The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair (8 page)

In the waiting room, Cole stopped to call Vivian. Keeler went on outside.

“Border patrol,” Vivian answered.

“It’s me, Viv, Cole. Bernard’s okay.’

“What happened?”

“Bernard’ll tell you about it. You go on home. See you tomorrow.”

He stepped out onto the street. With the coming night a cool breeze was starting up. He found Keeler slipping on his jacket. Cole lit a cigarette.

“You oughta give that shit up.”

“I know.”

“I’ll give ol’ Bernard a ride home,” Keeler said.

“All right.”

“What’s eatin’ you?”

“I gotta call my brother.”

“Why don’t you two get along?” Keeler asked.

Cole fell in behind the wheel of his jeep. “It’s not just him, it’s the whole damn family. They way they stay on me you’d think we were related or something.” He cranked the engine.

Keeler laughed. “See you tomorrow.”

The freshly resurfaced Highway 9 split the desert, which lay poorly lighted by a waxing crescent moon sitting low in the west. All the pink of dusk was gone. Cole looked at the sky, found the pole star, then Cassiopeia. It had been a long day and, like the moon, he wanted to follow the sun into hiding. The mild nature of Bernard’s wound had made the immediate business of the matter light, but the fact remained that he had been shot. That was bad. And the van was strange. Something didn’t sit right with him. He recalled the scene, the bodies, no identification for any of them, the hibachi. The van’s tags were from Texas and were hot, didn’t match the van. The men were Mexican. So what? That didn’t make them illegal. He tried to recall everything. There was a sack of jerky and bread, but nothing to cook. Why the hibachi? To keep warm? Why was the grill on it? And the way the bodies were lying about. It was like they knew they were dying, yet no one kicked over the fire. Cole didn’t like it.

The tail-draft of a speeding semi rocked Cole’s rig. He swayed in his seat. He sat erect as he spotted a figure scurrying across the road and through his headlamps’ beams. A glimpse of legs. A glimmer like that of metal. He swung the jeep off the road and across the flat. His lights found the small form, a boy, still running. The boy darted quickly to the left and Cole turned the wheel crisply to stay with him, but he was gone. Cole circled tightly, letting his high beams illuminate the desert floor. There was no place to hide, but the boy was gone. Cole stopped and searched with a hand-held spotlight. A chilly wind kicked up and blew sand through the light.

The next morning Cole entered the station to find Bernard standing at his desk.

“You’re in early,” Bernard said.

“What are you doin’ here?” Cole asked.

“A little bullet can’t keep me home.”

“Viv ain’t come in yet,” Bernard said. “State police called. They want your report on that van soon as possible.”

“What’d they say?”

“I guess one of the dead guys was a local.”

“Huh.”

“What is it?”

Cole pulled out a cigarette. “I knew something was funny out there.” He lit up. “How big was the kid that shot you?”

“Hmmm.” Bernard studied the top of his desk. “I can’t really say. I was rollin’ on the ground when I saw him.”

Cole sat at his desk.

“Why?”

“I chased a kid with a rifle across the desert last night. I lost him.”

“How big?”

“Twelve, maybe.”

“Could have been him.”

Cole picked up the phone and dialed the number of the state police. He was put through to a lieutenant.

“…and that’s all we found.” Cole told him the story. “It was weird about the stove and nothing to cook and all. And there was something else.”

“What’s that?”

“There weren’t any tracks. I mean, no tracks at all. Not even the van’s.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I was told one of the dead was a local.”

“The kid. He lived over in Hachita. One of our men recognized him. His mother says his younger brother is missing, too. The two left on horseback day before yesterday to camp and hunt. Esteban Hireles.”

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out.” He hung up, leaned back and looked out at the street.

Vivian came in, her hair not unlike the sun pouring through the window. She put her lunch in the small refrigerator and her bag in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

“Hey, Viv,” Cole said.

“Cole.”

Bernard came out of the men’s room.

“I thought you were shot,” the woman said.

“I was.”

“Where?”

“Norm of Mimbres.”

“No. Where on your body?”

“Look at the way he’s walkin,”’ Cole said.

