Wounded (4 page)

“Well. If you two will excuse me, I’ll go upstairs and try to get cleaned up. It’s one thing to come in after a ride and settle down to chow with a scraggly old geezer, but it’s something else to sit down to a meal with a spiffy cowgirl who drives up in a white convertible.”

I walked up the stairs, undressed, and left my clothes on the bathroom floor. I stepped into the shower and found myself thinking about Morgan. She was around a lot. I wasn’t stupid or blind and so I knew she had a crush on me. I didn’t mind her presence, in fact, it was sort of nice, and I tried to rationalize that by recognizing her as a good friend for Gus. Susie had been dead for six years and I know that most people would have moved on in that time, but I couldn’t seem to. I missed my wife and I knew that wouldn’t go away; I honestly didn’t want that feeling to pass. But I had trouble imagining myself close to anyone again. My clumsiness around Morgan made me feel tense, uneasy, and my defense was to step away and the step away made me feel bad and so I felt more awkward still. While I dried, staring at my face in the mirror, I was amused by my all too apparent observation that I wasn’t getting any younger.

“Hey, Hunt!” Morgan called up the stairs.

“What do you want?”

“Get your fanny down here!”

“I’m coming. Just let me put some pants on.” I pulled on a clean pair of khakis and a white shirt and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“You clean up real nice,” Morgan said.

“Thank you ma’am,” I said.

Gus shook his head over by the sink. “Don’t lie to the poor bastard. He’ll start to believe it, then he’ll think he can stop trying.”

“What’s to eat?” I asked.

“Meat and taters,” Gus said. “And a leek, watercress, and endive salad.”

I sat down at the table with Morgan. “You’ve been reading the magazines at the doctor’s office again.”

“What if I have?” he said. “Anyway, this just happened to be one of my favorites when I was in prison.”

Morgan laughed.

Gus was not shy about the fact that he’d been locked away for a while. He didn’t broadcast the information, but he never hid it.

Morgan drank from her water glass. “That Castlebury is going to get more than prison.”

Gus put the rest of the food on the table and sat down.

“I guess somebody saw him kill that boy,” Morgan said. “That’s what I heard anyway.”

“What else did you hear?” Gus asked.

I took some potatoes from the dish.

Gus gestured toward me with his fork. “Mr. Above-It-All over there thinks it’s none of our business.”

“It is now,” Morgan said. “The boy he killed was gay and the word is Castlebury got mad when he made a pass at him. We’re in the news because of all this. It’s awful. Imagine that poor boy.”

Gus whistled. “It’s a terrible thing, killing somebody.” Gus was quiet and we gave the moment its head.

Morgan looked at me. “Hunt, how would you feel if a man made a pass at you? Would it get you upset?”

“Never thought about it.”

“Well, think about it,” she said.

“I guess I ought to be flattered,” I said, shrugging.

“What would you say?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’d say the same thing I’d say to a woman who made a pass at me. ‘No, thank you.’”

Morgan tore some bread from the loaf and put it on her plate.

Gus cut me a hard look.

I hadn’t meant to shut any gates, but damn if I hadn’t by accident. “I forgot the wine,” I said. “Can’t have dinner without wine.” I got up and went to the small rack across the kitchen. “Now, I think a nice Syrah would wash down a size-twelve roper just splendidly.”

Morgan softened somewhat. “Okay, cowboy, that’s what you’d say. How would you feel?”

I stood at the table, twisting the corkscrew. “I don’t know, to tell the truth. It’s never happened. I don’t know any homosexuals. Well, if I do, I don’t know that they are. Hell, I don’t know if half the people I know are heterosexual. I don’t want to know.” I pulled out the cork. “Anyway, to answer your question: I don’t know. Like I said, I guess I should feel flattered.”

“I knew some in prison,” Gus said. “They scared me.”

“Gus,” Morgan complained.

“Hell, Morgan, everybody scared me in prison. Besides, that was a different thing anyway. That raping and stuff that happens in the lockup, that’s not sex or love, that’s fighting. It’s all about power, all that macho stuff. Well, anyway, that’s how it seemed to me.”

“Speaking of macho,” I said, “how’s your mother?”

“We’re burying the battle-ax on Wednesday,” she said, sipping her wine. “She’s alive and all. I just don’t know what else to do with her.”

