The Brave Cowboy (4 page)

He rested in the saddle and waited and presently an opportunity came, a hundred yards of open space between mutually approaching trucks. He urged the mare forward and again the same thing happened. Whisky recoiled at the touch of pavement, resisted his commands and raking spurs and turned around in circles fighting the bit, sliding and clattering on the unfamiliar and unyielding face of the highway. Yet once more he managed to get her across—spurring, lashing, coaxing the mare until she lunged forward in
the right direction, fighting down her attempt to stop and rear, driving her by the violence of his language and the force of his will across the path of the oncoming trucks and past the asphalt onto the good earth beyond. The frightened men in the cabs of the trucks stared at him as they went by, while the squeal and snort of airbrakes vibrated through the air.

They rested again, the man and his horse, savoring and treasuring the sweet sensation of life. After a while they went on, still eastward, following the unpaved street past a big new graveyard laid out like a model housing project, past a big new housing project laid out like a model graveyard, across the tracks of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, through a grove of cottonwoods and over more irrigation ditches, between more fields of alfalfa and corn and potatoes, past more of the soft melting adobe homes of the Mexican farmers and beyond to the fragmentary, disintegrating edges of the city. Between the man on horseback and the great jagged wall of the mountains there now remained only a handful of scattered mud houses and the ten miles of open desert. Toward the last, outermost house, a small adobe with jutting vigas, unplastered walls and a blue wooden door he now guided the mare. Smelling green hay and grain she stepped forward eagerly, tugging at the reins. The rider brushed some of the dust from his shirt, brushed his hat, wiped his face with the damp red bandana, checked the buttons on the fly of his jeans, and then let the mare go, loping down the last half-mile of the road and trailing a cloud of sun-dazzled dust.

J
ERRY
B
ONDI
WAS
KNEADING
BREAD
DOUGH
WHEN
she heard the horse coming, the sound of the loping hooves muffled at first by the dust, the distance, then sounding close, coming up the lane by the apricot trees toward the house. For a moment she was startled, unable to think, and then the name and the image of the familiar face flashed through her brain and she gave a little half-giggled cry of pleasure. She rushed to the mirror above the kitchen sink, saw a patch of flour on her nose, white flour in her hair. She was about to rub it off when she realized that her hands were plastered and sticky with wet dough. She moaned in a mild panic, hearing the horse trot by the house and into the backyard, the sudden scraping stop and the light thud and jingle of spurred feet hitting the ground. She started to wash her hands, pouring water from the kettle into a basin. She could hear the man outside talking in low tones to the horse, then his steps approaching and the musical rattle of spurs on the back porch.

A knock on the door. “Jerry,” the man said.

“Come on in,” she called, wiping her hands hurriedly cm a dishtowel; her fingers and palms remained caked with dough.

The door opened and the tall rider stood there, his hands dangling uselessly and a shy white grin on his dark face. “Hi,” he said.

Jerry went toward him smiling, her arms open. “Welcome, Jack; it’s good to see you.” And she reached up
and embraced his lean neck and left little smudges of wet dough on the back of his shirt. ‘I was expecting you,” she said; “I had an intuition.” She pulled his head down a little, stood up on her toes and kissed him square on the mouth. Then she drew back to look at him. He grinned at her, saying nothing. She said: “You look the same, about. You look pretty good. Maybe a little skinnier but tough as a wild billygoat.”

“You got flour on your nose,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “You need a shave. Last time we saw you—was that a year ago?—you needed a shave then too. Why do you always look like you need a shave?”

“I shave pretty seldom.” He touched his chin, grinning at her. “Never really learned how to shave right.”

She continued to smile helplessly at him, entranced by the thawing and illumination of his leathery face, the little creases of pleasure around his mouth and eyes. “Well I’m sure glad you came,” she said, after a short pause; “God only knows I’m glad to see you.” She remembered Paul, her husband, and her smile began to fade with the thought. “Well—sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten for a few weeks. How about some ham and eggs?”

“That sounds mighty good, Jerry.”

“Okay. Now you sit down.” She indicated a spindle-legged chair in a corner of the kitchen. “Just let me put up this bread and then I’ll fix you something.” She turned back to the bread dough rolled in a field of white flour on the tabletop.

