by Neil Mcmahon
Stockmen tended to be tough but good-natured and easygoing. But Doug was one of those guys who had to turn everything into a contest and come out the winner. That was probably why he was foreman. I'd heard he'd once been a pretty good bull rider, but he was thirty-five or so now, and like a lot of ex-jocks, he didn't like being over the hill. He didn't like me much, either. That had been simmering since I'd started working here.
Doug drove with that same aggressiveness, so his speed was no surprise. He came charging head-on like we were playing chicken, finally slamming on his brakes and ending up with his bumper barely a foot from mine. He jumped out and stomped toward me, shoving his Resistol cowboy hat back on his head. He was built like a badger, thick and powerful, with a bristling black mustache and a red meaty face.
"You cut that engine and stay put," he half yelled. "Mr. Balcomb wants to talk to you."
I didn't have any clear take on Laurie Balcomb's husband, Wesley. The word was that he'd made a fortune from the stock market in New York, or oil in Texas, or merchandising on the west coast, or a dozen other ways, depending on who you listened to. The one thing that seemed certain was that he didn't know anything about ranching. In spite of that, he was making sweeping changes on the place. By most accounts, he was pleasant and treated his employees well. Not all agreed, or cared for the direction the Pettyjohn Ranch was going in.
Like Laurie until today, he'd never spoken directly to my crew or me. All his instructions about our work got communicated through intermediaries. I didn't exactly fault him for that, but while it was easy to understand how a woman wouldn't feel comfortable coming on friendly to a construction gang, most men would at least say hello to other men working on their property.
The fact that Balcomb suddenly wanted to talk, plus Doug's acting over the top even for him, was a big red flag.
I cut the pickup's engine, thinking that might calm him down some.
"What's this about, Doug?" I said.
"You fucked up, is what." He looked sullenly pleased.
"I did? Balcomb told you that?"
"Mister Balcomb."
"Fucked up how?"
"You can ask him."
I almost said, Let's you and me go take a look at what I just found in that dump.
But I caught myself. The last few minutes had been time enough for me to go from being shocked to spooked. That smell was still strong in my nostrils, along with the sight of those gaping wounds and ripped-open bellies. I couldn't imagine who had done it or why, but I was damned sure going to be careful about getting on their radar.
I scanned the horizon. I could see at least a mile across the flat hay fields and pastures, but no more dust clouds were disturbing the hazy blue sky. I'd heard that Balcomb had a habit of making people wait for him-a power statement among businessmen, like hesitating before accepting a handshake. I decided it was my out.
"How long's he going to take?" I said.
"As long as he takes."
"Look, I've been busting my ass all week. I'm hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I'm not going to sit here until he decides to sashay on down."
Doug's face took on a knowing look. "He said you'd try to get away. Don't even think about it."
"Get away from what, for Christ's sake? I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to have done."
He snorted. "Nobody's believing you anymore."
On top of being scared, I was starting to get seriously pissed.
"Tell him I'll see him Monday," I said. "If he's in a big hurry, I'll be at O'Toole's. I'll even buy him a beer."
"Don't you start your smart-ass shit with me." Doug shoved a pointed forefinger at me through my open truck window.
That jacked up my touchiness level another big notch, partly because my left eyeball was sitting on a piece of plastic.
"You better step back," I said. "Unless you want your foot run over." I reached for the ignition keys to restart the truck.
"You ain't going nowhere, goddamn it!" His hand jumped through the window again, and this time he grabbed my collar.
I jerked up on the door handle and drove the door open with my shoulder, slamming it into him and tearing his grip loose from my shirt. When my feet hit ground, they slipped on the hard pebbly surface and I almost went down. Doug was already coming at me, low and dangerous, like he was going to throw a steer. I had a couple of inches in height on him, but we were about the same weight and he had a formidable compact strength. I knew that if he got hold of me, that was it.
