Percival Everett - Wounded

The sun was good and up and the animal hadn’t moved a muscle. The horses were getting antsy, waiting for breakfast.

Gus came from the house. “You’re back. What are you doing?”

“I’m watching one of god’s creations,” I said.

Gus looked over at the mule. “What’s he doing?”

“Hell if he knows.” I stood and stretched. “I guess I’ll feed everybody. I’ll be inside in a while.”

“You want flapjacks?”

“Sounds great,” I said.

I made the rounds, throwing hay, scooping grain, dumping bad water, filling troughs with good water. When I came back to the mule’s paddock, he was still in the same pathetic position. I dropped a couple flakes in the mule’s feeder and left for the house.

The mule was planted in that spot until near noon, when, while no one was looking, he must have squirmed his way out. He’d walked to the house and stood there staring at the back door.

I’d been watching what piece of him I could see from the kitchen window off and on. “Gus, you’re not going to believe this,” I said.

Gus looked out the window. “I wouldn’t ride that thing if you paid me in American dollars. He’s spooky.”

I went outside, walked to the animal, stood briefly in front of him, then walked on past him to the barn. The mule heeled like a dog.

DUNCAN CAMP’Sgiant horse was slowly coming around. He tried to walk over me a couple times on the lead rope, but a well-placed pointy stick had put an end to that nonsense. I’d tied the horse’s head high at the kickboard and irritated him with bags of cans, rustling plastic and even a gas-powered weed cutter. He showed wide-eyed panic at the introduction of anything new, but then began to settle down. He couldn’t get away and he wasn’t being eaten by anything. That morning, after fifteen minutes of stretching out my own muscles, trying to work out the tension of anticipation and ward off injury, I saddled Felony and climbed onto his back in the round pen. I could feel he was wired, but he rode like a dream, cantering clockwise and anti-clockwise equally well, pulling for quick, if not sliding, stops, backs. He even did a side pass on a moderately gentle cue. So, I opened the gate, took a deep breath, and rode out into the yard, then into the big field. The big horse felt good, a little too tense to be smooth, but he responded quickly. Before an elk could pop out from behind a bush or a helicopter appear out of nowhere, I took Felony back to the barn and let the short ride remain a good one. I brushed him out for a long time, talking to him, and he pushed at me with his nose. I could feel him relaxing. I didn’t give him a treat, only scratched his belly. I don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world than having a big, scared animal relax around you. I untied him and walked him back to his stall.

As I walked out of the barn, I tossed a look at the mule. He was munching happily in his new indoor quarters.

That afternoon, after a few long hours in the pasture getting the rest of my hay, I saddled Felony for a longer ride. I left Zoe in the house with Gus. I didn’t need her giving him a start by darting off after a rabbit or chipmunk. I rode west out onto the BLM land adjacent to my place, just east of the Red Desert. It was dramatic land, dry, remote, wild. It was why I loved the West. I had no affection necessarily for the history of the people and certainly none for the mythic West, the West that never existed. It was the land for me. And maybe what the land did to some who lived on it.

I rode along in the shadow of a butte, protecting myself from the intense afternoon sun. Ahead I saw something odd. On the red soil, the black was out of place, so I approached slowly for a closer look. Right over it, I still wasn’t sure what I was seeing. But as I dismounted it came together for me. The ears and the shape of the face were easy to see once seen. The coyote had been burnt. I touched the charred remains and put my fingers to my nose. I thought I could smell gasoline. Whether I smelled it or not, I knew what had happened. Someone had poured fuel down into the animal’s den and tossed in a match. It was something sheepherders did occasionally; they hated coyotes.

I looked around and found tire tracks about twenty yards away. They were the tracks of a dually pickup; that much was clear. The impression of the rear tires was nearly as deep as the front, so the bed must have been loaded. A heavy load, I guessed. I followed the tracks backward and located the coyote’s lair on a steep place on the butte’s face. The entrance was blackened from the fire. The coyote had run a hundred yards aflame and whoever had struck the match had followed along in the truck, watching. I felt sick. I was confused, near tears, angry. No one was keeping sheep there, so the lame excuse of protecting stock didn’t even make sense.

Then I heard them. The whimpering seemed to come from nowhere at first and for a second I imagined it to be the last ghost sounds of the dead coyote. I listened and traced the whimpering to a clump of sage and there in the shade and red dust were two pups, smoke darkened, eyes just opened. They could not have been more than two weeks old. One, a female, had a badly burned foreleg, but she was moving with slightly more strength than her intact brother. I wet my kerchief with water from my canteen and tried to wring drips into the pups’ mouths. Their little tongues weakly lapped at their lips. I put them in my saddlebags and mounted.

I loped along, checking on the babies every few minutes. I tried to keep them wet, cool. They were no longer whimpering, but they were still alive. I also poured water over my saddlebags to soak the leather. I tried to shake the image of the mother dog from my head. She had no doubt been between her pups and the den opening and had tried to carry the fire out and away with her.

When I cantered up to the back door, Gus came rushing out before I was off the horse. He knew something was wrong because I never rode an animal hard up to the barn.

“What’s the trouble?” Gus asked.

“I found some coyote pups. They’re injured.” I opened the pouch with the babies and he looked in with me.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

I blew out a breath, collecting myself. I looked at Gus. I couldn’t trust Felony alone with the old man. The horse might walk over him. “You take the pups into the kitchen. I’ll take care of the horse.”

Gus took the bags inside. I loosened Felony’s girth and took off his bridle. I led him over to the hot walker and clipped him up, left to make slow circles while he cooled down. I grabbed my big first aid kit from the barn.

Back in the kitchen I could see that Gus had carefully unloaded the puppies onto the table. The little female with the burned leg actually managed to drag herself a couple inches. The male didn’t move. I put my hand on the little body and felt no life. I stepped away from the table, poured myself a glass of water and drank it all down. I believed I was shaking, but I couldn’t see it in the hand that held the glass.

Zoe was at the table, looking up with obvious concern.

Gus brought me back to where I needed to be. “Well, let’s take care of this one,” he said.

“Okay.” I went back to the table. “Gus, go get me those little scissors you use for your mustache.”

Gus left and was back quickly.

I clipped away the fur above the burned area. The left paw was pretty much gone. But there was no bleeding. I told myself that was a good thing. I couldn’t believe the little girl was alive. I shook my head and looked over at Gus. “She ought to be dead,” I said.

“She’s tough.” The way he said it I knew he was already forming an attachment to the animal.