High Country : A Novel (17 page)

Ty had taken so many turns and bumped across so many rutted roads that he was sure they were lost, but Spec seemed to sense where to go. Each time the road forked he’d rouse himself, pointing before his head rolled back against the window or slumped down on his chest. Ty just hoped for the best, not even sure Spec would wake up when they got to wherever they were going. And now it looked as though they had, Spec reaching over for the wheel as though turning it sharply might stop them.

He pulled in with other cars and trucks, some with the doors off, the seats gone; others with no hood, wires hanging where the engines had been. The cars were scattered in front of a low building. An old corral, tilted and broken, leaned against one side of it. Spec got his door open and fell out into the muddy snow. A dog jumped out of one of the trucks, barking until he got close enough and then whining, going to Spec on his belly, his tail flapping in the ridges of mud and snow.

Ty helped Spec up, and the three of them crossed the lot to the plywood shelter that shielded the door. That and the tilted corral were all that broke the perfect rectangle of the building. As soon as they were under the shelter, the door to the house opened. There was no light, but Ty could make out a big presence in the doorway. “Drunk or sick?” a woman’s voice asked.
“A little drunk, I guess.” She had an overcoat on against the cold. “More than a little, looks like.” She came out and shut the door

Ty sat Spec on the box, leaning him against the plywood so he could pull off his boots. Spec peered up at the woman, saying nothing as Ty got him on his feet, shifted his weight over to her. The woman helped Spec inside and closed the door behind her.

Ty stood there, pulling up the collar of Fenton’s coat and stomping his feet to stop the tingling starting up in his toes. He went back to the truck, the dog trotting along with him and watching as he got Horace’s coat from the back and climbed into the cab. He thought of calling the dog in for what warmth it could provide but decided against it. He closed the door and stretched out on the seat, pulling Horace’s coat over him.

He twisted and turned for awhile, trying to get comfortable, finally propping himself up on the driver’s side and stretching his legs out across the cab. He slept that way—pulling up the coat, nodding off and waking and nodding off again, thinking about Spec. He decided what he learned from him in the mountains was probably more useful than what he learned from him in Missoula.

Spec was shaky when he came out of the house but clean, his hair combed. By then Ty had begun walking up and down the road, dodging the slush and jogging in place to get the feeling back in his feet. His pants were muddy and getting muddier from the jogging.

“Wondered where you went.” Spec climbed into the truck and started the motor. Ty hopped in too, Horace’s coat piled in his lap.
“Want a beer?” Spec bounced the truck over the ruts. “Couple of beers might make me horny again.”
They went to the Elkhorn, Ty getting hungrier by the minute. A waitress gave them menus.
“You sleep in a leaky barn?” she asked Ty.
“How about two beers,” Spec said. “We got a thirst.”
“Age disqualifies your partner. And Sunday disqualifies you.”
“Coffee, then,” Spec said. “Which ain’t what we need.”
They ordered and Ty went to clean up. When he came back, Jasper was there, wearing a suit and a little fedora. He took the hat off when he saw Ty. Ty was so happy to see him he said nothing about the clothes.
“Told you to be careful where Spec took you.” Jasper shook a finger at Ty. “Safer with bears. Lucky you steered clear of that big turd who works with Leonard. I give up on him. Leonard can bring his cards here to play.”
“I’d like a beer,” Spec said. “Would a beer suit you, Jasper?”
“I’d tolerate one. I been to church.”
“You have?” Ty was surprised. “You never told me . . .”
“Beth keeps some cold.” Jasper’s thoughts were with the beer. “And that big shit don’t work on Sundays.”
“He might spend Sundays in church,” Spec said. “Purify himself.” “Assholes don’t purify.You and Buck should know that.”
The waitress came with plates of eggs and potatoes and ham steaks. Ty was almost as glad to get the subject changed as he was to get the food. The last thing he needed was a beer—or The Bar of Justice.
He turned out to be the only one with money, which shamed Spec and Jasper into taking him directly to Horace Adams. Horace didn’t seem all that pleased when they got there.
“Ty?” He took in Ty’s clothes. “ Yo u’re a day late. Your friends make you change their tire in a muddy place?”
“You remember Jasper and Special Hands,” Ty said. “They drove me over . . .” He held out the coat. “I sure thank you for your coat.”
Horace just looked at him, finally opening the door wide. “If you boys come in, this conversation might pick up.”
Jasper and Spec were surprised. They’d never been in Horace’s house. They hardly talked as they carried Ty’s things through and out to the bunkhouse.
“You can clean up here.” Horace opened a door to a tiny bathroom, a shower in one corner. “Then maybe you won’t smell like a gin mill.”
“We come in yesterday,” Spec explained. “Ty’s first time in town. After the mountains.”
“Yes. And where you took him may stick with him longer than the damn mountains,” Horace said. “Though he’ll wish it didn’t.”
Etta came in with towels, excited about seeing Ty.
“Oh.” She looked at him. “Are you hurt?”
“We brought his things in,” Spec explained. “We come in yesterday. I needed to see the government people.”
“And he seen them.” Jasper held his fedora against his chest. “He still has one of them checks they give him.”
“That ain’t all of it.” Spec couldn’t help himself. “I’m gettin’ more.”
“ Ye s.” Etta left the towels. “I’m sure.”
It was quiet after she left, all of them looking at Ty.
“Well,” Jasper said. “We best go, Ty. I thank you for the breakfast.”
“You boys can see him when we clean him up,” Horace said. “But not too often. There’s school.”
Jasper fitted his hat back on and left, but Spec hesitated, wanting to say something. Ty was relieved when he gave up on it, just held up a hand and followed Jasper out to the truck.
“You could stand a wash,” Horace said. “Your friends may have set out to look after you, but they missed by some. Lucky you got any money left at all.” He turned to go. “I’ll show you the chores after.” He hadn’t smiled at all.

