The Bird Saviors

by William J. Cobb

  Jack Brown. A nobody related to that pawnshop owner Page. He's a fool. Becca told me the whole story, and it sounds like he got into something over his head. She gave him back that ring and we don't want any hand in any payback now. Let sleeping dogs lie, Wyatt Earp.

  George? You going soft on me? I figured you'd be putting the hurt on him big time.

  Maybe I mellowed with a woman whispering in my ear. I don't know. But I'm the one who told her to give the ring back. Since then, what's done is done. Haven't heard a peep out of the Saints and hope I never will again.

  You hear about that tanker hijacked and a trucker killed?

  Nope.

  Elray frowns. You don't watch the news much, I take it.

  Hardly ever. Up on the mesa, we watch the sunset.

  That's nice and gooey and all, but us law- enforcement types, we stay up on things. This hijacking gone wrong wasn't that long ago, and seemed to me like a plot the Saints would hatch. An entire tanker full of gas. A lot of money to be made if you can sell it. Who else but Saints is what I'm thinking. And just the other day the tanker shows up empty at a rest stop in Nevada. I'm thinking these outlaws sold the gas somewhere in the polyg back alleys of southern Utah, then crossed state lines and dropped the truck off to wash their hands of it.

  Those freaks got too much time on their hands, says Crowfoot. Never mess with a people crazier than yourself.

  Yeah, well, I'm writing parking tickets now. I got some time on my hands too.

  But you're not crazy.

  That's debatable. I'm a horse cop in the shadow of a freeway. Can't be that sharp or I'd be making the big money.

  Do what you want. Me and Becca, we're over it. I know they say revenge is a dish best served cold, but ugliness begets ugliness. The best way to end a feud is to walk away, forget about it.

  I wish it was that easy. But maybe. I'll sit on this for now. If Jack Brown runs afoul of the law, I'll be there to greet him. Elray nods and gives George an adios, returns to Apache, tied to a chain- link fence. He climbs on the horse and watches Crowfoot drive away, sees the pickup disappear in traffic, thinking that as much as he hates to admit it, the man is right. Let it go. Sometimes that's what you have to do. Sometimes that's all a man can do. Let it go.

  Except when you can't.

  A t o p W i l d H o r s e M e s a , Crowfoot packs a row of eighteen- by- twelve- inch wooden frames with mud, clay, and straw, leaves them in the sun to bake dry. The wooden frames are made from scrap two- by- fours. He's building a round adobe house, Santa Fe style. Becca Cisneros brings him sausage- and- egg soft tacos wrapped in aluminum foil and a thermos of coffee. How's it going? she asks.

  Good, good. He wipes mud and clay from his hands and takes the foil packet she's offering. At this rate I'll have enough bricks done to start laying and mortaring the walls before the worst of the cold sets in. I'm thinking of putting a big window in here. He points. What do you think of that?

  It's a great view. She rests one hand on her belly, her face sublime, untroubled in the sunlight. She's carrying a baby girl and is happy in this knowledge, at this moment, on top of this mesa, the blue sky above dotted with clouds white as clean pillowcases. She smiles and gives Crowfoot's belt loop a tug. Is that the bedroom?

  He nods. The sun will wake us up every morning.

  We can lie in bed and watch it.

  Or do something else, he says.

  Or that.

  And I can watch you. With the morning light on your skin.

  Now, you better quit thinking that way.

  What?

  I see that look on your face. You keep giving me that look and you'll never get this finished.

  He laughs. I saw Elray James yesterday.

  You did?

  I did.

  What was he doing?

  Putting parking tickets on cars of the unfortunate, downtown.

  You say anything about us?

  Well, I said thanks for being the one to introduce us, after a fashion, I guess.

  You did.

  I said I felt guilty for stealing you away.

  You didn't steal me from him! I only met the man once.

  I know that.

  It's like another lifetime ago. I don't even want to think about it.

  Then don't.

  I want to think about what kind of tile we're going to put on the floor. We're going to use stone tiles, aren't we?

  We are.

  It will be beautiful.

  Crowfoot nods. And a lot of work. But by the end, beautiful.

  That's what matters, isn't it?

  Yes, it is. Everything worth doing takes work.

  Crowfoot stares southwest, the landscape stretching beyond like a painting of the legendary Anasazi cliff houses. A high, treeless plateau of tan and russet fields rising to forested mountains jagged against the horizon. Burned patches of scorched trees still standing on one of the closest hillsides. The sharp drop- off of the cliff edge a hundred yards beyond where the south- facing house plot lies. He pictures the adobe home, a fire in the corner fireplace hearth, snow on the mesa lovely out the windows. He pictures how the golden sun rays will fall onto the flagstone tiles of the room. How Becca will look as she wakes in bed, the light so clear and true he'll be able to see the fine hairs that cover her lower back. A plan for a life worth living. Something whole and different.

  . . .

