Blue Lonesome (19 page)

“Of course.”

“Okay. While I’m doing that, you lead Red here outside and turn him loose in the corral. You can do that, can’t you? And take off his halter first?”

“Consider it done. And Dacy—thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “When you’re finished wait by the corral gate.”

He had no trouble with the sorrel. It plodded along docilely enough after him, stood still while he opened the corral gate and again while he unhooked the halter, and then trotted off to join the other two horses. He took the halter into the stable and hung it up. Then he went back out to wait.

Dacy was gone ten minutes. When she reappeared she had Lonnie with her. Without preamble she asked, “How soon would you want to start?”

“Any time,” Messenger said. “Right now.”

“Nothing you want to go and do first?”

“No. Am I hired?”

“You’re hired. Temporarily, anyhow. Lonnie, take him into the barn and show him where we keep the shovels and brooms.”

HE SPENT THE
rest of the morning and half the noon hour cleaning the barn and the stable. It was hot, dirty work—shoveling manure, sweeping out stalls and floors, forking hay so dry the air swam with its chaff. At first the heat and exertion made his head pound furiously, built a thin churn of nausea under his breastbone. But hurt and discomfort were old acquaintances from his time as an endurance runner; he’d learned how to use them back then, how to channel negative feelings into positive energy—an old trick that every long-distance runner picks up and adapts. Once he applied it to his clean-up work, he began to feel better, to gain stamina. By the time Lonnie came to call him to lunch, he was nearly finished and even feeling a little of the exercise high you get from marathon running.

Lunch was tacos and a bowl of thick bean soup; he wolfed down his portion. Dacy said approvingly, “Looks like hard work may just agree with you, Jim.”

“Well, I’ve never shied away from it.”

“See if you feel the same in two or three days.”

“Planning to work me like a mule?”

Her grin had a wry bend in it. “Why not? You’re strong enough and sure as hell stubborn enough.”

After he was done at the stable, she set him to digging a new irrigation ditch for the vegetable garden. And when he’d taken care of that she told him to give Lonnie a hand repairing the broken blade on the windmill. He thought that might present an opportunity to draw the boy out a little, see if he could get an idea of what Lonnie knew and was hiding—another reason he’d wanted the job here. But the opportunity wasn’t there. The platform was too narrow for more than one of them at a time; his job was to stay below, fetch materials as they were needed, and send items up to Lonnie by rope.

The workday ended at five o’clock. He was stiff and sore, and there were blisters on his hands along with last night’s abrasions, but his headache was gone and he wasn’t as tired as he’d expected to be. Internally he felt fine—buoyed by a sense of having accomplished something worthwhile, of finally making progress. He washed up at the pump near the well, was drying his hands on a rough towel when Lonnie joined him.

“Ma says to tell you she put sheets and a blanket and some other stuff in the trailer. And to leave the door and windows open so it can air out.”

He nodded. “Lonnie, before you go—thanks for agreeing to let me stay on here.”

“No big deal to me. You’re working free and we need the help.”

“You still think I’m wrong, though. About your aunt.”

“Damn right you are. She did it. Nothing you do or say’s gonna change that.”

“If there’s a reason you’re so sure, tell me what it is. Convince me.”

“There’s no reason. I just know it, that’s all.”

Messenger said, “Your ma tell you what happened to me last night?”

“She told me. Whoever those two guys are, they were just trying to scare you.”

“Pretty dangerous way to scare somebody. I could’ve been bitten and I could’ve died.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t and you didn’t.”

“A white pickup with a busted antenna, Lonnie. Ever see one like that in town?”

“Might have, once or twice.”

“Any idea who owns it?”

“Nobody we know, that’s for sure.”

Messenger went to have a look at the trailer. Single room inside, with a hanging drape to separate a sleeping area (rollaway bed with a lumpy mattress) from a sitting area (one ancient armchair, one straight-backed chair). The “kitchen” was a two-burner propane stove and a tiny countertop refrigerator. A sink, a shower stall so narrow you wouldn’t be able to turn around in it, and a chemical toilet set tight between metal partitions completed the facilities. Crude quarters, really—and a sweat-box by day and on hot nights. But he’d never been a slave to creature comforts. It would do well enough for however long he was here.

