Wounded

by Percival Everett

  “I don’t know why you let this place bug you so much,” Gus said. “It’s just a town and not much of one. Just a bunch of buildings where people live and work. Hell, it’s not like it’s Phoenix.”

  “It was fine ten years ago.” I glanced at the fuel gauge and made a note to fill up. “It used to be a village, a real Western town. Now, now it’s working on being just like anyplace else.”

  “Get off your soapbox.”

  I shut up.

  “Did you remember to bring the list?”

  I felt my breast pocket and said I did. I was always forgetting lists. I was good at making them and, with the list in my pocket, I could take care of everything without looking at it. But my habit was to forget the list, and then I couldn’t recall a damn thing. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you at the doctor’s office?”

  “I’m sure. When he’s done poking me, I’ll just want to grab a bite and head home.”

  I pulled into a diagonal space in front of the doctor’s office and watched the old man walk through the door. I then drove to the opposite side of town, not far, to the Broken Horn Feed Store.

  The doors of the store always sported some new, tacky novelty that the shop owner, Myra, hadn’t been able to resist. Today it was a pony-sized, stuffed horse with eyes that followed anyone who walked by and said, “Clippity-clop, cowpoke” in a John Wayne voice. I watched the eyeballs track me to the counter, then reset.

  “That’s real nice, Myra,” I said.

  “Ain’t it a hoot?”

  “That’s what it is, all right. What else does it do?” I asked.

  “Well, it doesn’t shit on the floor.” Myra flashed her wide, gap-toothed smile. “Around here that’s a pretty good trick.”

  “I reckon. Say, do you have my de-worming paste all packed up?”

  “Not yet. I was in the middle of doing that now.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ve got a whole list of stuff. I’ll get what I need while you wrap it up.”

  “How’s that ancient uncle of yours?” she asked as I stepped away.

  “He’s at the doc’s right now getting his oil checked,” I said. “He’s okay. He doesn’t say much about how he feels.”

  I walked over to the wall of bits and bridles. I always marveled at the wide array of shapes, weights, and materials of the bits. Many were beautiful. All were meant to cause possible discomfort. Some were harsher than others and served as a reminder of how cruel people could be. I picked up a bicycle chain mule bit and felt a chill creep over me. The only positive thing was that this bit had remained on the wall unsold for at least five years. I put it back and went on to collect my Betadyne, drawing salve, and other things. I piled the stuff on the counter.

  Myra came from the back with my box. “Hey, did you hear about that boy?”

  “I don’t think so. What boy?”

  “They found this college kid dead at the mouth of Damon Falls Canyon.” Myra shook her head. “I heard he was strung up like an elk with his throat slit.”

  “My god.” I looked outside at the road. The image made my stomach turn a bit and I swallowed hard. A gasoline truck rumbled by. “My god,” I said, again. “What the hell happened. Was he robbed?” I didn’t know why I was asking that question. I imagined I was just trying to have a senseless thing make sense. I stared at Myra.

  “I don’t know. It’s pretty awful, though. You know, people are just animals anymore.”

  “No, they’re people. That’s the problem. Did they catch who did it?”

  Myra shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything about that.” She totaled up the bill.

  I wrote out a check. I noticed my hand trembling a bit, then it stopped. “There you go, ma’am.”

  “You tell that uncle of yours I asked about him.”

  “I will, Myra.”

  I left the store, put my supplies in the back of the Jeep, then sat behind the wheel, staring through the glass at the empty bench on the deck by the front door. I glanced at my rearview mirror and caught sight of a flatbed loaded with hay pass by. I cranked the engine, backed out and pulled away; the crunching of the gravel gave me comfort.

  At the Lone Steer, a diner that seemed to change ownership monthly but never changed, I sat near the end of the long counter and ordered coffee from a young woman who managed to tell me between my ordering and her delivering it that she was only there to earn enough money to go back to college in Fort Collins and that she would never marry another man from Wyoming, especially a cowboy, no matter how cute he or his horse was.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t marry a man at all,” I said, more into my cup than right to her. “We’re nothing but trouble.”

  Yeah,” she agreed, nodded. “That’s about the truest thing I ever heard a man say.”

  “Trouble’s all I’ve ever given myself,” I said.

  “And that would be because you’re no damn good.” This from Duncan Camp who had straddled the stool next to me.

  “I told them to put a screen on that door,” I said.

  “How you doin’, buddy?” he asked.

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “I’m as fine as frog’s hair,” he said. “Hell, partner, if’n I was any finer, I’d be sick.”

  “That’s pretty fine.”

  “Where’s Unc?” Duncan asked.

  “I’m meeting him for lunch in a few minutes. As he likes to put it, the doctor’s got him on the rack right about now.”

  “You’re not eating here?” Duncan whispered.

  Whispering back, “No way. I’m trying to keep the old guy alive. Talk about wasting a trip to the doctor.”

