by Annie Proulx
Mrs. Freeze, red-faced and quiet, sat with her back to the bar drinking whiskey, her legs stretched out, watching the table action.
Haul looked over a few times, said, “Them’s a pair a spurs you don’t see ever day. Lady, you think about sellin them I’d want a buy. Go good at the Galaxy, the comets and stars and all.”
Mrs. Freeze snorted. “They come from there, from when Muddyman had it. Not for goddamn sale.”
John Wrench, short and stocky, so close-shaved his face seemed polished, said in his deep voice, “She got em at the auction. The auctioneer says, What’ll you give me for this box a old rope? Them spurs was way down in there and she says two dollars and she got it all. What’d you do with that rope, Mrs. F., stuff a pillow?”
“Stuff your ass,” said Mrs. Freeze.
She put out one foot and wagged it to see the light play over the comet. She drank her whiskey, left at ten-thirty to catch what she said was some beauty sleep.
Haul said, “She’s a piece a work, ain’t she?”
“Top hand. Kept Car Scrope’s Pot cookin for years.”
“Tough as they come and good as a man.”
“Three little girls from Sheridan,” sang John Wrench softly, chalking a cue and handing it to the short-shanked girl with him, a tourist in red boots, “Drinking beer and wine, One said to the other one, Your ass twict as big as mine.” He looked at the balls on the table and said, “Look what that fuckin Texas man done left us.”
“Mrs. Freeze, now,” said the old range cootie, Ray Seed, “what, must be almost thirty years ago I worked on the Double Eight, she was the cook. We was in the middle a shippin cattle and terrible shorthanded. Boss man says to her, you ride a horse? She threw down that apron, pulled on a pair a boots and been lookin at the world through a pair a horse’s ears ever since.”
“Mr. Freeze around them days?”
“Nope.”
“Oh my, oh my, I do like em slender and tender,” John Wrench said, patting Red Boots on her pockets.
“Like Car Scrope’s wife? Car must a been pretty faded let you pick that little apple off his tree.”
“We ain’t goin a talk about that. And don’t say nothin else unless you are ready for a new set a teeth. I’ll crawl all over you.” Finally he had gone out to Scrope’s place. Car told him how much he wished John had been in his truck the frothy night he had ventilated it; John said he wished he had, too, that what he’d done was nothing beyond a reflexive deed; Scrope said I know it, and they drank until it was clear that Jeri had caused the trouble and all the sad consequences.
“Well, excuse me all to hell. Cole, draw me another, will you? I’m goin a fight John I might as well have some a that liquid bobwire first.”
Ray Seed wasn’t ready to move off his subject. “Mrs. Freeze, now, there was a few tried to make up to her back then. She kept a bullwhip handy and she’d crack it around. Course she was never much to look at so she wasn’t troubled too much. She had some kind a fever once made all her hair fall out. I don’t think there ever was no Mr. Freeze.”
“Maybe she’s one a them tongue-and-groove women.”
“No. She got as much use for the females as she does for the men. What she likes is cows and horses. She growed up in North Dakota. Seven girls in the family. They could ride and rope and ranch, ever one a them.”
John Wrench wedged into a corner with Red Boots and the bar talk turned to one-legged Don Clow who had backed his truck over a cliff on a dark night while navigating by flashlight and accidentally shot himself on the way to the ground, probably a good thing he only had one leg now, keep him out of trouble, a fellow as irresponsible for his personal health as he was. And look at Car Scrope, filled with medical metal, another example of self-ruin. It was good to have an audience that hadn’t heard the local history.
MRS. FREEZEMOVESFIVEMILESOFF
They were in the stock truck, one Angus and two Hereford bulls in back, the comet spurs on Mrs. Freeze’s small boots catching at the floor mat. She swore under her breath, eased the truck into the ruts leading to the upper pastures. The wind bounced a tumbleweed over the hood. Two redtails cruised the high thermals.
“What a you think then,” said Scrope, chewing a strip of antelope jerky. “Them Texas boys say a few words about what Mr. T.V. Fane is goin a do over there? He ain’t come by to say his howdys or nothin like it. You suppose he wears them wax ears in daylight?” He looked at her boots.
“Lives in California, just comes out here now and then. What a you hear from Muddyman?” The back of the truck shook. “Damn bulls.” She stepped suddenly on the brake, sent the fighting animals lurching and staggering to keep their feet, sexual rivalry set aside in favor of personal balance. The truck ground forward. “He say how he liked it out there?”
“Sent me a e-mail on the computer. Said he should a moved a Oregon twenty years ago. No wind, plenty a rain, nice neighbors for a change, grass to yer ass and good-lookin women, by which I take him to mean he got one picked out. Old Inez must be a-rollin.” He shifted closer to Mrs. Freeze, already pressed against the door.
“Youwas pretty crazy about her there for a while.”