He took a quick shower, put on a shirt and a pair of slacks that he’d brought from the motel, and then went to the house. Dacy was in the living room, working at her computer terminal. She’d changed clothes too—a blouse and white slacks—and tied up her hair with a ribbon, dabbed on a little lipstick. He wondered if she’d done it for him, as he had showered and changed for her. Probably not. Just conceit to believe she had.

He leaned over her shoulder to peer at the screen. “Looks like some kind of chart,” he said.

“Ear-tag records. Fall roundup’s due soon. Every cow, steer, and calf we own carries color-coded and numbered ear tags. Gives us an accurate head count according to age and sex and lets us keep track of genealogy lines and production from different matings.”

“So that’s what you use the computer for.”

“That and a lot of other things, like keeping tabs on supplies and running models to see what kind of feed conversion we can expect if we bring in different stock. What’d you think I used it for? Playing video games?”

“No. Don’t get your dander up.”

“It’s not up. I just want you to understand, since you’re working for us now, that Lonnie and me don’t run some half-assed Western movie ranch. We may be small and hardscrabble but we’re as modern as we can get. We have to be to survive.”

“I didn’t think any differently. Okay?”

“Okay.” A small smile let him know she wasn’t really angry. “I’ll put supper on soon. Be ready in a couple of hours, maybe less.”

“That’ll give me enough time to take care of a few things in town. How late does that Western shop on Main stay open?”

“Seven.”

“Good.” He started out.

“Jim?”

“Yes, Dacy?”

She looked at him steadily for a little time; but whatever it was she meant to say remained unspoken. “Never mind. Just be back by seven-thirty if you want your supper hot. We don’t wait meals for anybody on this ranch.”

HIS FIRST STOP
in town was the Ramirez mobile home. Jaime Orozco showed no surprise when Messenger told him he’d hired on temporarily at the Burgess ranch, and his reasons for doing so. Orozco seemed to approve, despite saying, “I hope you know what you’re doing, my friend.”

“So do I. I’m willing to take the risk as long as Dacy and Lonnie are.” He paused. “You knew about what happened at Mackey’s before I got here, didn’t you.”

Orozco nodded. “Ben Espinosa enjoys the sound of his own voice. Sometimes what he says is worth listening to.”

“He’s doing nothing about finding those two men. And won’t unless they’re identified by somebody else and I file charges against them.”

“I know.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who drives a white pickup with a broken antenna?”

“No. But if the owner lives in this county, someone will know him. Or soon find out who he is.”

“Will you ask your friends? Pass the word?”

“It has already been done.”

“Thank you, Señor Orozco.”

“
De nada.
If it wasn’t for this leg …” Orozco thumped it with his knuckles, then shrugged and said solemnly, “A man does what he can in the cause of justice.”

“If he’s a good man.”

“Yes,
amigo
. If he is a good man.”

IN THE WESTERN
apparel shop he bought two more pairs of jeans and two khaki shirts. Dacy had said she would take care of his laundry, but he couldn’t expect her to wash and rewash the same sweaty change of work clothes. Then he drove to the High Desert Lodge.

Mrs. Padgett had pale, shiny eyes that made him think of fat cells floating in blobs of cream. They turned avid as soon as he told her he was checking out. “Of course, Mr. Messenger,” she said. “I’ll have your bill ready in a jiffy.”

“Fine.”

“Going down to Vegas, are you?”

“No.”

“Back home then. You
are
leaving Beulah?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? I’m afraid I don’t—”

“I’ve taken a job at the Burgess ranch. Hired hand.”

“You … Dacy Burgess hired you?” Her mouth hung open as if it were hinged. The avid eyes crawled over his face like insects. “You’re going to
live
out there at her place?”

“That’s right. For the next ten days, at least,” Messenger said. There was a small, malicious pleasure in telling her, watching her reaction, knowing what she’d do as soon as he walked out the door.

“But … why? Why would a man like you, a city man, want to work as a ranch hand?”

“Why do you think, Mrs. Padgett?”

“I can’t imagine …”

“Sure you can. I’ll bet you have a very good imagination.”

