The boy had saddled up the horse and he was waiting for her. “You’ll go to find your brother now?”
“I’m going to try.”
The boy offered her his hand. “I can give you a ride as far as the high ridge,” he said. “The church is beyond another few miles and you may be able to see the smoke but I still think it is a bad idea.”
She looked at him then took his hand and pulled herself up behind him. The father came forward now. He held the chrome .38 in the flat palm of his hand like some offering.
“It was in your bedding,” the boy said, looking down at the gun in his father’s hand.
She looked at the father then looked to the boy. She thanked him and took the revolver. “It was my father’s,” she said, then, realizing she knew the word in Spanish, she said to him, “De mi padre.”
“Dónde está tu padre?”
“Dead. A car accident.”
The father clucked his tongue and shook his head. He offered his condolences. The boy started the horse up across the field, Mary May with her hands about the waist of the boy as they went, and the sheep parting around them like whitecaps seen in an ocean storm.
When she looked back toward the small campground she could only see the rise of smoke, dying now as somewhere down there the boy’s father prepared for another day.
The boy climbed the ridge, moving the horse one way and then another on a path that Mary May could see had been used before. When they came to the top the boy slid down and helped her from the horse. He pointed out the valley below and showed her where the church was, down across the valley over a few hills and farther on to where the lake lay.
“Your brother is all you have, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said.
WILL LOST THE TRAIL COMING UP THE AVALANCHE CHUTE. Several times he had to backtrack and find it before he could go on only to lose it again. When they came out on top of the ridge he could see it would be no help. The windswept rock barren of any sign.
He walked the edge of the ridge and looked down over the precipice at the rocks below, broad fans of talus and broken rock spread across the slope into the river valley farther on. It disappeared among the sedge, and then farther on he saw the thick darkness again of trees and brush.
When he came back, walking along the ridge the opposite way, he could see the white backs of the sheep moving in the mountain field opposite from where he stood. They were high on the mountain and he watched a rider move through them, seeing how the sheep began to part to let the rider through.
“That’s where I’d go,” Will said. “Cold and lost. I’d go to where the people are.” He looked to where Lonny was standing. He pointed out the rider and the sheep. He took up his rifle and passed the scope across the field then handed the rifle over to Lonny. “I count two men,” Will said. “I don’t see Mary May.”
Lonny took a long look through the scope then handed it back to Will. “That’s where you’d go?”
“That’s where I’d go,” Will said.
By midmorning they had crossed the river and climbed up the mountain into the field. The sheep moved about them as they walked and the two herders now stood to watch them come.
“Buenos días,” the older of the two said. He had come forward a bit from the dead firepit and watched them as they walked closer.
Will raised a hand and returned the greeting, afterward turning to look back over his shoulder at Lonny. “You speak any Spanish?”
Lonny shook his head. He was watching the two herders and he looked to Will now. “The only Mexicans I ever knew were in prison and they might as well have been in another country the way the place was divided up.”
Will looked back toward the man. “You speak any English?”
The man looked backwards at the boy, who Will could now see must have been the man’s son. The son just stood there looking at the two of them and he shook his head.
“Estamos buscando…” Will said. He was trying to think up what to say, but he didn’t know the words. He had worked a few summers in the fields to the east when he had come back from the war, but it was a long time ago and even then he had not spoken much Spanish. “Estamos buscando for someone,” he said, making a wide and somewhat futile gesture of the surrounding world.
Again, the father looked toward the boy. The boy shrugged.
“These guys don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Lonny said. He went to stand at the fire and looked down upon the blackened rocks. “Ask them if they have any fucking food? Or liquor?” he said, looking over at Will, not even bothering to ask the father or the son. “I’d kill one of these sheep if it meant we had something to bring back out of here for John and the rest at the church.”
“Iglesia?” the father asked. He raised a hand to his chin and pantomimed stroking the long beards both Will and Lonny wore, along with all the rest of the men of Eden’s Gate.
“Yes,” Will said. “Iglesia. Both of us.” He pointed to Lonny then brought his hand back and put it to his chest. “Iglesia.”
“Ask them about the food,” Lonny said again. He had begun to walk around the small camp and he was toeing at the supplies there and the various camp ware. The boy was watching him. “Hell, ask them if they have any liquor? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Will raised a hand to his mouth. “Comida?” he asked. He was speaking to the father, but he brought his eyes around on the son.
“No,” the father said.
“No?” Lonny said. “Tell them they’re being rude.” He spoke to Will but he looked now to the boy who was standing a few feet off. “You’re being fucking rude,” Lonny said. “You understand you motherfucking mute?” Lonny leaned down, looked in under the trees then started to walk away toward where a horse was tethered. “I’m going to take their horse and take their sheep and ride the fuck out of here. I’m done with whatever this is we’re doing.”
The boy came around and stood between Lonny and the horse. In his hand was a small knife that he was holding about waist-high in front of him.
Lonny raised his hands then turned and looked toward Will and to the father. A small half smile began to spread across his face. Will didn’t even see what happened next, it seemed that fast. The boy was on the ground with blood streaming from his nostrils, Lonny standing over him, one of his boots already across the wrist that held the knife.
The father turned but Will was close and he broadsided the man and sent him to the ground. Will took the rifle from his shoulder and held it on the man just as he tried to get back to his feet. The sound of Will moving the bolt forward froze the man in place.
The boy tried to bring his other hand across and take the knife but Lonny bent and punched him hard in the ribs then reached and twisted the knife away. He stood and tossed the knife and backed away a little as the boy wheezed and tried to gather his breath.
“Stop,” Will said, watching all of this, watching Lonny where he stood and watching the boy. “He was only trying to protect what’s his.”
“What’s his?” Lonny asked, his voice elevated in a tone of disbelief. “What’s his?” He took a step away from the boy then he turned and pivoted and brought his boot up fast and kicked the boy so hard he left the ground. The boy was wheezing and rolling on the ground, trying to get his hands and knees beneath him.
“Stop it,” Will said again. He could see the same wild smile come across Lonny’s face.
Lonny kicked the boy twice in the side as the boy tried to get to his feet and he was rolling now away from Lonny and Lonny was going after him, kicking him time after time. Huffing with the effort. “When are they going to learn? When are they all going to fucking learn their lesson?” he was saying. “What’s theirs is mine. They think they know better than me or John. They think they can just close their eyes and look away.” He kicked the boy again. He bent and grabbed the boy at his shirt collar and brought him up and he started punching him now, raising the boy toward him with one hand on his collar and punching him with the other.