Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“What are you saying? Who’s dead? Where?” She was seized by the image of Rose’s daughter and husband lying in a pool of blood, but no, it was only a minute ago—

Rose tried to take a deep breath, but it seemed she couldn’t. She brushed the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and straightened her shoulders. Without looking at the other woman, she said, “My sister, Star, and your husband.”

Dulcinea felt the silence settle into her, as if everything in her body had stopped moving, and every sound in the room and outside ground to emptiness. If she did not take another breath, the stillness would make this bearable.

“They’ve been looking for you.”

“What?” Dulcinea couldn’t understand what Rose was saying and didn’t want her there anymore.

“Your people, the men at the ranch, they don’t know where you are. My cousin heard about it in town yesterday and remembered you were up here. They buried him ten days ago. My sister was left out there—”

Dulcinea stared at Rose, and the other woman seemed older, dark circles under her eyes, her hair matted with grass and pine needles. She recognized that she should feel sympathy for her but couldn’t move to express it or even open her mouth. Her chest was full, tight, and the noise rose up her throat, which tried to close against it, until a sound burst from her that was half howl, half sob, and still the tears would not come.

For ten days Drum ran them ragged, countering the orders Higgs gave the men at meals, directing Vera, too, though that didn’t go well. Higgs smiled at the thought of Vera’s stiff back and quick hands as she chopped potatoes for frying while Drum harangued, wheedled, flirted, and finally gave up trying to convince her to make him more doughnuts while he was laid up on the sofa with a broken ankle.

The boys were pushing at each other again, playing slap tag among the horses shifting nervously from leg to leg, tied to the corral, while the hands got ready to ride out for the day’s work. Drum tried to send Cullen back to his ranch, but he refused. As Higgs watched, the boys swung up on their horses and spun them at the same time. Hayward took after J.B., tall, rangy, developing powerful shoulders and a broad back. He’d be grown in another couple of years, but what kind of man would he become without his father? What kind of man would either of J.B.’s sons become?

The boys glanced at each other, sat deep in their saddles, and put their spurs to their horses’ sides, holding the reins tight so the animals had nowhere to go but into the explosive bucking and rearing that followed.

“Damn it,” Higgs yelled. “I told you boys to leave those youngsters alone. You’re wrecking perfectly good cow ponies with that nonsense!” He sent his horse loping toward theirs. The young horses stood, legs planted stiffly, heads thrown up, eyes rolling, bits foaming. “You think this is a goldarn game?”

The boys glanced at each other and grinned, then shook their heads and shrugged, more alike than anyone would have guessed despite being raised apart. The sun was coming up over the hills, a red-orange ball in clear blue light, promising a day of searing heat.

“You two are riding fence.” Higgs made an instant decision. “Go pack your gear, load Molly Mule.”

“Not her,” Hayward said. “It’ll take forever.”

Higgs nodded. “Just what I was thinking. And those horses you’re on better come back rode right and broke to death. Now get going.”

Head bowed, shoulders slumped, Cullen stepped off his horse and tied it to the rail. Maybe there was such a thing as breaking an animal too hard, Higgs thought. Hayward slid off the back end of his young horse, spooking it to kick, but the boy merely laughed, swatted it with his hat, and held on to the reins as the horse plunged and reared away from its tormentor. There was definitely such a thing as not being hard enough on a boy.

“Make quite a pair a hands, don’t they?” Larabee stopped his horse beside Higgs and began to build a smoke.

“Week riding fence with that mule should take some stuffing outta them.” Higgs glanced at Larabee. “I been thinking we should take Graver with us today.”

“I’ll get ole Sandy saddled up for him.” Larabee put the cigarette in his mouth, struck a wood match on his saddle horn, lit it, pulled a smooth lungful of smoke, and let it trail out slowly as they watched the boys try to lead, then push Molly Mule out of the corral.

“Them boys got a task ahead of ’em.” Larabee chuckled as the mule bit Hayward’s shoulder and tore his shirt after he punched her nose. The boys stood off then, more respectful as the mule eyed them, teeth bared, ears flat. Then she dropped her head to snatch hungrily at the sparse weeds and grass.

“That Cullen thinks he’s man enough to run this place, he has some to learn. I’m barely holding him back as it is. Less said about Hayward, the better.” Higgs heard the kitchen door shut and turned as Graver came walking out the yard gate, stopped, and stared across the ranch, taking in the big barn, stable, corral and dry lots, winter pastures, bunkhouse, toolshed, chicken coop, foreman’s house, all nestled in the small valley between the grass-covered hills, sheltered from the worst of the winter wind and snow. Graver finally turned his gaze to the boys struggling to settle the pack frame on the mule. Without a word, he walked across the dusty barnyard and took the halter rope from Hayward, who was using the end to battle Molly’s slashing head and teeth while Cullen tried in vain to snatch the cinch strap and draw it under her belly. Graver put out his hand to stop the boy. Cullen hesitated, and then stepped back with a shrug.

The mule went motionless, watched warily out of the corner of her eye as Graver reached out and rubbed her withers, working his fingers up her neck, pausing at the poll behind the ears to lift the leather halter so it wasn’t cutting into her head, then sliding his fingers down her jaw, scratching his way under her chin and up her nose. She blew hard and sighed, and her left hip relaxed. Graver fashioned a quick rope halter that passed behind her ears and looped over her nose, rubbing and talking to her the whole time. Then standing by her head, facing her hind end, holding the halter under her chin, he flicked the rope end toward her haunch. She lurched, kicked out, and finally took a step forward, which he rewarded by rubbing her neck and head before asking for another step. This time she swung her hind end, fought to free her head, and bucked before she came forward. The command-praise ritual was then repeated for a good half hour, until the mule complied and trudged forward whenever asked. The two boys watched until they grew bored and went to the bunkhouse for their bedrolls. By the time they returned, Graver had the pack frame secured and was attempting to lift the spool of barbed wire onto the mule’s back with his one good arm.

Even from their distance, Higgs and Larabee could see the oily sheen on his pale face.

“You two take that wire and get that mule loaded,” Higgs yelled. Hayward opened his mouth to talk back, but Cullen elbowed him and together they lifted the wire spool and tied it on while Graver held the lead rope.

“Ungrateful little bastards didn’t even thank him,” Larabee said.

“Saddle J.B.’s horse. Graver’ll do fine,” Higgs said.

Larabee raised a brow. With a slight shrug, he lifted the reins and loped across the ranch yard to the dry lot where the red horse had stood since they brought back J.B.’s body two weeks ago.

As soon as the boys mounted and rode out, Molly Mule trotting behind them, her rolled eye showing white and head held out stiffly in front of her, Higgs walked to where Graver leaned against the side of the barn, head back, eyes closed.