Ty was embarrassed by the fuss the school made about his late enrollment. At Crazy Pete School they understood ranch work might interfere, but they didn’t seem to look at it that way in Missoula. He wasn’t even sure they understood that if he’d had to ride all that way down the South Fork, he might still be wandering around in the snow.

Only the principal, Mr. Trout, who seemed to know Fenton, understood. He listened to Ty’s story carefully, smiling each time Ty mentioned Fenton. Then he sent him off to Miss Wright, the English teacher, to get his schedule. Miss Wright was young and earnest and dedicated. Trout’s guess was that she was so taken with the literature she taught, Ty would have no choice but to like it himself.

The other place he sent Ty was out to the football field. It was still midseason, but Trout had a feeling the strong young boy from Pardee’s pack station would like it. And he was right. Ty was surprised himself by how quickly he took to the game, an attachment that became a mystery to Miss Wright—who was mostly interested in repairing his grammar.

But for the first week Ty was so busy he hardly had time to consider grammar, though Miss Wright tried to correct him each time they talked. She gave him books to read so he could catch up in English and history; she arranged to have him meet with his mathematics teacher each evening; and his afternoons were filled with football.

It turned out that Mr. Trout was always on the lookout for players. He’d liked the way Ty looked in his oversized Levis and guessed that running around on the rocky field at Crazy Pete School was worth something and throwing Fenton’s heavy packs around was worth more. It didn’t take the coaches long to see Trout was right. It was easy for Ty to wrestle down boys scooting this way and that with the football, flopping them down like calves ready for branding.

In the mornings he got up and fed the horses. Then it was off to school and Miss Wright. And after school, football, where an assistant coach stayed after practice to explain what an end had to do to keep a runner from going down the sidelines. It was from him Ty learned that Trout had been called Bull Trout when he played for the university, that after graduating he’d taught at the school and been the coach himself—before they made him principal.

Some days at their practices Ty would look over and find the big man watching, hands buried in his pockets, doing his principal’s work right there on the field. The teachers seemed to have no choice but to go out on blustery afternoons and confer with him there. One day Ty even saw Miss Wright huddle with him, slender and out of place, holding her hair against the wind as Trout took his hand out of his pocket, pointing Ty out.

Football was one of the reasons the Adamses so quickly forgave Ty his bad start. The other was his steadiness. He did his chores on time, was always there for dinner, helped with the dishes—when Etta would let him.

But Horace’s fascination with football helped more. He was a regular at the high-school games, the university’s games too. He’d seen Bull Trout play in his first college game, been a fan ever since. He’d followed Trout’s career as a coach and been even more unhappy than the sportswriters when Trout left coaching to become principal. That’s why he was so pleased when they decided to move Ty up to the varsity for the big game with Butte.

