FUCK. WHEN EUGENE GOT BACK, he’d fall into a rage, madder than a bull elk defending his harem. If he settled down, it would be into a self-righteous, close-mouthed snit, pretending to ignore the disaster while tallying every detail. Without Dee, the crew would be short a man and without Lee Ann, lunch (if they got to it at all) would drag into a wordless ordeal, mouths chewing and swallowing, slurping lemonade, hiding their disgust for The Screw-up, The Loser, The Clown—Eugene the quietest, stiffest of all.
Walker drove the tractor across the cattle guard, Sonny’s legs sticking out at odd angles like a broken carousel horse. When they reached soft ground behind the barn, Walker lowered the bucket and stepped down from the tractor, reached for the flask in his back pocket and took a long drink. Liquor and sorrow loosened his joints and his knees buckled. He leaned against the tractor wheel, tilted his head back, and emptied the flask into his throat.
“You been a good horse,” he said.
Butch would be thirsty. He walked to the barn and ran water from the hose into an empty coffee can, snapped on the lid, and strapped it to the ATV under a bungee cord. The cows wouldn’t appreciate the noise and he would despise the image of himself herding cows on wheels, but roundup had already turned into a day from hell, so what the hell.
Toby helped him move the cows onto the property before Eugene and the others got back.
“I owe you one,” Walker said.
He drove to the store and convinced Shelly to pour off a quarter of that special bottle and took his cup into the storeroom. The old men came for their papers and sat on the porch and went on about the same useless shit they always jawed about and he didn’t go outside to join them. When they asked Shelly why Walker’s truck was parked out back, she said he’d met someone and taken off, she didn’t know where. Atta girl, Shelly.
That night he buried the horse alone in the beams of the Kubota’s headlights, using the old Yanmar utility tractor to dig the grave. He drank, fortifying his nerves against the thud of Sonny dropping into the hole, a deep abyss blacker than night shadows. Stars that usually winked at him looked elsewhere. Even the dogs left him to himself. In the end, he had no words for Sonny.
He parked the equipment back at the barn, checked their exact positions and angles twice. Had to. Eugene was P-I-S-S-E-D. Silent guys were the scariest, but not for long, because in the end men like Eugene, intent on holding onto what they bottled up, couldn’t think fast, couldn’t come up with creative moves, invent stories to mesmerize, tantalize, hypnotize. The quiet ones couldn’t talk long enough or fast enough to convince an opponent to abandon reason and act against his better interests. Being slippery, sly, smart, and sassy compensated for a whole hell of a lot. Quick thinking bull-shitters provided the fun in life, the pizazz, the icing on the cake, and admit it—a cake is nothing without icing.
He stripped and lay on the bed. A shower would feel fine, water pelting his back and shoulders, running through his hair. Too tired to get up. Too drunk to care how he smelled or that the crew would be a day late branding and inoculating, or that Danielle hadn’t been home for two nights, or that Dee’s shoulder would put him out of commission for who knew how long.
Lee Ann’s Blazer pulled in, or maybe he imagined that. He waived a finger in the air making a mental note to get Mother dressed and fed in the morning if they didn’t get back from the hospital tonight. He needed to find his duffle bag, ought to get up and pack, raid the cookie jar…vamoose…let loose…don’t forget a toothbrush. Nah. Pick one up on the road.