by Brian Hodge
"No, but I hear things and I got two eyes. I seen that cue stick you got under the seat, the money under the mattress."
Jesse snorted, his laughter derisive. "How should I make a living? Like you? Selling junk to tourists?"
"You could go back to school. One more year and—"
"Fuck school! I'm not ever going back there."
The old man flinched beneath the anger in Jesse's eyes and had to look away.
Jesse saw the sorrow in Amos's face and his tone softened. "I'm sorry, I meant no disrespect, Grandfather. It's just that I'm all through with that. My father went to school and what did it get him? The best he could do was end up working over at the mine."
"It was better than dying in a bar fight," Amos said.
"Was it?" Jesse answered. "Was it?" His face hardened. "You heard the way he coughed after breathing that dust all day?" Jesse reached out and for a second Amos thought his grandson was about to strike him. Instead the boy's arms fell to his sides. Helpless. "Getting killed in a bar was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. Nothing good ever happens to anyone around here."
It was at that moment that Amos Black Eagle realized Jesse didn't need him anymore. He was the only thing holding the boy here.
Jesse turned and walked away, his shoulders bunched beneath his T-shirt. He didn't look back as he climbed into his truck and drove away. Several of the chickens almost didn't get out of the way in time. Their raucous clucking was the only sound for a long while.
Amos watched the Chevy disappear into the dusk until there was only a faint cloud of dust, and then that too disappeared. He sat on the porch of his rusted trailer in silence and sipped whiskey and stared at nothing at all. Lefty had already passed out.
After a while the moon came up and the breeze that blew in from the mountains turned cooler.
Amos reached over and plucked Lefty's bottle off the porch. "Lefty, you're a good man, but you never could hold your liquor." Amos tipped the bottle and took a long drink. By the time he finished, he had an idea.
Lurching to his feet, he went into his trailer and came out with his saddle and a rope. He called out to his dog, Custer, who appeared as if by magic. The dog looked tired and hungry. He flopped at Amos's feet, his tongue lolling.
"Guess those jackrabbits were a little too fast tonight, old son?"
The dog laid his head on his paws.
"And I suppose you want me to get you something to eat?" The dog looked up, hopeful.
Amos indicated a bowl of refried beans sitting on the porch. The dog looked dubiously at them. "It's beans or nothing, Custer," Amos said, heading toward the corral. Custer took one disdainful sniff at the bowl and loped after Amos.
Amos managed to get the corral gate open. His steps wavered and he had to lean against the corral poles until the ground stopped moving, yet his hand was steady and he managed to rope his old U-necked mare on the first toss. "Come on, Amanda," he soothed the ancient appaloosa as she skittered away, "we got us some business to take care of, too." He threw on the saddle and waited. Amanda didn't like to be ridden and had a habit of holding her breath. Amos couldn't count the number of times he had walked home after the saddle had slipped sideways, throwing him into the dirt.
Amanda finally exhaled and Amos yanked the cinch tight. "You're getting old, girl," he sighed, patting her on the neck. "You used to be able to hold your breath a lot longer."
Amos Black Eagle rode off into the Arizona night, an ancient man swaying on his ancient horse, his hungry dog trotting along behind.
With any luck at all, he would never return.
Darkness came fast to Crowder Flats. Already the sun was dipping behind the mountains and the desert seemed to pause, to take one final breath before exhaling the night. Jesse Black Eagle gunned his primer-colored pickup around the potholes in what passed for a road in this shithole of a town, and smiled. The smile was bitter.
Dust trailed after him, a dun-colored ribbon that wrapped itself around everything, as though the desert were quietly trying to choke Crowder Flats. Sometimes, Jesse felt that the desert resented the town being here. Having had the shit beaten out of him countless times because he was a half-breed, Jesse felt pretty confident he knew resentment when he saw it.
The night was coming quick. He loved the night. That was the only time he felt really alive. The daytime was something to be endured, like his job at the strip mine, where he worked on one of the water trucks.
