Owen set the damp laundry back down in the washtub, waiting for his bargain to be addressed. His Higher Power was being his usual inscrutable self—no ready answers forthcoming to such silly questions, no signs, just the same hard steps over familiar rocky ground. This white man’s religion was an unforgiving business. Maybe that’s what they meant by blind faith. The Navajos had a much better deal. Changing Woman placed her grain of guidance into your skull at birth. That small chip could cause you to go the way of good, but it was fickle. One strong wind of desire might blow by and veer you toward the other side. Owen’s evil side had won out many times. Underwear, even the lacy kind, was just another piece of clothing. Ladies wore it to keep their behinds from chafing. That was all there was to it. You had to keep after weakness or eventually it would get the better of you. She rented the farmhouse and the immediate yard around it; he had the bunkhouse and the pastures. It wasn’t much of an imposition to allow her to use his clothesline. Probably she didn’t even know he’d gone to the trouble of stringing it. Her lights were on, so she had electric now, but with her mad-on for the telephone, it was entirely possible she had a prejudice against clothes dryers to boot. Maybe her cat had come to a bad end napping in one, or maybe one had shrunk her best dress. She didn’t look like the dress type of woman, though. More blue jeans and the occasional silk blouse. He wondered what she had drawn inside those newsprint sketch pads she bought down at Rabbott’s. Wildflowers? Indian children’s faces? Crazy designs no one could make head or tails of? Not that last one, he hoped.
He took down his farrier’s tools to finish shoeing Red. An early life of team-roping had nearly ruined the horse. His feet required corrective shoeing as a result of all that running hard and turning left, and even in semiretirement he had a lot of built-in prejudices when it came to any man touching his legs. Owen worked patiently. He had gained Red’s trust, on alternate Thursdays, during turquoise-blue moons, when he remembered to recite the magic words—which changed every time you said them, sometimes in the very act. Red held an especially large grudge against shoeing, no doubt having had it executed upon him in a manner that caused him undeserved pain, so Owen performed the job in stages: Pull the old shoes first, then give him a break to think about things. Trim and file, then let him scrub a bucket with some Four-Way, alfalfa, and molasses. Fit and nail in four phases, and step lively throughout that part, because there was nothing Red liked better than stamping down a newly shod hoof when you weren’t paying attention.
“Give it here now, Red. We’re taking you to Kinney’s today, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” He fitted the left rear hoof between his knees. Some folks favored foot-stands, but Owen had seen a lot of wrecks come out of that time-saver, and others swore by knee straps or hobbling. That would work once with Red, but the next time his feet needed work, it would be the Fourth of July with equine fireworks. He freed the last shoe with his clinch cutter. “You’re about done in on these old ones, aren’t you, boy?”
The horse huffed his sweet breath and nuzzled Owen’s back pocket, looking for treats. Once, about six months back, Owen had some penny candy tucked in back there, and Red had sniffed it out and kept on hoping for a repeat episode. Owen kept a red handkerchief knotted through his belt loop and tucked into the pocket, and Red made do with that, pulling it out by inches. Horses communicated by touch, and this mouthing and blowing was about as close to a love song as old Red could sing. Owen set the hoof down, reached into his tack box, and tucked a dozen horseshoe nails into the upturned cuff of his Wranglers. Long ago, he’d learned that holding them in your mouth made for emergency X-rays and an unpleasant natural course of events. He sent Red off to think about his last bare hoof.
The sheep were penned in the far pasture, all accounted for, the babies growing fat off the summer grasses, almost ready for the auction. He needed the vet to see to the oldest ewe; she was broken mouthed, and this might be the last season he could use her for breeding unless he got all her teeth pulled and set her on easy grass. He’d read in a magazine down at the Blue Dog library that a dentist could make false choppers for sheep. Did some folks actually have so much spare cash they could afford animal dentures? Old Ruby, the six-year-old pure Merino he kept for her wool, had the bad mouth. Likely he’d hand-feed her a season, get one last set of twins out of her, and that would be all for her.
