Outrider

by Steven John

  “Get your tarp,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  Boss Hutton wandered about the room aimlessly. He walked up and down the rows of folding chairs, tested the microphone on the podium for the third time, and then just stood still in the middle of the plywood stage. Pale sunlight drifted through the dusty windows lining the sixty-by-forty foot room. His smoker’s cough echoed off the cinderblock walls. It had been just over a half hour since he’d sounded the horns and the first of his outriders were sure to arrive any minute.

  He dreaded the questions; could barely stand the thought of the usual bullshitting and banter. Not this time. This was no time for grab-assing. Hutton loved his boys but he knew them too well to let the fellahs in on what was happening just yet. Bunch of hotheads, he sighed, shaking his head. They’ll just wanna start hootin’ and shootin’ and take names later. The Boss knew he’d have to explain why he’d called the men in early, but he needed more information before announcing a drain. Once the lid was off this thing, it would have to be seen all the way through. And as much as Hutton loathed the notion, he knew he’d have to consult Mayor Dreg and the Civil Defense Forces before an appropriate response could be mounted. There came a time when the field and the city had to come together.

  The Boss had just taken a seat in one of the chairs somewhere near the middle of the room when the doors creaked open. Hutton was holding a slender cigar between two fingers, and he jammed the stogie between his teeth without turning around. An awkward, clunky shuffle announced the first arrival.

  “Hey, Fischer,” Hutton muttered.

  “Howya doin’, Boss man?”

  Hutton rose and turned to face Noah Fischer. “How’s the leg?”

  “Oh, leg’s doin’ great. My hip bone’s broken to shit in three places, but the leg’s doing great.” Fischer leaned down onto his crutches with a smile on his wide, flat face. He stood over six and half feet tall when on two good feet. His usual gait was heavy and loping, like each step was an effort. Now, with one hip cracked apart after a fall off a colt a few days back and leaning on crutches too short, he looked ridiculous as he hobbled into the room; looked like a kid who’d grown too fast to learn where his body stopped and the ground began.

  “Starting a day early, hum?” Fischer asked, easing himself down onto a chair in the back row.

  “Yep.”

  “Heard the sirens so I thought I should amble over. What’s going on?”

  “Usual shit, y’know” Hutton muttered. “Just rounding up my boys.”

  “Why early?”

  “Hm?” Hutton grunted, looking away and hoping to deflect the logical inquiry.

  “The horns.”

  “Didn’t see any reason to put off the meeting. Got things to talk about now. We’ll get to it all in time, Fish.” This non-answer seemed to satisfy the broad-shouldered man entirely. Fischer leaned back in the flimsy plastic and aluminum chair and slid his right leg out in front of him. A white cast held his right leg immobile from waist to ankle and he groaned as pain shot through his side.

  “Goddamnit . . . fuckin’ horse. . . .”

  “New mount that tossed you?” Hutton asked as he lit his cigar.

  “No. That’s the fuck of it all! It was Poppy. I got no clue what spooked him. We was just ridin’ along when all the sudden he up and bucked like a son of a bitch. Like he stepped on something that messed with ’im, but I never seen a thing!”

  “That’ll happen.” Hutton puffed at his stogie, then started walking toward the door. “Listen, Fischer, I gotta make some calls. Tell the boys to stay put in here and wait for me, OK? Tell ’em not to do anything stupid.”

  “Whaddya mean stupid?”

  “Oh, come on Noah—yer one of ’em. I’m one of em.” Hutton paused at the door, looking down at his boots. “You know us fellahs can’t meet in a group bigger’n two and not do something stupid. Just say I said to not do shit and sit down and wait. I’ll be back inside an hour and we’ll get Round Up going.”

  “Sneaking into my own goddamn office,” Dreg muttered as he gently keyed in the door code. The lock clicked and The Mayor slowly turned the heavy knob, easing the thick mahogany door open. He stepped into his outer chamber and looked around the room. The lamps were all lit, the overhead lighting turned off. Just as he liked it. From under the doorframe to Hale’s office he heard the steady clatter of typing. His secretary had no idea he had returned—Franklin always entered his suite through Hale’s office.