  Duncan laughed. The waitress slid his coffee in front of him, and he took a sip. “You hear about that boy?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Awful, just awful, thing like that. The paper didn’t say much, but I heard whoever did it stretched him out like Christ.” Duncan caught the waitress’s eye. “Darlin’, are those doughnuts made here on the premises?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me have one, then,” he said.

  “I heard the boy was gay,” the waitress said.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Duncan said. “But it’s a damn shame any way you cut it. Bad choice of words.”

  “Any idea who did it?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Duncan said. “All I know is I’m keeping my daughters close to the ranch for a while. You don’t know what kind of weirdos are prowling around out there. Worse yet, we do know. Wolves ain’t nothing compared to a sick person.” Duncan shook his head and poured a generous amount of sugar into his coffee. “Can I get some milk over here, darlin’?”

  “How are things at your place?” I asked.

  “I had two horses come down with the strangles. God knows where it came from. And I’m struggling to get the hay in before it rains.”

  “Horses okay now?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. By the way, horse trainer, I’ve got a horse I’d like you to work on for me.”

  I finished my coffee and set down my mug with a thud. “I’d expect you to pay me.”

  “Damn. All anybody can think about in this country is money. What about this poor horse that needs your sweet, loving attention?”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “One thing, he’s a horse. The other thing is the idiot’s afraid of his own shadow. He bolts for no apparent reason. Usually with somebody on his back. Namely, me. I’m figuring that’s a bad thing.”

  “There’s always a reason,” I said. “How old is the idiot?”

  “Five, six. I’m not sure. I just bought him and I don’t know much about his history. He’s a beautiful animal.” Duncan took a bite of his doughnut. “But he sees demons, this guy.”

  “Well, bring him over and leave him with me for a while. He does trailer?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The little bell on the front door rang and I turned to see if it
was Gus entering the diner. It wasn’t. It was the young deputy, Hanks. He caught sight of me and made his way to me.

  “Oh lord, what’d you do now?” Duncan said and laughed.

  “Mr. Hunt?” the deputy asked.

  “What can I do for you, son?”

  “The sheriff told me to find you and ask you to come over to his office. I called your place and then I drove out, but you weren’t there.”

  “Why does Bucky want to see me?” I asked.

  The deputy was nervous or excited. He thumbed the top edge of his thick black belt. “It’s about a prisoner,” he said.

  “Prisoner?”

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  I looked over at Duncan. Duncan shrugged and I said, “I guess I’d better go see what this is all about.”

  “I reckon,” Duncan said.

  “Tell Gus to wait for me here when he shows up.”

  Duncan nodded. “Will do. I’ll wait till he gets here.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sheriff’s name was Bucky Edmonds. He was a slow-moving but generally agreeable sort. He was extremely tall and so never seemed completely comfortable, never quite convincing when trying to be intimidating, and he always appeared a bit of a clown when caught indoors. Still, he was well meaning enough. When Hanks led me into the station the sheriff was hovering over the dispatcher near the front desk.

  “You wanted me, Bucky?” I asked.

  “I found him,” Hanks said.

  “I can see that, deputy.” Then to me, “You know a fella named William Caitlinburg?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe I do.”

  “Says he works for you.”

  “Wallace Castlebury?”

  Bucky shot a look at Hanks. “Damn your handwriting, Hanks.” Edmond scratched the correction onto the form. “Wallace Castlebury,” he repeated the name. “You do know him then.”

  “He’s worked for me for almost four weeks now. Why?”

  “I got him locked up back there.” Edmonds tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “I haven’t questioned him yet. Hanks here and Douglas talked to him and he asked for you.”

  “My first question, I guess, is ‘what did he do?’ and my second is ‘why the hell are you telling me?’” I rubbed the back of my neck.

  “Like I said, John, he asked for you. He says he doesn’t know anybody else around here. You’re his phone call, so to speak.”

  “He has some friends,” I said.

  “He asked for you.”

  “This idiot’s not expecting me to go his bail, is he?” I asked. When the sheriff didn’t answer, I said, “Is he, Bucky?”

  “I doubt there’s going to be any bail.”

  I studied the tall man’s face.

  “He’s in here for murder. We’re pretty sure he’s the one who killed that boy last night.”

  “And what am I supposed to talk to him about?”

  “He asked for you. That’s all I can tell you. You’re not obliged to talk to him. I take it he’s not a friend of yours?”

  “Has he been assigned a lawyer yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We picked him up two hours ago. A defender’s driving up from Laramie. I’m not talking to him until his counsel gets here.” Edmonds pulled a pack of gum from his breast pocket and folded a stick into his mouth. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll talk to him for a minute.”

  Edmonds whistled over to Hanks. “Deputy, I want you to walk Mr. Hunt back to the tank and let him talk to Castlebury.” He put emphasis on “Castlebury.”

  I followed Hanks down a bright hallway and through a locked door that was less massive and impressive than I had imagined. Wallace was sitting on a metal cot behind a barred door.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” Hanks said, sounding official. Then to me, “Just knock when you’re done.”

