The Bones of Paradise (21 page)

G
raver was assigned to check fence, windmills, water tanks, and cattle in the pastures between the two ranches. Some Horses and the other cowboys were finishing the branding while Drum's men were spot branding almost a day's ride away. Cullen had made it clear that he wasn't taking orders anymore now that Drum couldn't raise a stick or hand to him. Hayward was simply gone. Dulcinea hated to leave, but she and Rose had to seize the opportunity.

They moved swiftly on the gray stallion and the Indian pony, eating up the miles past the round and contented cattle that dotted the hills with calves gamboling nearby, butting each other and splaying their legs in imitation of their mothers to snatch at grass they didn't want. The hills were green and rain came often enough to keep them from turning golden brown.

Drum's ranch was quiet in the early afternoon, chickens nesting in the shade through the heat, horses sleeping in the corral, hind legs cocked, heads down. There were no dogs to greet them. Instead they saw a big orange tomcat lolling on the porch of the plain square house as if he were enough to scare intruders. The house had never been painted; now the boards were warped and pulled
away from the nails. Dulcinea tied her horse to the hitching rail and walked up the dirt path to the step made from an old buggy seat with Rose beside her. When they stepped on the porch, the unpainted boards sighed, threatened to drop them through until they moved to either side. Twists of grass and oilcloth and newspaper were stuffed in between the boards where the wood pulled away, and nails had been driven randomly to stop the siding from springing off the house, leaving only the black tarpaper beneath. Dulcinea pushed open the door, half expecting to meet with a gun as the squealing hinges announced them. The cat darted inside, and she reminded herself to make sure the damn thing was out when she left. Apparently Drum left his door unlocked because he figured his reputation would deter thieves.

The smell hit them like an axe handle to the nose, and Dulcinea could feel it soak into her skin and clothes. Glancing around, her first thought was a dead body, but she saw the culprit immediately. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and pans, crusted with rotting food, and blackened with the bodies of flies. On the table, the plates and bowls were filled with squirming maggots. They left the kitchen area and glanced into the parlor, where a desiccated gray striped cat curled into a painful howl of death on the sofa, mouth stretched open in rictus snarl, teeth bared. The orange tom prowled the furniture, sniffed the air around the gray body, and avoided it by rope walking over the top of the sofa, meowing loudly.

Rose ducked her head and went through the doorway to the three rooms in back. The first, clearly the old man's bedroom, was as spartan as the house, wall cracks stuffed with newspaper and rags. The floor was covered in mouse droppings, and the oversweet smell of dead mice added another note to the fetid air from the front room. On pegs along the wall hung the old man's few clothes, including an ancient black suit, thick with dust. A barely worn Stetson hung on the peg next to it, and a pair of black boots sat on the floor beneath. Dulcinea picked one up and turned it upside down. A flattened brown field mouse, with big, paper-thin ears and long
tail hardened by time, dropped to the floor. Big flies thunked lazily against the filthy windows on either side of the bed, and when she went to open the nearest window, the frame came out in her hands. It'd never been properly sealed. Rose shook her head and nodded at the candle wax stuck to the edges. She set the window down on the floor, waiting for the big flies to find their way out. On top of the small bureau beside the bed sat a candle in a pool of melted wax, a pair of store-bought spectacles, and a battered journal of some sort, all wearing the light powder of abandonment. Was Drum Bennett a keeper of memories?

Dulcinea reached for the journal, then pulled back her hand. If she took it, the old man would know. When she leaned in, she saw a
W
embossed in the scratched brown leather cover. She opened it, careful not to tear the brittle pages. The only contents were crude drawings of mountains and what looked like maps. She closed the book. Then she opened the top drawer of the bureau, which held extra socks and a pair of long johns. Nothing hidden underneath. The second drawer contained a woman's ivory-colored camisole and silk stockings with lace tops. She drew the silk length between her fingers and the two women looked at each other.