  But something was up; The Mayor felt certain that his secretary knew something and was hiding it from him. What the hell he could know is beyond me. Dreg planned to take a thorough accounting of matters before confronting Hale and would then play dumb and see what his secretary disclosed. Those three receptionists in the lobby, though . . . Dreg didn’t trust the way they’d looked at him. Did they know something, too? Had Hale coached them in some way? Their smiles looked the same; their eyes were nervous. In fact the whole city felt on edge.

  Dreg made his way gingerly across the creaking hardwood and let himself into his private office. Maybe he had just been away too long. Four days was longer than he ever spent away from New Las Vegas. Perhaps he was in error leveling his anger at Hale and the city and the lot of it. After all, no one controlled snow storms. But the lack of communication—that was unprecedented. Why, anything could have been going on without him there at the helm!

  The Mayor lowered himself into his soft leather chair and sighed, instantly more content than he had felt in days. The pitcher of ice water was perched atop his blotter, a crystal glass by its side. Three fountain pens lay next to a stack of documents awaiting his signature. Not a speck of dust on the desktop. He nodded slowly to himself. He was back. Dreg rifled through the papers, signing where Hale had indicated without so much as glancing at their headings. He poured himself a glass of water.

  Turning to face the wall of monitors, Dreg unbuttoned his vest and loosened the plum-sized knot in his tie. He let his eyes drift very slowly across the sea of numbers, graphs, and tables. Everything looked stable. Perfectly so, even. Digits rose and fell smoothly and the tracking charts were near-textbook sine curves. Ah, let it go old boy, Dreg looked toward the door of his office. He’s good enough people. I must be remembering it wrong—all the booze that night.

  The Mayor rose and wriggled free of his pin-striped jacket, tossing it across a chair. He leaned against his desk and keyed the intercom.

  “Tim! Get in here!” he rumbled.

  Hale had been ready all morning. When The Mayor slipped into his office via the side door the secretary had feared the worst. But when Dreg used Timothy’s first name in his usual booming voice, Hale figured he may yet be able to steer things his way. If Dreg was shouting things were usually fine: when he was angry he would positively roar; when he spoke quietly, he was beyond furious and only then to be truly feared.

  Buttoning his suit coat, Hale hurried through the outer chamber. He paused before opening the door to Franklin’s office just long enough to catch his reflection in a mirror across the room. Cleanly shaved, hair combed flat, shirt starched, story planned: nothing left but a touch of luck.

  “Mr. Mayor! Good to see your face, sir.”

  “Yours too, Hale. And to hear your voice.” Dreg rose from where he had perched on his desk and stood as Hale approached him. The two shook hands, making eye contact. Hale broke the gaze off after a few seconds and turned to the wall panel.

  “Shall I get some light in here?”

  “Oh yes, as much as you can, Tim. Depressing to leave the dreary Northeast and find home nearly as gray, though.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that storm, and as cloudy as it’s been in months here!” Hale nodded, punching in a few buttons on the keypad. The steel shutters began to rise outside the windows and soft, diffuse light filled the room. The office grew brighter, but without the usual warming glow the bank of windows brought. Rather it was brighter but somehow colder. Hale turned and, spotting Dreg’s jacked lying rum
pled across a chair, he picked up the blazer and shook the wrinkles out before hanging it carefully on the coat tree in the corner. The Mayor watched this action with great pleasure.

  “Now. Tim. Tell me everything I need to know.”

  Dreg sat in one of the two chairs before his desk, turning it inward to face the other. Hale eased down into the second chair, unconsciously sliding a few inches away from his boss. Franklin leaned forward, his face huge before Hale’s eyes. The massive jowls, the mustache quivering above an awful grin, his nasal pores like impact craters. Timothy swallowed hard. He had not taken a good look at Dreg in some time, it seemed. Hale could feel his collar growing damp, his forehead pale. His handling of next few minutes would be pivotal.

  “Well sir, where to start. . . . Basically it was business as usual . . .”

