The Bones of Paradise (34 page)

At dark someone lit candles around them, which guttered in the heat and filled the air with a greasy stink Drum could barely abide. Around midnight three white moths began battering themselves against the wavering shadows on the wall and hovering so close to the candle flames that they singed and dropped fluttering to the floor, leaving behind a silence all the more profound for being emptied of motion. A fly bumped lazily against the boy's face and staggered away drunkenly whenever Drum lifted his hand, but it was the buzzing that tolled loudly in his ear. He would remember it for the remaining days of his life.

In the morning they buried Cullen in a series of broken, awkward movements with no majesty or grace or meaning, as everything was undertaken with too much haste. The coffin lid didn't quite fit, so they bound it with rope, and the coffin itself was much too long, so the body slid back and forth with unseemly thumps that made it difficult to carry. When they set it in the ground, the hole was too shallow, so they dug deeper while the mourners waited.
The body swelled in the heat and released a groan followed by a gagging stench. The gravediggers, Irish Jim and Willie Munday, opened a snake hole and had to scramble out while Jorge shot the rattlesnakes. Hayward was back to pacing with his hands on his guns like he'd been hired to tame some outlaw boom town in the Black Hills.

Drum never moved a muscle and Graver stood beside Dulcinea, and seemed ready to catch her if she fainted. Drum was so angry he wanted to shoot them all. His hands kept reaching for something, an axe handle, a rifle, a pitchfork. Keep away from my boy! rang in his head as the terrible funeral stretched in an endless series of mistakes. The preacher got Cullen's name wrong, called him Cuthbert, and Drum started forward to beat him to the ground with his fists. Graver touched his arm and he stopped. Dulcinea's face twisted into hysterical laughter she forced down. When they finally lowered the coffin into the hole, it tilted and everyone could hear the body thump one last time against the end of the box and that about broke Drum's mind. A tide of red came over his eyes and he stopped seeing anyone, only the image of his grandson on that table.

The sun was setting in a slash of red-orange and purple when Larabee and Frank Higgs stepped back from filling the hole, wiped the sweat off their faces, and looked toward Higgs's house where the mourners had begun to laugh and talk loudly among heaps of food and drink.

“Think we're done here for now,” Higgs said and stepped away without looking at Drum.

“We can bring in more dirt tomorrow,” Larabee said. “Put some scrap iron in there to hold it.”

“You would, would you!” Drum stood and grabbed the shovel from Larabee. “Get the hell outta here!” He began to drag dirt off J.B.'s grave and throw it on Cullen's until Higgs sprang to his side and pulled the shovel from his grasp.

“That's enough. We'll see to it in the morning.” He was Drum's size and when he looked the older man directly in the eye, it was
Drum who dropped his gaze, then collapsed on the ground beside the grave. What he couldn't tell Higgs or anyone was that he had nowhere to go now. There wasn't one damn thing he could do. So he sat there, legs sprawled out before him, hands on his aching knees, and waited.

I
t was all going to hell on a painted pony, Higgs thought. That son of a bitch Black Bill, he'd trusted him, trusted Vera for that matter. Now the two of them run off together. It was midmorning and nothing worth a wad of spit was happening. Drum still sat under the stunted mulberry in the cemetery where he'd been since they put the boy in the ground a month ago. Rose or Hayward hauled his meals out to him like he was bedridden again. Last week, Larabee and Willie strung up a tarp to cover him from the sun and wet if it ever rained again, then the other night the wind tore it down and Drum didn't lift a finger. Let the old bastard bake, then.

He raised his cup and gulped the rest of the whiskey coffee in one long continuous swallow, slammed it on the table next to his chair, and pushed up, staggering slightly until he caught his balance on the porch rail. When he looked to see if anyone had noticed, Graver was walking up to his house.

“Boss?”

Higgs waved off the concern in the man's eyes. He wanted to tell him to get the hell back to work, but couldn't remember if he'd given him any work lately.

“That stallion's going to pieces.”

Higgs stumbled inside where the reek of rotting food on crusted dishes piled on the table and in the sink nearly made his eyes water. Goddamn it. Goddamn it. That son of a bitch Bill. Vera's note said only that she was going now and he shouldn't follow. She wasn't coming back. He believed her. He knew her to keep her word.

