m thinkin’ that right now he’s got enough on his plate. No need loadin’ him down no more.”
“Okay, but you know how he and my mom hate being left out of the loop.”
“They’ll be inside the whole wide-arcin’ circle soon enough, and so will that Rodue fellow and Koffman.” Spoon’s tone had an ominous air of certainty that briefly unsettled me.
“Rodue sure drifted in outta the blue. Where do you think he came from?”
“Don’t know,” Spoon said, kneeling and inspecting one of the rugs on the floor. “But I’ve got Harriet checkin’ up on him.” He tugged at the edge of the rug. “I’m sure she’ll do her usual thorough job.”
We talked a while longer. Not about Rodue or the fact that Rodue now had both Ricky Peterson and Harriet investigating him, or even about ranching or coalitions, but about where I saw myself going in life. When I told Spoon I wasn’t certain about the direction I’d take, he chuckled and said, “It’ll find you when you’re out there on a ledge all by your lonesome. An upslope wind usually does.”