When she picked up the camisole and held it to admire the pale pink and ivory roses lining the top, she saw a small silver bangle. A closer inspection revealed tiny marks—it was a baby's teething ring. In dim letters on the inside, she made out
J.B.
and a date obscured by the teeth marks. Hard to fathom Drum being sentimental. She thrust it back inside, covered it, and closed the drawer. They went across the hall to a smaller space, which turned out to be a storeroom, the walls lined with shelves of canned goods and supplies. Either the smell had lessened or they were getting used to it. Rose pointed to the poison set out on scraps of newspaper beside the bags of dried beans, sugar, flour, and cornmeal. No mice in here.

They almost missed it in the dark corner of a lower shelf behind a box of candles. The pack was old, the canvas stiff and cracked with dirt as Dulcinea untied and opened the flap. First she lifted out a
six-inch-tall wooden figure that looked Indian, but not like something from the local tribes. Rose took it before she could set it on the floor, turned it over in her hands. A green snake twisted in the fist of a man, if he could be called that—a creature with a large square head, black stripe down its face, turquoise earrings and necklace, fur ruff around the neck, small carved bird feathers tacked to the head, a leather tail, and a red-and-black canvas skirt with a black snake oozing across the front. The legs of the figure were clad in red felt boots. There was bulk and overpowering energy in the form, coming partially, Dulcinea realized, from fierce black eyes that seemed to rage against all they saw. The mouth was open, too, a black maw that promised only ill will. “Kachina,” Rose said and pulled out a tattered shirt to wrap around the figure cradled in her arms, an uneasy expression on her face.

Letters addressed to someone named Arthur Wilke fell on the floor, along with a string-tied packet of photographs of a young woman, several people in a group on a white porch of a farmhouse, and a group of cocky men gripping rifles and wearing Union uniforms. Dulcinea picked them up and quickly tied them together. There was a razor and strop, a small round metal mirror cloudy with corrosion, and a silver pen knife of the sort gentlemen carried, engraved with the same
W
as the journal in Drum's bedroom. She pulled out a book,
Plutarch's Lives,
and felt along the bottom of the pack. Out of frustration, she turned it upside down and shook it hard, releasing a brief shower that sparkled in the dim light. Dulcinea knelt, wet her fingertip, and picked up some of the grainy dust.

“Gold. Someone named Wilke had gold in here.” She shook the pack again and flung it to the floor, kneeling to look at the meager goods. “Drum's hiding something.” She looked at Rose, who glanced at the wooden figure in her arms.

“Are you taking that?” Dulcinea asked.

Rose looked horrified. “Nooo—” She pulled the faded blue cotton shirt tighter and lifted her chin for Dulcinea to hold open
the pack. “These spirits—I don't mess with them.” She carefully lowered the figure inside, untied the bag of cornmeal, reached in, and sprinkled a small handful over it. “Put those other things away and close it up,” she ordered. “We need to leave.” She stood and walked quickly from the storeroom while Dulcinea restored the pack and thrust it back into the dark corner. Returning to the bedroom, she replaced the dirty window, plunging the room into dusk again. When she left, she caught a quick glimpse of the bare room that her son must have used at the end of the hall. The sight made her stomach knot.

Outside Rose had untied their horses and was already mounted. “We need to get away from here,” she said, putting heels to the spotted pony. Dulcinea swung up on the gray and followed her at a gallop. She was disappointed in what they'd seen. There was nothing but evidence of a spartan life that bore down on the men until they broke or ran. She understood her son better now. Maybe even to the point where she could imagine him killing his father for betraying him.

They slowed the horses and were circling a small hill when Rose put out her hand to stop, then pointed to the far side of the meadow, where a man was digging with a shovel. As they watched he straightened and peered closely at something in his hand, then opened it and let dirt and sand fall. The women looked at each other.

“Chance,” Rose whispered. “That's his horse.”

“What's he doing?” Dulcinea asked with a frown.

Rose shrugged. “Something he doesn't want you to know about.”

They watched as he mounted and left the valley in the other direction.

T
he hands rode in just before dark, quiet and tired from the day's work. Irish Jim had a bum knee from a roped steer that had twisted back on him as he dismounted to doctor its eye, and the new hire, Black Bill, wore a bloody scarf tied around his neck from a gouge when the barbed wire he was tightening had snapped. The flies followed the blood scent and buzzed lazily around his face and his constant slapping, waving hand startled the horse he was trying to unsaddle. Finally Graver took over and Bill nodded his thanks.