  “I won’t be long,” I told him, hoping that he would understand that I didn’t want him wandering away. I watched the door close, then heard the lock catch. The sound gave me an unsteady feeling. I kept my distance from the cell door and looked at Wallce. He looked even more washed out than usual. His face was drawn, his eyes baggy. I was trying to wrap my thinking around the idea that he had killed someone. “You’re in jail, Wallace,” I said.

  “They say I killed a guy,” he said, coming to the bars. He sounded just like the Wallace I knew. He studied the bars and shivered as if feeling a draft. He held them for a second then let them go.

  “That’s what they’re saying,” I said.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m not your lawyer, son.”

  “I don’t know nobody else.”

  “I thought you told me you were staying with a friend?”

  He backed up and sat on the cot, looked at his hands folded in his lap. He shook his head.

  “A boy and a girl came looking for you this morning. White dually.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I started to turn away.

  “I got a brother in Fort Collins. His name is Gary. My folks is dead. All I got is my brother. He hates me, though. He won’t do nothing for me. He hates me, always has.”

  “What about the kids in the white dually?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Listen, I’ll try to reach your brother, Wallace,” I said. I didn’t want to say it. “I’ll call him and tell what’s happened. I’ll give him what I owe you for the week. It won’t be much, maybe he can use the money to help pay the lawyer or something. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “You believe I didn’t do it,” Wallace said.

  I looked at the stupid face. “I’m not even sure what they’re saying you did. I don’t know you, Wallace. You’re not a friend of mine. Hell, you’re barely an acquaintance. You’re not even a good worker. Besides, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. You’re in a world of trouble and that’s what you need to be worried about. All the same, I’ll try to reach your brother.” I stepped away and knocked on the door.

  Hanks opened it immediately. “You done?”

  “Yeah, I’m done.”

  “Mr. Hunt,” Wallace said. He was up now and at the door, gripping the bars in a pathetically clichéd way.

  “Yes, Wallace?”

  “I’m scared.”

  I nodded.

  Bucky was still by the dispatcher when I came out. “Well?” he asked.

  “Says he didn’t do it, wants me to call his brother in Fort Collins. I think that’s what he wants.”

  The horse isn’t supposed to make decisions. That’s the first thing. The second thing is that the rider is supposed to make decisions. If the horse gets ahead of you, you might get left behind. That’s the old saying. So, you’ve got to redirect the animal, break the routine, ride him between some bushes for no apparent reason. Don’t let him get chargey on steep hills.

  TWO

  AT THE FIRST SIGN of the green horse’s nose going up, the trainer should put on a running martingale. If he lets the nose get up, it’s too late to put the rings on.

  The next day, I found myself faced with the unwelcome prospect of putting in a call to Wallace’s brother. I didn’t do it right away. I fed the horses, mucked out the stalls, and built a long-needed shelf in the tack room, nicking my finger in the process. Still, I’d said I would call and so I would. I put the tools back into the big red box, congratulated myself for doing so because I never put tools back where they belonged, and walked across the yard to the house. The air was still warm, but I could feel autumn coming. In the house, I settled behind the desk in my study and began cleaning my only rifle, an old Weatherby I’d had for years. I supposed in some way I liked the weight and feel of it, but I didn’t much like guns. Cleaning it reminded me of my father, his insistence on a tidy rifle. He thought one should show respect for the danger and the necessity of the thing. I appreciated the danger part, but the necessity part had only presented itself once, when I found an injured mo
ose up mountain and had to put the animal out of his misery; as the animal had dragged himself around a four-meter circle, I wondered whether I would be ending his pain or my own on seeing him. The moose looked at me as I drew a bead and, in my human way, I imagined his asking for release. I guess I believed that a dirty gun was a scary one. I was pausing to inhale the scent of the gun oil when Gus plunked the phone down in front of me.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “The only time you clean that damned rifle, that you don’t use, is when you’re procrastinating.”

  “If that were true, this would be the cleanest gun in the West.”

  Gus turned and left the room.

  I picked up the phone and called information in Fort Collins. I asked for a Gary Castlebury; how many Castleburys could there be? There were in fact two G. A. Castleburys. I took both numbers and, of course, the first one I dialed was wrong. I dialed the second. A man answered.

  “May I speak to Gary Castlebury?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Hello?” I looked out the window at some gathering clouds.

  “Who’s this?” the man asked.

  “I’m trying to reach Wallace Castlebury’s brother,” I said. “Are you Gary?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you Gary Castlebury?”

  “What do you want?”

  “My name is John Hunt. Your brother worked for me for a couple of weeks.”

  “So?” I felt that the man was about to hang up.

  “Your brother asked me to get in touch with you. He’s gotten himself into some trouble up here in Highland. Actually, he’s in a lot of trouble.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean to me?” the man said. “Quite a lot of trouble.”

  “Wallace is your brother, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “What kind of fuckin’ trouble is the asshole in now?”

  “He’s been arrested for murder.”

  Gary Castlebury was silent for a few seconds. Then he snorted, sounding almost like he was laughing. “That son of a bitch is too lazy to kill anybody.”