Even though only, six months had passed since he had dropped out of college, Jesse knew deep down inside that this was as good as life was ever going to get for him. He had to get out of this town. Already he was beginning to cough from breathing dust all day, just like his old man had coughed. Jesse couldn't count the nights Mom had sat up with his dad, wiping away the blood-flecked spit that ran down his old man's chin, before they stuck what was left of Thomas Black Eagle in a box and lowered him into the hard-packed earth.
Two years later his mom had followed.
Every week or so Jesse went out to visit their graves. They were in the paupers' section of the white churchyard, where no one came out to leave pretty flowers and the weeds were the only things that grew. Jesse had asked the council of elders to move his parents to the sacred grounds near the reservation, but his request had been denied. Thomas Black Eagle had turned his back on the old ways when he had married a white woman. In the end, neither the whites nor his own people had wanted him.
Now Jesse lived with his grandfather, Amos Black Eagle, in a run-down trailer way off the interstate. The courts had been a little reluctant to hand over a twelve-year-old boy to a man with a reputation for drunkenness. The only reason they did it, Jesse figured, was the orphanage didn't need any more hungry red mouths to feed. They already had more than enough.
Jesse wanted to leave Crowder Flats. Hell, once he'd even done it. He had gotten as far as Tucson before word that Amos was in jail again had reached him. Amos had a failing for Jack Daniel's, and whenever the old man got tanked up, he would saddle up his U-necked mare, raid Chester Roberts' ranch and run off all Chester's horses. Chester was a pretty good sport about the whole thing. He never pressed charges after Sheriff Johnson put Amos in jail to dry out, but someone had to be there to return the horses and bail Amos out. That someone was Jesse. And that meant Jesse was stuck in Crowder Flats.
Voiceless fury clamped itself around Jesse's chest and squeezed. He pressed down harder on the gas and the souped-up V-8 responded with a moan that was almost erotic. Thinking was stupid. Thinking was for people who were doing something besides marking time.
He checked his appearance in the rearview mirror as though looking for weaknesses. His face was all hard angles and planes and his dark green eyes were too old for his years. He was primed and ready for trouble.
Reaching into his cooler, he popped the tab on a Coors and drained it in a single swallow, feeling the brew slide down his throat like molten ice. "Oh man, gonna have me a little fun tonight. Some real fun for a change." His voice sounded a little desperate to his ears and he stopped talking. Crushing the can, he flung it with all his might at a lonely cactus standing beside the road. A spark of satisfaction shot through Jesse as the can struck it dead center. The arm that had made him a starting pitcher at Lone Mesa High was still working just fine. And so was the temper that had gotten him booted off the team his senior year.
Jesse drove too fast, without headlights, flipping the bird to a passing white Cadillac convertible that flashed its brights at him. His smile widened when he recognized the surprised face in the Caddy. "Shit, my old buddy, Bobby Roberts." Jesse's smile gave way to laughter. "Didn't recognize you, Bobby, or I'd have run your ass off the road."
He fished out another beer and this time he drank a little slower. Had to stay sharp. He was on his way over to Jake Rainwater's pool hail, just outside Crowder Hats, where he was going to shoot some big-money pool. The game was against the guy he had just given the bird, Bobby Roberts.
&nbs
p; Bobby was about as white as you could get, but his money was green and that was the only color that really mattered. Three of Jesse's running buddies would be there to watch, so Jesse had to be cool. His rep was on the line. And if things got rough, maybe more. Bobby got kind of mean if things didn't go his way. To make matters worse, Jake was involved, and you couldn't trust that lying old bastard. He might be backing Bobby. Jake's favorite color was green, too.
A few more minutes passed and the darkness settled in quick and final, forcing Jesse to turn on his headlights. No matter how many times he watched the night come, it always caught him by surprise. This country was hard, giving little, and things could change quickly. He reached his hand into the dash to make sure his equalizer was there. With a slight smile, he slipped it into the pocket of his dark brown leather jacket.
