by Brian Hodge
Night had fallen and Bobby reached out to turn on the headlights, flashing them at an oncoming pickup running without lights.
The driver shot them the bird as he passed.
"Was that Jesse?" Bobby asked, looking into the rearview. "That was his own self, Jesse Black Eagle," Kevin said. "He's crazy as his grandfather. After we have a friendly game or two over at Jake's, remind me to have a talk with Jesse about road etiquette."
Nash grinned. "Jesse's pretty handy with his fists, but I guess you already know that since he kicked your butt in high school. He might teach you a few things about etiquette."
Boyce looked a little troubled at the direction the talk was taking. "If I find me a girl that'll talk to me, I don't want you to start no trouble, Bobby. You can't get no girl while you're in jail." At the thought of jail, Boyce's look went from troubled to apprehensive. "The last time I was in the lockup there was a couple guys that said they liked the way my jeans fit. One of them said I had a nice ass. He was a real big guy, too."
"They was just funning you," Nash said. "What did you say to the guy who liked your ass?"
"I told him I had the hemorrhoids real bad."
"Did that work?"
"He said that was okay, his old lady was always on the rag," Boyce answered. "All I know is that I slept on my back the whole night. And I got a bad sinus condition, too. It drains down the back of my throat and I got a cold on account of that. You know how hard a summer cold is to kick…?"
Bobby took his eyes off the road, reached down to turn on the radio. He didn't want to hear any more about Boyce's summer cold.
"Bobby, watch out!" Kevin grabbed the steering wheel and gave it a sharp jerk. The Caddy swayed across the road, running off onto the shoulder before Bobby could react. When he did find the pedal, they spun around several times before sliding to a shuddering halt in the dust.
Bobby smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Are you fucking crazy, Kevin? You trying to get us all killed?"
"There was somebody walking along the road. I didn't think you saw him." Kevin laughed, but his face had gone pale. "I was afraid you were going to run over the guy."
Boyce dabbed at his bleeding lip where he had hit the headrest. "Kevin, I think you're the one who fell on his head today, not Bobby. There ain't nobody out there."
"Yes, there was," Kevin insisted. "I didn't get a good look, but there was someone out there. I swear it."
Bobby made a U-turn in the middle of the deserted stretch of blacktop and drove back a mile. Everyone in the car scanned the night for Kevin's hiker.
There was no sign of anyone.
Bobby made another screeching U-turn and headed back toward Jake's. "You satisfied?"
"I guess I was wrong. It's just that I was sure…," Kevin reluctantly shook his head. "Sorry, Bobby."
"It's all right. You were probably expecting to see Nicky. Watch it, though. You almost cost Boyce another tooth, and he ain't got too many left as it is."
Bobby mashed down on the gas pedal and they cruised off into the night. When they were gone, the figure Kevin had seen rose up from the ground where it had hidden from their lights. The figure resumed its trek toward the Broken R Ranch. Walking in dusty snakeskin boots.
Martin Strickland tried to wait by the phone, though he was too keyed up to sit still. The sun had gone down about an hour ago, bringing the familiar chill to the air. He took a poker and prodded the fire in the potbellied stove that sat in the middle of the bunkhouse like some benign Buddha. A loose board squeaked when he walked back to his desk. The quiet was stretching his nerves to the breaking point.
"Damn you, Doralee, why didn't you keep an eye on Nicky?" The thought of his son hitchhiking had Martin scared more than he wanted to admit. The boy was thirteen and could take care of himself. Still, you never knew when you might get picked up by the wrong guy. There were a lot of sick sons of bitches out there. Martin looked at the drawer where he kept the bottle. A drink would taste real good, but he knew if he took the first one he wouldn't be able to stop.
Pushing back the chair, he climbed to his feet and walked outside. He would be able to hear the phone. It was his habit to take a look around the ranch every night before going to bed. Besides, the dogs needed to be fed.
He got within twenty feet of their pen before he noticed the gate was open.