His windmilling right fist caught me just below the heart, close to a spot where a couple of my ribs had once been broken. I felt sparks pop in my head and caught that tongue-touching-a-battery taste in my mouth of being on the edge of knocked out. It hadn't happened for years, but the memory was right there. His left hand came clawing in, trying to grab my shirt again. I blocked it with my forearm and managed to stick a short left onto the point of his nose. It only stung him, but it slowed him down long enough for me to jump back and get some range.
I slammed my left into his nose again, this time with power. It was the kind of shot that could blind a man with pain, and would have taken the fight out of many. Doug's breath exploded in a grunt, but he kept coming, blundering forward with his forearms covering his face.
I spun to his left and looped around with a hook that caught him square on the ear. It knocked him stumbling across the uneven ground.
"That's enough, Doug," I yelled. I was gasping for breath and my legs felt weak. "Back off!"
He glared at me with his teeth clenched, then charged, this time with no show of style or defense-just his hands outstretched to rip me apart.
I speared my left straight at his unprotected face and caught him once more square on the nose. A spray of blood burst out, and he let out a sound that was half bellow and half scream, like a bull calf getting cut. This time I sidestepped to the right, and as he crashed past, I planted my feet and drove my right fist at his jaw with everything I had. I felt the shock run through my shoulder and clear down to my toes. That straight right had always been my best punch.
Doug hit the ground with a thud like a dropped sack of grain. He wasn't out cold, and he kept moving-not trying to get up, I was glad to see, just twitching. His mustache and chin were blood-streaked and his eyes were vague, like he didn't know what had happened. I'd been there. But he looked OK, and I couldn't see that my staying around would make things any better.
When I put my truck in gear, I felt a twinge in my right wrist. It was jammed and starting to swell, but it didn't feel really sprained. I had to drive off the road to get around his Dodge, and jolting over that really rough ground got my ribs reminding me of where he'd tagged me. But I thought I'd dodged another bullet there-I didn't feel that piercing stab like when they'd been busted.
Before I went around a bend a half mile farther on, I caught a glimpse of Doug in my rearview mirror. He'd gotten up and was opening the door of his truck.
I had planned to swing back by the job site on my way out, but I decided just to get on into town. I'd been lucky, and I didn't like to push my luck.
5
By the time I got to the ranch's main road, another mile farther along, I was holding tight to the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. I hadn't been in a ring in almost twenty years, and I'd had only a few barroom scuffles since-nothing like a flat-out fight in the sober light of day. The experience hadn't gotten any prettier.
It brought another memory of Celia that wasn't pretty, either.
After she'd teased me at the creek that time, it hadn't taken me long to figure out who she'd been practicing for. Pete Pettyjohn, Reuben's oldest son, was a nineteen-year-old golden boy-good-looking, popular, and the heir apparent to his family's empire. When I was a little kid, I'd had a serious case of hero worship for him.
But as I'd gotten older, I'd come to understand that there was something off about Pete. Usually he was friendly, but then out of nowhere he'd turn stone-cold or even menacing. He'
d already started drinking pretty hard. Still, it was obvious that Celia had her sights set on him, and while Pete played it cool, he seemed to be around her a lot. It bothered me for selfish reasons-I was childishly jealous, afraid she'd cut me out.
One afternoon soon after the swimming incident, I wandered down to the stables to visit with her. She was alone in the corral, working with a young mare that she'd been grooming for barrel racing. I was happy just to watch her. I stopped a distance away so I wouldn't interrupt, thinking I'd say hi when she took a break.
But before she did, Pete came driving along in one of the ranch trucks.
As he was passing by, the mare started to buck, tossing up rear hooves and hopping sideways, trying to throw her. It was so unexpected and fast that I stood poleaxed for a couple of seconds. Then I started running for the corral, but Pete was way ahead of me. He vaulted the rail, caught the horse by the bridle, and wrestled it down to where Celia could slide off the saddle. She sagged against him like she was badly shaken. He walked her to the gate with his arm around her waist.