“Bury me next,” Gus said.

“You expect me to dig a hole in this heat?” I said. “Think again.”

“Mother’s fine,” Morgan said. “She’s as wild as ever. I was going to bring her tonight, but wrestling is on television. You know, she’s seventy and she still rides that crazy horse.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Crazy Horse.”

“Oh, yeah. How old is he?” I asked.

“Thirty-six,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

I loved it. “That’s great. Senior food and what kind of hay?”

“Alfalfa and timothy. It’s expensive, but she doesn’t eat all that much. Everybody else gets straight alfalfa.” Morgan paused and studied me. “Gus, you ever notice how comfortable this man gets when the subject is horses?”

“Now that you mention it,” Gus said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Watch this,” Morgan said. “Hey, Hunt. Women.” She stared at me while she said it.

Gus laughed.

“What?” I put a bit of antelope steak in my mouth. “What?”

“Sex,” Morgan said.

“Very funny,” I said. I didn’t know where to look. I drank some wine, sat back and crossed my legs.

“Look at him,” Morgan said. “He’s tenser than a Republican with a thought of his own.”

I looked at Morgan, frowning a smile. “Where’d that come from?”

“Been waiting to use it.”

“It’s true, though,” Morgan said.

“Anyway, Duncan Camp dropped off his extremely large, insane, and might I add, dangerous horse today.”

Morgan threw up her hands. “He’s a lost cause.”

The next day, I drove into town to pick up some medicine for Gus. I stopped at the sheriff’s office. There was a buzz in the street and I could feel it more than see or hear it. Three deputy rigs were diagonally parked on the street instead of the usual one. I walked up the steps and inside.

Bucky spotted me as I entered. “John.”

“Bucky.” I looked back out the window at the street. “Bucky, what’s going on around here?”

“Seems we’re national news. Seems we got ourselves a hate crime. Well, ain’t they all?” Bucky moved his unlit cigar around in his mouth.

“I just wanted to come by and let Castlebury know I talked to his brother like he asked.” I looked at the hallway that led back to the cells. “You can tell him for me. You can tell him, too, that his brother isn’t coming.”

“This guy anything to you?”

I shook my head. “No. I was going to end up firing him anyway. He’s not too swift. You’ve probably noticed.”

“He doesn’t hide it well,” Bucky said. “Tell me, what time did he leave your place on Thursday night?”

“I sent him home early, right after lunch. He screwed up the mower blade.” I looked around at the unusual number of deputies in the office. “Are you expecting trouble, sheriff?” I asked in my best cowboy voice.

“Give me a break,” Bucky said. “Hell, I don’t know.” He pulled his cigar out of his mouth and rubbed his face.

“So, Wallace did it for sure, eh?” I asked.

“There’s an awful lot of physical evidence.”

“If he did it, then he’ll get what’s coming to him, I guess.” I felt stupid saying those words.

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

“You’ll give him the message, then,” I said and turned to leave.

“I think you should tell him.” Bucky put back his cigar. “He could claim I never delivered it.”

“You know I don’t want to have anything to do with this guy or any of this. If he killed the kid, then I have no sympathy.” I sighed out a long breath, asking myself: what if he wasn’t guilty? Would I have any sympathy for him then?

Bucky said, “Just give him the message and walk out.”

A different deputy took me back to the cell this time. I told him just like I’d told Hanks, I would only be a second.

“Hey, Mister Hunt,” Wallace said. He didn’t get up from the cot this time, but just lay there.

“I called your brother,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t make much of an impression on him. That’s the fancy way of saying he’s not coming to help you.” I looked at the deputy who was looking at his own shoes.

“Thanks, anyway,” Wallace said.

I nodded. I turned and stepped toward the deputy and the door.

“Mister Hunt,” Wallace said.

I looked back at him. He was sitting up now, but still on the cot. He gripped the edge with his hands.

“I didn’t kill that guy.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“All right, Wallace. You tell that to your lawyer.”

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t kill him?” Wallace lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said.

“I’ll wait outside,” the deputy said.

“No,” I said. But, of course, the young man was correct.

“I’ll be right on the other side of the door. Just knock.” He walked out. The door closed with that awful click.