He hauled Red back as he seemed to be milling around, thinking more about biting on fence posts than shoeing, and retied him to the hitching post. He leaned to the right to pick up his nippers, and the horse brought his hoof down hard—one thousand pounds of horseflesh separated from the human foot by only a quarter inch of twice-resoled Dan Post bootleather. He gave Red a shove and he moved off the foot, which sang out in a mighty burst of pain. Over at the laundry line his neighbor was singing too. But for a different reason. He could hear isolated scraps of song, but his foot hurt so much he couldn’t catch it all. He shook his head to clear the pain, picked up the nippers, and set them back in the toolbox. She wasn’t about to put old Kitty Wells out of business, but a woman’s unabashed voice, singing for no apparent reason—that was worth taking time to listen to. She reached for the high notes, didn’t always make it, but sure enough never gave up trying.
Owen found a clean corner of his red bandanna and wiped his brow. His smarting foot kept up rhythm as he tapped the last horseshoe nail into Red’s hoof. Without giving him his usual break, he clipped the excess, tamped each one smooth, and the job was done, not the best but hardly the worst work he was capable of doing. “Enough of that,” he said, and turned his grateful horse loose to graze in the pasture.
It hadn’t rained today. Like summer itself, the rainy season was passing. The last few weeks of summer could get stiflingly hot, but soon enough fall would be here. The teenagers who raced down the gravel road in their parents’ pickups would head on back to school. The tourists would finish up their vacations and drive off in those space-age, slant-windowed minivans. Then the town of Blue Dog would have its annual celebration, Blue Dog Days—a welcome distraction from the heat—and whoop it up hard before getting down to the business of trudging through another winter. Much to be done before the snow came—get the sheep ready for sale, stockpile hay, reinforce fences, wrap the Starrs’ pipes. There was never enough time to get to everything, but today was all he had to live through, and today was going along all right, save for the now-sore foot and a place to hang his laundry. His singing neighbor seemed to be having a better time of things, which was no reason for getting a “rise in your Levi’s,” as his friend Joe Yazzi so aptly described the phenomenon Owen was surprised to find himself experiencing. Not that he found it so terribly unpleasant—it was just that after all this time, it came as somewhat of a wonder. He had pretty much stayed clear of women after Sheila, though every now and again, he’d bed one down and endure the mutual embarrassment of the next morning. But he’d kept them distant. It wasn’t safe. Not sexual diseases, though, mind you, they alone were sufficient reason to make you second-think your inclination, but a woman was God’s hungriest animal, never satisfied with your body alone. She wanted to know your past, present, future, and every thought that fluttered sideways across your mind. He couldn’t exactly explain away a thing like accidental murder while basking in the afterglow and not expect consequences.
He watched her finish hanging the laundry, looping bras over the clothesline when she ran out of pins. She sure had a pile of clothes, didn’t she, and a good portion of them were intended not to be seen.
Owen met Joe for supper at Embers, one of three local cafés in Farmington offering all-you-can-eat enchilada nights twice weekly, competing for one another’s business. Joe favored the cheese enchilada smothered in red sauce; at fifty-two Owen no longer had the stomach for more than an occasional one set alongside a combination dinner plate. While waiting for Joe, he ordered them both a basket of sopaipillas, the delicate pillows of frybread no sane man could resist, extra salsa for the complime
ntary tortilla chips, and a bowl of tortilla soup for himself, managing to stay within his budget of five dollars.
“Ice water,” he said, when the waitress asked him if he wanted something to drink. Some of the Navajos came off the reservation, which was “dry,” into Farmington just to have the option of drinking beer. Owen watched them lift the tall-necked brown bottles and laugh quietly among themselves. It sounded prejudiced to say so, but even Joe agreed it was a fact that the Navajos weren’t built for processing alcohol. Centuries of a feast-to-famine dietary regime had blessed them with the ability to live on little food for long periods of time. But alcohol quickly turned to sugar in the body, and when you couldn’t handle the excess, you ended up not only alcoholic but often diabetic to boot. You couldn’t beat alcohol for sterilizing your castrating knife, but that was about it. It had set a heavy burden on the Native Americans. Now, beer went all the way back to the Egyptians—or so one of Sara Kay’s little school projects had informed him—but that’s where the problem was born. You couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing how much fun beer would bring you. Owen could still remember how well it quenched thirst when dust rattled in his throat. They made a fake beer now, and he’d thought of trying it but didn’t trust himself to stop when memory and taste met up and shook hands.
