Then, everything changed. Way past the crack, Robert broke out of the brush on his horse. Hell, we didn’t even know he was in there, and Leo on the back of his sweaty gelding just looked at me. The mare came out in a flurry, greasewood stobs racking off in the air around her. Those wild horses froze. Either they would leap that crack and fly past him, or Robert could jump it himself and turn them down toward the house. I couldn’t see doing much of anything to save this wad of cayuses, Roman noses, and big feet. Back at the time of the Boer War, some remount outfit had turned draft studs to put some size on them, but it turned up in all the wrong places. Leo looked like they hurt his eyes.
They boiled back toward us, and we whooped and hollered at them. Leo took down his slicker and got them bunched up once more toward the trail, where they didn’t want to go, but Robert kept yelling for us to drive them. They advanced his way like a bright cyclone; and just before they broke around him, Robert spurred his horse straight at the huge crack like he was riding into hell, but the mare just burned a hole in the wind, and when she reached that yawning gap, she just curved up, into the air, Robert easing back into the saddle with his stirrups pushed out in front, the mare’s legs reaching toward the far shore. I saw them land, but Leo had his eyes covered.
I guess when the wild horses challenged Robert to raise them, he just raised them out of their chairs, because as he leaned up in his saddle, deep slack of reins hanging under the sorrel’s neck, taking time to count them, they were just the quietest most well-behaved herd of critters, ready to jog on home to my corrals. When we had them locked in, Robert said, “There, got that out of the way. I was afraid we might have trouble with them.” He rode over to where he left his bedroll and said to me, “Mind if I ask your Mexican to cheek this mare while I slide off? She’s bad to paw at you when you get down. Man’d rather piss down her shoulder than go through that.”
In the hall, Clay admired some of Lewis’s coloring before following Karen to the cemetery to pick out a plot, leaving Lewis in the car with an electronic game he played with his thumbs. They strolled through the old part with a kind of Boot Hill of wild old-timers, before they hit some of the kids they’d gone to school with, Charlie Derby (gored by a rodeo bull), Milly Makkinen, homecoming queen (overdose), and so on.
They selected a plot near two trees and a long view to the west. “Well,” said Karen, “at least we got that out of the way.” Efficiency was always her tonic; Clay felt rotten. He stopped to see his father before he locked up at the car shack. He was surprised to find him back so soon. Clay tried to make light of it. He said, “So, I interrupted something? What’re you doing?” He wished he hadn’t asked.
“Dying. What’s it look like?”
Clay didn’t know what to say, so he said, “And you’re okay with that?”
“How should I know? I’ve never done it before.”
Clay was surprised to feel so shaken. He’d known when he’d brought his father here that it was the end of the trail, but hearing him admit it reminded Clay that he was more frightened than his father was. Soon he would be gone and the stories with him. Maybe he’d be able to remember them during hard times or, really, whenever he needed them. Maybe he needed them now.
The Casserole
We waited under the cottonwoods for the ferry to come back across the Missouri River. But the heat still throbbed from the metal of our car, and it turned out to be better to stand close to the water. The river seemed so big, its incongruous whisper belying its steady speed. Clouds of swallows chased insects over the water, and doves rested in the shadows. My wife kept touching her forehead with a Kleenex and staring across at the ferry, as if to hurry its return. We could see the ferryman chatting with his passengers, which only increased her agitation. We were heading from our home in Livingston to Ellie’s family ranch to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years and no children: her parents had stopped interrogating us about that. They assumed that it was a physical problem that some clinic could solve, but we didn’t want children. We lacked the courage to tell them that. We both liked children; we just didn’t want any ourselves. There were children everywhere, and we saw no reason to start our own brand. Young couples plunge into parenthood, and about half the time they end up with some ghastly problem on their hands. We thought we’d leave that to others. But my in-laws were elderly, and they had the usual views of hereditary landowners: they longed for an heir. They had acquired their land from my wife’s grandfather and, with it, a belief in family values that did not stand up to scrutiny, since most ranches these days were the scene of bitter inheritance battles. But even if my wife had had siblings, she would not have been part of this sort of trouble, as she had never — at least, not since adolescence — wanted to pursue ranch life, rural life, agricultural life. She would have said to a sibling, Take it! It’s all yours. I’m out of here. There would have been an element of posturing in this, because she was very attached to the land; she just didn’t want to own it or do anything with it. Neither did I.
The thing was that we were quite poor. We were both grade-school teachers, and owning a house had been the extent of our indulgences. We loved our house and our work and were suitably grateful for both, though Ellie felt that if I hadn’t been so hell-bent on retiring the mortgage we might have done a few more things for fun. My in-laws couldn’t believe that we had no interest in owning a ranch that was worth millions. But they wouldn’t have allowed us to sell it. We’d be stuck with it if we went along with them, which we weren’t about to do, and so now they were stuck with it: cows, farming equipment, fences — the whole enchilada. And they were getting old.
The ranch was going to eat them alive, and they knew it. The fences would fall down; the cows would get out; the neighbors, old friends, would start to think of them as a problem. Once across this river, we’d be heading for a very sad story.
Well, not that sad. They’d had their day, and it was almost over. That’s how it is for everybody. They liked to be seen as heroic strivers, alone on the unforgiving prairie, but they could have handed the ranch over, no strings attached, and headed for Arizona; after the sale, there would have been plenty for everybody. I had an extensive collection of West Coast jazz records, including the usual suspects, Gerry Mulligan, Chet Baker, Stan Getz, and so on — not everybody has Wardell Gray and Buddy Collette, but I did — and if I’d had a bit more dough I could have added a room on to our house specifically to house this collection, with an appropriate sound system. But when I complained about things like this to Ellie, she just said, “Cue the violins.”
It looked as though our appallingly high-mileage compact car was going to be the only one going on the ferry. My wife and I sat in the front, while the backseat was filled with her belongings, as was the trunk. I had no idea why she’d felt called upon to bring this exalted volume of luggage, unless it was to store things on the ranch that were cluttering up our little house. I could have asked, but I just didn’t feel like it.
“I think he’s turning around,” Ellie said, and I came out of my trance. The cable groaned next to us, and, across the river, I could see the ferry finally moving our way. Ellie was looking forward to this visit. I certainly was not. The ranch was where she had grown up, a nature lover. Despite all its deficiencies, it was her place on earth.