"Damn," he said with the fatalism of a man who is beyond surprise. The bag of dog food fell at his feet, splitting open, spilling on the ground. He gave the remaining contents a sincere kick, which made him feel a little better. "This has got to be a joke. If you turned those dogs loose, Bobby," he vowed beneath his breath, "I'm going to kick your skinny little butt, and your daddy ain't going to be able to stop me." Martin gave a shrill whistle to summon the dogs.
After a few minutes, he realized they wouldn't be returning. Not until morning. They were out on the ranch somewhere, five of them, running around in the night, looking for something to kill.
Martin pitied anything that met up with them. He'd gotten a good look at the cows they had ripped apart and it was the most brutal thing he'd ever seen.
The night chill crept under his clothes, causing him to shiver. He was tired. Sometimes he thought about quitting the Broken R, but he knew he was too old to get on with another spread. The ranching business was about gone to hell, anyway. Mr. Roberts was renting the grazing land from the Navajos and his option was up next year. Word had it the Navajos weren't going to let him renew. Their strip-mining operation was a lot more profitable. If that happened, he would be out of a job anyway. He didn't have anything put aside. He'd lived his life like Bobby and Kevin, and all the rest of the hands, spending his pay every Saturday night at places like Jake's, buying drinks for his friends, whoring, and gambling. When Doralee had taken Nicky, Martin had quit thinking about the future.
When he stooped to pick up the busted dog-food bag, he heard the phone ring. It rang five more times before he reached the bunkhouse and then quit. "Damn it, Doralee, I told you to let it ring."
Martin pushed into the bunkhouse and stopped.
Someone had been rummaging around in his desk. Caught against the window was the vague outline of a figure holding the phone. As Martin's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw it was a man wearing stained denim and a cowboy hat that looked like it had once been white.
"I think it's for you," the stranger said.
Chapter 8
Amos Black Eagle sat on his trailer steps and tried to find a position that didn't cause his arthritis to ache. He didn't find it.
In the meantime he watched his grandson, Jesse, work on the pickup. That old truck hadn't been much when the boy bought it, but a little money and a lot of hard work had made the Chevy into something real nice. The old man smiled when Jesse pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away some imaginary dust.
"That is indeed a fine vehicle," Lefty Thunder Coming said in his gravelly voice. "A truck like that would bring a man much pride. I used to have a nice truck back a few years ago, a Ford Ranger." He shrugged philosophically and spat in the dust. "But I lost it in a poker game up in Pagosa Springs. I had two pair, kings and queens, the other guy had three deuces. I thought the son of a bitch was bluffing." Lefty hung his head at the memory. "It is a shameful thing to get beaten by three deuces."
Amos was barely listening. He had heard this story at least twenty times.
Lefty was an Apache from the San Carlos reservation whose wife had grown tired of his gambling and had kicked him out. Lefty had earned his nickname from welching on a bet; his right hand had been cut off as payment.
Every Saturday Lefty showed up at Amos's place with two bottles of whiskey, which they drank while playing pinochle. At the last estimate, Lefty owed Amos a little over three million dollars.
Lefty dusted off a spot on the steps and sat down by Amos.
They watched Jesse work on the back window of the truck. A huge black eagle holding a snake had been painted on it. "That bac
k window's new, ain't it?" Lefty asked.
"Yeah, Jesse painted it himself."
"Did a damned fine job. He must take after you."
"I don't know who he takes after." Amos felt a heaviness in his heart. He had never thought he would have to raise another boy, or live long enough to see his only son dead. Amos was seventy-three now, seamed and bent by the years, and he wondered if he would be able to see the job through. He hoped so. There was no one else to look after the boy.
"Last night I heard an owl calling," Amos said. "Sounded like it was right outside my window."
"Is that a fact?" Lefty asked, impressed. He considered the implications for a moment. "Rudy No Horses over in San Carlos heard an owl. A week later he was dead."
"What happened to him?"
