Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Please find them.” She consulted the little watch that hung from a pin on her dress.

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it and jammed on his hat as she turned and started for the livery stable.

“But first bring the runabout with my dog,” she called over her shoulder.

“Hello.” Dulcinea dug in her pocket, pulled out a lump of sugar, and offered it to the gray stallion. The horse looked at her, ears twitching back and forth. He blew high through his nostrils, arched his neck, and bared his teeth as if to bite. Then he grabbed the sugar from her palm and backed away to chew. Dulcinea pulled another lump from her pocket and offered it. This time the horse lowered his head, snorted, and edged over to take it carefully, chewing without backing away. Dulcinea reached up and rubbed his jaw and the side of his neck, working her way up to the ears, which she stroked between her fingers. The stud relaxed and nuzzled her shoulder.

“I’ll be riding him. Graver, you take the runabout. The boys will be on their horses,” she said. “And we’ll pony the two mares.”

“Ma’am.” Dun Riggins, the livery stable owner, cleared his throat, spit, bit down on the chew, and then shifted it to the other side of his mouth. “Where you want them boxes?”

She looked startled and glanced at the stack in the aisle. “We’ll need to rent a wagon from you.”

A crafty look stole into his eyes, and his lips set in a grim smile. “Yes, ma’am, we got us a wagon.” He paused, spit, shifted the chew again, and glanced at the stallion. Graver could tell he was toting up the cost of his general irritation at being ordered about by a woman.

“Yes?”

“Only one left in town, I’m afeared, and it’s seen better days.”

Graver almost groaned aloud.

“Will it make it to the ranch or not, Mr. Riggins?”

“T’aint no other,” he said in a mournful voice.

“I’m sure. Fetch it with a team and I’ll have my men load.” She opened her purse.

The wagon was a shambling wreck, the wood warped, cracked, and paintless, the wheels wobbly, the seat brace broken on one side and shored up with a log that meant the driver sat on a downhill slant. The team was a mismatched pair that would fight each other the whole way, Graver could tell, since the paint was a barely broke youngster with a small pig eye and Roman nose, already humping its back and trotting in place. The washed-out strawberry roan was an old broodmare whose ponderous belly swung so low to the ground, it looked as if she’d knock into it when she trotted. Judging from the bog spavins in her hocks and the hooves that hadn’t been trimmed in so long the toes were starting to curl, Graver knew she couldn’t do much more than a plodding walk. It was going to be a long journey home.

“This the best you can do?” Graver asked.

Riggins nodded, eyes sly, infuriating little smile in place as he harnessed the animals. He had a short club tucked in his belt that the paint eyed with disdain. Graver thought the horse probably deserved it as his teeth snapped the air beside the man’s head, and its hind leg snaked up and out in a swift cow kick that would have nailed Riggins had he not been agile enough to jump out of range. Graver saw Rose’s family standing beside their horse, which the child now rode, watching the spectacle. Jerome and Rose whispered and nodded to each other, until Rose came forward and stopped at Graver’s side without speaking.

“I can drive them,” she finally said in a flat voice.

Graver handed her the patched rein.

Mrs. Bennett saddled the gray stud, which looked to have Thoroughbred racing blood from its long body and fine head but was too heavy-boned for speed, and Graver brought out the two mares. He would ride the prancing black one with the too-alert eye, and tie the bay mare to the wagon, as she appeared calmer and less ambitious. Both were clean-legged and well set up. Where had she found Kentucky racing stock?

Graver took the boys’ horses back to the Emporium while Jerome tied his to the runabout and followed, driving as his daughter sat beside him and the dog rode in back, chewing a bone among the packages.

Graver found the boys at the Emporium in front of the glass-encased gun display quietly discussing the merits of the Smith & Wesson .44 Russians. Hefting the guns, Hayward pointed toward the target on the far wall, an Indian chief in war paint and full eagle feather bonnet. An old Spencer .56 and a Berdan sharpshooting rifle sat on the counter. Haven Smith peered at them over his round glasses between customers, and when he saw Graver join the boys, he seemed to sigh in relief.

“You boys starting a Wild West show or planning on joining Buffalo Bill’s?”

“This ain’t none of your business,” Cullen said. Lifting the big Spencer to his shoulder, he sighted on the target and squeezed the trigger, and then mimicked the sound of the Indian’s head exploding. The boys gave a short, mirthless chuckle, and Graver smelled the alcohol.

“You want you a nice Winchester you’re going after deer or antelope. No point in blowing the thing to pieces and ruining the meat.” Graver picked one with an engraved barrel off the wall. “Here’s a good used one.” He held up the rifle, rubbing his hand along the satiny finish of the stock, and quickly sighted down the barrel. “Looks true.” He turned it over in his hands, suddenly squinting at the memory of the shooting at the windmill. He looked at the boys, who watched him but now glanced away as if they didn’t. Was that guilt on their faces?

“But you boys already own one of these, don’t you? Your pa give it to you?”

Ignoring him, Hayward laid the Russians carefully on the glass and pulled a wad of dollars from his jeans. “Think he’ll take eighty for the pair?” He began smoothing the bills with the side of his hand, larger than his brother’s, Graver noticed.

“You don’t need those,” Cullen muttered to his brother. “That Berdan’s probably seen better days, but it’d get it done. I’m taking the Spencer.” Cullen slipped a thick pack of folded bills from his back pocket. “Come on. Cash money talks, baby brother, cash always talks.” He hefted the long rifle over his shoulder and pushed past Graver, who had to lean back to avoid being hit in the head with the gun barrel.

“Your mother’s waiting for you,” Graver said when they’d completed the transaction.

“Tell her we’re staying in town tonight.” Cullen glanced at his brother and the younger boy nodded.

“Tell her yourself.” Graver walked toward the door.

“Do as you’re told or get packing,” Cullen called after him.

“You didn’t hire me, boy, and you don’t fire me.” Graver half expected Cullen to shoot him in the back as he walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him so as to not rattle the etched glass. He stood on the boardwalk, took a deep breath, and lifted his hat to wipe his eyes on his shirtsleeve.

Astride the stallion, Dulcinea was speaking with Rose, who drove the dilapidated wagon. He studied the way Dulcinea sat, waiting, her big horse restive, chewing the bit and nodding his head up and down, each upward swing slightly higher so that eventually he would hit his rider in the face. Graver was about to intervene when she tweaked the rein and told him to stop. The horse tucked his nose to his chest and rattled the bit with his teeth. Sweat broke out on his neck and around his ears.

“Did you tell them we’re ready to go?” she asked.

He nodded. She sat a horse well, astride, in full command with a deep seat and straight back. “How long do you think they’ll be?”

He wanted to respond that they were spoiled, disrespectful brats, and they needed a good hiding, but shut his mouth and shrugged. Her hands held the reins firm and light at the same time. In English riding, they kept the reins short with constant contact on the bit, which wouldn’t do for cow work where a person had to handle a rope and sometimes a whip, too. A horse had to be trusted to carry itself, to work off the leg and shift with the cowboy’s weight.