I started to get a glimmer of just how good a rider she was.
They hadn't noticed me yet, and if I'd had any sense, I would have backed quietly away. Instead, I kept trotting toward the corral. I guess I wanted her to know that I'd tried to help.
As they came out the gate, I called out to ask if she was all right. Her head swung toward me and her eyes flared, like she'd been caught doing something wrong. But she bounced back in a heartbeat-gave me her brilliant smile and said, "Little boys ought to know better than to sneak around spying on people."
It cut me to the bone. I stammered a denial and started to leave, but Pete came striding toward me. I figured he was going to show off for her by shoving me around. There wasn't much I could do about it-physically, he was a grown man who outweighed me by fifty pounds.
But when I saw his face close up, I knew he'd taken one of those spooky turns. He looked furious, almost manic. He balled up his fist and hit me in the belly so hard that I doubled over with the wind knocked out of me. He clobbered me again on the side of the head and tripped me as I staggered back. Then he started kicking me while I lay on the ground. Celia came running over, screaming at him and trying to pull him away. He spun around toward her with his fist clenched. I still couldn't breathe, and I watched helplessly, certain he was going to smash her face.
She stopped yelling, but she didn't let go of him or back away an inch-just stared at him. She'd gone from looking upset to excited, and it stuck in my memory that her tongue quickly wet her lips.
Pete lowered his fist, but they kept looking at each other for a few more seconds. Then she let go of him and knelt beside me, petting my forehead and apologizing for what she'd said. Pete helped me to my feet and apologized, too. He was sincere and he looked confused, like he wasn't sure what had happened. I promised them I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't have, anyway.
The beating hurt for days. Celia's treachery hurt far worse. But worst of all was my own weakness-my failure in her eyes. In spite of how she treated me, I wanted desperately for her to think of me as a man she admired instead of a pissant kid.
I made up my mind that I was going to learn to fight. I started taking martial arts lessons, and over the next months, I fantasized a million ways I'd step in and rescue her from harm.
I never got the chance.
6
The ranch's original headquarters consisted mainly of a huge old barn that served as the maintenance shop for equipment and also housed the rudimentary office. A few other buildings were scattered around, along with corrals for cattle getting shipped off to feedlots and an acre-size field of rusting equipment that dated back into the 1800s.
There wouldn't be much of anybody around just now, and I figured that whoever was there wouldn't pay any more attention to me than usual as I drove past.
I was wrong. Two of the hands, Steve and Tom Anson, were standing in the road. Obviously, they were there to stop me. Everybody on the place carried walkie-talkies or cell phones these days, and Doug must have called them. It hadn't even occurred to me that things would go this far. I coasted to a stop.
The Anson brothers were both in their twenties, the kind of pleasant, straightforward young guys who tended to gravitate to ranch life. I'd always gotten along fine with them. But they looked tense and distrustful. They tended to operate as a unit, with Steve, the older, doing most of the talking. He walked over to me, while Tom stayed blocking the road.
"Mr. Balcomb wants you to wait for him," Steve said, repeating the start of Doug's litany through a cheek packed with Red Man chew.
"Yeah, I know. You got any idea what this is about?"
"I'm just telling you what I heard."
"What else did you hear? Not to believe anything I say?"
He shrugged uncomfortably and spat a stream of tobacco juice off to the side.
This wasn't helping my temper any.
"I'll talk to Balcomb Monday, Steve, just like I told Doug. Now you guys kindly get out of the way."
Instead, he turned toward a little rise that lay between here and the highway. On top of it was a man sitting astride an ATV. At Steve's signal, he jumped off, unslung a rifle, trotted forward to a good vantage point, and dropped to a prone position. He was clearly aiming at me.
My adrenaline kicked in again, not just because somebody was holding a gun on me, but because of who the somebody was. His name was Kirk Pettyjohn, and in my mind, he was a stick of dynamite with a lit match almost touching the fuse.
