‘And you, Mr Gerry,’ said Yvonne, smiling at him like she used to at high school. ‘Old Roy’s just given me the lecture about you and me.’
Gallen blushed. ‘Tell him to shut up. Whatever he told you is wrong or a lie.’
‘He had a theory, that an old dog’s better than a young wife.’
‘Shit, Dad!’ Gallen called across the tent to where Roy was in the middle of a conversation. ‘I’m sorry about that — he knows better than to talk that way.’
Yvonne pushed her hair back. ‘So old dogs and young wives, huh?’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Gallen, not wanting to get into it, especially knowing that Lyndall was nearby.
‘Well?’ said Yvonne. ‘What’s the difference?’
Gallen could sense Winter turning away, abandoning him. ‘It’s nothing, just Marines humour.’
‘Gerry Gallen isn’t scared of a little joke is he?’ she teased, sipping at the beer.
‘Okay, but it depends on who you ask.’
Yvonne frowned. ‘So it’s not a joke?’
‘No, I’ve seen thousands of answers in latrines all over the world,’ Gallen said, before clearing his throat. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Tell me one.’
He hesitated. ‘It’s more a male thing, you know?’
‘Don’t be shy,’ she said, resting her chin on her hand.
‘Okay,’ he said carefully. ‘An old dog never asks for more than you got.’
Yvonne spurted beer and laughed. ‘You men!’
Winter turned and joined in. ‘When an old dog shits on you, he don’t need no lawyer.’
Gallen leapt in again. ‘An old dog will let a sleeping man lie.’
‘An old dog don’t cost you more than you earn,’ said Winter.
Yvonne laughed so hard she cried, and when she recovered she had her hand inside Gallen’s arm. ‘It’s good to be back, Gerry,’ she said.
‘I’m starting to get that,’ said Gallen, smiling. ‘Just starting to get it.’
They were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. Looking over, Gallen saw Roy in the centre of it. Hobbling across the trampled turf on his busted leg, Gallen forced his way through the throng and finally got to his father, who was handing out trays of beer and whisky to the bar.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ said Gallen, trying to keep his voice down.
‘Shouting the bar, son,’ said his father, smiling ear to ear. ‘Everyone! This is my son, Gerry. Fought for this great country!’
The freeloaders raised their drinks and the roar went up.
‘Dad, stop it — we can’t afford this,’ Gallen said, turning to the bar manager and gesturing a throat-slit with his finger.
‘Yes we can,’ said Roy, fishing something from his pocket and handing it over.
Opening it, Gallen saw a Wells Fargo Bank receipt from an ATM located on the back of a truck outside the tent.
‘So what?’ he said, trying to get his father moving away from the bar.
‘Read it,’ said Roy, pointing at a group of people and nodding at the barman for more drinks.
Looking again, Gallen saw the farm account and then the balance. ‘There must be a mistake,’ he said, heart speeding up. ‘We’re not fifty thousand in the black; we’re seven hundred thousand dollars behind. You been messing with the line of credit?’
‘There’s no mistake, son,’ said Roy Gallen, the booze making him smile for the first time in a long while. ‘I just called the bank — it was deposited yesterday. There’s no mistake.’
Backing away from the growing crowd of free drinkers, Gallen wandered back to Yvonne’s table, stunned as he read and reread the ATM receipt. And then something occurred to him.
‘Yvonne,’ he said, eyes darting around the beer tent, ‘you seen Kenny?’
‘I saw Mr Kenny ten minutes ago,’ said Lyndall. ‘He said goodbye to me over there.’
Gallen followed her finger to the tent entrance. ‘Goodbye? What did he say? ‘
‘He said stay in school, go to college.’
Limping on his aluminium crutch to the entrance, Gallen exited into the warm dusk, searching for his friend. Dust hung in the air as Chevs and Fords hauled horse trailers out of the Colorado Horse Park. There were too many people, but Gallen moved as fast as he could with the procession.
After three minutes he stopped, the pain too much to keep walking. Sweat poured down his back as he heaved for breath. There was no chance of finding Winter — the man had simply disappeared.
As Gallen turned around for the beer tent, he saw something on the other side of the road: a white straw Stetson and an old Carhartt jacket with worn elbows. Kenny Winter was leaning into the passenger side of an old Chev Silverado, and then he was opening the door.
‘Kenny,’ yelled Gallen. The Canadian didn’t hear him, so he tried again, feeling weak and hoarse.
The white Stetson bobbed up and then that impassive cowboy face was staring at him across the traffic on the South Pinery Parkway, chewing slowly on gum.
They stared at one another for three seconds. There was too much to say and not enough time. So Gallen just lifted the ATM receipt and yelled, ‘Thank you.’
The Canadian stared and then saluted. The Silverado’s door slammed and the old truck found a gap in the traffic and headed east.
An old man disturbed his thoughts. ‘Looked to me like you got yourself a first-class salute there, Mister,’ said the old fellow. ‘Officer are you?’
‘No, sir,’ said Gallen, the dust making his eyes water as he watched the truck disappear. ‘I’m a farmer.’