Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Suddenly Larson Dye’s horse squealed and there was some general thrashing behind them, but when Hayward looked back, Dye was settling his hat and smiling. He suspected there was more to that man than they knew. He must have been a hand when he was younger. Maybe J.B. underestimated him. Maybe he used that when he talked J.B. into the deal for the road between their two ranches. Turned out they had the maintenance while he only had to build it, a loose term since all he did was drive his cattle up and down a path and then put in some old fence posts to mark it. That road had been a curse on them ever since. They were out there filling and scraping and no end of things since it was only two ruts of sand and weeds.

Hayward’s mind was so taken with the injustice it took a moment to register the movement when a bullet thudded into the hill over his mother’s head. Then a gun fired right behind them. They stopped and turned to see Larson Dye grinning happily.

“Got him,” he announced. Dye pursed his mouth, glanced at the hill to his right, and shrugged. “Whoever it was, I think I got him.” He smiled with less certainty.

Dulcinea stared at the hill the shot came from while Graver shook his head. The judge and Dye stood in their stirrups and scanned the grass. It was quiet. She started to speak, but Graver held up his hand. He was pretty coolheaded in light of being shot at a second time in the past two months. The boy’s mouth was dry, and he wondered if it was Cullen wanting to add to his trophies after he shot up Higgs’s hat. Graver held his rifle at his waist, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot as he moved behind them, stopping to whisper, “Stay here and protect your mother,” and set off for the lowest hill, followed by the judge and Larson Dye. In a moment they were gone. It was like the shot had cleared the air and then it got busy again with birds swooping and arguing. Little goldfinches, swallows, and a killdeer complaining as usual.

“A silly prank,” his mother said, hesitant.

His stomach sank at the idea of Cullen hurt out there. Maybe Graver would finish him like a broke-legged steer, or worse yet, drive away his horse and leave him to die. He lifted his reins to go find his brother.

“I’d feel better if you stayed with me.” She kept her eyes down and it occurred to him that she was frightened.

“Guess we better head back,” Hayward said. He couldn’t imagine what Cullen was thinking. Who was he going to shoot? He was so mad at the world, maybe anyone would do. The realization made his hands shake and his bones feel light. Kill Drum, Hayward wanted to tell him, end your misery, but he noticed that most of the time a person looked away from what really bit hard on their mind. Animals were different, you bite them, they bite you, or they run away. His mother flashed in his head, her teary face the day she climbed into the buggy, arms empty of him, because he was hanging on to her skirt, legs, feet, anything he could grab. He ripped off the little watch on the chain around her neck, and tore the collar of her traveling coat, but it did no good. He ran after that buggy for a mile until his legs gave out and he lay there in the dirt, unable to find the breath to cry anymore. He wrapped her gold chain around his wrist so tight his hand turned purple and ached something fierce. It took Frank and his father both to hold him down and unwrap it. Damn her. His father told a different version of the story the time he asked about that day. Seemed like old people couldn’t keep their memories straight.

They were half a mile from the ranch house when they came upon Cullen riding out to meet them. Hayward looked at his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to be favoring it. He wore a fresh white shirt, was clean-shaven and bathed. Cullen glanced at the deer on the packhorse, smiled at his brother, and refused to look at or speak to their mother. “We got more company,” he said.

“Someone shot at Mother!”

Cullen stared at him a long moment. “Why would anyone do that?”

“When did you get back?” Hayward asked.

“Hour ago. Had to check on things at our ranch. Without Drum around, the men think it’s a holiday. Only half listen to Stubs, and Carter and Sergei the Russian gone missing again.” He combed his horse’s mane with his fingers. “Almost had to pistol-whip Faro Jack and Dance Smith to get them off their behinds to feed the stock. Drum will have some work to do when he gets back.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Old man’s holding court in your parlor right now though, wait till you see it! I’m heading right back to get a front row seat. You better light a fire under you, don’t want to miss this fun!” Cullen spurred his horse into a dead run, leaving them to eat his dust.

His mother’s face was pale when Hayward glanced over, and it hit him: she was afraid of Cullen. His heart pounded. What if he lost her again? What if she got shot like J.B. and he didn’t have anyone left? He felt the surge of fear and helplessness that made him cry himself to sleep as a child. He looked at her.

“You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you?”

She smiled gratefully, and that was enough.

Didn’t know whether you’d remember me, Dulcie.”

Tookie Edson extended her thick, muscular arm and Dulcinea gazed up into the sunburned face that looked preserved rather than aged by ranch work. At six feet, Tookie towered over the other two women and most of the men crowding the parlor. She and her twin brother, Evan, bought their place twenty years ago and built the Crooked Post 8 into a ranch equal to the Bennett holdings. Tookie, as usual, came dressed in identical attire to her brother’s: tan gabardine western trousers and jacket, white shirt, except where he wore a bolo tie with a silver slide, she tied a green silk kerchief around her thick, red, roughened neck. Her broad, honest face and watery-brown eyes peered so earnestly Dulcinea laughed and gave her a quick hug instead of shaking her hand. Her stout body pressed briefly, but long enough to experience the hard muscle-packed flesh as solid as a fence post except for the loose pillow of her breasts.

Dulcinea caught a glimpse of Evan, holding a glass of whiskey, deep in discussion with Drum seated beside him on the sofa. She was clearly at a disadvantage here. Tookie sensed her discomfort and said, “Drum invited us to supper. We was just coming back from town, ran into Rivers and his wife, Rachel, on the way here, riding in that big brougham with Stillhart from the bank. I think that other one is his niece or daughter or something. She was in the carriage behind them—” She raised her eyebrows and smiled mischievously. They glanced at the young woman, dressed in a brown velvet gown with a scoop neckline trimmed in seed pearls, which also lined the sleeve cuffs. The dress hung on her skinny figure as if it were made for a larger woman. She stood alone in the far corner and pondered the book of Keats’s poetry Hayward had read from earlier.

“Looks like a dry cow in spring,” Tookie drawled, crossing her arms across her broad chest and tugging on her earlobe.

Vera had enlisted Rose to serve drinks as she hurriedly prepared enough food for the additional guests, banging pot lids and slamming pans on the stove to let them know how she felt about it. Rose kept her head down as she brought the drinks. Following her, Lily carried a platter of fry bread cut into small pieces that she offered each guest.

“First time some of them have had Indian fry bread, I bet,” Tookie said when Rose brought her a glass of sherry and Lily stepped from behind her mother’s skirts to offer up the morsels. Tookie picked pieces one by one and placed them in the cup of her hand until she’d emptied half the plate. The little girl’s eyes grew round until she couldn’t stop from giggling and chancing a look at the giant woman. Tookie gave her a theatrical wink and Lily laughed out loud. Rose glanced between the two and smiled.