He'd had to show the .32 when his last opponent had been a little reluctant about settling up accounts after the game. The guy'd had the audacity to call him a cheap hood, a hustler. Worse, he had suggested Jesse leave the money on the table. It was more than Jesse made for two weeks of breathing coal dust and he decided, right then and there, no one was ever going to take anything away from him again. The way he figured, that money was his, won fair and square. Though he wouldn't even admit it to himself, he had been nearly as scared as his buddies when that .32 appeared as if by magic from his pocket and pointed itself at that big red-necked trucker. The room got quiet as a church and Jesse watched himself go over and pick up that money.
Nobody seemed to object. If they did, they kept their objections to themselves. Later on that night, as Jesse lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling, he wondered if he would've had the guts to use the gun. Someday he guessed he'd find out.
A glance at his watch in the glow of the dash caused him to swear. Damn, he was running late. Those asshole buddies of his said they would be waiting at the Shell station. They had better be ready if they wanted to catch this ride.
Sometimes Jesse wondered why he even bothered with such a bunch of deadheads. They didn't have much ambition and fewer guts. When Jesse had pulled that pistol, Ernesto, the youngest of the trio, went and crapped his pants right there on the spot.
They made him ride all the way home in the back of the truck. Since that day, if someone even cut so much as a beer fart, Ernesto always got the blame.
In the distance, the Shell station was a bright oasis of light that drew Jesse along the now-deserted stretch of blacktop.
Farther up was a softer glow that was Crowder Flats itself. He leaned out the truck window, letting the chill air whip his hair, and looked up into the sky. The stars were a spray of diamond dust cast across black velvet and Jesse knew that when he left here, those stars would be the only thing he would miss. He'd been up to L. A. once with his dad and those same stars were dim, soft-edged, impossibly distant. Here he could almost reach out and touch them.
For the first time in months he felt happy. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air; something was going to happen tonight. He didn't know if it was going to be good or bad. He didn't give a damn either way.
Jesse turned into the gas station and slammed on his brakes, letting the pickup fishtail to a halt in front of the pumps. The place was nearly deserted. Jesus was in the left-hand car bay leaning under the hood of an old Dodge Charger. Manny and Ernesto were watching, offering advice that obviously didn't suit Jesus. He kept shaking his head no and rubbing his chin. When he stopped, there was grease on his chin.
At the next gas pump was a redheaded, scrawny teenager filling up his wired-together Kawasaki dirt bike. He finished, handed Jesus two dollars.
"You o'e me another buck," Jesus said, without looking up.
Elliot Cates went into his sneaker.
Jesus looked at the filthy, sweat-stained bill. "Oh man, lay that thing on the hood." He picked up the dollar with a pair of pliers and deposited it in the cash register.
The teenager walked past Jesse and kick-started his bike.
"Hey, Elliot, you little pervert," Jesse said, "what do you need with so much gas? You going out to spear some jack rabbits tonight?"
"Nah, I'm going out to spear your girlfriend, Amy Warrick. With this." Elliot grabbed his crotch. Before Jesse could get out of the truck, Elliot roared off into the night, the sound of his laughter louder than the cycle.
Over by the Coke machine was an old man in baggy Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt trying without much success to fold up a road map. Jesse grinned into the thin, birdlike face and saw only disapproval staring back at him. He threw the truck into reverse and punched the gas pedal, causing his truck to leap backward. The squealing tires made the old man drop the map and jump back into his Winnebago. Jesse slowly eased out and sauntered over to pick up the map. When he tapped on the window and offered up the map, the old man threw the Winnebago into gear and drove away. The receding face looked back once. There was no disapproval on it; now there was only fear.
"You scared the shit out of that old man," Jesus said, shaking his head as he slammed the hood on the Charger. He wiped his hands on a greasy rag.
They didn't look any cleaner to Jesse. "That old fart was gonna steal one of your maps."
"Since when did you get to be such a stickler for the law?"
"It just sort of came over me."
"A lot of things have been coming over you lately," Jesus said. "You got that pistol with you?"
Jesse patted the pocket of his jacket and smiled.
"Can I see it?" Ernesto asked, his pimply face filled with excitement. His voice was high and slightly uncertain, and when he got too excited, he stammered.