“Okay, kid,” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t really know,” he said.

“Jesus.”

“I mean, I know, but—” he stopped. “Mister Hunt, I liked him. I really liked him. You know what I mean? Why would I have killed him?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, son.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to be crying.

“I’m sorry, Wallace. I just came to tell you about your brother.” I stepped over and tapped on the door. The deputy let me out.

I TOLD MYSELF,
and therefore it was no doubt true, that I was not much impressed by Wallace Castlebury’s predicament. By my reckoning, killing another person made someone a bad man. I frankly didn’t believe that Wallace was innocent. And the law, though it seldom worked as advertised, was going to do for him what it could, probably a little more than it would have for me and a little less than it would have for Duncan Camp. That simply was the way it was, I told myself and reminded myself that I simply did not care.

The day had turned hot and the street felt like steaming food. I ducked into the library where it was air-conditioned. It was a routine stop once a week to read newspapers and magazines. I was able to at once counteract my chosen isolation and justify that choice. I read about the gay killing in the
Denver Post,
the
Washington Post,
the
St. Louis Times Dispatch,
and the
New York Times.
They all said about the same thing, with the Eastern papers offering the implication, if not outright accusation, that the crime was symptomatic of some rural or Western disease of intolerance. I thought, yes, it’s called America. I wondered why the reported rash of fifty rapes in Central Park was not considered a similar indicator of regional moral breakdown. I saw the dead boy’s name and it stuck with me for the first time and I felt a little ashamed by that. Jerry Tuttle. By all reports he was a small man, a gentle man, and like most murdered people, not deserving of what had happened to him.

“Mr. Hunt?” It was the librarian, Kent Hollis.

I looked up at his craggy face. “Mr. Hollis?”

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “I just made some.”

I had seen Hollis and said hello many times, sometimes on the street when Hollis took lunchtime walks with his wheelchair-bound wife. She was a big woman with a loud, good nature, but Hollis was quiet. I always noticed his delicate hands.

“French roast,” he said.

“No, thank you, Mr. Hollis.” I had always called the man Mr. Hollis because he always called me Mr. Hunt. I called to him as he stepped away. “Mr. Hollis.”

“Sir?”

“How long have I known you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Years. Many years.”

“My name is John. I’d like you to call me John.” I stood from the straight-backed chair and put my hand out. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Hollis took my hand and shook. “Kent,” he said.

“Kent,” I repeated his name. “How is your wife?”

“She’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Coffee?” he offered again.

“No, thank you. I’d better get back to my place before it falls down. I find I can’t get things done unless I do them.”

Hollis laughed.

“See you next week” I said. I left, considering the man and his devotion to his wife. I imagined that if Susie had lived, I’d be caring for her the same way.

I was out riding with Morgan. I held up on the far bank of the creek and waited while she coaxed her horse, Square, through the rivulet. She reined the horse left down the bank and turned through the water and up the opposite side. I liked the way she sat her horse.

“Why’d you name that animal Square?” I asked.

“He just never fit in with the other horses,” she said. “He’s too sweet. He lets them run all over him.”

“I’m not going to mention how tacky it is that you ride a Morgan horse.”

“I admire the restraint,” she said.

When we were higher, we let the horses go for a stretch, opening up into a lope across the big meadow. The air was cooler up there and it felt good on my face. The breeze pressed the ochre grasses down and the ground appeared to move in a gentle wave. We stopped at the edge of the meadow and studied the valley below. My house and barns were small in the distance. The Red Desert was far off to the left; I could just see the desolate edge of it.

“Don’t you just love it?” I said. “This has got to be the most beautiful place in the world. Just think, somewhere out there in that godforsaken desert are wild horses kicking up dust.”

“Dying of thirst and starving to death,” Morgan said.

“Wet blanket.”

We stepped on toward a higher spot.

“You ever going to run cattle again?” she asked.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t like cows.” I shifted my weight in the saddle. “Mainly, I don’t like the businesses I had to sell cows to. Hell, I don’t even eat much beef anymore.”

“I like cows,” Morgan said. “They’ve got kind eyes.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Do you like my eyes, Hunt?” she asked.

“What, you think you’ve got cow eyes?”

“Do you?” she asked again.