A big grin came over Vivian’s face. “You got shot in your fanny?” She laughed.

“Christ,” muttered Bernard and he tried to go about his work.

“Keeler’s callin’ him Butt-wound Bernard,” Cole said.

“I like that,” she said. “Butt-wound.”

Bernard ignored her.

Cole stood and put on his hat. “I’m gonna go out and ride the corner. Tell Keeler for me.”

“Will do,” Vivian said.

Cole went west and south and patrolled the area where the border of New Mexico made a ninety-degree turn down into old Mexico. Then he went north, up to where the van had been.

Someplace out in the desert was Esteban Hireles, lost, tired, afraid. Cole figured that he must have seen what happened to his brother. The boy must have seen all four killed and probably who did the killing. It crossed Cole’s mind that he might not be the only one looking for the kid.

Most of the morning was gone and the day was growing hot. He stood near where the van had been and looked around. He spotted a place far off that seemed green. He got into his jeep and drove to it. It was a little water hole. In a wash nearby he found the tracks of horses. They were partially blown over and certainly didn’t lead anywhere, but he knew that both boys had been there.

He drove back to the road. The place where he had seen the boy the previous night was not far from where Bernard had been shot. There were rocks near there, places to hide, and a couple of water holes. He gulped water from his canteen.

Cole drove off Route 9 over the desert. He would check the water holes and look for signs. He found one, two, and at the third he discovered a small mound of human feces. From where he stood he could see two big gatherings of rocks. He took his canteen, but left his rifle.

It was about 105, 110 degrees. The afternoon sun was beginning to slow Cole. Not much was moving out there, except a couple of Gila woodpeckers flapping by on their black-and-white-striped wings. Cole climbed up into the rocks, scaring a few rock squirrels from the shade. He reached into a crack without looking. He felt the rope of a body before it struck, but he couldn’t pull back in time. The rattler hooked in and he sent the snake flying with the whipping of his hand. He fell. It was a bad spill. He believed his leg to be broken. He couldn’t walk, so he had to cut and suck the bite. He crawled into some shade and drank some water, tried to stay calm, slow his heart. He cursed himself for being so careless, stupid.

Cole woke up to the pink-washed sunset sky. He was cold, he thought. Then he remembered the bite and figured he was having chills. He’d have to work his way back to the jeep. A bat’s wings whispered through the darkening sky. He tried to stand but fell back down. He scooted down some of the rocks on his butt. He smelled the thin fragrance of burning mesquite. He stood on one leg and hobbled across the rocks. There was the fire. There was the boy. He
really
needed the boy now. There was no way he could sneak down without spooking the kid. So he rolled himself down the rocks toward the fire.

He rolled through the flames, scattering burning twigs, and onto the boy’s rifle. He slapped the flame out with his trouser leg as he raised the rifle and leveled it at the boy, who was now on his feet.

“No se mueva,”
Cole said.

The boy froze.

“Esteban Hireles?”

The boy said nothing, but did respond to his name.

“No se preocupe
. I’m here to help.” He laughed at himself. That puzzled the boy and he leaned to move away. “Stay!” Cole said firmly.
“Habla usted inglés?”

The boy nodded.

“Esteban, listen to me. A snake bit me on my hand.” He held his hand up for the boy to see. “I need a doctor. Sit down.”

Esteban sat.

“Where is your brother?
Dónde…”

“Dead. They killed him.” Esteban’s voice was thin and he was trying to keep it under control. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.

“Lo siento
. White men?”

“Si.”

“Look at me, Esteban. Am I a white man?”

He shook his head.

“You can trust me. I want to get the men who killed your brother.” A pain ran through his leg and he grabbed at it.

“Dónde le duele?”
Esteban asked where it hurt.

“My leg.
No puedo over el pierna.
, I need a doctor. Listen, kid, I’m about to slip under any second now.
Puedo usted un médico?”

Esteban nodded slowly.

A cool wind blew through the camp. It was darker now.

“Hayviento,”
Cole said, shivering, holding his arm tight to his body and clutching his shirt.

Esteban tossed him a blanket.

