Hoyt looked at the young public defender beside him and when she shook her head he looked at the judge. I heard you, he said. I haven’t got any question.
Good, the judge said. Because I don’t want to see you in here again. This court has seen all it ever wants to see of you, Mr. Raines.
The judge signed the Advisement and handed it to the clerk, then pulled another file out and called the next case.
Hoyt turned and walked to the rear of the courtroom. The deputy rose and escorted him and the other inmate into the hall and on downstairs to the sheriff’s office, where the other man was returned to his cell.
The deputy stood before Hoyt and unlocked his handcuffs. You can gather up your belongings now, he said. And report to the probation officer.
I have twenty-four hours till I have to see him.
That’s the way you’re going to do this, is it? Make it difficult for everybody, like you been doing all along.
It’s none of your fucking business anymore what I do, Hoyt said. The judge released me. I’m free to go. And you’re free to kiss my ass.
23
O
N A SATURDAY MORNING IN DECEMBER TOM GUTHRIE
and the two boys, Ike and Bobby, drove out to the McPheron place just after breakfast. It was a clear cold day. Only a little wind was blowing up out of the west.
They got out of Guthrie’s old red faded Dodge pickup and entered the horse lot where Raymond was waiting for them next to the barn. The two boys, twelve and eleven, were slim and lank, dressed for the cold day in jeans and lined jackets and wool caps and leather gloves. In the horse lot Raymond already had the horses brushed and saddled, and they stood loose-tied at the pole fence, swinging their heads to look as the Guthries approached.
You fellows are right on time, Raymond said. I’m about ready for you. How you boys doing this morning?
They looked at each other. We’re okay, Ike said.
Hell of a deal having to come out here on a Saturday morning so early, isn’t it.
We don’t mind.
Did he feed you any breakfast before you left town?
Yes sir.
That’s good. It’s going to be a long time till noon dinner.
How do you want to go about this? Guthrie said.
Oh, about like always, I guess, Tom. We’ll just ride out amongst them and bring them all in together to the holding pen there and start separating them. How’s that sound to you?
Sounds fine to me, Guthrie said. You’re the boss.
They mounted the horses and rode out into the pasture. The horses were fresh and a little skittish, a little high in the cold weather, but soon settled down. Far across the pasture the cattle and two-year-old heifers and big blackbaldy calves were spread out in the sagebrush and the native grass, their dark shapes visible over a low wind-blown rise. As they rode on, Guthrie and Raymond talked about the weather and the lateness of the snow and the condition of the grass, and Guthrie thought to inquire about Victoria Roubideaux. Raymond told him she had called the night before. She sounded pretty good, he said. Seems like she’s doing real well in her studies there in Fort Collins. She’ll be coming home for Christmas.
The two boys rode alongside the men, not talking. They looked around at all there was to see, glad to be out of school doing anything on horseback.
When the four riders drew near, the old mother cows and heifers and calves all stopped grazing and stood as still and alert as deer, watching them approach, then began to move away across the grass toward the far fence line.
You boys go turn them, Guthrie said. Don’t you think, Raymond?
That’s right. Head them back this way.
The boys touched up their horses and loped off after the cattle, riding like oldtime cowboys out across the native grass on the treeless high plains under a sky as blue and pure as a piece of new crockery.
T
HEY GATHERED THE CATTLE AND DROVE THEM BACK TO
the home corrals and then shut them up in the holding pen east of the barn. Then they dismounted and loosened the cinches and watered the horses and tied them at the pole fence. The horses stood and shook themselves, resting with one back leg cocked. They each were dark with sweat at their necks and flanks and lathered between their back legs.
Raymond and the two boys began to work the cows and calves now, pushing one cow-calf pair at a time out of the holding pen into the high plank-sided alley where Guthrie stood at the far end ready with the swing gate. One of the boys would trot behind with a herdsman’s whip, heading them down the alley. The calves stayed close to their mothers, but when they reached Guthrie he shoved the head of the gate between them and closed it, sorting the cow out to pasture and the calf into a second big pen. As soon as they were separated both cow and calf began to bawl, crying and calling, milling in a circle. The dust rose in the air out of the unceasing noise and commotion and hung above them in a brown cloud that drifted away only gradually in the low wind. And all the time the cattle kept stirring, shoving against one another, then standing still to set up to bawl, and the calves in the pen kept raising their heads and bawling and crying, their mouths thrown open, showing pink like rubber and roped with slobber, their eyes rolled back to rims of white. Now and then a cow and its calf would locate each other along the plank fence and stand breathing and licking at the other through the narrow spaces between the rough boards. But when the cow would move away, milling along the fence, the calf would lift its head to bawl once more. It all grew louder and dirtier as the morning hours passed.