“Get Vera to look at that,” Irish Jim advised. “She's more doctor than that yahoo in town.”

Jorge, the oldest hand, walked his horse in so quietly he startled Graver. A good man with a horse, he'd already tamed the little dun mustang so he could slide off its back end without getting kicked. He wore the traditional large rowel spurs but never gave a horse more than a flicker. Most of the Mexican cowboys Graver had known were good horsemen and fearless around cattle. He'd rather have Jorge than almost anyone else back him in a culling pen. The two men nodded to each other, covertly noted that their horses weren't as wrung-out tired as the others. Jorge was always the last cowboy
in because he walked his horse at the end so it'd be dry enough to get a quick curry before he grained it.

It was Saturday and the men would be cleaning up, grabbing a bite, if they could stand the wait, and riding hell-bent for leather to town. J.B. had usually kept the men closer to the ranch on Saturdays so they could quit while it was still light and make it to town before dark, but Dulcinea wanted them to put in a full day's work and Higgs hadn't figured out how to explain the situation to her. Graver had overheard the men mutter about it the past two weeks. They were beginning to see Higgs as weak in the face of a woman, but they were all united about steering clear of Drum and his ragtag outfit of hard cases.

“You coming?” Larabee asked Graver as they stood side by side at the washbasin. “You should come. New girl at Reddy's Place. She sings some, but it's hard on the ears.” He glanced at Graver, who slicked back his wet hair with a broken-tooth comb. “Man gets too meditative . . . well anyway, we need another hand. Townfolk aren't taking to us much these days. Elected their first peace officer in ten years, and he promises to throw us in jail we do more than talk polite to the ladies and drink tea.”

Graver watched the excitement in the other man's eyes and nodded with a grim smile. This was what he was now: thirty dollars and found. Not even riding his own horse or wearing his own boots. Hell, he might as well go bust up town on a Saturday night. Might could talk to the sheriff about the killings. Maybe someone with authority would take an interest before they all died of old age. He'd seen the sheriff out here, but nothing came of it. Leastways, nothing was said to him. Was he in the clear, then?

As they trooped in to supper, the men drew up short, milling uneasily as cattle at a sullied water tank. The table was set like always, but it was clear the men were eating alone, while Dulcinea, the lawyer, Drum, and Higgs waited in the parlor to partake of a more leisurely repast without the hired help. He noticed that while Rose placed the food on the table, she kept an eye on him. The
bread Graver usually enjoyed stuck in a muddy wad in his throat, and he quickly made a sandwich with the steak and left the table. The other men followed until they were all out on the porch chewing the last of their hasty meal and not speaking. By the time they saddled up fresh horses and loped out of the ranch yard, their mood had turned sour and Graver was sure they'd find their fight in town. He hoped the new girl was something to look at, and he hoped he wouldn't bust up his healing shoulder. Clouds that had moved in before supper now lay in a thick, ropy mass overhead, and the wind gusted enough that the men had to tie on their hats as they rode toward town. The blowing dust was heavy with the smell of rain falling somewhere in the hills.

Although he hadn't been invited, Some Horses appeared at Graver's elbow as they ordered their first round of drinks. The bartender hesitated, then asked for the Indian's order and passed on to the next man.

“At least Fleming serves Indians,” Some Horses said. “Reddy usually doesn't even let me in the door. Mex or Negroes neither.” Then he added with a small grin, “Prices so high it's probably lucky.”

