Thomas McGuane - Crow Fair - Stories

“David.”

“From?”

“Reed Point.”

“Yeah, great guy, Dave, I knew back in Reed Place.”

“Reed Point.”

“I mean, Reed Point. Left the Quattro for an oil change, and Dave said he was headed this way. Wouldn’t even let me split the gas … So, okay, just leaving Jordan now. How much longer is that gonna be, Morsel?… Two hours! Are you kidding?… Yeah, right, okay, got it, I’m just anxious to see you, baby, not being short with you at all.”

Ray turned away and murmured softly, lovingly, and then lifting his eyes to the empty miles of sagebrush, snapped shut the phone and sighed. “Two fucking hours.” Except for the gun in his pants, Ray could have been any other impatient lovebird. He turned the radio on: Swap Shop was playing: “Broken refrigerator suitable for a smoker.” Babies bawling in the background. He turned it off. Dave was trying to guess if he was a fugitive, someone Dave could bring to justice for a reward or just the fame, which might be good for business. He had tried every other promotional gambit, including refrigerator magnets with his face beside the slogan DON’T GO BUST SHIPPING DRIES.

“Wanna pick up the tempo here? You’re driving like my grandma.”

“This is not a great road. Deer jump out all the time. My cousin had one come through the windshield on him.”

“Fuckin’ pin it or I’ll take the wheel and drive it like I stole it.”

David sped up slightly. This seemed to placate Ray, who slumped against the side window and stared at the passing landscape. An old pickup went by the other way with a dead animal in back, one upright leg trailing an American flag.

“Ray, do you feel like telling me what this is all about?”

“Sure, Dave, it’s all about you doing exactly as you’re told.”

“I see. And I’m taking you somewhere, am I?”

“Uh-huh, and waiting around as needed. Jesus Christ, if this isn’t the ugliest country I ever seen.”

“How did you pick me?”

“I didn’t pick you, I picked your car. You were a throw-in. If I hadn’t a took you along you’d of had to report it stolen. This way you still got it. It’s a win-win. The other lucky thing for you is you’re now my partner.”

The road followed Big Dry Creek, open range with occasional buttes, mostly to the north. “I guess this is the prairie out here, huh, Dave? It’s got a few things going for it: no blood on the ground, no chalk outlines, no police tape. Let’s hear it for the prairie!” Ray gaped around in dismay, then with rising irritation sought something that pleased him on the radio. After nearly two hours, passed mostly in silence, a light tail-dragger aircraft with red-and-white-banded wings overtook them and landed about a quarter of a mile down the road. The pilot climbed out and shuffled their way. Dave rolled down the window to reveal a weathered angular face in a cowboy hat, sweat stained above the brim. “You missed your turn. Mile back turn north on the two-track.” Ray seemed to be trying to convey a greeting that showed all his teeth but was ignored by the pilot. “Nice little Piper J-3 Cub,” Ray said, again ignored.

The pilot strode back to the plane and taxied straight down the road. Once airborne again, he banked sharply over a five-strand barbed-wire fence, startling seven cows and their calves, which ran into the sage scattering clouds of pollen and meadowlarks.

Ray said, “Old fellow back at the hotel said there’s supposed to be a lot of dinosaurs around here.” He gazed at the pale light of a gas well on a far ridge.

“That’s what they say.”

“What d’you suppose one of them is worth, like a whole Tyrannosaurus rex ?”

Dave just looked at Ray. They were coming on the two-track. It was barely manageable in an ordinary sedan. Dave couldn’t imagine how it was negotiated in winter or spring, when the way was full of the notorious local gumbo. He’d delivered a Charolais bull somewhere nearby one fall, and it was bad enough then. Plus, the bull tore up his trailer, and he’d lost money on the deal.

“So, Dave, now we’re about to arrive I should tell you what the gun is for. I’m here to meet a girl, but I don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. I may need to bail, and you’re my getaway. The story is, my car is in for maintenance. But you’re staying until we see how this is going, so you can carry me out of here if necessary.”

“Let’s say I understand, but what does this all depend on?”

“It depends on whether I like the girl or not, whether we’re compatible and want to start a family business. I have a lot I’d like to pass on to the next generation. Plus, I got a deal for her that’s even more important than the ro-mance.”

The next bend revealed the house, a two-story ranch building barely hanging on to its last few chips of paint. “He must have landed in that field!” said Dave while Ray gazed at the Montana state flag popping on an iron flagpole.

“Oro y plata.” He chuckled. “Perfect. Now, Davey, I need you to bone up on the situation here. This is Weldon Case’s cattle ranch, and it runs from here for the next forty miles or so of bad road that leads right into the Bakken oil field, which is where all the oro y plata is at the moment. I’m guessing that was Weldon in the airplane. I met his daughter Morsel through a dating service. Well, we haven’t actually met in person, but we’re about to. Morsel thinks she loves me, so we’re just gonna have to see about that. If she decides otherwise, she still may want to do the business deal. All you need to know is that Morsel thinks I’m an Audi dealer from Simi Valley, California. She’s going on one photograph of me standing in front of a flagship Audi. You decide you want to help, you may see more walkin’-around money than you’re used to. If you don’t, well, you’ve already seen how I make my wishes come true.” He patted the bulge of blue terry cloth.

Dave pulled up under the gaze of Weldon Case. Before turning off the engine, he saw Weldon call out over his shoulder to the house. Dave rolled down the windows, and the prairie wind rushed in. Weldon stared at the two visitors, returning their nearly simultaneous greetings with a mere nod. “It’s the cowboy way,” muttered Ray through a forced smile. “Or either he’s retarded. Dave, ask him if he remembers falling from his high chair.”

As they got out of the car, Morsel appeared on the front step and called out in a penetrating contralto, “Which one is he?” Dave emerged from the driver’s side affecting a formality he associated with chauffeurs. A small trash pile next to the porch featured a couple of spent Odor-Eaters. Ray climbed out gingerly, hiding himself with the door as long as he could, before raising his hand and tilting his head coyly and finally calling to Morsel, “You’re looking at him.” Noting that the gun was now barely concealed, Dave quickly diverted attention by shaking Weldon’s hand. It was like seizing a plank. He told Weldon he was pleased to meet him, and Weldon said, “Likewise.” Dave lied about his own name, “Dave” all right, but the last name belonged to a rodeo clown two doors down from his mother’s house. He had never done such a thing in his life.

“Oh, Christ,” she yelled. “Is this what I get?” It was hard to say whether this was positive or not. Morsel was a scale model of her father, lean, wind weathered, and, if anything, less feminine. She raced forward to embrace Ray, whose chronic look of suave detachment was briefly interrupted by fear. A tooth was not there, as well as a small piece of her ear. “Oh, Ray!”

Weldon looked at Dave with a sour expression, and Dave, still in his chauffeur mind-set, acknowledged him formally as he fell into reverie about the money Ray had alluded to. But then Dave could see Weldon was about to speak. “Morsel has made some peach cobbler,” he said in a lusterless tone. “It was her ma’s recipe. Her ma is dead.” Ray put on a ghastly look of sympathy that persuaded Morsel, who squeezed his arm. “Started in her liver and just took off,” she explained. Dave, by now comfortable with his new alias, thought, I never knew “Ma” but good riddance. Going into the house, Weldon asked him if he enjoyed shooting coyotes.