In the holding pen Raymond said: Here now, you want to watch this one. She tends to be a little snorty. Stay back from her.
A tall black cow came trotting out from the pen with her calf close behind. The boys succeeded in turning them both into the alley and got them headed toward Guthrie. At the end of the alley she came rushing at him, tossing her head as if to hook him. He climbed quickly up the fence two or three boards, and when she reached for him with her horns he kicked at her head. Then she and her calf dodged into the pasture before he could jump down and swing the gate. Ike called: You want me to go get them, Dad?
No, I’m going to leave her. We’ll get a rope on the calf later. That all right, Raymond?
That’s exactly right, Raymond said.
They went on working cattle in the bright day in the dust-filled pens. The day had warmed up a little, the wind had stayed down and they grew warm in their lined jackets. By half-past noon they were finished.
You better come up to the house for some dinner now, Raymond said. I believe these boys here could use something to eat.
Oh, we’ll just go into town, Guthrie said. We’ll get us something to eat at the café. But let us get that calf in first.
No, you better come up to the house. We’ll get the calf later. I got some of that good ground beef thawed out from the locker. It’s going to waste if you don’t come in. I ain’t going to eat all of it by myself.
They left the corrals and walked across the gravel drive to the house and porch where they slapped the dust off their jeans and stomped their boots and went inside and took off their warm jackets and hats, and Raymond washed his hands and face at the sink and started to cook at the old enameled stove. Guthrie and the boys washed up at the sink after him and dried off on the kitchen towel. You boys can help me set the table, Guthrie said.
They got down plates and glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table and laid out silverware, then looked in the old refrigerator and took out bottles of ketchup and mustard. Anything else? Guthrie said.
You can open this can of beans, Raymond said, so I can heat it up. Maybe one of you boys can find some milk.
They stood about in the kitchen watching him cook, and when he was finished at the stove they sat down at the table to eat. He carried the big heavy frying pan to the table and forked two hamburgers onto each plate, the meat was badly overcooked, black and hard as something poked out of a campfire. Then he set the pan on the stove and sat down. Go on ahead and eat, he said, unless somebody wants to pray. No one did. He looked around at them. What are you waiting on? Oh hell, I forgot to buy hamburger buns, didn’t I. Well shoot, he said. He got up and brought a sack of white bread to the table and sat down again. You boys can eat these hamburgers without buns, can’t you?
Yes sir.
Okay then. Let’s see if any of this is worth our attention.
They passed the dish of heated beans around the table and poured ketchup on the hamburgers. The ketchup soaked through and made pink circles on the bread. The bread turned soggy and came apart in their hands so that they had to lean over and eat above their plates. There was not much talking. The boys looked once at their father, and he nodded toward their plates and they ducked their heads and went on eating. When the beans came around again they each spooned out a second large portion. For dessert Raymond got down four coffee cups and opened a big can of grocery-store peaches and went around the table to each place and spooned out bright yellow quarters into each of the cups and poured out the syrup in equal quantities.
Meanwhile Guthrie was looking about the kitchen. There were pieces of machinery and bits of leather and old rusted buckles collected on the chairs and in the corners.
Raymond, he said, you ought to get out of the country now and again. Come into town, have a beer or something. You’re going to get too lonesome out here.
It does get kind of quiet sometimes, Raymond said.
You better drive into town one of these Saturday nights. Have a little fun for yourself.
Well, no. I can’t see what I’d do with myself in town.
You might be surprised, Guthrie said. You might find some manner of interesting trouble to get into.
It might be some kind of trouble I didn’t know how to get out of, Raymond said. What’d I do then?
A
FTER LUNCH THEY WENT OUTSIDE AGAIN AND THE TWO
boys mounted their horses and rode into the pasture among the cows and located the tall black cow and dropped a rope on her calf and dragged the stiff-legged calf back into the big pen with the rest. The cow made a run at them there, but they were able to turn her away and take the calf inside.