He stepped beside her, towering above her head, and placed his hands on hers and held them still. “Let me finish it,” he said, smiling down at her.

“It’s almost finished. My hands are already messed up.”

“Let me do it,” he said again. “Tin expert at this.”

“Well, all right,” she said, and went to the sink and washed her hands clean of the dough. He stood beside her, waiting to wash his own hands. “I gotta new
horse,” he said. “A little mare, part Appaloosa and part plain old range stock. She’s a real pretty little critter—you oughta go out and take a look at her.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll do that.” She started to dry her hands while he refilled the basin with cold water from the bucket and rolled up his sleeves. “Jack…” she said.

“Yeah?” He wet his hands and began soaping them.

“Why are you here?”

Very slowly he rubbed the cake of soap over his palms and the back of his hands. He stared out the window above the sink. Finally he said: “I read about Paul in the papers. I saw his picture and I read under it and it said he was gettin two years in prison for refusin to register for the draft. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” She stood beside him at the sink and stared at her hands. “Two years,” she said.

“Well, that’s too long.” He rinsed the soapsuds from his hands and looked around for a towel. “Too damn long,” he said; gently he removed the damp towel from Jerry’s unperceptive fingers. “I came to town to see if I could do anything.”

She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes widening. “He’s already in jail,” she said; “there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.” She stared at him with a dim and irrational hope in her mind, her eyes. “What could you do?” she said.

“I don’t know. I ain’t thought of anything yet.” He finished drying his hands and went to the roll of dough and put his clean fingers on it. “I’ll think of something,” he said. “Step outside and take a look at Whisky. The prettiest and toughest and orneriest little filly you ever did see.” He began to roll and fold the moist dough with expert familiarity; he glanced at Jerry. “Go on,” he said; “you want to hurt her feelings?”

Jerry had been staring at the floor and rubbing dried dough from her fingertips. “Of course,” she said. “I mean no.” She raised her head and smiled at him with a perhaps unconscious wistfulness. “Where is this—
animal…?” She stepped to the kitchen door and opened it and looked out at the mare tethered to a pillar of the porch. The mare stepped back a pace, her ears stiffening. “Well, Jack, I declare—she
is
a beauty. Now what do you call her?”

“I told you: Whisky.”

“Whisky?” Disapproving, Jerry said: “A
fine
name for a horse.”

“Well damnit, she drinks.” Burns sprinkled more dry flour over the dough. “She was drunk when I bought her—that’s how she fooled me. She acts pretty decent when she’s all likkered up.”

“I’ll unsaddle her.”

“Better not; she’s still kind of spooky. Doesn’t like women, anyway.” He patted and shaped the dough into a compact mass. “I’ll take care of her in a minute.” He look about for lard or butter. “Hey, gimme somethin to grease this dough with.”

Jerry shut the door and went to the cupboard and took down a can of lard. “Here,” she said, pulling off the lid; “help yourself.” Burns stuck his fingers in and then smeared the ball of dough. “Now put it in that basin.” He did; she covered it with a clean dish towel and then set the basin on a shelf above the cookstove, feeling his dark gaze on her as she moved through the warmth of the kitchen.

“I’ve been missin somethin,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He smiled again. “Home life, I guess.” He raised a hand to his hat. “Doggone, it’s so long since I been in a house I even forget to take my hat off.”

“You’ve got dough all over your hands.”

He removed his hat and hung it on a nail by the door; he looked at his hands. “Yeah, you’re right.”

She went to the sink and poured a little water into the basin. “Here, wash your hands; then you’d better go out and take care of that mare of yours.”

“You think she’s gettin jealous?”

“You wash your hands.” Jerry felt herself blushing.

Unable to look at him, she said: “What would you like to eat?”

“You said you were gonna rassle up some ham and eggs,” Burns said softly, rubbing his hands with soap “I could sure go for some ham and eggs; to tell the truth I’m hungry as an old grizzly in April. My belly’s gettin all frayed from rubbin against my backbone.”

“We’ll have to do something about that,” she said—a little formally. She opened the firebox of the stove and stuffed in some paper and kindling. “What have you been doing for the last year or so, anyway?”

