I drove slowly down the road and found a crowd gathered by the river. Handler was in the water with several men. And a horse. Another horse was being led away by its bridle. It was a deep brown horse, almost black. But its legs were gray.
Muddy gray.
I pulled to the side of the road. On the hillside above the river, a group of young boys watched the scene below. They were dark-skinned, with hair so black and shiny it reflected the sun in white patches. One of the boys was pointing at the Ghost, holding something in his hand. An elliptical object, long with tail wings.
I got out, carrying Madame in my arms to the edge of the road. The water turned west, a slow hairpin turn that had deposited enough sand and debris to form a bar. Water pooled behind it. Which was where Handler was with the horse.
“Shovels!” he yelled.
He stood on a plank, and the people on the riverbank slid more boards across the shallow pond to deliver the shovels. A blond girl walked down the boards last, carrying a bridle made of rope. The horse in the water was rocking itself forward and back, muscles flexing under its chestnut coat.
The men dug around the horse’s front legs. The gray sediment they flung away was a transitional soil, geologically speaking. Mostly clay. The grains ranging from fine silt to sand. But the wooden planks and the catatonic horse told me something else. The clay had the grip of quicksand. Step in it, as the horse had, and it wouldn’t let go. The girl moved to the side, petting the animal’s neck as its ears twitched too fast. Agitated. The men gathered on a plank under the horse’s chest.
“On three!” Handler called.
They pressed their shoulders into the animal’s chest. The front legs came out stiff as plaster casts. The hooves clopped onto the board, and the horse immediately leaned forward, trying to yank out its back legs.
“Hold ’er still!” Handler rushed down the board.
The girl shifted to the front, taking the long head in her hands so that the animal looked directly into her eyes. The men dug out the back legs. When all four hooves were on the boards, the girl walked the animal to the riverbank. The crowd left with them, toward the hill, and the yurts beyond that. Several men collected the boards, stacking them on the riverbank, but Handler was running up the hill again. He headed for the boys who were watching.
The boys scattered.
“I told you kids!” He stopped, watching them run. “No water—no chúush! You’re gonna kill my horses.”
The boy holding the object in his hand looked back.
Hander pointed at him, his finger covered with gray mud. “I’ll call the elders!”
The boy started to kick something on the ground. Again and again. It didn’t move, but the dry stones scattered. And Handler came running for him. The boy turned and raced down the hill where his buddies were waiting by a barbed wire fence. The boy slipped through the wire like a cat burglar.
Handler watched them go. When he turned toward the river, he saw me watching from the road. He hesitated, then walked down the hill, crossed the bank, and climbed up to the road.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Water rocket.” He tilted his head toward his shoulder, using his T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “New toy for the local Indian kids. They come pinch my irrigation line so the pressure builds up. Then fire the rocket off it. Thing launches like Cape Canaveral. But if it scares the horses, they panic, run into the water. I lost one last month. Legs snapped like twigs.”
“The horses can’t get out of the water?”
He shook his head and looked down at his hands. Most of the clay had already dried on his skin, like thin plaster. But several wet chunks clung to his fingernails. He looked up. “I hope you find Cuppa Joe.”
“Thanks, I appreciate your help.” I moved Madame to my left side and extended my right hand.
He looked at it, then lifted both hands. To show me how dirty they were.
I smiled. “A little dirt won’t hurt me.”
He shook. I could feel the fine, gritty sediment on his skin. A small moist piece, clinging to the outside of his palm.
“Good luck,” he said.
I nodded, as if I agreed. “Thanks.”
I walked across the road to the Ghost, tossed Madame through the window, and used my left hand to open the door. When I glanced back, Handler was heading for the yurts.
Still using my left hand, I opened my purse, removed a Ziploc bag, and pulled it over my right hand, shaking my fingers, brushing my palm.
It wasn’t much.
But enough, maybe.