Lefty took a long drink from his bottle while he tried to remember. His face brightened. "Rudy was killed when he dropped about half a marijuana joint down in his car seat. Set his big red butt on fire. He was jumping around; trying to put it out, when the car door came open and he fell out. They say it was a hell of a sight, him turning cartwheels down State sixty with flames shooting out his ass."
"Did he really hear an owl?" Amos asked, taking a drink.
"Yeah, my ex-wife said she heard it from a woman over in Flagstaff, who claimed she heard it from her cousin, who got it from a very reliable source. She said Rudy's car went out of control and hit a Bible salesman in an S-Ten from Omaha. Killed him too."
"You think the Bible salesman heard an owl?" Amos inquired with a snort of contempt.
"That's beside the point. The point is that Rudy heard an owl and a week later he was dead."
"I don't even know why I talk to you, Lefty."
"It's because I bring good whiskey," Lefty answered, unoffended.
They went back to watching Jesse work on the pickup. The place where Amos and Jesse lived wasn't much, ten acres of hardscrabble dirt with almost enough grass to feed his old U-necked Appaloosa mare and the three moth-eaten buffalo he kept so the tourists would have something to take pictures of. At last count there were eight nervous chickens, and that was two less than last week. This was a fact Lefty pointed out.
"The coyotes are sneaking up here at night and eating them," Amos said. "Custer there," he pointed at the dog, a blond border collie sleeping under the truck, "is supposed to make sure that don't happen. But one of the coyotes is a female. I figure old Custer there is selling me out for sex."
"You mean he's looking the other way while his lady love is eating your chickens?"
"That's exactly what I mean. Old Custer is about the horniest dog I ever seen."
The dog raised his head at the mention of his name, then lowered it back.
"He does look like his ass is dragging," Lefty said. "I wondered why he ain't been doing any leg dancing lately. I was beginning to think he didn't like my leg no more."
"Well, you'd better enjoy the break, cause when the chickens are all gone, your leg's going to start looking good again. And I'd watch where I passed out if I was you. I seen him eyeing some other parts of your anatomy."
"Thanks for the warning. You do any business today?" Amos shook his head no. "Should have some tourists soon. Frontier Days is coming up."
The trailer that Amos and Jesse shared was twenty-three miles from the interstate, most of it on pothole-riddled dirt roads, which meant they didn't get a lot of company. Still, once in a while they would get some tourists who were looking for real Navajo Indians. Amos felt obliged to show them one.
For a price.
A sign out front promised authentic Indian souvenirs for sale, but they were fakes. Junk. Amos made a trip to Tucson a couple of times a year, where he bought the stuff from a Jewish lady who had a son who brought it in from Taiwan. Amos didn't make much of a living; still he managed to make enough to keep himself supplied with the only thing he ever wanted from the white man's world: Jack Daniel's whiskey. He took a sip of the sour mash and savored the evening. The truck radio played a sad song about lost love.
"We gonna play some cards tonight?" Lefty asked. "I think I feel lucky."
"You say that every night," Amos answered, his mind far away. "I don't feel lucky. I feel like something bad's going to happen."
Jesse had finally got that last speck of imaginary dust off his pickup. At twenty-one, Jesse was a lot like his father, and that made Amos proud. And a little scared. Jesse's father, Thomas Black Eagle, had wanted to make his way in the white man's world and it had killed him in the end. Jesse wanted no part of his own tribe, either. He talked constantly of leaving, of going to Los Angeles. Amos knew it was hard for the boy, being half-white. More times than he could count, Amos had seen the swollen eyes and split lips that Jesse had brought home from school. But the boy was tough. He had never cried or complained.
The old man turned his eyes to the hills in the far distance and watched as the sun began dipping behind them. A breeze sprang up, ruffling Amos's long gray hair. As Jesse slammed the truck hood shut, Amos smiled, showing perfect dentures that flashed white as snow. They were a present from Jesse. His grandson knew he loved corn on the cob, but Amos would never spend money on store-bought teeth. Jesse said getting those teeth was the biggest mistake he had ever made, because now they had corn on the cob every night.
"The boy sure loves that old truck," Lefty observed.
