Improbable Fortunes

by Jeffrey Price

  “No sir, ah couldn’t take him.”

  “You can have that old beige horse trailer to boot.”

  “Sir, ah jes want Destiny.”

  “Jes take Stinker and be done with it.” Stumplehorst pressed the reins into Buster’s hand. “Good bye, son…and good luck.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Exile

  From the day Buster left the Stumplehorst ranch, Mr. Stumplehorst would not sleep until he had strewn crumpled newspapers between the doorway to his bedroom and his bed. He did this as an early warning system in case someone came sneaking up on him in the night, that someone being Buster McCaffrey. There were rumors that Buster was working for a cattle outfit in Disappointment Valley, but that turned out to be false. Then one of the Stumplehorst hands told Mr. Stumplehorst that Buster had been seen riding fence in Egnar (that’s Range spelled backwards), but that was also not confirmed—the result of all of these ghost sightings so rattled Mr. Stumplehorst that he began taking horse tranquilizers.

  How unnerving it would have been for Skylar Stumplehorst if he had known that Buster’s head rested a mere a half-mile away as the crow flew. So ashamed after being cashiered from the Stumplehorst’s, Buster’s first thought was to leave town. He actually got as far as Gateway then, realizing he couldn’t abandon his one true love, turned around. Finding a little-used US Forest Service road behind Jimmy Bayles Morgan’s property, he head into the tree line and made camp. From his campfire—where he sat and ate canned beans—Buster could see the twinkling lights of the ranches below and imagined one of those twinkling lights to be Destiny’s bedroom.

  Stinker whinnied and stamped his feet, rousting Buster from his sorrowful reverie. In all of this feeling sorry for himself business, he had forgotten to take Stinker out of the horse trailer. He apologized as he backed him out and put some oats in a feedbag, but Stinker wasn’t interested. He had heard, before he did, the otherworldly, high-pitched whistles of the elk cows and their calves talking to one another as they moved to their evening feeding grounds. Soon they were all around them, making only the slightest sounds of hoof falls through the aspens. Buster stood motionless. The wind was in his face so they couldn’t scent him. For some reason he felt the need to follow. He threw on a halter and eased onto Stinker, bareback. Together, they joined the herd that kept multiplying from three different drainages. He had often wondered where the elk fed at night and now they were taking him there. Soon, they emerged from the trees and entered a flat bench invisible to hunters’ binoculars from below. That’s when Buster saw it—in the middle of this small grassy meadow surrounded by a hundred and fifty elk, an old sheepherder’s wagon—illuminated by the moonlight like an enchanted hologram.

  Buster guided Stinker through the herd for a closer look. He slowly dismounted so as not to disturb his new family. The wagon’s tires were flat. The screen door came off in his hand. Inside, there was a rusted box spring on the floor and a small wood-burning stove that was detached from its chimney. A well-intentioned burlap bag of flour, nibbled to nothing by mice, crumbly safety matches, and a jerry can filled with evaporated water had all been left with worthless good intentions for the next needy traveller. But it was the water-stained calendar on the wall that drew Buster’s attention. It was from the Carnation Powdered Milk Company and featured a pretty woman in her twenties giving her tow-headed son a glass of nutritious powdered milk. The year on the calendar was 1988, the year Buster was born. When he was little, he once asked Mrs. Dominguez where he was born and she told him it was up on the mesa in a sheepherder’s wagon. Could it have possibly been here that his mother had given her life for him? The next morning, he returned with his things. He dragged out the box spring and swept the place with an upturned mesquite. He reattached the chimney to the stove and cut pine boughs as the cushion for his bedroll. This was where he slept that night, comforted by a feeling that he was somehow near his mother.