“Here you go.” His waitress left a pitcher of water on the table and sent his order to the kitchen. Joe Yazzi came in the side door.
“Ya hey,” Joe said, “You keeping sober?”
Owen checked his watch. “The last hour anyway, brother. You?”
Joe nodded and turned his hat upside down on the seat. His waist-length hair was thick and black, shiny as a woman’s, and Owen knew women envied it as much as loved to run their hands through it. The imprint where his cowboy hat had rested remained pressed into his seamless forehead like an intaglio. All the women in the restaurant had to take a look at this man, and Joe was used to that kind of treatment.
“You made the Police Log in today’s paper again.”
Joe put on a shocked face. “All us Navs look alike. Might have been any other Indian. Even a Hopi.”
Owen picked up the newspaper from the seat beside him. “Local authorities spent an hour chasing a white dually Ford pickup traveling in excess of seventy miles per hour, but were unable to track its progress after it turned down Great Kiva road.”
“Lots of white pickups around. This here’s pickup country.”
“Not so many that can outrun a Taurus cop car.”
“Blame Ford.” Joe leaned back in the red Naugahyde booth. “Some people like to fish. They spend all their money on fake bugs and fishing line, just to throw ’em back in the water. Seems like a waste of time, but some people call it a sport.”
Owen stuck one finger in his ear and wiggled it. “Why do I get the feeling that somehow the philosophy of fly-fishing is going to link up with you racing the Police Department?”
“If they catch me, sooner or later, they got to throw me back, too.” Joe dipped a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa. “This looks pretty good. Maybe they’re making it fresh again, instead of buying it in the big cans. Hope so. I like a fresh salsa.”
“Me, too, friend. Now, about those cops.”
“Could be we got too many cops with nothing to do getting paid a lot of money and not enough for Indians to do and them’re all broke.”
“Views like that, you could write a letter to the newspaper, run for public office.” Owen waited for Joe to eat his salsa-loaded chip. “What I want to know is, where is it you go, Yazzi? How come they’re always after you but you never get caught?”
“Trickster takes many forms, brother. Don’t piss him off asking questions. Hey, you order my enchiladas?”
“Hold on there, Trickster. I only just got my agua.”
The bell on the door jangled, and both men turned to see the woman walk in. Margaret Yearwood. She was dressed in a red work shirt, her jeans rolled up above her Reebok tennies. Owen could see her pretty, slim ankles, that same pale flesh. Up close she had more freckles than he remembered, something he’d missed in the glare of the sun that first day. His imagination was running, making all kinds of reckless guesses. He thought about that one horse on the doctor’s ranch that wouldn’t tame down, who never came to trust his rider. The doctor said it was worth the price of feed just to watch him run off bullheaded at the sight of a halter.
“Whoa—who’s that Amazon?” Joe asked. “She has a fine butt.”
Owen laughed. “Blue Dog’s newest resident. Out of California. Also my neighbor. Hope had his way with her mutt.”
Joe Yazzi smiled, exposing a silver-capped eyetooth. “Looks like Hope ain’t the only one interested in having his way.”
“Order your enchiladas, pal. You aren’t Dr. Joyce Bother Me, and I came here to eat my supper in peace.”
“Dr. Joyce can bother me anytime. I like that old-time blond hairdo. Bet she’s a wildcat in the tipi.”
“Like to see you try and find out.”
Joe licked both his thumbs and smoothed down his eyebrows. “Bring her on, this skin is ready.”