“Bull knows,” Horace said at supper. “He’s forgot more than most coaches learn.”
“He knows Fenton,” Ty said. “I think most people do.”
“Well, Fenton’s hard to miss, Ty,” Etta said. “He’s so big. And he says whatever he wants—like family.”
“They remember him at the university.” Horace laughed.
“Do we have to hear that story?” Etta gave Horace a look, then took dishes into the kitchen. But Horace stayed and told Ty about Tommy Yellowtail and Fenton bringing Ty’s grandfather’s—Eban Hardin’s— mules down the Bitterroot to ford the Blackfoot right there at the university.
“Water low that year. River wide and shallow. Bridge kinda dicey for those mules. Everything fine until some students started runnin’ around with cameras, settin up tripods—every damned thing. All hell broke loose.”
Horace described the chaos: mules tearing up the lawns, running up the stairs to buildings and being chased back by ranch kids bolting from their classes. Mule shit everywhere. “Took about three hours to calm things down and get those mules into the river. One of those deans and the police chief tryin’ to give Fenton a ticket—or some damn thing. Bull Trout and all those football players down by the river watchin’ the mules ford.” Horace laughed. “Fenton just rode up to all them students. ‘Sorry for the mess,’ he says. ‘But it’ll repair. Could get more education cleanin’ up my mule shit than from them books anyway.’”
“He said that?” Ty was stopped. “Did it cause trouble?”
“Not that bothered Fenton.” Horace stood, knowing he had some making up to do with Etta. “Bull Trout still loves to tell that story.”

The Butte team looked big in their black uniforms, confident. They hadn’t lost a game. Ty watched the other Missoula players clench their jaws and double up their fists, making vows. He was surprised at how worked up they were. He wondered if Fenton and Cody Jo would be at the game. Etta had told them about it. She’d even sent a card to Will and Mary.

Ty listened to the coaches, thinking how different this was from the way he readied his mules for a tricky place in the woods or before he took them across some slick snow. He wanted them settled, comfortable about things. The coaches seemed to want the players more excited than they already were. By the time they explained their game plan, the players were so anxious Ty wasn’t sure they understood any of it.

He listened but felt apart somehow. He hardly knew the other players, each night hurrying back to do his chores. And what he liked about football was the opposite of what made them so serious. He liked it that there was nothing to worry about, no bogs to skirt or deep river crossings or places you might roll your mules. He liked the freedom, took joy in knocking the others aside so he could get at the runner, swing him to the ground and bounce up for the next play. He hardly thought about how to do it, knowing it all instinctively, as if he were cutting off runaway horses.

When the game started, he understood what worried the coaches. John Lamedeer, the Butte runner, would sweep wide, going outside and turning upfield for ten or fifteen yards before they could force him out of bounds. He seemed to run without effort, just enough ahead to make the tacklers miss, sometimes even turning inside the Missoula end so quickly tacklers would trip over themselves trying to recover.

“Maybe you can stop that Indian from running around us,” he said, his eyes on the field. “Or through us.”
The boy Ty replaced was upset, kicking at the ground and throwing his helmet and swearing as he passed Ty. On the field the Butte players looked bigger, the grass stains on their uniforms darker. Ty saw some of them were looking at him.
Before he was sure he’d lined up right, they were coming at him, two players shoulder to shoulder, John Lamedeer behind them with a hand out, guiding them. Ty managed to slide between the blockers and Lamedeer turned upfield too soon, the others there to pull him down.
He had gained, but not so many yards as before. They were back at Ty again on the next play, Lamedeer planting a foot as though to turn up the field then sweeping past Ty like water around a boulder. Ty reversed himself just in time, cutting the runner off against the sideline. Lamedeer slowed to a trot as he went out of bounds, tossing the ball to the official as he came back, looking at Ty.
It went that way through the afternoon, Ty sometimes laughing as he forced Lamedeer to run inside or sprinted wide to pin him against the sideline. On one play the Indian almost got past Ty with speed so sudden Ty had to dive out to grab his jersey, Lamedeer’s momentum whipping them out of bounds and scattering players as they rolled over one another and into the bench. Ty looked up and saw the boy he’d replaced standing over Lamedeer, swearing and gesturing before being yanked away.
It was Fenton who had done it, dropping the boy right in front of Bull Trout, who was coming over to take care of things himself. The player looked small between the two big men.
“Your boy is playing a fine game, Mr. Pardee.” Trout looked at Fenton as though the boy weren’t there at all. “A little short on technique, but he runs them down. I didn’t know packers could run without a horse.”
“You should see him wrangle mules,” Fenton said. “Or run alongside a hay truck. This would be child’s play if it weren’t for that fast Indian.”
The players had gathered around when Fenton pulled the boy away. They stepped back so Ty and Lamedeer made their way onto the field.
“Better let me run,” Lamedeer said to Ty seriously. “We should be beating you bad by now.”
“ Yo u’re way ahead. I don’t think we can catch up.” They were on the field now, starting to jog. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”
“If I can’t run it ain’t,” Lamedeer said, going back to his huddle.

