Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Got yourself a friend there,” Graver said, and there was no criticism in his voice so Hayward nodded and smiled at the horse. “Which horses do you think we should use?” Graver gazed at him, and Hayward straightened his shoulders and scrubbed the gelding’s face with his fist the way he liked.

“And let’s not play any tricks on her guests. She’s got enough on her plate as it is,” Graver said as if they were just two cowboys doing a job, so it didn’t rankle. It was good Cullen was gone.

It took him a few minutes to choose the horses and Graver didn’t grow impatient, just folded his arms and leaned back against the fence rails. There was a lot to like there, Hayward realized.

“The gray with the striped legs for the judge. You could set off dynamite on her back and she’d mosey along. Take that tall sorrel for the lawyer, he’s gun broke, and he’ll give him a ride.”

Graver turned to pick the lariat off the fence like he was working for Hayward now.

“And that little black for my mother, he’s got a shuffling trot that’s easy to sit. Are we going, too?”

Graver squinted at the house, then back at the horses, and finally let his eyes settle on him. “Be a good plan, don’t you think?”

He took a minute to reply, like he was thinking it over the way Graver did, then gave a sharp nod and took another rope from the fence and dropped it over the bay’s head. “You can use J.B.’s chestnut. He needs the experience.”

They had the horses saddled, pack animals fitted, rifles in their scabbards, and were leading them to the house when Frank Higgs came out of his and asked them what the Sam Hill they were doing. Graver waited for the boy to answer.

“My mother wants to take her guests hunting,” Hayward said, shoulders squared, chin up but not too high.

Frank glanced at Graver, the house, then back to the boy with a short nod.

“Hold the next two hands in for skinning and dressing the meat when we get back,” Hayward said. Even Cullen wasn’t able to give orders anybody would follow. Frank tipped his hat, a grin playing happily on his face.

As they mounted, Larson Dye from the Box LR came jogging up on a fat old spotted mare, bristling with guns.

“Good,” he panted, “worried I’d be too late for the huntin’ trip.” The mare eyed them suspiciously, like they were the source of all her recent troubles, took a deep breath, ducked her head, and kicked out with her right hind. Larson grinned and patted her. “She loves a good chase.” The mare reached around and tried to bite his leg, but her teeth snapped harmlessly in the air.

Hayward made a note to stay out of her way, and Larson did the right thing bringing up the rear of their cavalcade as they departed. The lawyer stopped at the fork and said he had some business to attend to in town. Hayward was happy to see him go, but Graver frowned, and he wondered what that meant. Graver naturally took the lead, and Hayward fell in beside him, just as naturally, seized by a sudden sadness that his father was gone. The moment should have been them. Then he thought about Star, the Sioux girl he’d met on the reservation, who was gone, too. He wished he knew who killed them. He and Cullen talked about it all the time. Cullen thought it was the Indians they’d argued with on the rez last fall.

They’d been out about an hour, the sun high and distant as it headed into the afternoon, a light breeze on their faces, which was good since the game wouldn’t smell them as they came down the tall hill. In the past, he and Cullen found antelope in the washout the other side of the next hill, so he pointed in that direction.

Behind them the judge muttered something to his mother. She replied with a single word as Graver waved for quiet and pulled out his rifle. Hayward did, too. He could hear the others do the same. His horse lifted its head, ears pricked, and filled its body, ready to whinny. He put a hand on its neck to check it, and the horse released the air in a long sigh as a turkey exploded into the air. Larson Dye’s fat mare huffed up behind Hayward, and Dye pulled the trigger so close to the bay horse it lurched sideways and bucked. Guns went off all around him, and Hayward felt the air next to him singe his cheek.

“What the hell!” he shouted, regaining control of his horse and spinning to face the others. Graver jumped off his mount and picked up the turkey, so riddled with bullets the flesh and feathers hung off in strips. He threw it down with a disgusted noise in his throat.

Dulcinea’s face was white and she clutched a rifle, while the two suitors checked their loads and avoided his eyes.

Graver looked at the ground, nodded as if he’d come to an agreement with himself, mounted, and turned his horse to face the group. Hayward thought he should be doing this, but knew he couldn’t, and that brought back his bitterness.

“This boy here has a real future ahead of him,” Graver said. “Hate to see it cut short by carelessness. Let’s take turns. Mrs. J.B. first, then Foote, and Larson, you go after that. Hayward and I will back up the shooter. That meet with your approval?” He didn’t wait for replies, just turned his horse and trotted on ahead with Hayward beside him. When they were several yards beyond the others, he asked, “You okay, son?”

Hayward didn’t mind being that now. He wasn’t low-rating him, and he was glad Cullen wasn’t there to see Graver stand up for him.

“Let’s head over to that washout to the right.” Hayward was proud of the way he was handling himself as Graver eased his horse in the direction he’d indicated. The boy was glad he hadn’t killed him, and he wondered if Graver knew it was him who’d shot him. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, but he couldn’t yet.

Graver slowed his horse and stopped, sat absolutely still, as did the others. A tall, regal buck appeared, with a wide rack of antlers. He was packing good weight from the rich spring grass, his tan coat glossy in the sun. He sniffed the air, but the wind blew their scent away from him, and he lowered his head, pretending to eat as he observed them. They stood still. Then the buck grabbed a mouthful of grass and lifted his head to stare at them again and shifted his front feet as if ready to spin away.

“Mrs. J.B.?” Graver said softly, “Dulcinea?”

“He’s so beautiful,” she breathed, and Graver lifted his rifle in a fluid motion and fired. The deer raised up as if to leap, took a step, then collapsed.

“Oh,” she sighed.

Immediately the suitors complained that they should have been given the shot. Graver ignored them and rode ahead to check on the deer. It was clean through the head. A good kill. After they dressed the deer and loaded it on the packhorse, the hunters pushed toward the wash.

All their shooting probably drove away every critter in the valley, but the buck was there, so maybe not. The judge and Larson Dye muttered complaints to one another, and Hayward smiled at the idea that they were finally getting together on something. Larson at least should have known better, but he wanted in on the thing, so he didn’t much care how he cast his vote. At least that’s what J.B. had always said about him. Another pang of regret made his stomach ache. Why didn’t he pay more attention to his father? He should’ve been learning everything there was to know about running a ranch, getting the men to listen. Instead, his father treated him like an expensive hunting dog he let loose to roam and come to nothing. Why didn’t he send him to live with his mother if he didn’t want to raise him? Hayward didn’t know who to be madder at, him or her. Or maybe himself.

He looked ahead at the wash, cut so deep they couldn’t see what was in there until they were on top of it. Sweetgrass had to grow there since game was always hunkered down eating, resting. Last spring the boys found a couple of cows holed up with some deer after a late blizzard, all packed in safe and sound; they looked at the boys like they were ruining the party.