He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out the shirts she'd carefully folded, underwear, trousers, and carried them to the carpetbag he'd readied last week. He took the best horse he could find from the corral, figured he was owed, ignored Graver's questioning expression, tied the bag to the saddle, mounted, and rode away without uttering another word to another person. To hell with the Bennetts, he was going to Kansas.

G
raver was the only person who seemed to notice that the foreman just quit. The men idled around the bunkhouse drinking, playing cards, and fighting or riding off to town to raise a ruckus. Hayward was primed for it. Graver knew he should follow Higgs down the road, but the stallion had kicked the corral to pieces, his hooves cracking the poles repeatedly as nobody paid him any mind. Graver looked to the house to see if Dulcinea was aware of her horse's actions, but there was nothing.

He sighed and pulled his hat lower on his forehead. He used a rope because he didn't trust the stud, and waited for the horse's natural curiosity to bring him around, hoping he'd read him right and that he wasn't about to tear a chunk out of his shoulder. It wasn't long before the horse was interested enough to follow him into the barn, where Graver brushed and saddled him with the same confident rhythm to hold the animal's attention. He was about to lead him out and mount him when he was interrupted.

“What are you doing?” Hayward stood in the doorway, his hands hung over the twin set of pistols. Although Graver couldn't see his face, he guessed it wore the rage that hid his grief.

“He needs to be ridden.”

“That's my mother's horse and no one else rides him.” Hayward stepped closer, his hands twitching nervously over the guns. If it weren't so ridiculous, Graver would be tempted to give the boy a good thrashing. Instead he shrugged and slapped the stallion's neck.

“Why don't you saddle your father's chestnut and we'll take them both for a run. Not good for blooded animals to be penned up like this, and your ma's still feeling poorly.” Graver pushed a hunk of mane over to the right side and rubbed the stud's forehead while he straightened the forelock, watching the kid out of the corner of his eye as he circled him. Hayward's face was a torment of emotions. Eyes red rimmed from crying, mouth jittery like it couldn't decide whether to yell or pinch together in a sob. His skin was damp and greasy, like he'd drunk too much and it wasn't sitting well. His hands trembled as they sought the gun belt with its extra holes punched to hold its heavy bulk on his narrow hips.

“Here, you hold him and I'll ready the chestnut. Won't take more than a minute or two. Just talk to him and pet on him like your mother does.” Graver held out the reins. The boy was like an orphan calf coaxed to the bucket for the first time. The stud sniffed him as he approached and stepped back with a nervous swish of his tail.

“You can ride him on the way back if he settles.” Graver placed the reins in the boy's hand.

As he saddled the chestnut, Graver shook his head. “Damn waste.” He could feel the bitterness that had taken up permanent residence in his head since he lost his own family and witnessed the way these people tore each other to pieces. It made him mad. He stood for a moment, letting the horse settle as he watched Drum, who sat beside the grave as if it were a campfire. Half a dozen times he'd been tempted to march out to that cemetery and drag the old man to the house, force him to stand on his hind legs, and stop this nonsense. Now Frank Higgs was gone, things were getting worse. Wasn't nobody doing a thing out here but sitting around. Even
Rose kept to herself now that Dulcinea wouldn't talk to her. One killing too many. Took the heart out of folks.

They rode out the back way, past the cemetery, hoping to get a rise out of the old man, and up into the hills beyond using the cattle trail. Graver glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who posted the chestnut's high trot with little effort, his long legs relaxed at its sides. Slowing the stallion to a walk, Graver waited for Hayward to ride up beside him, the stallion ready to shy and bolt. He rubbed its withers and crooned until the horse let out a long series of snorts and dropped his head, still chewing the bit like he could break the metal in two.

“Doing good with that chestnut.” The boy's face reddened and he straightened his back without looking at Graver. “We'll have to use these two every day.”