“Them boys would of whipped you a lot worse had you not figured out that runner,” Fenton said. They were having dinner in the Elkhorn, Ty so glad to see Cody Jo and Fenton he hadn’t even thought to ask about his parents.

“I see you improved on the company you keep.” It was the waitress who’d fed them after their night in The Bar of Justice. “And you tidied up. Last time you didn’t look so prosperous.”

“Bet his pards didn’t look much better.” Fenton spoke up as though they were old friends. “I tell those boys they’d fare better stayin’ in the damn mountains. Then winter comes and my advice goes to hell.”

“He was a beautiful runner, Ty,” Cody Jo said. “It was like watching some medieval contest. The two of you dueling it out with one another.”
Ty liked hearing her talk, hearing all of them talk. He felt good. And he hadn’t been so hungry since Jasper’s dinner high in Lost Bird Canyon.

He didn’t see Will and Mary until three days after the big Christmas snow, and he was lucky to get into the Bitterroot then. Horace got him a ride out with a drummer who had tire chains. It took them five hours to get to the Missouri Bar.

Dan was sweeping it out. Ty got a broom and helped, surprised to see he was bigger than his brother now.
“They tell me you played football for the Spartans,” Dan said. “Dad worries you’ll get hurt and he’ll be out more money.”
“He likes to worry. Tell him they got insurance.”
“Ma don’t worry. She enjoys having Jennifer around.”
“Jennifer Malone?”
“No one told you?” Dan looked at him. “She’s in the family way. Jimmy married her.”
“He did? That the business that needed tending?”
“Ma don’t like to talk about it. And Pa hardly talks about anything but how he had to sell our cows.”
On the way home Dan told Ty how Will had sold almost everything to the big outfit that had the Hardin ranch. There was just the crazy milk cow left—and some saddle horses. But there was lots of work with the big outfit, which Will claimed was enough. He hadn’t liked worrying about his own cows anyway.
Jimmy was plowing the road when they turned in. He waved from the big outfit’s tractor as they went by. They parked by the barn, and Ty saw that all the mule rigging was gone. In the kitchen Mary gave him a hug and got a little tearful at how he’d changed. Jennifer was there, just a hint of the baby showing. To Ty she looked even sweeter than when she’d taught him his numbers at the Crazy Pete School. Ty could see that his mother was pleased about the baby, though she said nothing, not even when Jimmy came in and shook Ty’s hand, talking about all his work with the big outfit.
In the morning Ty went out to feed. Jimmy had plowed a wide track for the tractor, and the big outfit’s cattle knew to gather behind the clatter of the engine. It was easy to pull the hay wagon along behind, Jimmy setting the throttle and stepping back onto the wagon to help Ty with the hay, the tractor making its own way along the rough track. The cattle drifted in behind, bunching around chunks of hay. Ty saw some of Will’s mother cows in with them. And a skinny yearling looked like the calf he’d saved when he broke his arm.
He only stayed three days. There was little for him to do. Dan was off at the store every day, and Jimmy had things to do for the big outfit. Jennifer and his mother were thick with their own concerns, and every time Ty sat down with his father, Will would go on about how bad things were. When Dan said a lumber truck was pulling out for Missoula, Ty hitched a ride.
He didn’t see them again until May—the morning Mary died.