  Down below in Vanadium, it was 12:30 when Skylar Stumplehorst stumbled out of the High Grade bar. He didn’t want to leave. He was having a good time talking marbled meat with his fellow ranchers, but his weekly allowance ran out before closing time. After an adios to every sun-dried miner’s widow at the bar nursing their vodka and cranberry juices and a gallant wave of his Stetson, Stumplehorst found himself outside in the darkened parking lot with his bravado ebbing. He squinted into the shadows and must have looked over his shoulder a dozen times expecting Buster with an axe in his hands. When he got to his truck, he quickly jumped in and locked the doors. So as not to supply a DUI-hunting state patrolman with probable cause, he drove the three quarters of a mile home at fifteen miles per hour. Entering his own gates unscathed, he sighed a great sigh of relief. But just then, a Great Horned owl, chasing a small bird, swooped up from the ditch and smashed into his windshield. He screamed like a babysitter in a horror movie and put his foot on the accelerator thinking it was the brake—sending his three-quarter ton truck crashing through the front room of the house—pinning Mrs. Stumplehorst to the living room wall as she watched the Hour of Power broadcast from the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, California.

  b

  Ned Gigglehorn and Doc Solitcz were sound asleep when Buster tiptoed into the cabin holding his boots in his hand. He stood over Gigglehorn, whose tortured expression indicated that he reliving one of his many beatings at the hands of strikebreakers. Buster gently shook him.

  “Mr. Gigglehorn…”

  Gigglehorn jackknifed upright.

  “I’ll kill ya! I swear I’ll kill ya!!!”

  “It’s only me,” Buster whispered.

  Doc Solitcz turned on his light.

  “Buster, you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Ah know that. But ah need to let Destiny know ah’m still here for er.”

  Buster took a torn piece of grocery bag out of his pocket and held it out to Ned Gigglehorn.

  “Raht here. My secret place,” he said, pointing to an X on a map that a kindergartner could have drawn. “Will you giver to ’er for me, Mr. Gigglehorn?”

  “No. You’re being a sap.”

  Buster offered the map to Doc Solitcz.

  “Will you giver to ’er, Doc?”

  Doc Solitcz had to chuckle at his persistence.

  “Buster, I’ve been around this family awhile now, so listen to me carefully. Destiny’s parents have a great deal of influence over her. And they don’t want her to be with you. So you understand where this is going?”

  “Sure,” he chirped, and held out the map again.

  “Okay, I’ll give her the map.”

  The grin returned to Buster’s face. Mission accomplished, he headed for the door then stopped, remembering something.

  “Think someone should tell Mr. Stumplehorst his truck’s in the livin’ room.”

  “Thanks. I think they already know that.”

  b

  The next day, Buster prepared for Destiny’s arrival. He picked wildflowers, used a couple of rusted coffee cans for vases, and placed them on either side of the wagon’s door. He lured a brace of blue grouse into camp with a trail of Stinker’s oats then brained them with a rock. Not having pepper or salt, he stuffed their body cavities with wild onions and garlic that Doc Solitcz had showed him how to find. He dug a fire pit and put the birds on a spit; dragged two logs to the fire for a place to sit. He stood back to examine his work. Not bad.

  By seven o’clock she hadn’t come. Buster turned the birds over the fire for what seemed like the hundredth time. They were more than done. It started to drizzle and he was starting to feel stupid. Gingerly, he pulled one of the grouse from the skewer, held it like it was an ear of corn and took a healthy bite.

  “Don’t wait for me or nothin’.”

  Buster almost jumped out of his skin. It was Destiny. She was on foot.

  “Ah almost give up on ya.”

  “Not almost.
You did give up on me,” she said with a laugh. “I left Maple down below. Doc Solitcz said you didn’t want anyone to know where you were.”

  She nodded approvingly as she took in the sheepherder’s wagon, the flowers, the campfire, the dinner.

  “Looks like you were expectin’ a girl or somethin’.”

  “Matter a fact, yor the third one t’night.”

  “Buster, I’m really sorry about you losin’ your job.”

  “Feller’s gotta make his way into the world sometime. Now’s good ’nuff time as any.”