"No, you can't see it," his brother, Manny, said. "We don't want you to go crapping your pants again."
Ernesto turned red. For a second it looked like he was going to take a swing at Manny, who was a year older and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds. Instead he smiled, his hand going to his pimple-ravaged face as he turned away.
"Come on," Jesse said, "I ain't got time for this. I got to be at Jake Rainwater's place in half an hour."
Jesus produced a huge key ring and in ten seconds had the place locked up. They started to climb into Jesse's truck, Manny taking the shotgun position. Jesse jerked his thumb at the back of the truck.
Manny's face tightened. "How come I gotta ride back there?"
"Cause I said so. Ernesto, you take shotgun."
Manny spat on the ground, but said nothing. He climbed in, wedging himself between the spare tire and the toolbox. "You want the blanket?" Ernesto asked.
Manny shook his head no. "Shit no, that thing smells worse than you. I'll take one of them beers, though."
Jesse gunned the pickup, causing Manny to spill the beer all over himself. Manny retaliated by shaking the beer and spraying everyone in the cab. They hit the blacktop with the sound of burning rubber and raucous laughter. Yes sir, it was going to be a hell of a night. One hell of a night.
Chapter 9
Amos rode toward Chester Roberts' ranch.
"Amanda, I'm drunk," he said to his horse. "Falling-down, throwing-up, pissing-on-yourself drunk." This seemed to strike Amos as funny for some reason, and he almost choked as he paused to take another drink from the bottle. Whiskey streamed from his mouth.
The clicking of Amanda's hooves was a gentle, insistent rhythm as she picked her surefooted way along the trail. When they crossed over a ravine, a few stones, loosened from their perches, rattled down, echoing hollowly. A full moon stared down, giving everything hard, sharp edges. Stunted piñon trees, patches of wiry grass, and an occasional barrel cactus were the only things dotting the silvery landscape. They might have been crossing the moon.
The land rose gradually, finally cresting on a mesa dotted with a few scraggly pines. Not much lived here. Not much could.
Down the slope was a huge, dark depression in the earth, with long ridged gashes that appeared reddish in the moonlight, as though the earth itself were bleeding from a wound. Amos felt sorrow. The
crater, and that's what it was, a crater, stretched out at least ten miles, maybe more, and each day it grew, like a cancer out of control. The wind changed, blowing the smell of dust and diesel fumes back to Amos.
A low growling reached the old man as he rode the edge of the rim. Bright lights crawled around in the distance, no bigger than the fireflies he had chased as a child.
The lights belonged to huge earth-moving equipment used for strip-mining coal.
Amos grimaced. His own people, the Navajos, were raping their land for the white man's money.
Amos paused on the edge of the crater and stared out at the distant, insect-like earth loaders that crawled back and forth, holding his people's heritage in their clawed embrace, dumping it into the trucks to be carried away. Gone. Never to return. He turned away, saddened and disgusted at what he saw. Someday the money would be gone, the land violated. Someday, if their gods should return, what would his people say to them when they asked about the sacred land?
Amos didn't think they would be pleased with the answer.
The night air was definitely taking on a chill, and Amos had to take another drink to fortify himself against it. Or maybe against the pain he felt. He knew he didn't have enough whiskey to do the job.
Amanda trotted along the familiar trail, her smooth gait lulling Amos into a doze. Somewhere in the night an owl hooted, yanking Amos awake. A shiver passed through him. Ancient Navajo lore said that when a warrior heard an owl, a ghost or an evil spirit was nearby. Amos didn't really believe that, still it was hard to shake the teachings of youth. The old man peered into the darkness and realized he had ridden a lot farther than he had thought.
Up ahead was the reason Crowder Flats existed. A graveyard, split in two. Separate graves for the whites, one huge common grave for the Indians. How it came to be here was a story every school kid in three surrounding counties knew. One hundred nineteen years ago, Crowder Flats had been wiped out, along with a small band of peaceful Navajos who had been camping nearby. Of course, the town wasn't known as Crowder Flats then. All had been massacred in their sleep, killed down to the last man, woman, and child.