It was like any other Thursday night. They tanked up on discount food, joked with the pretty young waitresses, killed time until they would go back to Joe’s and play cards or amble into the Trough to listen to whatever country-and-western band was passing through on their way to Denver. Owen ate his sopas, getting honey all over his fingers. The waitress was kind enough to bring him a damp towel and offer a refill on his soup, which he accepted and finished happily. He and Joe emptied two bowls of tortilla chips, mopping up the last of the salsa. They talked about a number of things no one else would find interesting except two sheepmen who worked second-class livestock. But never once could Owen shake the feeling of Margaret Yearwood’s presence two booths away. Even with the food smells coming at him, the cigarette smoke from the other tables, and the yeasty essence of beer in the air, he swore he could smell Margaret Yearwood just the same as he had the morning they met—citrusy female sweat—a woman who would have some bite to her. When he and Joe got up to leave, he nodded to Margaret, whose menu choice, he noticed, was the bean tostada. Was she one of them bean-and-caterpillar health food eaters?
“Ma’am,” he said, and she looked up, her fork halfway to her mouth. “My dog hasn’t been bothering your bitch again, has he?”
“No, things have been pretty quiet.”
“Good to hear. Well, enjoy your supper.”
She smiled politely. “I am.”
Joe elbowed Owen, demanding an introduction.
“This is Mr. Joe Yazzi,” he said. “Past vice-president of the Navajo Sheepherders Association, a twice-decorated vet, and a man who has little interest in fishing but much in the way of sport. Joe, my new neighbor.” He stopped there, because although he knew her name from the check at the hardware store, they hadn’t been formally introduced, which made proceeding any further awkward.
She set her fork down. “Margaret Yearwood, Mr. Yazzi.”
Mr. Yazzi grinned, showing his silver. “You honor this town with your beauty,” he said. “Will you be blooming with us through the long white winter?”
Please, Owen thought, but the smirk that passed quickly over her face faded into a patient smile.
“Oh, I expect so.” She pointed to a poster-covered wall near the register. “If I make it through Blue Dog Days, how tough can a New Mexico winter be?”
“You’ve heard our town’s legend, then?”
“No, but I’ve had my mailbox stuffed and my car plastered with flyers. What is the legend?”
Joe winked. “Come to the powwow and find out.”
She took a sip of water. “It must be quite a legend if it rates a festival.”
“Oh, big-time parade. They shut down Main Street. Fancy dancers and competition for open drum. Barbecue, games, and rodeo, where the only event you got to watch is team-roping. And”—Joe’s eyes sparkled as he said this—“even the Blue Dog himself someti
mes shows up.”
She looked away from Joe to Owen, who felt his mouth gone rubbery and stupid next to charming Joe. “Well, I’ve already had one blue dog make an appearance in my yard. I wasn’t that impressed, truthfully.”
Owen put his hands into his pockets and touched his quarters and dimes. “Ma’am, you’ve probably hurt Hopeful’s feelings, but not his reputation. Again, should the bitch catch from that unfortunate incident, my offer stands.”
She smiled at Owen. Straight-ahead blue eyes looking right into his own. His sore foot chose that moment to give a king-size throb. “Don’t worry. If she’s pregnant, I will call you.”
“How can you, with no phone?”
“I know where you live. I’ll hike over and fetch you.”
Joe nudged him again. “Ma’am. Enjoy your supper now, and we both hope to see you at the powwow.”
Owen pondered that idea of “fetching” all the way back to Joe’s cabin, which was constructed out of aging chicken wire, stray boards, roofing paper, and earth, cottonwood limbs acting as beams. The government had relocated most of his people to two-bedroom dwellings. They weren’t quite refined enough to call houses. Off the highway just west of Shiprock, they made up the reservation. Joe, like a few old-timers, refused to follow suit. Why should he change his lifestyle so that the government could ease its guilty conscience? Being labeled a resister made you automatically suspect in the eyes of the law, but Joe didn’t care. He stayed in his small place with his few belongings and paid no bills for electric or gas. He drank the same water his sheep did, hauled it from the river when the creek was down, and in the three years they’d known one another, Owen never once heard him complain.
Blue Rodeo Page 5