  Destiny sat down next to him and kissed him on the cheek. He gave her a grouse. She pulled off a piece and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “Guess who’s pregnant?”

  In arrhythmatic space between heartbeats, Buster saw his future play out in front of him. He could see the tense confrontation with her parents, their grudging capitulation to their marriage. They would resent him for years, but would eventually be worn down by his dedication, his resourcefulness, the bevy of children—all sturdy, handsome, polite, churchgoing rodeo champions.

  “Maple.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Stinker jumped Maple in the corral and got her pregnant. I don’t know what got into him. Momma and Daddy are real mad because Maple’s a registered quarter horse and Stinker is a God-knows-what.”

  Stunned by the news that he wasn’t going to be a father Buster barely registered Destiny’s chatter.

  “Hello…? Have you heard anything I just said?”

  “Sure, ah heard ya.” She didn’t believe him.

  “I gotta get back.”

  “When am ah gonna see you ag’in?” Destiny sighed then cocked her head sadly.

  “That’s what I came up here to tell you. My parents are sending me away.”

  “Jiminy….to where ’bouts?”

  “To school in Junction.”

  “Oh. Well, ah jes might have a mind to come up and visit with you.”

  “My parents said if you did that, they’d send me to live with my uncle in the Salvation Army and I really wouldn’t like that.”

  “If’n ya don’t want me to come, ah won’t.”

  Sensing his hurt, she put her arms around him.

  “Buster, of course I’d want you…” They held each other for a little while.

  “Ah jes hope you don’t come back too smart to be with ol’ Buster.” Buster said that as a joke, but he kind of meant it.

  Destiny made a sad face then kissed him goodbye. When he was sure she was gone, Buster allowed himself to cry. After all, Sheriff Dudival, Buster’s personal ideal of masculinity, cried plenty. And what would the sheriff think when he heard of all this? Buster figured that he’d probably wonder why he ever wasted a moment of his time on him.

  b

  He was at his desk, Sheriff Dudival, the next morning trying to placate an old lady that was accusing her neighbor of stealing water from the irrigation ditch. This was the fourth time she had made the same complaint. Dudival jabbed at his coffee with a letter opener, trying to get a lump of powdered creamer to dissolve while talking to her on his speakerphone.

  “Have you talked to your neighbor personally about this?”

  “No. I want you to. Ain’t that what we pay you for?”

  Dudival clenched his jaw. This was what he hated most about his job—the perception in the community that he was a paid enforcer. He was just about to tell her as much when he developed a stabbing pain in the solar plexus. He had been having these attacks frequently in the last month or so, but wrote it off as indigestion. He fumbled around in his top drawer for the antacid tablets, but chewing two of them did no good. Suddenly, his face erupted in beads of perspiration.

  “Are you there? You better not hang up on me!” the biddy said.

  Dudival went to the window and opened it, took several deep breaths of the cool, dry air.

  “I need proof before I can accuse someone of stealing water.”

  Dudival slumped back down in his chair and undid the top button of his uniform.

  “Maybe I just won’t vote for you next time around.”

  “Then don’t,” he said and hung up.

  He retrieved his clean hankie and mopped the sweat from his face. The wrenching pain was passing, so he lit a generic cigarette.

  “Sheriff, Buster McCaffrey is here to see you,” Mrs. Poult said over the intercom. Dudival composed himself as Buster skulked in with his head down.

  “Have a seat, Buster. What can I do for you?”

  “Ah had sex-shool ree-lay-shuns with Destiny Stumplehorst,” Buster mumbled.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “They were mighty unhappy with me. Give me my pink slip and an adios y no vuelvas a molestarnos nuevo.”

  Buster waited for his reaction.

  “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No, it ain’t.”

  “Isn’t,” he said, correcting.

  “Isn’t.”

  “And ah ’spect yor pretty dang disserpointed with me.”

  “That’s an accurate assessment. Yes.”

  “Well, ah got one thang to say in my de-fense.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ah love that gal and ah wanna marry her. Those were my ’tentions from the startin’ gate.” Buster’s eyes filling.