  Later that day Crowfoot bounces his pickup down the steep road on a supply trip to town. When he stops just outside the cattle guard to open the gate at the foot of Wild Horse Mesa, he finds a cardboard box. He regards it for a moment, the odd vision of a box in the desert, sitting next to a clump of cactus. He gives it a tentative shove with the toe of his boot. There's a note scrawled on the top flaps in black marker: Adios, amigo. Here's a present for you and yours. Keep it to scare the Saints. Crowfoot hefts the box in the air and gives it a shake. Knows what it is without looking.

  W a r d w a l k s u p the street from the buffalo head to the parking lot of a Sonic Drive- In. It resembles an open- air mercado in Tijuana. The kitchen still sells hamburgers and fries, but the customers order at the walk- up window. The rest of the space functions as an after- the- fall flea market.

  Vendors sit on folding chairs behind card tables covered with ragtag wares for sale: dusty bootleg DVDs, plastic dinosaurs, scuffed tennis balls, sunglasses, old shoes, footballs, recycled car batteries, five- gallon jerry cans of deep- fryer grease, beeswax candles, and cans of calcium carbide for mining lamps. Piles of used clothes, jars of honey, and nopalitas. A stretch of five stalls selling locally grown fruit and vegetables: spotty oranges, avocados, corn, and tomatoes. Another vendor specializes in Mexican candies: Chiclets, sugar candies shaped like Day of the Dead skeletons, and sweet devils.

  Wearing wire- rimmed glasses, baseball cap, plaid shirt, and jeans, Ward mingles among the crowded stalls, jostling with everyone else for space below brightly colored sun umbrellas or the old awnings for the drive- in carports. The air smells of pork tamales, caramel popcorn, beer, and diesel fumes.

  The day is hot and dry, the sky bright blue and relentless as a heat lamp. A radio blasts Tejano music full of accordions and trumpets while children run through the crowd squealing and laughing and begging for sweets, for coins, for papier- mâché piñatas— burros, caballos, y tigres— hanging from the metal awnings of the old carports.

  Ward wanders through the crowd for half an hour until finally buying a fruit drink, a pair of turquoise bird earrings, and a handful of empanadas wrapped in newspaper. He's shooing away the flies from his paper cup of fruit punch when he hears a familiar voice behind him say, You're here.

  He turns around and it's Ruby, her curly hair bound in a ponytail and a floppy straw hat on her head. He smiles and says, You want a taste?

  She looks at the meat pie and squints. Where'd you get those?

  Over there. Ward points through the crowd. She has a stack of them in a metal bucket. I don't know how hygienic it is, but t
he price is a bargain.

  Ruby takes a bite and smiles. That's pretty good.

  They make their way through the crowd, having to lean in close to hear each other.

  On the walk over I was half thinking that you weren't going to show, says Ruby.

  No, you weren't.

  I was too! Really. I didn't want to get my hopes up too much.

  Well, of course I was going to show. I mean, I wouldn't miss it for the world.

  Ruby stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek, a funny look on her face. Guess what today is.

  Saturday?

  My birthday.

  Close your eyes and hold out your hands, says Ward.

  When she does, he places the turquoise bird earrings, in a tiny ziplock baggie, in her hands. Now open them.

  A present? Ruby smiles and thanks him. How'd you know?

  My secret. Plus I have other presents for you at the car.

  She turns and heads into the crowd, calling out, That's even better.

  They wend their way back to the Buffalo Head parking lot and walk up to Ward's Subaru.

  What's a canoe doing on your roof ? she asks.

  Waiting to be used, he says. Waiting for you. I mean, it's yours.

  Atop the Subaru's roof rack is strapped a green canoe with the legend mad river in white letters on its side. Ruby reaches up to touch it. I can't accept that, she says. It's too much.

  I bought it used, he says. Besides, nothing is ever too much for a birthday. I have something else.

  Ward opens the car and comes out with a shoebox. In it are four tail feathers from a Red- Tailed Hawk— graceful, cinnamon- colored. Ruby says, Now, this I can accept. She holds one up to the sky. They're perfect.

  Plus we're having a picnic, he adds. I went all out. I got special olives and special cheese. The whole shebang.

  Special olives?

  Ward nods. And special cheese.

  Ruby grins and climbs in on the passenger side. She turns on the radio and starts searching for a station. She can't look at him. I guess I should thank you, she says.

  You don't need to. I see that smile on your face.

  It's too much. She fiddles with the radio, not looking at Ward. But thank you. I always wanted a canoe.

  You're welcome.

  They drive west out of Pueblo through the canyons and prairies that mark the end of the Great Plains, where the flatland meets the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the smaller peaks of the Sierra Mojada and the Green Horns. After the ghost town of Wetmore— all boarded- up buildings, tumbleweeds clumped against a shuttered general store, dust drifts upon sidewalks and against the foggy glass walls of dead service stations— they turn onto a country road that cuts a winding route through the forested hills and canyons. They cross two rocky creeks and a number of ranch gates, white- faced cattle in the fields, prairie dogs on the roadsides. Backwoods homes with satellite dishes and solar panels on their roofs. Aspens cover the hillsides, their leaves bright yellow and gold, shimmering in the wind. Ruby says she has never been to this lake before.