Graver had wondered why they stopped at Fleming's first. He'd never had the liquor habit and knew little of the saloons in town. The men were well on their way to liquored up when they decided to move on to Reddy's. The bartender looked relieved as they quickly drank and shoved each other stumbling through the door into the dark wind that blinked the kerosene lamps and made it hard to push the door shut behind them. Outside the men tightened hats on heads and leaned into the sand and dust the wind blew into their faces, making it hard to talk without getting a mouthful of grit. Despite the string of new streetlights, the night seemed especially dark as the wind tossed flowerpots and wooden shipping crates and burn barrels in their way. Larabee was already staggering and too drunk
to notice as he trudged across the street toward the small cave of the saloon on the corner a block down. Black Bill tucked his head and turned sideways to protect his face with an arm while he held on to his Stetson. Jorge imitated him while Irish Jim strode forward, face up, inviting the elements, hat nailed on head. Graver glanced at the black clouds boiling above and the wall of darkness that steadily advanced from the west, backlit by lightning that raced across the sky. When it struck the ground he felt a queer tingle up his legs followed by a nearly deafening roll of thunder. The men picked up their pace, walking faster until they broke into a run as the glow of the windows drew near.

Here it comes, Graver thought as he felt the rush of cold wind on the back of his neck, followed by icy drenching rain. By the time they reached the overhang of the porch roof, his boots had filled with water, and his feet squished with every step. The men around him shook their arms and hats and took turns shoving each other out of the shelter of the porch into the hail that pounded the metal roofs up and down the street, stinging the tied horses so they milled and bumped each other and tried to break loose. Finally, Larabee, as self-appointed leader, pushed open the door, and they crowded into the dimly lit room so filled with smoke it sat in layers that the three girls floated through as they brought drinks to the men seated at the small round tables.

The woman behind the bar seemed composed of various parts, a left arm, a right shoulder, one breast, half a face that arranged and rearranged in the fog. Graver glanced around to see that Some Horses, Jorge, and Black Bill had silently separated from the group and disappeared. As he came to the smooth oak bar, he saw the sign barring anyone of dubious origin, including those with skin darker than the bartender's palomino horse. Graver guessed it was probably sun bleached, too.

He got a beer and leaned against the bar with Larabee at his side. “So where's this girl?”

Larabee grinned, somewhat sobered from the dousing. “Downstairs.”
He put his hand on Graver's arm. “Wait a few drinks. It's better that way.” There was a peculiar light in his eyes. Graver thought about leaving, but the prospect of the long ride back to the ranch in a downpour rooted him to his spot. Every cowboy stood in a small pool of water dripping from his clothes. They were a sorry lot, soaked, battered, half sporting some sort of bandage. The hands holding drinks told the tale of hard work: swollen, misshapen knuckles, fingers that wouldn't close or had pieces missing, marred with seesawing scars and rope burns. The faces around him were burned into deep brown or permanent red, making it almost impossible to determine any man's age, let alone race. How could Reddy be so sure about skin? He wondered where the three men had gone.

Graver felt a stab of regret that he hadn't gone with them as the smoke lifted briefly to reveal tobacco-colored walls. Yellowed newspaper photos, articles, and posters of rodeos and particularly two white horses with a young girl standing on their backs, Roman style, filled the wall to his left.

“That Reddy?” He nodded at the poster and nudged Larabee, who was staring at one of the worn-looking women, a skinny brunette wearing a thin, shapeless dress whose red shine had been washed to a faded pink. Droopy gray lace along the bodice revealed the slight cleavage of her small, tired breasts. She waited for the reluctant drinkers to drop a few coins on her round tray, straightened her back, brushed a hank of limp brown hair from her eye, tilted her head, and closed her eyes as if her own touch were the only comfort she knew. A pair of silk stockings with a run laddered up the side revealed narrow, trim ankles.

Larabee shook his head and nodded at the tired woman. “That's Nance. Her old man went rodeoing, left her with three youngsters and a cardboard shack at the edge of town when the bulls finished with him.” Larabee took a swallow of beer, sounding more sober by the minute, as if the beer countered the effects of the whiskey. “She's working dark to dark putting food on the table for the little ones. Shame to see her like this.” He glared at the cowhand who
tried to pull her onto his lap and fondle her breasts at the same time as she pushed him away with a tired smile.

“Damn fool Lister, married her and worked for Drum a time, couldn't cut it. Never did grow up. Guess he figured it out about the time his brains were stewed with arena dirt.” Larabee turned to lean his elbow on the bar and direct Graver's attention to the wall of photos and newsprint.