Kirk was Pete Pettyjohn's younger brother and the only other child of Reuben and his wife, Beatrice. He was in his early thirties, with the kind of slim build and generic good looks you saw on models in magazines. Wesley Balcomb had kept him on here as an employee, supposedly to help run things. But it was common knowledge that he'd never been worth a damn as a hand, and an open secret that he was pretty heavily into meth. What he seemed to spend most of his time doing was riding that ATV around and snooping. I'd almost gotten used to looking up and seeing him off in the distance, watching my crew through binoculars or a camera.
It struck me that his ATV might have been what I'd heard when I was leaving the dump.
Kirk favored camo fatigues, and he always wore those bug-eyed sunglasses with a neck cord, even indoors. He'd gotten himself an earring shaped like a grinning little skull. His hair was cut in a boot camp bristle, although he'd taken to dyeing it bright punkish blond, presumably to add a touch of glamour.
And he loved guns, especially the one he had trained on me. It was a Ruger Mini-14, a semiautomatic that fired the same high-speed.223 round as an M16, as fast as you could pull the trigger-an excellent rifle for around a ranch, where coyotes and stray dogs might get into the cattle. But Kirk had turned it into a paramilitary weapon, replacing the standard five-round clip with thirty-round clips, and I was almost certain that he'd modified it illegally to full automatic capacity. Every so often while we were working, we'd hear it sound off like a string of firecrackers. I didn't know if he ever shot any stock predators, but he sure made some men nervous.
It all added up to me that Kirk had become the star of a commando movie inside his own head. Maybe that was because he didn't really have much going for him, in spite of the bounty he'd grown up with. My sense was that above all he wanted people to take him seriously, but nobody did, and that was what worried me. Killing somebody would get him the kind of attention he craved, and while I didn't think he'd do it on purpose, there was a lot of room for accidents.
Then there was the long-standing tension between our families-once again, involving Celia.
The office door opened and Hjalmar Stenlund, who everybody called Elmer, came walking out. Elmer was the ranch's stock manager and the model of a sweet old cowboy, gaunt and leathery, close to eighty but with hair still streaked yellow. Like a lot of those men, he'd done his tour in the military-it had been the Pacific for Elmer-and spent the rest of his life on ranches. He'd worked on t
his place since before I was born, and he moved with a stooped, bowlegged shuffle from a spine and legs rearranged by years in the saddle.
I got out of my truck and went to meet him. He looked puzzled and concerned.
"I'm sorry as hell about this, Hugh," he said. "I wouldn't of stood for it if I could help it."
"I appreciate that, Elmer." I gripped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. It was bony and still hard with muscle. "I guess I put a hair across Balcomb's ass, but I don't know how."
"Me, neither. Doug got a phone call a little bit ago and blew out of here. I didn't have time to ask him nothing. Then he called a few minutes later and said you was on your way here and we better stop you. I told him I'd talk to you, but what you did was up to you." He glanced sourly at Kirk. "Guess I was wrong."
"You know what a hothead Doug is. Maybe he just popped off and I happened to be in range."
"Maybe," Elmer said. His gaze checked me over. "He sounded kind of rattled. You look it, too. You get into it with him?"
"Nothing serious."
"Huh. Well, Balcomb's supposed to be on his way here."
"I guess that means sometime before midnight."
Elmer smiled. "No, Steve said he's really coming. But he's out riding, so he ain't moving too fast."
In terms of horsemanship, Balcomb was at the opposite end of the spectrum from his wife. But he must have figured he'd have more credibility in the horse raising business if he acquired at least basic riding skills, so he'd brought his own thoroughbred from Virginia, a young bay mare, and spent an hour on her most days.
"Is he getting any better?" I said.
Elmer shrugged. "He's getting more experience. But he won't listen to nobody, and he's ruining that horse."