“Yeah. Poor old bowlegged Inez. I don’t know what it was. I admit it, I was hot. But it passed over when she did. I come to realize that what counts is you and me, I mean, how we been together through thick and thin for quite a few years.” He edged west again and all at once threw his rank and heavy arm over Mrs. Freeze’s shoulders. “I think a good deal of you, Mrs. F.,” he said, puffing humid breath.
Mrs. Freeze drove her elbow into his ribs. “Goddamn, get over, will you, you got me half out a the truck.”
Scrope moved less than an inch, reluctantly and slowly.
“All right,you drive, then,” said Mrs. Freeze, putting on the brake and getting out, going around to the passenger side. “I don’t like bein crowded, Car.” She didn’t get in until Scrope was behind the wheel. “I’m ridin out after we get these bulls scattered. Cody Joe and me’s got fence work out in the hoodoos. When Mr. Fane comes by you ought a ride the line. These Texas boys is shy about the fence so far.”
“Fence? I’m comin with you,” said Scrope, shifting into second. “Fence work is what I need. Benny was here I’d get at the paper but he ain’t been in this week.”
“They got him in jail for burglary,” said Mrs. Freeze. “Robbin the cigarette machine at Higgins.” She put down the passenger window and the wind banged through like a plank.
They rolled into the yard in eddies of dust. Cody Joe Bibby sat on the porch steps, a length of binder twine in his hand, dazed and uncomprehending.
“Tell you what, this got a be the most fucked-up ranch operation in Wyomin. I’m gettin sick a this,” Scrope said.
Mrs. Freeze said, “He don’t look good for fencin. I better take him home.”
She was back in forty minutes, two empty beer bottles rolling on the pickup floor, an inch out of the whiskey bottle under the seat. This day was slow in getting to its end.
“Wife says he’s gettin worse.”
“If we get real shorthanded—” said Scrope. “Damn it to hell and back again.”
“Have to wait and see.” Mrs. Freeze threw rolls of wire into the truck, glanced at the wind-scratched sky. “Weather comin.”
“What else?” said Scrope. “I got a take me some aspirin.”
Up in the red hoodoos Scrope leaned too close. He’d torn his hands on barbwire. The aspirin was useless. His veins and arteries pulsed.
“Hey” he said, his voice slurred and heavy, “why don’t we—?” and mumbled.
“What? What did you say to me?” Mrs. Freeze stood away from the fence, the dry, set face reddening. Wind jerked the ragends of her torn jacket.
“Come on,” Scrope said. “Come on, now.” He stretched out his bloodied hand.
“Keep off from me.” Mrs. Freeze jumped back, comet spurs ringing once, her whole body giving off dangerous rays. “There isn’t no fella on this earth goin a put no
moves on me. I’ll kill you flat dead.” She backed to her horse, gathered the reins.
“Aw, now. It ain’t—don’t you run out on me, Mrs. F.,” said Scrope, “or I’ll fire your ass. You don’t need a blow up and throw a fit. Just hold on a minute,” but he groaned and rubbed his thighs with both hands when the jinglebobs sounded, angled toward the woman who, one foot in a stirrup, swung into the saddle, turned to look and saw satyr-faced Scrope glaring crazily point of his tongue thrusting into the blond mustache.
“I quit!” shouted Mrs. Freeze and took off for the ranch.
“You’re fired,” answered Scrope in agony.
In her trailer house Mrs. Freeze belted down a good drink, telephoned Haul Smith, hearing the wind over at the Galaxy whistling in Smith’s cell phone.
“Hey, Mrs. Freeze. You sound a little hot. Hope we don’t got my horses busted through. Been meanin a get in touch with you, work out somethin on that fence.”
“Callin to see you got a openin. You said somethin the other week about hirin local help? I been here over twenty goddamn years. Time to get out.”
Haul sounded doubtful.
“Well, I don’t know. Never had a woman work for me.”
“You ain’t spent much time in Wyomin. Half the hands is women nowadays and not paid near as good as the men.”
“Matter a fact I couldn’t offer you much. And I’ll say it, you’re considerable older than the rest a the boys. And I don’t know how they’d take to it anyway. Oh, I know you got a good name for bein a hand, I’m bringin up the arguments.”
There was an eloquent silence.
“On theother hand Mr. Fane’s been talkin about buffalo. If you feel a callin for buffalo.” He droned on. “Maybe work somethin out there. I’m losin two a the boys, goin on one a them damn historic cattle drive things they got worked up, drive longhorns through the traffic and sell rawhide hair ribbons. I got a ask why you want a leave a job where you been for all those years.” The wind between them whistled like a bird.
“I can’t take that son of a bitch Scrope no more. Man’s crazy. Buffalo? Hell, I dream about em.”