  Ward shakes his head. That's a shame. Then again, neither have I.

  But I have hiked west of here. In a couple months, when it gets really cold, I want to take you into the mountains to see the ghost trees. In storms the snowflakes coat the trees solid white, and as the snow falls it becomes like a curtain. Or a fog. Where you can only see a short way. So the trees become a solid wall of white. Like a forest of ghosts.

  Okay, then. You'll have to take me there.

  Look, a Red- Tail. Ruby points out her window toward a hawk beating its wings, a rodent clutched in its talons. It caught something.

  Ward pulls onto the shoulder and leaves the motor running, then leans over Ruby's side to get a line of sight low enough to see out the windshield. He smells her apricot shampoo and sees the veins pulsing in her neck.

  The buteo lands atop a telephone pole. Ward catches a brief look before it spreads wide its wings again and glides away, flying low before them and across the road, over an open field, and into the forest of ponderosa pine and white fir.

  A female, he says. That's a good- sized bird, and with Red- Tails, the females are bigger than the males.

  I like that, says Ruby. If women were bigger than men, that might solve some of our problems, right?

  Ward stops twice more on their way to point out birds. They see Black- Billed Magpies on fence posts, with foot- long tail feathers and white wings, and lustrous Mountain Bluebirds perched on barbed- wire fences.

  Evergreens surround White Baby Lake except where the aspen leaves have withered yellow and gold. A historical marker near the parking lot explains that the lake was named after Isabel, the first white child born in the area, in 1854. A band of bright color follows the creek that feeds the lake. Besides Ruby and Ward, the only other visitors are an older couple sitting in lawn chairs and fishing. Ward buys soft drinks from a small convenience store at a motel next to the lake. A plump woman rings up his purchase and tells him to watch the weather. The fire danger is high. He asks her if they've seen any ducks on the lake yet.

  Stragglers, she says. Not many but a few. She says the weather has been funny. The migrating birds arrive earlier every year. If you're lucky you might see some Pelicans. She points to the western edge. Over in the shallows.

  Enjoy yourselves, she adds. And make sure to wear the life jackets. The Fish and Game man comes by pretty often. He'll give you a ticket for no jacket faster than your head can spin.

  Ward and Ruby unstrap the canoe from his roof rack and carry it to the landing dock. Ruby stands uncertainly as Ward puts his binoculars and a knapsack with lunch beneath the thwarts. He tells her to get in and move toward the bow, then take a seat.

  Ruby situates herself in the bow of the canoe, on the forward thwart, and tells him she's ready, now what. Ward steps into the canoe and drags the stern off the sandy shoreline until the entire keel is in the water.

  Just sit still and hold on to the gunwales, don't stand up or anything silly like that. With a quick movement he steps into the canoe and takes a seat, causing the canoe to wobble for a moment. He grasps the wooden paddle and pushes off the bottom of the shallows.

  Do you want me to paddle?

  Not yet. You just sit still and don't rock the boat.

  Ward guides the canoe in smooth strokes across the lake, heading for a cove near the west shore, where the ducks and waterfowl cluster. The wind blows Ruby's hair in her face as he shows her how to paddle, explaining that she should keep her paddle to the port side of the canoe and he will take starboard.

  What do you mean, port?

  The left side.

  Why don't you say that?

  Because that's not seaworthy slang. On the water you say port and starboard, bow and stern.

  She frowns. This is a lake.

  Well. It's appropriate.

  Bruised clouds darken the sky until the pines and firs look like stencil cutouts. At first both are quiet, although Ward points out birds on the shoreline, Sandpipers and Egrets. Ruby concentrates on paddling. Finally she says, I'm getting wet. Every time I paddle, I splash water on myself.

  Ward laughs. Don't paddle, then. Just sit there and enjoy yourself.

  After a moment she answers, I don't know how to do that.

  Oh, come on. Enjoy yourself. It's not that hard.

  She shakes her head. My father tried to marry me off to a pawnshop owner. Now that isn't working out, he told me the other night he's going to find someone else. Someone worse, I imagine.

  Ward paddles, watching the dark clouds above. You deserve a man who loves you, he says softly. I think your father will see that in the long run.

  In the long run I'll be gone. She turns to look back at him, holding her paddle. I'm eighteen. She smiles. I. Am. Eighteen.

  By the time they reach the west end of the lake the surface is rough with waves pushing them forward. Lightning flashes and a roll of thunder follows. Ward says they had better take shel
ter. He shoots the canoe onto the shore with a heavy crunching sound against the gravel.

  He hops into the water as Ruby says, We better not get hit by lightning. Lila can do without any shiftless father but she needs me bad.

  Hurry, then, says Ward. We're probably safest away from the water.

  Ruby climbs out and both of them drag the canoe onto the shore.

  They pull on jackets and walk the shoreline, collecting goose feathers in the flotsam and jetsam. It thunders but no rain falls.