Martin Smith - Stallion Gate

"How many rounds?"

"As long as it goes."

"In a week," Joe said.

"Impossible."

"We fight in a week. You said before you could put the fight together in two days.

"I need Texas money, from El Paso, from Lubbock. That's a long way to come."

"I'll make it easy for them. We'll meet in the middle, south of Socorro at the Owl Cafe. The night of the 15th. Behind the cafe. Yes or no?"

At the last moment, Joe thought Hilario would back out.

"You came here to deal, you big son of a bitch. You came looking for me."

"Looking towards peacetime, Hilario, same as you."

"Okay." Hilario nodded to Joe and added a public nod for the other men at the corral. "Okay, you place your bets, Joe. I think you'll be surprised at the good odds you'll be able to get on the famous Chief Joe Pena."

Feet trussed, the calf tried to swim on the ground. Felix squeezed the sac, clearing the way for the sizzling edge of the knife. It was okay. Hilario would put it together. It wasn't a matter of face, it was a matter of action, of money willing to ride on the only two fighters in the state. The calf's eyes grew.

Joe walked into the cottonwoods to relieve himself. He was going to have to start taking better care of his kidneys. One more fight. And get some sleep. A blue morning star lay over the river. Jupiter? Venus? What if there were no moon? Men walked around bound by the gravity of the earth, but also lifted by the floating mass of the moon. What if there were no moon, no lift, only the heavy and monotonous chain of the earth? No better light at night than stars that said "We are cold and far away". What if he lost?

For his alibi's sake, he got the Geiger counter from the jeep and found the pen on the far side. Even in the semi-dark Joe saw the cows were Felix's oldest mavericks from the highest, dryest canyons. The man at the pen was just as unlikely, a short figure in a suit. His back was to Joe because he was patting the steers through the fence, wisely, because the animals were wild enough to stomp him if he went into the pen. Not patting, Joe thought. Combing, and dropping the combed, loose hairs into an envelope.

The man looked around, surprised. "Chief! Oh! Chief!" He had a swarthy, heart-shaped face, a full lower lip and black hair that was so wavy it was almost marcelled. When he turned, the comb and envelope had vanished. With his double-breasted suit he wore cowboy boots. He took a wobbly step forward and gave Joe a pudgy hand to shake. "I didn't hear you coming. We met at the La Fonda, in the bar. Harry Gold."

"From New York."

"I came with Happy."

"With Hilario. What's going on?"

A giggle escaped Harry Gold.

"I lost my new hat."

Joe peered into the pen. There were five cows, black and brown, a mix of Angus and Hereford, a group of scarred and wary veterans. The meanest-looking cow was standing on a crushed stetson.

"You wanted to buy a steer?"

"I was thinking of having a barbecue."

"Felix is cutting calves right now. Take one of them."

"Good idea," Gold agreed.

"He'll slaughter it and dress it for you. Better than a butcher."

"These cows looked a little old."

Not just old. As the light improved, Joe saw that two or three of the animals were mottled around the stomach and flank. Usually a cow greyed at the muzzle first. As he opened the gate, the nearest steer lowered a set of mossy horns a yard wide at the tips and retreated. Joe pushed his way into the middle of the cows and peeled back some of the milky hair. The skin underneath was black. Like the cow he'd killed before.

"Your hat." Joe came out of the pen with a twisted brim of felt.

"Thanks," Gold said and backed up into a cowpat. He looked down. "New boots, too."

"Soak them and leave them on," Joe suggested,

"I'll try it. Adios ."

"Absolutely."

The whole time, Joe had been holding the Geiger counter. Someone who didn't know what it was would have asked, Joe thought.

Harry Gold knew.

22

By the time Joe got to Santa Fe, Indian women were spreading their blankets on the portal , the porch of the old Governor's Palace on the north side of the plaza. FBI agents in plain-clothes and snapbrim hats were taking their places on benches under the plaza cottonwoods.

The agents followed scientists from the Hill whenever they came to shop, waiting in the plaza because the Army bus from the Hill let the shoppers off just half a block away on Palace Avenue and all the shops were around the plaza. At the end of the shopping everyone always headed to La Fonda for cocktails.

Joe relieved Ray Stingo, who was so excited to hear the fight was on he didn't want to leave for the airport to meet the VIPs arriving for the Trinity test. Only small planes could land at Santa Fe and the ride over the mountains was so rough it was commonly called the "Vomit Comet". Oppy was at the La Fonda with some psychiatrists who had arrived on the morning train at Lamy.

Instead of shooting and burning the cows, Joe had chased them up Santiago Creek and hoped they'd find their way back up the canyon. Sweaty, dirty and tired, he strolled to the shadow of the obelisk in the centre of the plaza, where he could watch La Fonda. He took out a cigarette. Put it back in the packet. No more smoking. He'd thought he hated boxing. Even exhausted, though, he felt his body lift at the prospect of a fight, as if he'd deprived it of worthy adversaries. The first few tourists were up, making their way to the portal . No soldiers yet. Joe saw Hilario drop Harry Gold in front of La Fonda.

Hilario drove on and Gold went into the hotel. In the plaza, the "creeps" concentrated on their newspapers; the morning headline was that Truman had arrived in Berlin.

A spy? After all this time, a real spy? It took more evidence than a few hairs from a hot cow.

A man with an aureole of silver hair approached the obelisk. It took Joe a moment to recognize Santa because the Hill psychiatrist was covered with white blisters and his hands were in cotton gloves.

"Hives," he explained to Joe. "Purely psychosomatic, nothing contagious. Ever since we took that ride through the mountains with the you-know-what."

"Yes." Joe whispered, "I'm supposed to be with Oppy right now briefing our teams. We have some excellent men. Jungians, alienists, some strict Freudians. General Groves has written some press releases and we're going over them for psychological impact. Of course, if the bomb is a dud, there won't be any release. If the bomb makes a big bang, then we'll report that an ammunition dump exploded without loss of life. If we blow up the desert and everyone in it, then we have to come up with a different story. The main thing is to avoid panic. And send our teams, most of which will be stationed well away from the blast, to those cities that will be most affected by runaway fallout. I feel I can confide in you."

"Yes?"

"In that instance, a press release would choose an alternative, assimilable emergency. 'Epidemic', 'tainted water', 'chemical warfare'. I say we ought to say 'chemical warfare' right at the start because people are never going to believe 'epidemic'. The Freudians want 'tainted water', naturally."

Gold walked out of La Fonda in shoes instead of boots, wearing a fedora in place of his late stetson, smoking a cigar and holding a newspaper folded under one arm. He crossed the street to the smaller pseudo-adobe building on the opposite corner, the ticket office of the Santa Fe Railroad.

"You're wondering," Santa said, "if all this is going on inside, why am I out here?"

"Yes?" Joe mumbled, distracted.

"They're picking volunteers for the team for Trinity. Do you think I'm cowardly?"

"What do you think?" Santa laughed in a whisper. "I knew you'd say that."