“I had some unusual dreams myself over the years but buffalos has figured in damn few. Make you a deal. And it’s goin a cost you. I want them comet spurs. I went down and seen that ponytail freak but he said those’re the only comets he ever will make. Seemed to enjoy sayin no. Told me Muddyman paid three hundred for them babies and I know you got em for nothin so I’ll swap you for a job buildin up Mr. Fane’s nonexistent buffalo herd. Think about it, give me a call.”
“I don’t need a think about it,” said Mrs. Freeze. She dropped the cap of the whiskey bottle, kicked it under the chair. She didn’t need that either.
Car Scrope again, pulled up beside her truck, watching her shove boxes into it. He ached all over, felt the metal plates straining against his skin, the screws pulling out of his bones. He slammed the truck door.
“Mrs. F., I don’t know. Don’t know what’s eatin at me. Somethin come over me. Hell, you been workin for me forever, never thought nothin about you that way, know what I mean? Hey you’re old enough almost a be my grandmother. I rather eat rat jelly than—”
But he was edging closer and Mrs. Freeze saw his trick and the red-flushed neck swelled like that of an elk in mating season, the face beaded with desperate sweat. Scrope was getting close enough to jump. Mrs. Freeze dropped the box she was carrying and took up the shovel leaning against the trailer. “Get the fuck away from me, Car Scrope.”
Scrope touched his forehead delicately with his fingertips, said, “My goddamn brains is blowin up,” and stumbled toward the house. A little later Mrs. Freeze heard a cry and crashing sounds from the kitchen. It sounded as though the dish cupboard had gone over. She leaned the shovel against the wall.
Then Scrope came once more to the house trailer, nearly emptied of Mrs. Freeze’s meagre belongings, raised his shotgun and said, “You are not sayin no to me about nothin. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week—”
The shovel shot forward as though a javelin, struck Scrope’s shoulder and the shotgun fell clattering. Mrs. Freeze jumped for it. Her thumb lay on the safety. She looked at Scrope with hard, bright eyes.
“Don’t say nothin about a headache, Car, or I’ll sure fix it for you. You are all messed up. You get on away from me. I’m gone you can come and get your gun. I’ll lay it on the bunk.”
Scrope threw one hand out in a furious gesture, went to the cab of his truck where he sat with the door open, watched Mrs. Freeze load her horse.
Everybody left him. Jeri had taken with her the soft heat of morning, the faint scream of her heels sliding up the sheet, thighs falling open for him like a book to the wet crease, her purple-red nail drawing along his belly from sex to nipple, and afterwards in the shining kitchen the wheat cereal smacking in the pot like a hungry dog, like John Wrench’s sap-sticky talley-whacker slapping into Jeri and there he was back at the same damn corner. He couldn’t bear the loneliness but the place had its claim on him and there was no leaving unless through his brother’s door.
“What the fuck do you know about nothin, you sanctimonious dried-up old shit of a bitch? Get the hell off my place!” he shouted at the old woman’s horse trailer, now dwindling south.
DEEPWATERS
The snowpack began to melt rapidly the second week in June, a blaze of hot temperatures into the nineties, and while Scrope’s hat felt like a plugged-in hot plate on his head, the terrible headaches evaporated when Mrs. Freeze left. He’d carried eighteen empty whiskey bottles out of the trailer, and guessed there might be a thousand underneath it with the rattlesnakes. By the weekend water coursed over the tile-hard ground in sheets, creeks swelled to the size of rivers, and heavy mudslides choked roads. It was then, when he was desperately short of help, that Haul Smith telephoned and said he wanted to see what his share of the fence work amounted to, he’d be over in the morning.
On the Galaxy Ranch Mrs. Freeze listened to the bison specialist from the university drone on. He said in his dull, faint voice, larynx damaged in a childhood snowmobile accident, “That right, Mr. Fane wants to keep on with the cutting horse operationand run bison?” It was hard to believe he cared one way or another.
“What he says.”
“It’s a good move to go to bison, twice the profit, half the work. Labor costs are low because they only need a third a the feed the cow does. Rustle their own grass right through the snow, bring a beautiful $2.35 a pound. However. They need room. Big room. Which you don’t got.” His eyes roved over the bitten grass, the stamped dirt, pulling the distance close with a longsighted squint.
Haul Smith, beard like yellow foam, rode up on his roan gelding, a Texan beast with delusions of grandeur. “Mrs. Freeze, you got any messages for your old boss? On my way over there check that fence with him.” The gelding danced crazily and Smith encouraged him, the comet spurs flashing.
“No.” She spit. “Just watch out. He’s a pisser.”
“Ah, he’s all right. He sounds all right,” and he rode north toward the castellated hoodoo skyline.
At noon the specialist fanned his boiled-beet face with his hat, said yes to a cold one. They went into the kitchen where Janey was scraping carrots.
“This is some terrible heat for June,” she said. “Haul with you? Car Scrope’s called about five times wonderin where he’s at.”
“Ah, shit,” said Mrs. Freeze.
“Last time he called he was real mad, said Haul could have the whole fence if he wanted a play games.”
