Damn it, Parham, Troy said.
I know. I just cant do it.
You're fixin to get us in a jackpot here we wont get home till daylight.
I know it.
He put the truck into reverse and began to grind slowly back down the highway, using the white line running from under the front of the truck to steer by. When the other truck hove into view alongside them he could see that the right front tire was down.
They gathered around the cab. Punchada, they said. Tenemos una Manta punchada.
Puedo verlo, said Billy. He pulled off the road and climbed out. Troy lit a cigarette and shook his head.
They needed a jack. Did they have a spare? S'. Por supuesto.
He got the jack out of the bed and they carried it back to the truck and commenced to jack the front end up. They had two spares and neither of them would hold air. They spelled each other at the antique tirepump. Finally they raised up and looked at Billy.
He got the tiretools out of the truckbed and came around and got the patchkit and a flashlight from under the seat. They carried one of the spares out into the road and laid it down and stood on it to break the bead and then the man who'd taken the tools from Billy stepped forward and began to pry the tire up off the rim while the others watched. The innertube that he snaked out of the tire's inner cavity was made of red rubber and there was a whole plague of patches upon it. He laid it out on the macadam and Billy trained the light over it. Hay parches sobre los parches, he said.
Es verdad, the man said.
La otra?
Est++ peon
One of the younger men manned the tirepump and the tube bloated slowly up in the road and sat hissing. He knelt and put his ear to the various leaks. Billy flipped open the tin lid of the patchcan and thumbed the number of repairs it contained. Troy had climbed out of the truck and he walked back and stood smoking quietly and looking at the tire and the tube and the Mexicans.
The Mexicans wheeled the blown tire around the side of the truck and Billy put the light on it. There was a great ragged hole in the sidewall. It looked like it had been chewed by bulldogs. Troy spat quietly in the road. The Mexicans threw the tire up onto the bed of the truck.
Billy took the stub of chalk from the patchkit and circled the leaks in the tube and they unscrewed the valvestem from the valve and sat on the tube and then walked it down till it was dead flat. Then they sat in the road with the white line running past their elbows and the gaudy desert night overhead, the myriad constellations moving upon the blackness subtly as sealife, and they worked with the dull red shape of rubber in their laps, squatting like tailors or menders of nets. They scuffed the rubber with the little tin grater stamped into the lid of the kit and they laid on the patches and fired them with a match one by one till all were fused and all were done. When they had the tube pumped up again they sat in the road in the quiet desert dark and listened.
Oye algo? said Billy.
Nada.
They sat listening.
He unscrewed the valvestem again and when they had the tube deflated the man slid it down inside the tire and worked it around the rim and fitted the valve and the boy came forward with the pump and began to pump up the tire. He was a long time pumping. When the bead popped on the rim he stopped and they unscrewed the hose from the valve and the man took the valvestem from his mouth and screwed it into the hissing valve and then they stepped back and looked at Billy. He spat and turned and walked back to the truck to get the tiregauge.
Troy was asleep in the front seat. Billy got the gauge out of the glovebox and walked back and they gauged the tire and then rolled it over to the truck and slid it onto the hub and tightened down the lugnuts with a wrench made from a socket welded onto a length of heavy iron pipe. Then they let down the jack and pulled it from under the truck and handed it to Billy.
He took the jack and tiretools and put the patchkit and the gauge in his shirtpocket and the flashlight in the back pocket of his jeans. Then they shook hands all the way around.
Ad-nde van? said Billy.
The man shrugged. He said that they were going to Sanderson Texas. He turned and looked off across the dark headlands to the east. The younger men stood about them.
Hay trabajo all++?
He shrugged again. Espero que s', he said. He looked at Billy. Es vaquero?
S'. Vaquero.
The man nodded. It was a vaquero's country and other men's troubles were alien to it and that was about all that could be said. They shook hands again and the Mexicans clambered aboard the truck and the truck cranked and coughed and started and lumbered slowly out onto the roadway. The men and boys in the bed of the truck stood and raised their hands. He could see them above the dark hump of the cab, against the deep burnt cobalt of the sky. The single taillight had a short in the wiring and it winked on and off like a signal until the truck had rounded the curve and vanished.
He put the jack and tools in the pickup and opened the door and nudged Troy awake.
Let's go, cowboy.
Troy sat and stared out at the empty road. He looked back behind them.
Where'd they go?
They're done gone.
What time is it do you reckon?
I dont know.
Are you done bein a Samaritan?
I'm done.
He leaned and opened the glovebox door and put the patchkit and the tiregauge and the flashlight in and shut the door and started the engine.
Where were they headed? Troy said.
Sanderson.
Sanderson?
Yeah.
Where were they comin from?
I dont know. They didnt say.
I bet they aint even goin to Sanderson, Troy said.
Where do you think they're goin?
Hell, who knows.
Why would anybody lie about goin to Sanderson Texas?
I dont know.
They drove on. Rounding a curve with a steep bank to the right of the road there was a sudden white flare and a solid whump of a sound. The truck veered, the tires squealing. When they got stopped they were halfway off the road into the bar ditch.
What in the hell, said Troy. What in the hell.
A large owl lay cruciform across the driver's windshield of the truck. The laminate of the glass was belied in softly to hold him and his wings were spread wide and he lay in the concentric rings and rays of the wrecked glass like an enormous moth in a web.
Billy shut off the engine. They sat looking at it. One of its feet shuddered and drew up into a claw and slowly relaxed again and it moved its head slightly as if to better see them and then it died.
Troy opened the door and got out. Billy sat looking at the owl. Then he turned off the headlights and got out too.
The owl was all soft and downy. Its head slumped and rolled. It was soft and warm to the touch and it felt loose inside its feathers. He lifted it free and carried it over to the fence and hung it from the wires and came back. He sat in the truck and turned the lights on to judge if he could drive with the windshield in that condition or whether he might have to kick it out completely. There was a clear place in the lower right corner and he thought he could see if he hunkered down and looked through the windshield there. Troy had walked up the road and was standing taking a leak.
He started the truck and pulled back onto the road. Troy had walked further up and was sitting in the roadside grass. He drove up and rolled down the window and looked at him.
What's wrong with you? he said.
Nothin, Troy said.
Are you ready to go?
Yeah.
He rose and walked around in front of the truck and got in. Billy looked over at him.
Are you all right?
Yeah. I'm all right.
It was just a owl.
I know. It aint that.
Well what is it?