"Yeah, he's gone every night in it." Amos thought he knew where the boy went. He had a pretty good idea from the pool cue Jesse kept hidden under the truck seat and the stash of bills he had under the mattress in his room. Hustling pool was a risky business. A man could end up only broke if he was lucky. Dead if he wasn't. Dead like Jesse's father.
Still, Amos knew a man was going to raise a little hell now and then. He'd done his share. The old man looked south toward Mexico, a good two-day drive to the border. That was where he used to go to get in trouble when he was younger. The last time he'd gone, nearly ten years ago, he'd gotten himself a scrawny young Mexican prostitute who looked like she needed the money. A small sigh came from Amos as he thought back on that night, and yet he couldn't keep a smile from crossing his face.
The girl had been about thirty or so, with a bad complexion, bad teeth, but a good disposition. Her name was Amanda Oliveros. She had been in the business for a little over two years, she told Amos. This was only a temporary thing, she explained with a shyness that wasn't feigned, just something to help her get by for a while. She had plans. Her sister, Carlotta, was a maid in some big fancy hotel up in Phoenix, and was going to send for her any day now. The only reason Carlotta hadn't sent for her was because the hotel wasn't hiring yet.
There, Amanda had assured him, she would meet some rich American who would take her away from all this. Despite the softness of her words, there was something defiant about the way Amanda Oliveros told her story. Something sad, too.
Amos said nothing to her. He knew deep in his heart the sister was never going to send for her.
They had sat on the bed in the small shack that leaked in the rain and passed a bottle of tequila back and forth until they were both gloriously drunk. In Spanish and broken English, amid much giggling, Amanda told Amos that he reminded her of her grandfather, who used to sit her on his knee and tell her stories when she was little.
Amos was stung by the remark. She saw the hurt on his face and tried to apologize but the damage was done.
They tried to make love.
And Amos had been unable to do anything. He laid next to her in the humid dark and he may have cried, he didn't remember for sure. She was kind to him though. She didn't laugh as she held him tight, and her hair smelled like spring rain, fresh and clean. He fell asleep in her arms.
When Amos had awakened in the morning with a head filled with wool and shame, he had put money under her pillow and let himself out quietly.
The last thing he had seen on that gray, rainy morning as he drove away was the girl standing in the window waving good-bye. She had been smiling, a bright,
cheerful smile that seemed out of place on such a gloomy day.
Many times since that night, he wondered if Amanda's sister had ever sent for her. If he went back to that Mexican village, would she still be waiting there, a little older, a little harder? Her bright smile not so bright now? He had decided long ago he didn't want to know. Life was full of sadness enough without going out of your way to find it.
Still, it was a hurtful thing he decided, when a man could no longer be with a woman. Now Amos just ate corn on the cob with his new false teeth and drank Jack Daniel's whiskey on the porch with his old friend, Lefty Thunder Coming.
Jesse finished his ministrations to the truck and walked toward the trailer. "You'd better lay off that stuff. You know it makes you do things you shouldn't."
Amos ignored the remark. "You going out again?"
"Yeah, I got a little business to take care of."
Amos studied the boy before him. Dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, Jesse looked more white than Navajo, and that hurt Amos. Jesse had his father's angular features, his mother's eyes, green and piercing. And slightly angry. The boy was all grown up and Amos felt like he didn't know his grandson anymore. The thought only added to his sadness.
"What kind of business?" Amos inquired.
"Just business." Jesse evaded Amos's stare and stepped around him.
"You want something to eat before you go?" Amos asked.
"No, I gotta get going. Got people waiting on me. Besides," he smiled, "I don't think I could eat any more corn." For a second the Jesse that Amos knew was standing in front of him, then the mask slipped back over Jesse's face. Amos felt as though he were suddenly talking to a stranger.
Maybe the whiskey made Amos bold, or maybe it was just worry that made him say, "Shooting pool for money isn't a very smart way to make a living."
"You been spying on me?" Anger made the muscles in the boy's face clench.