The cattle were all still bawling as before. They would go on bawling and milling for three days. Then the cows would grow hungry enough to move farther out into the pasture to graze and their bags would dry up. As for the calves, Raymond would have to fork out brome hay in the long row of feed bunks in the holding pen and bucket out ground corn on top of the hay, and he’d have to watch them carefully for a while or they might turn sick.
W
HEN GUTHRIE AND THE BOYS DROVE OUT TO THE
county road to return to Holt, they could still hear the cattle from a mile away.
They’re all right, aren’t they? Bobby said.
Yeah, they’re all right, Guthrie said. They’re going to have to be. It happens every year like this. I thought you knew that.
I never paid it any attention before, Bobby said. I never was a part of it before.
Those cows and heifers are already pregnant with their next year’s calves, Guthrie said. They’d have to wean these calves themselves if we didn’t do it for them. They’ve got to build up their strength for next year’s crop.
They make an awful lot of noise, Ike said. They don’t seem to like it much.
No, Guthrie said.
He looked at his sons riding beside him in the pickup, headed down the gravel road on this bright winter afternoon, the flat open country all around them gray and brown and very dry.
They never do like it, he said. I can’t imagine anything or anybody that would like it. But every living thing in this world gets weaned eventually.
24
T
HE RAILROAD PENSION CHECK HAD COME AND THE OLD
man wanted to go out despite the bitter cold. The temperature had begun to drop every night into the teens and below. You don’t have to come, he said. I can manage without you.
You can’t go by yourself, DJ said. I’m coming with you.
He went back to his bedroom and got into heavier clothes and returned to the front room and took down his mackinaw and mittens from the plank closet in the corner and put them on and then stood at the door holding his stocking cap in his hand. You better dress warm, Grandpa. You remember last winter when you got frostbite.
Don’t you worry about that. I been out in more freezing weather than you ever heard of. Goddamn it, boy, I worked out in this cold all my life.
He put on his old heavy black coat and pulled a corduroy cap down over his white head, the flaps hanging loose beside his big ears. Then he slipped on leather mittens and looked around the room. Turn that light off.
I will, as soon as you go out. I’m waiting on you, DJ said. Have you got your check?
Course I got my check. It’s right here in my wallet. He patted the chest pocket of his overalls under the heavy coat. Let’s go, he said.
They stepped out and immediately the south wind blowing down on them was enough to take their breath away. Above the lights of town the sky was hard and clear. They walked along the street toward downtown. There was no traffic. The lights were on in Mary Wells’s house but all the blinds were pulled down tight. Patches of snow lay scattered in the yards and ruts of ice were hardened in the road.
At Main Street they turned south into the wind and walked along on the sidewalk. A car drove by, its exhaust as white and ragged as wood smoke, before the wind snatched it away. They crossed the railroad tracks and the red signal light shone at the west. The grain elevators loomed over them.
In Holt’s small business district their paired images walked beside them in the plateglass storefronts. The old man went limping bent over in his heavy coat, his head down, and the boy was a good deal shorter in the windows.
At the corner of Third Street they crossed Main and stepped into the tavern, entering the long hot smoky room with its clamor of loud talk and country music and pool games going on in the back and the television playing from the bracketed shelf above the bar. His grandfather peered about while he stood beside him, waiting. Old men were sitting against the wall at a round wooden table, and they went over there.
Who’s that you got with you? one of them said. Is that DJ? Cold enough for you, boy?
Yes sir. Just about. He took a chair from the next table and sat behind his grandfather.
Just about, he says. Hah.
Don’t tell me you walked over here, another old man said. Walt, you must of about froze your tail off coming down here.
I’ve seen colder, he said.
Everybody’s seen colder. I’m just saying it’s cold.
It’s December, ain’t it, the old man said. Now where’s that waitress? I need something to drink here. I want something to heat up my insides.
She’ll be here. Give her a minute.
Watch her when she comes over, said a red-faced man across the table.
Who is she?
Her name’s Tammy. She’s new.
Who is she?
Reuben DeBaca’s ex-wife from over by Norka. Look her over. Here she comes.
The barmaid came over to the table. She was blonde and good-looking, with wide hips and long legs. She had on tight faded jeans, a deliberate hole in the front of one thigh showing tanned skin underneath, and she wore a white low-cut blouse. When she bent forward to remove two empty glasses from the table, all the old men sitting there watched her closely. Didn’t you just come in? she said to the old man.