“I was afraid you’d ask me that.” He dried his hands on a towel hanging over the sink. “I can’t lie to you, neither; sure wish I could, it’s so downright shameful.”

She looked at the sly smile on his lips and guessed. “Don’t tell me you’ve been herding sheep again!” She struck a match on the stove and lit the paper.

“Jerry, you’re absolutely right. Yessir, I’ve been playing nursemaid to God’s lowliest critters. So help me…”

She slammed shut the door of the firebox and opened the damper. “At this rate you’ll end up on a dude ranch, Jack.”

“You’re right; when a man’s fallen to herdin sheep he might as well go all the way down.” He walked toward the door and as he opened it Jerry Bondi reached out and put her hand on his forearm. He looked down at her.

“Jack…” She tried to smile at him; she could find nothing to say. He waited. “You’d better take care of your horse,” she said finally. They could hear the mare outside, stamping, shaking her gear.

“That’s what I aim to do.” He gave her wrist a squeeze. “Don’t you worry none about Paul; I’ll think of somethin. I sure didn’t ride fifty miles just to take the air.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said. “Now I’ll have to worry about you too.”

“No need for that.” He grinned at her. “Nothin can hurt me; I’m like water: boil me away and I come back
in the next thunderhead.” He stepped outside. “I’ll have about six eggs.”

“You’ll have to put your horse in the corral with the goats.”

“I know,” he said, untying the reins from around the post. “That’s all right; me and Whisky ain’t proud.”

“There’s a bale of alfalfa in the shed. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Jerry.” Burns rubbed the mare’s neck. “Say thank you to the lady, Whisky.” The mare tossed her head and backed away, snorting; “Easy, girl, easy. Goddamnit,” Burns apologized, “she’s still a trifle skittish,” He cradled the mare’s head in his arms and stroked her nose. “Now you take it easy, little girl; nothin to get all excited about. She’s gonna break my heart,” he said to Jerry; “she’s so all-fired pig-headed. Gotta crazy streak in her.”

“She takes after her master, then,” Jerry said.

Burns grinned. “That might be.” He gave the reins a tug. “Come on, you vinegaroon.” The mare followed him toward the corral, where two goats waited with their white muzzles thrust out between the poles. The sunlight was dazzling, a white glare on the sand and wood; Jerry squinted, watching the man and horse and their black stark shadows. A pair of finches swooped over the yard, shrilling.

She heard an explosion, dim, muffled, like a shot of dynamite going off underground.

Burns stopped. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. I heard it too.” They stared at each other. “I think it came from the south,” she said. “Towards the city.” She shaded her eyes with her hand, gazing toward the smoke and dust of the invisible city. She saw something black, a smoking fragment, float slowly down across the blue dome of the sky, down, down, disappearing below the horizon. “Did you see it?” she cried.

“I saw somethin,” he said slowly. “Was it an air plane?”

“I don’t know. Yes—-I suppose it was. Part of one,
maybe.” They continued to stare at the southern sky, where nothing moved now, nothing burned or shone; the arc of black smoke lingered on in the windless air like something forgotten. “It must have been a jet plane,” Jerry said. “They explode now and then—I don’t know why.”

The cowboy stared at the smoke trail, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah…” he said. “Well…” He looked at Jerry.

“There’s a bucket out there you can water the horse with,” she said. “Hanging on a nail by the feed barrel.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He went on toward the corral, leading the mare and staring south at the hovering thread of smoke.

Jerry took what was left of a ham from the icebox on the porch, re-entered the kitchen and began preparing a meal. When Burns returned about ten minutes later, carrying saddlebags, rifle and guitar, she had the kitchen table set with dark home-baked bread, a pitcher of goat’s milk, butter, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers in a wooden bowl, and a plate heaped with four thick slices of fried ham. Burns dropped his equipment on the floor and looked joyfully at the food. “Hey!—look at all that, will you!”

“Sit down,” Jerry said. “The eggs will be ready in a minute.”

“Doggone—how’d you get all this on the table so fast?” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “You some kind of witch doctor?” Then he stood up again. “I gotta comb my hair and wash my face for a feed like this.”