Her trap was open again; she snapped it closed. Quickly, without looking at him again, she punched up his bill on her computer and ran his American Express card through the machine. She was eager to be rid of him now. But no more eager than he was to be rid of her.

He drove straight back to the ranch. It took him less than thirty minutes, but when he passed through the gate his headlights picked out an unfamiliar station wagon already parked at an angle near the house. Mrs. Padgett hadn’t let him down. She’d been on the phone the instant he left her.

Messenger pulled up next to the wagon. He was just opening his door when John T. Roebuck, with Dacy and Lonnie following, stormed out of the house to confront him.

T
HE INTENSITY OF
John T.’s emotions surprised him; he’d expected anger but not raw, seething fury. Roebuck got right up in his face, stretching on the balls of his feet so that his nose was an inch or so below Messenger’s. His breath, hot and moist, stank of sour-mash bourbon and Mexican cheroots. The black eyes under their craggy brows caught the outspill of light from the house; it made them look as if fires burned in their depths. They reminded Messenger of the eyes of the diamondback rattler in the pit at Mackey’s. But he stood his ground, met them with a lidless stare of his own.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Messenger?”

“Standing here smelling your bad breath.”

“You son of a bitch, I warned you not to hang around and make any more trouble. And now I find out you’ve moved in. Talked Dacy into giving you a job and moved the hell in.”

Behind him Dacy said, “I told you, John T., he didn’t talk me into anything.” She was angry too, standing with arms folded tight across her breasts. But from her tone and the crooked set of her mouth Messenger sensed that satisfaction and a hint of amusement lay under the anger. “I make my own decisions.”

“You goddamn well made the wrong one this time,” John T. said without taking his hot eyes off Messenger.

“None of your business if I did.”

“Yours and his, that it?”

“That’s it.”

“What other kind of business you and him got, Dacy?”

“What’d you just say?”

“You heard me. Been a long time since you had a man around to tend to your needs. Pick up a better man than this one at any bar on Saturday night, good-looking woman like you. Or maybe you just like short-peckers from the big city.”

Dacy’s amusement was gone. She came forward in a jerky rush and caught Roebuck’s arm and pulled him around to face her. “Get off my property. Now.”

“When I’m good and ready.”

“Now. I mean it.”

“Or what? You figure to put me off? Or you gonna ask this sorry hunk of horse turd to do it for you?”

Messenger said thinly, “It won’t work, Roebuck.”

“What won’t work, asshole?”

“Trying to provoke me into a fight so you can call the sheriff and file an assault charge. I won’t fight you, not that way. And you won’t get rid of me that way, either.”

“You son of a bitch—”

“You used that name already. Try a new one.”

Dacy laughed. She’d relaxed again. “When it comes to cussing,” she said to Messenger, “he’s about as original as a kid in a schoolyard.”

Roebuck’s fury was on the edge of explosion; you could see him struggling to maintain his control. He tried to reestablish an aggressive position by getting back up in Messenger’s face. Messenger stood with his arms flat against his sides, his expression neutral—giving John T. nothing to blow up on.

They maintained their positions for what must have been a minute or more. Messenger knew the game; it was called staredown. The first one to blink or look away was the loser. He’d never played it before, would have considered himself a poor prospect if he’d thought about his chances. Old Jim was too passive for a game like that. But this wasn’t Old Jim; this was New Jim. And New Jim played John T. Roebuck to a draw.

Dacy broke it up. She said, “Lonnie, if John T. isn’t off our property in three minutes, you go get your Ruger carbine and shoot out two tires on that station wagon of his. It’ll be a freak accident. You and me and Jim’ll swear to that.”

John T. backed up a step—a slow, sinuous movement like a snake uncoiling. He had his anger in check now. “We both know that’s an idle threat,” he said.

“You think so? Lonnie, you timing what I said?”

“Two and a half minutes left, Ma.”

“What’ll you do when the time’s up?”

“Go get my Ruger and shoot out two tires on his wagon.”

“Bullshit,” Roebuck said, but he no longer sounded convinced. He said to Messenger, “I’m not through with you, boy, not by a long shot. I’m just getting started.”

“Is that so? How do you plan to get shut of me?”