Just now, he said.
Why don’t you take your coat off and make yourself at home? You’re going to get too hot, then you’ll catch cold when you go back out. What can I bring you?
Bring me, the old man said. He looked toward the bar. Bring me some kind of drinking whiskey.
What kind? We have Jack Daniel’s and Old Grand-Dad and Bushmills and Jameson’s.
Which is your bar whiskey?
That’s Old Crow.
It’s cheaper, ain’t it.
Is that what you want?
That’s it.
And what about you? she said to DJ.
He glanced at her. A cup of coffee, please.
You drink coffee?
Yes ma’am.
He does, his grandfather said. I can’t stop him. He’s been drinking it ever since he was little.
All right then. Anything else?
Bring the boy some corn chips, one of the men said.
Coffee, corn chips, whiskey. Is that it?
Could you wipe this off over here? the red-faced man said. There’s a spot over here.
She looked at him and bent over and wiped the table with a wet rag, and they all looked down the front of her blouse. Will that do? she said.
It sure helps, he said.
You old bastard, she said. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Acting that way in front of this boy. She went off to get their drinks.
I believe she’s warming up to me, the red-faced man said.
She’d warm up to your bank account a lot faster, one of the others said.
Maybe she would. But a woman like her, you wouldn’t mind spending a little money on her. You got to.
What about her ex-husband?
That’s what I’m talking about. She’s older now. She’s not going to just fold her hands up and sit at home. She wants something better out of life. She knows there’s something more coming her way than a dryland farm out south of Norka.
And you could give it to her.
Why not.
Well, I kind of remember you complaining just last week about how you couldn’t get something in your undershorts to cooperate no more. After that operation you had, where the doctor cut on you.
Well, yeah, he said. There is that. The men at the table all laughed. But a woman like her, he said, she might put some new life in you. She might even manage to raise the dead.
The man next to him slapped him on the back. You just keep thinking that way.
DJ looked toward the bar where the woman was setting out glasses on a tray. Under the blue lights she appeared tall and pretty.
She brought the coffee and corn chips and the whiskey to the table, and his grandfather reached inside the chest pocket of his overalls and drew out his old soft leather wallet and removed his pension check.
What’s this? she said.
My check. From the railroad.
She turned it over and looked at the other side. You want me to cash this?
That’s the usual custom.
You’ll need to sign it, she said.
She handed him a pen, and the old man leaned over the table and stiffly signed his name and gave the pen back together with the check.
I’ll have to see if they will accept this, she said.
They will. I been cashing checks here for years.
I’ll just see, she said, and walked away toward the bar.
What the hell’s a-wrong with her?
She’s just doing her job, Grandpa, DJ whispered.
The old man lifted his tumbler of whiskey and took a long drink. Drink your coffee there, he said to the boy. It won’t do you no good once it gets cold.
The woman came back with a handful of bills and some change and handed the money to the old man. He drew out a dollar bill and gave it to her. Thank you, she said. I never should of questioned you, should I?
No, ma’am, he said. I’ve been coming in here a long time. Longer than you, I imagine. I plan on coming a while yet too.
And I hope you do, she said. Can I bring you anything else?
You can bring me another one of these after a while.
Of course, she said. DJ watched her walk away to another table.
As the old men around the table began to talk, the boy drank some of his coffee, then set the cup beside his chair on the floor and ate a few of the corn chips and took his math assignment from his coat pocket and got out a pencil and laid the sheets of paper on his lap. One of the old men said: Speaking of people getting cut on, and began to tell a story about a man he knew who couldn’t get his equipment to work anymore, so he and his wife went to the doctor. The doctor examined him and then presented him with a sterile needle and vial of fluid to inject into the skin alongside his business, just before he and his wife tried again, and told them to come back afterwards and say how it all went. The couple came back a week later. How’d it go? the doctor said. The man said: Pretty good, it stayed up for forty-five minutes. So what’d you do, the doctor said, and the man said: Well, we did what you’re suppose to, you know. Then after we was finished I went out to the front room and set down on the couch, watching TV and eating salted popcorn, waiting for it to go down again so I could go to bed. The doctor turned to the man’s wife. That must have been pretty good for you too, he said. Like hell, she said. He only had enough wind for five minutes.
