Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Can you think of anything else about that day?” Higgs asked Graver while Larabee smoked and watched. Graver shook his head. A breeze drove the windmill blades, producing a high, persistent squeal, and then quit and they slowed to a stop. “Larabee, you got any grease on you?” Higgs asked. “Might as well fix that son of a bitch while we’re here.”

The man sighed, finished his cigarette, and rubbed it out on the toe of his boot before climbing down and searching his saddlebag for an old tobacco tin.

“What’s that?” Higgs asked with a frown.

“Hair grease, hand healer, leather protector, waterproofer, bag balm, wound dressing. Want some?” Larabee grinned.

Higgs waved his hand. “Get going.” He shifted his eyes to Graver. “You get down and show us how it happened. Every inch of it.”

“Thing is, my knee’s been giving me fits lately, and climbing’s . . .” Larabee stood next to his horse and glanced at the windmill as if it were a Wyoming mountain peak. Higgs snorted and shook his head.

“I’ll do it,” Graver said.

“You up to a climb?” Higgs asked.

Graver maneuvered his horse to Larabee’s side, took the can of grease, and headed for the windmill on the far side of the tank. Anything was better than acting out the shooting again. Maybe they were going to finish him here, the thought had occurred to him several times throughout the ride.

“Can’t fault a man for wanting to work,” Larabee said as he stepped into the stirrup and settled back into the saddle.

“Hope that arm’s healed enough. Hate to have you haul him back on your horse, you walking the whole way,” Higgs said.

“Looks like he’s doing fine.” Larabee lifted his chin to the windmill, where Graver was straddling the crossarm and digging into the grease tin.

“You need to get back down there and start looking for clues,” Higgs said.

Graver slowly worked his way around the scaffolding of the windmill, pretending to examine the machine while he memorized the way the small hills folded into the larger ones that were actually sand dunes underneath a thin layer of soil and grass. To the east a series of shallow hills like steps cut into the front of a tall hill. The killer must have waited there, Graver thought, where the grass was cropped short by his horse. He tried to remember the voice from that morning. At the time, he’d thought it was a young man, but maybe it was a woman? Or perhaps the shooter had been lying in an uncomfortable position, say on his back, where the soapweed took over the hillside. Person’d have to be cautious of rattlers sleeping in the shade of those wide stiff leaves. And the prickly pear cactus, the yellow blooms peeking out of the spiny ears, he’d have been careful not to roll or kneel in those.

Graver’s fingers felt the gears, the drive shaft of the windmill, dry as a bone. He didn’t remember that noise, but it must’ve been there. He peered closely at the housing for the drive shaft and saw that a stray shot had pierced the metal, allowing the grease to clog and dry. He stuck his finger in the hole and felt the bullet. Have to come back and dig it out, see which gun it came from. Had they saved the bullets from J.B.’s shoulder or checked his guns to see if he’d fired back? He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Higgs was focused on Larabee. Graver circled the windmill struts one more time, examining the murder site from every angle. The puzzle wasn’t only J.B.’s shooting, it was the Indian girl’s death as well. Why was she there? Where was her body now? And why had the shooter left him alive? For days, he was haunted, thought the killer might change his mind and come back for him. Another reason to figure this out, to be ready when the shooter realized his mistake. Then Graver had another thought—what if he tried to draw the killer toward him instead? First rule he’d learned in his past life: trust no one. Second rule: have a fast horse nearby. Always. He glanced at the chestnut gelding as it restively stamped and tossed its head against the no-see-ums chewing bloody clots in its ears. Third rule: stay out of family problems. Well, he’d blown that one to hell, hadn’t he.

He tested the blades and was rewarded with a nearly noiseless spin. He threw the grease tin to the ground and began his one-armed descent, pausing halfway to rest. His shoulder throbbed wildly. Dizziness came through his head in a wave and ate up the day around him. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against one of the main wooden supports. Be lucky not to end up with a face full of splinters like his hand. He should have asked for gloves, but he was so used to doing without that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He wished to hell he were someplace else. Wished he’d kept going that morning, hadn’t been drawn into another man’s fight. But now it was his fight, and no matter how he felt about the Bennetts, he had to help set things right. A vivid image of his wife and children suddenly swept over him, and he closed his eyes against the sudden moisture. When he reopened them a cloud of dust was rising to the top of the hill. He quickly jumped down and ran to his horse.

“Damn those boys!” Higgs stood in the stirrups. Graver sent his horse up the small rise behind him to see more clearly as cows and calves spilled down the hill and crowded the water tank.

Higgs removed his hat, bounced it against his thigh to clear the dust from the brim, put it back on, and gave the front a final tug to guarantee it was tight. “Nothing to see here now those cattle come through. Let’s get back.”

“I need a job,” Graver said.

Higgs squinted at him and gave a short nod. “’Less you got a better offer, you can bunk here. Thirty a month and found to start.”

Graver glanced at Larabee’s patched saddle and bridle, and the worn pants and shirt he wore. “I’m grateful for the offer, but . . .”

“Just stay until we get this killing sorted out, then.”

Graver nodded. He stared at the place he’d found the girl and the man that morning.

Larabee spoke up, “Wonder what J.B. was doing up here with that girl.” He glanced at Graver.

“Probably saw something, same as me.” Graver returned the look. “Where’s the girl buried now?”

Larabee ducked his head and glanced at Higgs.

“We don’t rightly know. Came back to get her and she was gone.” Higgs lifted his hat. “Can’t put the rain back.”

Graver surveyed the little meadow one more time and wondered how it was the girl was gone. Did animals drag her off? Or did the shooter come back for her?

Dulcinea and Rose stopped their horses on the last hill overlooking the ranch and stepped down to stretch their legs after the long ride. Yesterday they left Rosebud, crossed into Nebraska, and stopped in Babylon for the night before coming into the hills. It was the end of the day, and Dulcinea could see lone cowboys on horseback driving cattle slowly out to summer pastures. They must be late this year because of J.B.’s . . . she could not say the word yet. Glancing at Rose, she felt the kinship of sorrow and could not begin to imagine the loss of a sister. There was no hierarchy to grief, she realized, and her knees nearly buckled as her feet sank into the sand underfoot, where the horse-and-wagon traffic had killed the grass. She was almost home and something made her pause.

To the right was a vast blue lake, the surrounding marsh alive with birds feeding and mating. The air bore the moist scent of water, so blue it put the distant white-blue sky to shame. She shaded her eyes to stare at the lake where pelicans floated peacefully. Nearby a pair of swans stretched their long necks searching the waters for food, and farther on, ducks dove and flapped, green necks glistening in the sun. Myriad red-winged blackbirds perched on dried cattail stalks with brown heads shredding into the new green shoots below. Nearby, one bird straddled two cattails, feet clenched fiercely to hold its territory against the loud, hissing wind.