Michael Smith - Rivers

“What are they for?” Cohen asked. The men were young but worn, one a head taller than the other. They were dressed in layers of mismatched coats and smelled and looked like wet dogs. One of them had a nervous shake in his hand and the other had a brown birthmark the size of a dime above his right eye.

“They’re gonna keep watch,” Charlie said.

“Hell no,” Cohen said. “You’re already making Mariposa go.”

“They ain’t gonna do nothing but sit outside the door and wait for us to get back. When we do everybody is free and clear. But I ain’t taking no chances.”

“And what if we don’t get back?” Mariposa asked.

“Then I guess they’ll work it out amongst themselves. You ain’t making the rules anyhow. Now show me where your boys are, ’cause we got business to get on with.”

COHEN AND MARIPOSA WENT UP the staircase first, followed by charlie and then the two men. Cohen opened the room door slowly and looked in at Evan and Brisco, who hadn’t moved from the bed. Brisco slept with a blanket pulled to his chin and Evan remained locked on the television.

“Evan,” Cohen said.

“Open the damn door and go on in,” Charlie ordered and he pushed him a little.

Cohen and Mariposa entered the room and Cohen walked to the television and turned it off. He told Evan to sit up and when Evan saw the old man come in behind them and the pistol in his hand, he sat up quick and swung his legs off the bed and to the floor.

“Don’t get up,” Charlie told him. The watchmen moved into the room behind Charlie. “Say what you gotta say, Cohen.”

Cohen moved toward Evan and in the dim light of the room, Evan saw the concern on his face. Mariposa moved next to Cohen.

“You got ten seconds,” Charlie said.

“We gotta go back down tonight,” Cohen said. “Me and Mariposa are going with Charlie to get the Jeep and then we’ll be back.” He reached into his coat pocket and held what was left of the money. He turned around to Charlie and the men and said, “He better have every damn thing he’s got right now when I get back.”

“He’s gonna,” Charlie said.

“Tell them.”

Charlie turned to the men and said, “Everything stays as is or you don’t get another dime.” They nodded. As Charlie spoke to them, Cohen leaned over to Evan, tucked the money under his leg, and whispered, “Twenty-four hours and then do what you gotta do.” Evan nodded.

Mariposa walked around the edge of the bed and brushed Brisco’s hair away from his face. She tucked his blanket around his small body and then she and Evan looked at one another. An uncertain, concerned, wordless exchange and she thought of telling him goodbye but didn’t like what it suggested.

“Time’s up,” Charlie said.

Cohen mouthed twenty-four hours to Evan and then he and Mariposa walked out the door, where Charlie stood waving the pistol like an usher escorting guests to their seats. Cohen and Mariposa started down the stairs and Charlie pulled the door shut, told the men to stay put and that the boys don’t leave unless the building catches on fire which ain’t gonna happen. When the three of them were downstairs, Charlie stuck the pistol in Cohen’s back and led him and Mariposa out of the café door and into the night, telling Cohen, “Don’t get fancy. It’ll be my way or it’ll be a bad way.”

THE LINE HAD BEEN OFFICIAL for six months and the two-year mark for Elisa’s death was approaching. Cohen had been trying to keep busy. Trying to fend off thinking of her death as an anniversary. One morning he had been outside looking under the hood of the Jeep when he saw the horse standing in the back field. She was brown and her wet coat shined and she wore a saddle but no rider. He put down the socket wrench and wiped his hands. Stood still as the horse looked unsure and he didn’t want her to bolt. She lowered her head and grazed, then she looked around, looked in the direction of Cohen, and she made a few steps in the direction of the house.

He walked across the backyard, moving patiently. He stepped over a barbed-wire fence and out into the field. The horse moved again, stopping along a fallen oak tree, her coat the same color as the mound of dirt wrapping the massive roots of the old tree. Cohen stopped. She remained unsure but curious. He whistled and she looked at him. Moved several steps in his direction. He whistled again and held his hands out by his sides, showing his palms. He moved a little closer and so did she and in another careful minute he was an arm’s length from her.

He looked her over without touching her. He spoke in a calm voice as he moved around her backside, making sure she wasn’t wounded in some way. Water dripped from her tail and mane and she was muddy but didn’t appear injured. She wore a saddlebag along with the saddle and her name was engraved on each of them. Habana.

She snorted. Shook her wet mane. He held out his hand to her nostrils and she craned her neck forward. He held his hand there and talked to her and then he reached out and touched her and she accepted it. He rubbed her nose. Ran his hand along her neck. Patted her some. He turned and began to walk back toward the house and he told her to come on but she didn’t follow.

“Come on,” he said again and whistled. “Let’s get your saddle off. Come on. I’m safe.”

She turned and looked back in the direction she had come from, to the jagged tree line along the back field.

“Come on, girl.”

She didn’t follow. Instead she started walking back the other way.

Now Cohen was the curious one. He wasn’t wearing his coat and he didn’t have the sawed-off shotgun nearby and he felt like if he went back for either, she would be gone. He wore his rain boots and he thought that was good enough, so he followed her.

She took him back into the trees, moving over or under or around what was left of the cottonwoods and oaks and pines. He stayed seven or eight steps behind her, and she frequently turned to look and see if he was still there. For half an hour they walked and Cohen thought several times of trying to turn her back but she seemed to know where she was going.

It wasn’t five minutes when they came upon the body. Habana stopped and leaned over and nudged it with her nose but the body didn’t move. On his back were three dark red blotches and three small holes in his shirt. He was laying facedown in the leaves and mud. One arm under him and the other stretched out and his legs crossed. Cohen knelt and felt the man’s back pockets but there was nothing in them. He then rolled the man to his side and felt the front pockets and he pulled out a set of keys and a silver Zippo. He stood up and looked around on the ground for a pistol or shotgun or anything that might come in handy but there was nothing. Habana nudged the man again and Cohen patted her and apologized. He thought that was it, that she would go with him now, but she nudged the man a final time and only then did she continue on.

The day was overcast and windy and there were probably three hours of light remaining. His instincts told him not to, but he followed her anyway.

Eventually the trees thinned and they came to a clearing and he figured they were at least four or five miles from his place. The land was marshlike and Habana stopped to drink the muddy water, then she looked around for him and kept walking. She didn’t walk out into the clearing but kept to the tree line, sloshing through the mud and rainwater and in no hurry. He had no idea how long this would continue and he was beginning to regret letting it go this far, but then the tree line extended around to the east and when they moved around the bend, Cohen saw a far-reaching white wooden fence. Some of it stood and some of it didn’t but it stretched on and he didn’t see the end of it right away. Habana walked toward it and when they were closer, Cohen saw the house.