Hayward brushed a big green horsefly off the chestnut's neck, swatted it when it tried to circle back. “Cullen wanted to ride him.” He nodded at the stallion. “Planned to sneak him out and run away.” He shook his head, his mouth jittery again. “It was too late, though, we weren't kids anymore.” He pulled down his hat and touched the horse with his spurs. When he leapt ahead, the stud fought to follow until Graver let him loose. The stallion was too big and out of shape to put in much of a run. He'd never catch the lighter cow ponies or the leaner horses like the lawyer rode or the chestnut that was at least a quarter mile ahead, but the sheer power of his mass thrilled nonetheless.

When they came through the valley and stopped at the windmill and tank, the horses' sides heaved. “Best water the stud down slow,” Graver said as he dismounted. “Cow horse like the chestnut has the smarts to take care of itself, but this horse probably had someone watching out for it every day of its life.”

Graver could feel Hayward study him, imitating his movements, so he put extra deliberation into each gesture. While the horses watered, he gazed around. This was where he'd been shot four months ago after he'd found the girl and J. B. Bennett murdered. He was surprised Hayward didn't remark on it.

“Come on over here.” Graver led the stud away from the tank toward the ground that still bore the rumpled disturbance of a grave reopened. The pale sand gave underfoot as they trod its edges and sat on the firmer grass.

When the shadow of a huge bird coasted overhead, cutting across the sun-bleached valley, then swam back again, giving a high-pitched scream, Graver and Hayward shaded their eyes and looked up.

“Golden eagle,” Hayward whispered, and the bird screamed again, a commanding, almost angry cry that should have alerted any prey, but didn't. Then another joined, and another, and they swung in huge spiraling circles above the men, riding the drafts of air rising out of the valley before they rose higher and higher, almost into the sun itself, and disappeared.

“Never seen that before,” Graver said.

Hayward turned shy, pulled a piece of grass and followed an ant with the end until it climbed on, then he flung it away and lay on his back. “Saw one up on the reservation a while ago when Cullen and me were there.” Graver strained to hear him, the boy spoke so softly. “That's where the trouble all started.”

Graver felt a chill. “That so?”

Hayward shifted to his side, then pulled his gun belt around so he wasn't lying on the pistol, his mouth working against itself the whole time. “Cullen and me met with these Indian kids at the rodeo in Babylon. Cousins. Two boys wanted to get drunk. Girl didn't. Cullen had some whiskey. Didn't take much. They weren't used to it. Me neither. Cullen was.”

Hayward scrubbed his face with his hands, knocked his hat into the grass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he continued, “We hung out after they closed the rodeo for the night. Then we snuck into the stock pens. Cullen and the Indians, Raymond and Little Knife, wanted to ride the bulls. I wasn't so drunk. Star, that was her name, tried to talk them out of it. They treated us like babies and it riled me up, but she asked me not to do it, so I didn't. We went off under the bleachers with the last of the bottle.

“Turns out the rodeo people had guards and they caught them soon as they opened the gate. Star and me ended up talking and holding hands. Her parents were dead, and I told her about my mother leaving and my father and brother. We weren't paying attention to time, except to notice the moon making its way across the sky. Around dawn Cullen and the other two found us and there were some ugly words. They'd got the crap kicked out of them by the guards and were plenty sore we hadn't stuck around to help. Raymond kept looking at Star like he wanted to accuse her of something and Little Knife was plain loaded for bear. Cullen stared at her and me like he knew a secret, with that grin on his face. Finally I said nothing happened and he looked happy. Her cousins didn't believe me. Little Knife walked up and whispered that he'd cut out my liver and eat it I ever come near Star again. Raymond pulled him off and they left.”

Hayward sat up and picked his hat off the ground. Smoothing his hair back, he put it on and tugged it down so it shaded his face, which glistened with tears he didn't bother wiping away.

Graver had a feeling he knew what came next.

“I figured I'd never see her again, her being on the reservation and all, and J.B. and Drum telling us boys to stay away from there.” He took a deep breath then let it out in a long sigh. “But Cullen said we had to go up and find her and kick the crap out of her cousins if we got the chance. I never knew which he wanted more. I don't think he ever, I mean, I don't think he was ever with a girl. They were afraid of him. They didn't understand.