DJ listened until his grandfather began telling the story of the Korean War veteran working on the railroad tracks one winter in the cold country south of Hardin Montana. DJ had already heard this one, and he went to work on the math papers he held in his lap. His grandfather’s story was altogether different from the one he’d just heard, and he wasn’t much interested in hearing about some vet chasing his foreman around with a shovel.
T
HE BARMAID CAME BACK AFTER A TIME AND BROUGHT
another glass of whiskey to his grandfather, then left and came back with another round for the others. After the old men paid her, she leaned close to the boy and said softly: Why don’t you come up here with me?
Up where?
Up to the bar. That way you’ll have a place to work on your papers. You can write better up there.
Okay, he said. He stood up next to his grandfather. I’m going up to the bar, Grandpa.
Where?
To the bar. Where I can do my problems.
You behave yourself up there.
I will.
DJ followed her through the room past the men and women who were all talking and drinking, and at the bar she had him climb onto one of the high stools at the corner and he spread his math assignment out on the polished surface. She set his coffee cup and the corn chips beside him.
The bartender came over. Who’s this we got here?
My friend, she said.
He’s a little young to be drinking at a bar, don’t you think?
You leave him alone.
I’m not bothering him. Why would I bother him? I just don’t want him getting us into trouble.
He won’t get us into any trouble. Who’s going to complain?
They better not. But it’s your responsibility, if they do.
Don’t worry about it.
I ain’t going to worry. They don’t pay me enough to worry about shit like this. The bartender looked at her and moved away.
She smiled at DJ and went around behind the bar and brought a steaming glass coffeepot and refilled his cup. Don’t pay any attention to him, she said. He always has to talk.
I don’t want you to get in trouble.
This? she said. This isn’t trouble. I could tell you what trouble is. Don’t you want some sugar in your coffee?
No thank you.
No milk either?
No. I like it this way.
Well, I just expect you’re sweet enough. I have a boy myself, only a little younger than you, she said. He’s a sweet thing like you are. I’ll see him tomorrow. She stood across the bar, holding the coffeepot.
Doesn’t he live with you? he said.
He lives with his daddy. It was better that way. You know, until I got settled.
Oh.
But I sure do miss him.
DJ watched her face. She smiled at him.
But now what about you? Where’s your daddy and mama?
I don’t know who my dad is, he said. I never met him.
Didn’t you? What about your mother? Where’s she?
She died a long time ago.
Oh hell, she said. Listen to me. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sorry I ever said anything.
DJ looked past her into the backbar mirror, where he saw himself reflected above the ranks of bottles, and he saw her blonde head and the back of her white shirt in the mirror. He looked down and picked up his pencil.
You go on and do your schoolwork, she said. You just have to call if you need something. Will you be all right up here, do you think?
Yes, ma’am.
I’ll be right here if you need something.
Thank you.
You’re very welcome. She smiled. You know what? You and me could get to be good friends, do you think we could?
I guess so.
Well, that’s good enough. That’s being honest. She set the coffeepot on the hotplate and moved out from behind the bar again to work among the tables.
L
ATER A WOMAN WITH SHORT BROWN HAIR AND VERY
blue eyes came to the end of the bar and stood beside DJ. Don’t I know you? she said. I’ve been watching you for half an hour.
I don’t know, he said.
Isn’t that your grandfather? Sitting over there with those other men?
Yes.
I took care of him at night. Don’t you remember? I saw you when you came in early before school one time. Before I went off duty.
Maybe so, he said.
Yes, I’m sure I did.
Then while she was standing beside him at the end of the bar, Raymond McPheron came in at the front door of the tavern.
Well, look at that, she said. This must be hospital reunion night. I didn’t think that man ever came out.
R
AYMOND STOOD AND TOOK HIS GLOVES OFF AS HE
looked around. He was wearing his silver-belly Bailey hat and his heavy canvas winter coat. He moved out of the doorway and stood behind the men sitting on the stools, waiting until the bartender noticed him.
What’s it going to be?
I’m deciding, Raymond said. What have you got on tap?
Coors and Budweiser and Bud Light.
Let me try a Coors.
The bartender drew the beer and handed it to him past a seated man and Raymond reached him a bill. The bartender made change at the cash register below the mirror and brought it back. Raymond took a drink and turned to look at the people sitting at the tables. He drank again and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, then unbuttoned his heavy coat.