  Boss Hutton ducked back behind the concrete wall, out of view from the street. Marc Alterman had just entered the meeting hall. That accounted for every one of his outriders save four: the bed-ridden Moses Smith, Tripp Hernandez, Wilton Kretch, and Scofield. Those last two had been scheduled to ride the field together for the past few days. Tripp, he was sure, would be late as usual but always showed up. It was unlike Scofield to be late to Round Up, though, especially in light of the warning horns.

  Somethin’ ain’t right here. Hutton furrowed his brow and puffed several times at his cigar before realizing it had gone out. He threw the butt on the ground and pulled his hat low across his eyes. Walking quickly, he made his way across the road and took the long way around the building to avoid the open door. The boys were likely to hear his engine fire up, but they’d just have to wait and wonder.

  Hutton turned the key then patted the dashboard in gratitude when the old jeep started right up. He tossed her into gear and set out heading toward the glowline. In the back of his mind, The Boss knew that driving out to the field in search of his men was near useless and perhaps even counter-productive: it was a big desert and he was unlikely to find them—especially if something were amiss—and if they were indeed simply late getting in, driving away from the meeting was the opposite move to make. But he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting and waiting, fifty-odd pairs of eyes watching him skeptically.

  Hutton jammed another cigar between his teeth and chewed at it, leaving the stogie unlit. The sun was well on the way to its zenith but a thick cloud bank hung in the sky and the land was gray and formless. He knew the pair of missing riders had been patrolling the west end of the field and kept the jeep pointed south by southwest, driving at around forty miles an hour. The Boss figured he would make two long, ovular circuits likely to intersect their route, then head in and figure his next move on the fly.

  He tried not to, but often found himself looking down at his hands wrapped around the bouncing wheel. His knuckles were white with tension. So many veins and scars and brown spots and straggly hairs. A man knows certain things like the back of his hand, they say. When did you boys get so damn gnarled? So damn . . . old? he found himself wondering. No one told me about it. These two hands were foreign to him. Speckled and mildly arthritic and gripping the wheel so tightly, desperately. Hutton spent most of his waking hours alone and preferred it that way, but it was amazing how few of those solitary hours he spent reflectively. Or at least reflecting about himself.

  But now, with the weight of the world on him—with his fields under assault and his best man missing—his mind opened up the floodgates and every doubt and fear flowed in. Each imperfection stood out starkly. How in the hell would his boys fare against a drain? What were they up against? When had these goddamn hands grown so twisted? Christ, while we’re at it, how long’s it been since I had a piece of woman? That ever gonna happen again?

  Hutton was cruising roughly parallel to the glowline and a few miles north of the field. He figured he’d gone far enough west and began turning to complete his first circle. Relief washed over him as he spotted two horsemen a mile off. He sped up to sixty. A smile raised the corners of his chapped lips. But as Hutton drew nearer to his boys, the grin flattened out again. One of the riders was dragging something and the other had a body across his horse.

  “Hey Boss. Howya doin’?”

  Hutton pulled up alongside the outriders and switched off the engine. He grabbed the roll bar and pulled himself up to stand on his seat.

  “Well, I don’t know, Kretch. How are we doing?”

  Wilton watched as Boss Hutton surveyed the scene, noting the old man’s distinct displeasure. Admittedly, it didn’t look good. The boy was draped across the front of Scofield’s saddle, unconscious. They’d wrapped the father in a drag tarp at Scofield’s insistence—Kretch had wanted to bury him in his burrow.

  “What’s the story, boys?”

  “Two timer here,” Kretch spat, gesturing over his shoulder without a backward glance. “Ain’t gonna have a shot at being a three timer, I’m afraid.”

  “This is his son,” Scofield said quietly.

  “How old’s the boy?”

  “Maybe fifteen.”

  Hutton climbed over the door of the jeep and lowered his boots down onto the cold sand. He walked over to Scofield slowly, his hips stiff from the drive.

  “Hey, Reese. How you holdin’ up, girl?” The horse tossed her mane and snorted, then lowered her nose into Hutton’s outstretched palm, nuzzling against it. “You got a good goddamn mount, Scof. You know that, huh?”