“If I say they’re kind and gentle, that kinda makes them cow eyes,” I said. I didn’t know which way I was running.

“Do you?”

“Sure, I like your eyes, Morgan.” I pushed back my hat and looked at her eyes. “What’s this all about?”

“You know, I like Gus a lot,” she said, “but Gus is not the reason I spend so much time at your place.” She was looking into my eyes. “I like your eyes, John. I like them a lot.”

I could see she was near panic. “I guess I know that,” I said.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“Am I wasting my time?”

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “I’m your friend, right?”

Some jays screeched in a nearby pine.

“You’re my friend,” Morgan said. It was resignation. She dismounted, dropped her reins, and walked a few yards away.

I threw my right leg over the horn and slid off the saddle. “Morgan,” I said, slowly moving to her. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around. She felt soft just then and uncharacteristically frail. “It took a lot of courage for you to say that, I know.”

“Well, whoop-tee-do. Pin a medal on my underappreciated breast and let’s see who salutes.”

“Listen, I’m really very attracted to you,” I told her. “I am, Morgan. But, and I know you don’t want to hear this—but, I keep thinking about things.”

“Susie’s dead, Hunt.”

“Well, that’s it. I blame myself.” I didn’t want to talk about my dead wife, but had to once the topic surfaced. I realized I had more than one reason to talk about her. I needed to work through it all myself. “Susie was afraid of a lot of things,” I said. “You wouldn’t know anything about that. I didn’t understand and I’m not sure I really know now what it was like for her. It made her real negative about stuff and I guess her negativity started to make me irritable.”

“Hunt.”

“Let me finish,” I said. “Susie would say something and I’d feel myself start to shut down. I’m sure she saw it. She was smart. I believe she began to think I didn’t like her.” I sat on the ground and stared at my house, at the corral where Susie had been killed. Morgan sat beside me. “I honestly think she was trying that horse so I would see her as brave.”

“That’s crazy,” Morgan said.

“Maybe,” I said. “All I know is I hated the way I’d cringe when she said anything for a while. I would anticipate the complaint or the fear. Made me feel like shit. I started not liking myself. I reckon I’m still not too fond of me. Anyway, Morgan, I really appreciate the way you just spoke up.”

“Appreciation noted.”

I looked north at the clouds holding steady over the mountains.

“What do you say we ride back?” Morgan said.

We did, loping again across the meadow. We led the horses with loosened girths the last quarter-mile. The air was feeling a little more humid and I could smell the hay. At the barn, we tied up the horses and took off the bridles and saddles. Morgan and I reached for the same hoof pick.

She snatched it away and said, “Hey, cowboy, get your own.”

We were standing close to each other. Before the moment became deadly and irrevocably awkward, I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

A rustling at the edge of the barn gave us a start. Then we saw Gus walking back toward the house. He said, without looking back, “About goddamn time.”

I got in some more of my hay the next morning. I was covered with dust and my dust mask was still hanging around my neck. I sat on the edge of the water trough beside the house and rested. I took off my shirt, turned around and splashed myself with the water. I sat back down and closed my eyes. I must have drifted off because I suddenly felt Gus standing next to me.

“You’re awfully quiet for an old man,” I said, my eyes still closed.

“Learned it from my grandfather,” Gus said. “He was a full-blooded Seminole Indian.”

“So, you’ve told me.” The phone rang inside. I opened my eyes and looked at Gus. “I suppose I’m going to answer that,” I said.

Gus nodded. “It’s for you. I can feel it.”

“You can feel it, eh?”

“In my bones.”

I groaned as I pushed myself to my feet. I walked up the steps and into the kitchen where I picked up the wall phone.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Howard.” Howard Thayer was a friend from college, the only one I’d managed to keep. We hadn’t been in touch for over a year.

“Hey, poke,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. You ranching it up out there?”

“You bet. How are Sylvia and the kids?” The heat of the sun through the window was making me perspire again. I grabbed a towel from the counter and wiped my neck. It was damp and felt good.

“Actually, I’m calling about one of the kids,” Howard said. “David.”

I untangled the cord and pulled the phone over to the table and sat. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.”

“How old is he now?”

“He’s twenty,” Howard said.

“God, that means you’re old.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “Hey, Davey’s going to be up in Highland and I was wondering if you could look in on him. Take him to lunch or something. Just so he has a friend, you know.”