“That's Reddy's daughter Imogene on the poster. Genie, they call her. Followed Lister right down the road, she never came back neither. Guess she met some young fool and stayed gone, the way I heard it. Made a bundle trick riding. Enough for Reddy to sell this place to his other daughter, Lucille, and retire to drinking full time. Lucille lives outside town with a pack of half-wolf dogs and a herd of Indian ponies, while he holes up here in town, street behind this one, over by the firehouse.” He took a sip of beer as his gaze followed the skinny brunette making her way between tables to the bar, where Lucille waited.

The woman barkeep wore a plain black skirt and a black shirt, ironed crisp but faded, that came to a V at the neck over skin already developing the matted texture of a country woman. Her face wore a neutral, manly aspect with its oval shape and slightly shadowed upper lip and jaw. Her eyes revealed nothing as the thin brunette dropped the round tray on the bar and shoved the change toward her. Lucille swept it into her waiting palm with the edge of her hand and dropped it in a cigar box on the back of the bar. She drew four beers in a row, topped each with a perfect crown of foam, and placed them precisely on the tray. When she was done, she considered the woman propped on an elbow with her eyes closed. Lucille reached out and looped the lock of spent hair under a long finger and lifted it back across the woman's head. When Nance raised her face, she wore a tired smile, and Lucille gave her arm a quick squeeze and nodded to the men at the table in the corner, who had begun to wave and stomp their feet.

Lucille wiped the bar, lifting glasses and mugs and working her
way to Graver. When she stood directly in front of him, she stopped and measured him with her eyes.

“You need something?”

Graver wasn't sure what impulse made him raise his chin at the sign barring Indians, Mexicans, Negroes, Chinese, and anyone of mixed blood. “What's that mean?”

She looked at him carefully. “You can't read?” She turned and moved to the other end of the bar to serve a couple of cowboys so drunk they held on to the edge of the rail to stay standing.

Annoyance rolled over him and he was opening his mouth to respond when Larabee elbowed him in the side and tilted his head toward the door that had just closed behind Black Bill, Jorge, and Some Horses.

“Ah shite,” Irish Jim swore.

Larabee beckoned the three men over and shoved the pitcher of beer toward them. Without glasses, they had to pass the pitcher from man to man for a quick gulp while Lucille wasn't looking. Some nights she was inclined to let the nonwhite cowboys drink if they didn't ask for much.

Over the back door hung an enormous buffalo head, moth eaten, battered, shaggy to the point that it must have been going through summer molt when it was killed. One ear was twisted nearly off and dangled from the side of the head. The black marble eyes gazed almost drunkenly at the drinkers, and some wag had stuck a hand-rolled cigarette in its mouth.

Larabee leaned across Some Horses and said, “One of them English lords came out here and shot him a while back. Not much sport. He was the last old bull, not bothering nobody. Pretty tame. But he shot him, had him stuffed and crated to ship home. Then a funny thing happened.” Larabee's eyes lit up as the whiskey and beer were set in front of him. He lifted the shot glass, toasted Graver and Some Horses, and drank it down in one swallow.

“So this lord decides to go on one final hunt. And having shot the hell out of every living thing in twenty miles, he heads on up to
Pine Ridge Reservation. Right after the Wounded Knee massacre, it was. Heard there's a big den of mountain lions up there and he wants one. Now nobody bothers telling him that these are cougars, and they don't live in big family houses, they're more loners. We figure to take his money and follow him around scraping up the bodies. Easier than cow work.”

Larabee took a longer draught of the beer. Beyond him the men began to talk loudly and laugh for the first time since supper. Irish Jim and Jorge wore evil smiles as they played stick pig with a knife and their hands on the bar.

“So first thing happens, this lord runs into a man claims to be chief who says he needs payment for permission to hunt on Indian land. Dumb cocksucker pays. Not even an argument. Well, you can see how that was gonna play out. We ride a little further. Another chief. More money. By about the fifth time we're stopped, the lord asked the chief how many there were, figuring he should be about done paying. Indian smiles and says, ‘Why, we're all chiefs in this tribe, sir.'”