  “The best, Boss.”

  “Mhm.” Hutton patted the mare’s neck, savoring the musty-sweet odor of horseflesh. “Man I tell you if I still rode much, I’d be lookin’ for any way to steal her from ya.” The Boss nodded to himself, then pulled off his gray hat and ran a sleeve across his brow. Finally he looked up at the young man slung across the saddle. His face was buried in Reese’ side.

  “He out cold?”

  “Think so. Hasn’t made a peep in miles.”

  “You awake, boy? Young man?” Hutton whispered hoarsely. When no response came, he looked up at Scofield and asked: “What happened?”

  “We seen some strange shit, Boss,” Kretch called from where he perched a few yards off. Hutton glanced over at him, working his hat back on over his salt and pepper hair.

  “Looks that way. What happened?” His eyes were on Scofield again.

  “Long story, Hut. Not sure if the boy and his Pa figure in, but we found something last night. Collector I guess—like nothing I’ve ever seen. Nothing we’d ever seen. It was huge. Complex. What’s the story with the horns?”

  “That story’s gonna have to wait a bit.” Hutton looked away. Then, very quietly, he whispered so Wilton wouldn’t hear, “The ol’ man?” His eyes flitted to Kretch.

  Scofield nodded so slightly Hutton had to read his eyes for the answer. It came unmistakably. The Boss sighed and dropped his head. He drew the chewed up cigar from a vest pocket and walked over to Kretch.

  “You got a light there, Wilton?”

  “Sure, Boss.” Kretch pulled out his lighter and handed it down. After a few flicks Hutton got a flame and lit up his stogie. He handed the lighter back to Wilton and stared into the man’s eyes.

  “Seeing as I left Round Up in the hands of that damn fool Noah Fischer, and seein’ as you already got a load hitched to uh . . . what’s his name . . .”

  “Shady.”

  “Yeah. Shady. Why don’t we have you take the mounts in and I’ll drive Scofield and the boy back with me.”

  Scofield shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Reese seemed to bristle as well, though it was surely the outrider’s imagination. Hutton looked over at the pair.

  “Seems to me that’s the best way. Ain’t much of a load for two horses to trade off and I ain’t much for corpses in my jeep. Kretch, you just get back fast as you can and put the body in the cooler. Tell the boys we’ll be along by noon to start the Round Up.”

  “Boss, if we could—”

  “Ride, Kretch. Just ride.”

  Scofield dismounted hesitantly, whispering a few words t
o Reese before he tied her lead rope to Shady’s saddle horn. He and Hutton helped the boy, half-delirious and muttering, off the mare’s back. They eased the youth into the back of the jeep. Then the two men watched as Kretch trotted north, looking back over his shoulder every few hundred feet.

  The man nodded slowly to himself, rising from his knees to stand nearly six and a half feet tall. He raised the large binoculars to his eyes once more and tracked the jeep speeding north. Then he handed the field glasses back to his compatriot and began to strip off his beige cloak. The fabric, moist in the damp air, caught on his wide shoulders and then tore along a seam as he yanked it free of his body.

  Fuck it. The man smiled. Won’t be needing you much more anyway. He dropped the ruined cloak onto the sand and leaned his head back to survey the sky. The clouds were growing thicker, grayer. The wind was beginning to blow. It swirled around the men imploringly. Rain was coming. A storm.

  The drone of the jeep’s engine was all but inaudible now, its dust cloud ever more distant. Scratching at the thick bristles of his chin, the man turned to face the group and smiled broadly.

  “Well, boys, this is it. The field is ours.”

  11

  “It’s quite alright,” she said.

  “No. It’s not, though. I made a fool of myself and I’m sure I offended you. And embarrassed you.”

  “Um . . . you confused me . . . you definitely confused me.”

  Hale covered the mouthpiece and sighed, closing his eyes tightly. “You’re being generous, Maria. I was a fucking idiot. I never drink. I mean I do—I mean . . . I’m never drunk is what I mean. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Of course not. You were drunk.”