“So one day we sneak up there and there's some kind of deal going on, Sun Dance, on the Buffalo Grounds, and we're the only white people and everyone's staring at us and nobody will talk to us. There's all this drumming, men sitting around a big drum the size of a cow tank, dancers in the middle of this ring surrounded by posts covered with cedar boughs, families sitting in the shade around the circle. A cry goes up, drumming gets louder and louder and everyone's watching this thing going on by this tall lodge pole
in the middle of the circle with ropes and colored strips of cloth tied to it. The dancers are only wearing breechcloths and some of them are bleeding from cuts on their backs and chests. I grab Cullen's arm and tell him we better go, but he gets that weird light in his eyes and points at this cluster of men at the center pole. It was the cousins, Raymond and Little Knife. Little Knife was already attached to the pole by strips of deerskin pulled through cuts on his chest. He'd back up until the rope stretched tight, pulling the skin to the point of breaking, all the while chanting and dancing with the drums, then he'd move toward the pole again. I guess he was praying. Two old men worked on Raymond, getting him ready. One with a knife slashed twin lines in his chest and pushed a deerskin strip through, then knotted it to the rope while the other man held him still, chanting to him. There wasn't much blood, and I couldn't stop watching. Next thing I knew, Cullen was gone.”

Hayward stood, then squatted. “Think we should get back?”

“Finish your story, son.” Graver flicked the rein end at the stallion when it grazed too close. This might be his only chance to find out what happened the day that brought him to the Bennetts.

“He found Star with her family watching her cousins, so he stood beside her and grinned at the two boys. It was enough.”

The silence filled with the sound of horses pulling grass and chewing.

“They claimed we ruined the Sun Dance and the coming year for their tribe. I guess they think one of us ruined Star, too. We met up a few times after that, and I wanted to give her something, but J.B. never thought I needed money. And I never had before. Cullen told me to do it, to run off with her, marry her. We'd catch sight of the cousins once in a while, but always managed to duck them in town. They had to be gone by dark so it wasn't hard. Town doesn't like Indians after dark. Saves wear and tear on the white folks, I guess. We didn't think they were serious. Star and I just wanted to get to know each other.”

Something in his voice made him seem a boy again, and Graver
reckoned that when a boy's mother leaves it takes him the rest of his life to fill the hole—if he ever could. He had a sudden vision of Hayward as the sort of man who would pursue women as other men followed dreams of gold or land. A cowbird landed on the edge of the churned sand by the tank and began pecking seeds out of a splash of cow manure, its silver beak stabbing quickly between moments when the brown head swiveled to keep an eye on the men and the horses. Finally the motion of the horses' tails flicking flies sent it soaring away, the dark body a glistening smear crossing out of sight.

“I didn't know half of what Cullen was doing, taunting the cousins, getting in fights with them, making them madder and madder, until something had to give. Little Knife wanted to marry Star, but she wouldn't. We came out here once and she liked it, said her ancestors used to camp here. Then she told me she had to meet somebody here, something about her mother. I told her I'd come and protect her, hide so he wouldn't see me. She wouldn't tell me who it was—” He choked and coughed and took a deep breath. “I was late.” He paused again and wiped his face with his hand. “Maybe Little Knife followed her. I don't know what J.B. was doing here. Saw two bodies but didn't realize it was my father until Frank told me the next morning. I was so upset I didn't notice it was J.B.'s horse either. Thought it was whoever Star went to meet. I asked you if he was dead . . . It's all my fault—I was too late—” He sobbed and his shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands.

The boy dropped his hands. “Little Knife must have killed her. Then shot Pa, and—”

“Cullen was never here?”

The boy shook his head. “I thought you'd done it. Then I didn't know what to think until Cullen told me.”

“What?”

“Raymond said Little Knife was gone to Canada or Montana or someplace, but he'd be back to finish the Bennett boys. That's when we started buying guns and practicing.”

Graver sat up. “Is that who shot at me that day we went hunting?”

“Little Knife is still gone, far as I know. Guess it couldn't be him. It sure wasn't Cullen. Nobody understood my brother, Mr. Graver. He wasn't like the way he appeared. He never killed anything he could help it.”

“It was you shot me here, then.”

The boy nodded. “I'm sorry for it now.”

They rode back in silence while Graver ruminated. It wasn't the boys. J.B. probably came upon the girl same as he did. It all came back to the girl.