“See that?” he said. “That green? That’s barium powder.” He pressed her into him and held her there. She did not pull away.
Another shell rocketed into the sky—boom—raining down a brilliant hissing red.
He bent his face to her ear. “Strontium,” he whispered.
“I’ll be glad,” she said. “If it’s dead, this will all be over.”
He held her tighter and said only, “Shh,” before the next shell shot up, even higher than the others, as if propelled by the sound. It expanded—boom. Multicolored tendrils radiated from the center and made loops in the air like buzzards, descending. Silence took root between them.
A fourth shell and a fifth shot from the hill. They burst—boom—boom—into two spheres of light, one a steady-burning fountain of blue, and the other wiry spokes of purple turning orange.
“What’s that one?” Magda whispered.
“The blue is copper,” he said. “Pure ground copper.”
The last four shells whizzed into the air, all at once. When they burst—boom—boom—boom—boom—Magda jumped a little and buried herself into him. Harris turned to see her face, his home, the whole wide valley lit by dazzling yellow light. He held her.
“And that one?” she whispered.
“That,” he said. “That’s gold.”
That night, Harris watched her sleep. His own worn bedsheet was roped around her, twisted through her arms and between her legs. Alone in his bed—he had insisted—she looked delicate as a salt crystal. Moonlight fell in through the window, catching the angles of the specimens on the nightstand. In this light her belly looked bigger. Was that possible? In these few days? Or was she right? His wife had said, I knew it. I felt the baby go. Had that stupid kid done the job? No. Though he’d seen what the boy did to her, saw with his own eyes the blood bloomed up under her skin—she looked bigger. She did. She would need a doctor. A hospital. He would make the calls. They would drive to Reno. The doctor would tell her, Yes, you are getting bigger. The doctor would tell her, It is not over. It is only just beginning. She would need vitamins. Though he knew better, deep down in the bedrock of himself, he couldn’t help it. He thought, She will need a stroller. She will need a car seat. How the barren cling to the fertile. We, he thought, we will need a crib.
Harris took one last pull on his cigarette and stubbed it out on the sole of his boot. It was morning. He dropped the butt into the Folgers can. He would wake Magda soon, tell her to get dressed, that they were going to Reno. But instead of going inside, he scanned the lake bed, as he had every day since she came to him. From where the house was perched, high up on the alluvial fan, the valley below seemed to unfurl and flatten like a starched white sheet. The sun was rising, illuminating the peaks of the Last Chance Range to the west, starting its long trip across the Black Rock. He stopped. Something was different in the distance. A small white cloud of dust billowed on the horizon. It grew. At its eye was a speck. A truck.
“Morning,” said Magda, startling Harris as she joined him on the porch. She caught sight of the dust cloud unfurling below them and squinted. “What’s that?”
“You tell me,” said Harris. “Probably been crossing the lake bed since sunup. Circling right about where I found you.”
“Oh, fuck,” she said. “It’s my dad.” She began to pace the porch like a wild animal. “Fuck, fuck. Fuck.” She looked as though she might cry.
Then, as if it had heard her, the truck turned toward Route 40, toward Red’s Road, the washed-out path that dead-ended at Harris’s driveway. His heart beat like a herd of mustangs charging at his rib cage.
“Get in the house,” he told her. “He doesn’t know you’re here. Go to the bedroom. Shut the door. Don’t come out. I’ll take care of it.” He half believed this.
The truck lumbered up the long, steep gravel driveway, the way you’d drive if you were concerned about dusting out your neighbors. Harris rummaged frantically through a wheelbarrow. He found a large hunk of iron ore, heavy and angular, easy to grip.
He kept the ore in his right hand and sorted through the rocks with his left, wanting to seem busy when the man arrived. He organized the rocks in piles on the ground according to size. The truck was halfway up the driveway—close enough to see them—when Harris heard the swing and schwack of the screen door. He tried not to turn too quickly, but jerked his head, panicked, only to see Milo ambling out to him. He almost hit her.
The truck—a black Ram, a dually with some sort of decal looping across the rear window—stopped at the edge of what Harris considered his yard. A man climbed out. He wore a rodeo buckle the size of a serving platter, a wide cream-colored Stetson, sunglasses and ornately tooled caiman shit kickers.
Harris knew the man. His name was Castaneda. Juan, Harris thought, though he couldn’t be sure. He’d worked with him at the mine. He was a foreman, like Harris.
They’d spoken. On breaks in the pit. On the Newmont bus back into town. They’d talked sports—Pack football, March Madness. They’d discussed the fine tits on the teenage girl behind the counter at the Shell station where they parked. Castaneda had talked about his kids. Harris had seen pictures, grimy creased things pulled from a leather billfold. All girls. Beautiful, Harris had said, and meant. And this man, he’d smiled wide as the ocean and said, I know. Harris gripped the ore so tight his fingertips went white.
“Morning,” said Harris. Then, too quickly, “Help you?”
“Morning,” said Castaneda, removing his hat but leaving his sunglasses. There was not a gray hair on his head. “Hope so.” He approached with a bounce. “Harris, right? How’s the sweet life, brother?”
“Can’t complain.”
“You strike it rich yet?”
Harris kept sorting, kept his wieldy rock in his right hand. He lifted his head and looked to the man, then to the white-hot lake bed and then, squinting against the sun, to the hill behind his house. At its crest he could just make out the PVC pipes from last night, toppled and scorched. “You come out here to prospect?” he said. “’Cause this is BLM land on all four sides. You’d be digging for Uncle Sam.”
“Prospect? Ha. No, sir. I’m no rock hound,” said Castaneda. “I’m hunting chukar. Thought an old-timer like you might know the good spots.” Castaneda nodded to his truck.
“Chukar.” Harris stood upright and faced the man. He wiped sweat from his top lip and caught the acridity of nicotine on his fingers. “Don’t know of no chukar around here.” Because there weren’t any chukar around here, not until White Pine County at least. Only thing you could hunt out here was rattlesnake.
“Well, shit,” said Castaneda. He reached behind him and adjusted his belt. “Probably got the wrong gun for chukar anyway.” He brought around a revolver, a .44 glinting in the summer sun. He held it limp in his palm, as if he only wanted to show it off. But Harris knew better than that. Standing there with a rock in his hand like a goddamn child, he at least knew better than that.
Just then, Milo began to snarl and bark. But she didn’t bark at Castaneda, with the gun flat in his palm, looking earnestly to Harris. She was disoriented, maybe heat blind. The dog was barking at Harris.
Castaneda raised his voice above the dog. “I don’t know what she told you,” he said.
“Who?” said Harris.
Milo kept on.
“Don’t make this hard,” said Castaneda. “She’s a good girl. She’s just got an overactive imagination.”
A sudden tinny blood taste came to Harris’s mouth. “There’s nobody else here.”