“Of course. What’s he doing up here?”

Howard paused briefly as if doing something away from the phone. “I don’t know exactly. He’ll be staying at the Rusty Spur Motel. Is that place okay? Is it a fleabag?”

“Yes, but it’s a quaint fleabag.”

“He arrives there on Friday,” Howard said. “Driving out with a friend. So, what’s it like out there?”

“Beautiful. Always beautiful,” I told him. “How’s Chicago?”

“Crowded, dirty, disgusting,” he said. “It’s hot and ready to turn cold. You should visit.”

“So, David is twenty,” I said. “Last time I saw him he was fifteen, I think.”

“Yeah, fifteen. He’s grown up some.”

“Any possibility of you and Sylvia making it up here?”

“I don’t think so,” Howard said. “John, Sylvia and I split up. We’re divorced now.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, not knowing if I thought that or not. “Are you all right?”

“Everybody’s okay,” he said. “These things happen. What can I say? Listen, I’d better run. Thanks for looking in on my boy.”

“Sure thing.”

“Talk later,” Howard said.

“Bye.” I hung up.

Gus came in and snatched the damp towel off my shoulder. “What are you, some kind of heathen? I’ll bet you were going to put that right back on the counter, weren’t you?”

“I hadn’t thought that far,” I confessed.

“Well, of course you hadn’t. Heathen.” He sighed. “Who was that on the telling phone?”

“My friend Howard. You remember him. I went to college with him. His kid’s going to be in town this weekend.”

“Are you hungry?” Gus tossed the soiled towel onto the big pile in the laundry room.

“Not yet. I’ve got some more work to do.”

I went out to the barns and checked all the animals. I probed around the corners and between the stacks of bales of hay trying to flush out any late-season rattlesnakes. Then I made sure the extra chain was fastened onto the paddock gate where I kept Daniel White Buffalo’s mule. The damn thing was an escape artist. Fortunately, he hung around and never did anything more than nibble at the hay and visit the other horses and get them agitated.

I went back into the house and told Gus I didn’t need dinner.

“That’s fine with me,” he said.

“I’m going to ride up and camp in the cave.”

“You’re an odd fellow, John Hunt.”

“See you in the morning.”

I saddled the Appy and rode out. Zoe went with me. Gus didn’t mind not cooking. He was always happy with just cereal.

At the cave, I unrolled my bag and got a fire going. I cooked a couple of hot dogs, tossing a couple pieces on top of Zoe’s dry food. “I don’t know,” I said to her, “this might make you a cannibal, a dog eating a hot dog.”

Zoe didn’t laugh.

The fire threw light and my shadow against the wall.

I put on my headlamp and walked deeper into the cave. Zoe was good to have along because I trusted her to be able to find her way out, even if I couldn’t. Still, I used light sticks every thirty yards or so and at every bend. I had a sack of thirty. I didn’t plan to go exploring deep into the unknown parts, only to visit the big cavern. The room was big relative to the rest of the cave, about the size of a small church, not that I had had much experience with churches. It was nothing like the big caverns at Carlsbad or the ones I’d seen in photographs. It was perhaps forty by forty feet with a ceiling of thirty at its highest point. Zoe stayed close by my leg and that was fine with me. My lantern didn’t throw a lot of light and my headlamp threw less and only where I looked. Giant stalactites hung from the ceiling and stalagmites popped up from the floor, various shapes, sizes, and colors, yellow to red, some ghostly white. I sat and turned off my lights, keeping a hand on Zoe. The only light then was the green glow of the stick I’d broken and left near the entrance to the room. I tried not to touch the stalagmites near me. I’d read how people could damage the surfaces with oils from their skin. I listened to the quiet, interrupted only by the steady, random drips, the drips that came from the mountain above and left infinitesimal amounts of calcium carbonate to make and lengthen the stalactites. I decided I was a trogloxene, a creature that lives outside the cave, but returns frequently. I’d seen sign of small mammals near the entrance on occasion, but never deep within. I’d seen a couple of daddy longlegs, and knew there were probably other spiders. And there had to be something the spiders were eating. I imagined that there were some blind, colorless insects roaming about, but I wasn’t educated enough to find them.