“Me llamo
, Cole.” He passed the rifle butt-first to the boy. “My jeep is near the water hole. Just press the button and talk. Please.”

The boy held the rifle and said nothing.

Cole closed his eyes, felt consciousness slipping away.

“Lo siento,”
he heard the whispered words of the boy.

Turtle

The boards of the house were gray like those of so many old barns. The overhang of the front porch was supported in part, if not whole by two four-by-fours which stood out because of their light brown freshness. The house sat off the ground on pillars of chipped brick. Chickens walked around under there.

A dark man sat on the porch, his complexion highlighted by his white tractor cap. The cap was crisp and new. His name was Bubba Johnson. He scratched at his cheek while he watched me approach.

“How’s it going, Bubba?” I asked.

“Okay, Dan. How you doin’?”

“Just fine.”

He started to pull himself from his rocker. “Let me get you a chair.”

“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll just sit right here.” I sat on the porch with my feet riding down the steps. “Your corn is looking real good.”

“Yeah, but it got cockaburrs in it. Been out there most of the day. On my knees.”

“Is that your soybeans back that way?”

“No, that’s Theodore Cheesboro’s.”

“I didn’t think your property went that far.”

“Well, that ain’t his property neither,” he laughed. “I don’t know whose it is. Probably belong to some white fella in Rock Hill. But it ain’t Theodore’s.”

I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket and shook one high. I pulled it out with my mouth, tilted the pack toward Bubba.

He shook his head.

“Smart,” I said. I struck a match on the cinderblock step and lit up. “I read where they closed one of the mills. The one where you work?”

“‘Fraid so.” He was momentarily silent. “I might go work at Industrial. I been there already for a physical.” He looked out over the corn. “They closed her up, all right.”

“You like turtle?” I asked.

“Turtle meat?”

“I killed one last week. Cut him up and froze him. I was thinking I’d fry some up tonight.”

“I love turtle.”

“Come on over.”

“I will.”

He wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s a hot one, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said, “but it seems to be cooling off a bit.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna rain. We need it, too.”

I tossed my half-smoked cigarette out into the yard.

“Wanna see some babies?” he asked.

I looked at him.

“Pigs. Wanna see some baby pigs?”

“Sure.”

Bubba was shoeless. He started down the steps past me.

“You want your boots?” I asked.

“Don’t need’ em.”

We walked around the house. We passed his tractor parked out back.

“I hear you got yourself a tractor?’ he said.

“Yep. It’s a ‘49. Needs some work.”

“A Ford?”

“Right.”

“I believe I know the model. Good machine if you get her running.”

The pigs began to squeal loudly.

“I wonder what all that’s about,” he said and we walked faster down the hill toward the pens.

Closer, I could see the little pigs bunching up against their outstretched mother and just outside the pen a lone little pig trying to get back in.

“So, that’s what the commotion is,” Bubba said. “Why don’t you grab him, Dan, and stick him back in there. I’m barefoot.”

I walked around the pen and chased the little guy until I cornered him against the side of the feed shed. I grabbed him by his back legs and tossed him over the wire.

“There you go,” said Bubba.

“How many you got?” I slapped my hands clean on my jeans.

“Ten. You think you might wanna try some pigs?”

“Raising ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll try anything. Maybe.”

He laughed.

He turned and headed back to the house. I followed. We walked past a large uprooted tree. I stopped to look.

“Storm did that,” he said.

“Damn. When was that?”

“That big one, about a month or so ago.”

“Hunh.”

“Well, that tree didn’t have real deep roots, no way. See.” He pointed.

“Still, it’s a big tree. Must have been some wind. You’re lucky it fell that way.”

“You heard the story about the slave woman and the bad storm?”

“No.”

“They say there was this slave woman who was real scared of thunder and lightning and every time a storm would brew up she’d run up to the white people’s house. Well, this real bad storm come up and she went running up there. She had to stay in the kitchen and back then, you know, the kitchen was sometimes sorta off the house, just sorta attached. Well, this big wind come up and picked up the kitchen and carried it down the road and the slave woman got kilt.”