  “Okay, son. Okay.” Now, the sheriff was getting emotional. He took out his hankie again and blew his nose. “Nobody gets through this life without making a mistake or two. I’m glad you thought enough of me to come in here and face the music. It tells me you still care about your character. So, let’s try to move forward, shall we?”

  “Ah’d shor like to, Sheriff, but it ain’t changed my mind ’bout marryin’ her.”

  The sheriff sighed and held his now shaking hand under the desk.

  “That’s going to prove more difficult than you think.”

  “Sir?”

  “The Stumplehorsts filed a restraining order against you. Know what a restraining order means?”

  “Catch me up on that, will ya?”

  “A restraining order means you are legally forbidden from being within one hundred yards of them or any of their children. If you see them in town, you’ve got to cross the street.”

  “They don’t have to worry ’bout me cause ah’m leavin’.”

  This piece of news did not go down well with the sheriff.

  “You don’t have to leave. You just have to stay away from them. Understand?”

  “Oh, ah unnerstan, all raht. Ah jes need to get me to Utah.”

  “Why on earth do you want to go there?”

  “To find me my real kin.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like this, Sheriff. Right now, them Stumplehorsts’re thinkin’ ah’m a mutt. Ah don’t blame ’em. But ah got a notion my real family in Utah’re some top shelf folks. Folks ah could get ta braggin’ on.”

  “Why in the world would you think that?”

  “Cause they never wanted anythin’ to do with me. If they was low-lifes, they prolly woont give a hang. See what ah mean?”

  “I don’t know what to say about that. I really don’t.”

  “So, uh, that’s why ah’ma hopin’ you can send me off with an add-dress or somethin’.”

  “I wrote your mother’s kin when you were born. They didn’t…”

  “Ah’m jes gonna need that address.”

  Dudival, visibly flustered by his insistence, pressed the intercom button.

  “Mrs. Poult, bring me the address for Buster’s grandparents.”

  The sheriff fidgeted for a generic cigarette and lit one, then realized he already had one going in the ashtray.

  “You all right, Sheriff?”

  “I’m fine.” They just sat and stared at each
other until there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Poult stuck her head in.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but we don’t have an address on those people. Maybe I threw it out?”

  “Jiminy.”

  “Sorry, Buster,” she said and made the same kind of sad face that Destiny made the night before.

  “You r’member what my pappy’s name was?”

  Sheriff Dudival put his hands up in exasperation.

  “Tom? But I really think this is a fool’s errand.”

  Buster stood and energetically shook the sheriff’s hand.

  “Sir, ah ’ppreciate all’s yous ever done fer me. Ah’ll make ya proud.”

  And with a tip of the hat to Mrs. Poult on the way out, Buster McCaffrey left Vanadium.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Higher Education

  Destiny’s parents had given her a 1980 orange International Scout Harvester to take to school. She wondered as she drove to Grand Junction—with the windows rolled down all the way—whether the truck’s pungence of cow manure was her parent’s last subtle way of reminding her where she came from. She also wondered what clothes the other girls would be wearing and if she would stand out as a hick. And she wondered if her mother’s Thessalonian home schooling would hold her in good stead for the grueling nights of cramming and writing papers about the esoteric French poets of the eighteenth century and other topics she could only guess; and she wondered what her roommate in the dorm would be like—the usual college stuff. Unlike most kids her age, she did not go on a national college tour with her parents. Her mother had made all the arrangements herself—Destiny’s bout of premarital sex had nullified any right to input.

  The Rocky Mountain School of the Professional Arts was located in a two story building in the Bookcliff Mall next to Big O Tires. She was enrolled, not in any liberal arts program like she thought, but in a three-week real estate licensing school. And she would not be housed in a dormitory filled with giggling young girls her age, but in the home of a fellow Thessalonian her mother had stayed in touch with—who also appreciated a good fight with the Devil.