“Is there anything you want from town?”
“No, but why do you want to go there?” he asked.
“I’m not embarrassed, if that’s what you mean.”
She took the truck, and when she was safely down the road, Lucien shot into her room for a bit of inventory. Stuck up in the edge of her dressing mirror was a photograph of Eric, her husband. He was wearing his surgical gown and hat, and smiled with blind triumph into the flashbulbs. Lucien thought of him undoing the strings of the cap and flinging forth the dramatic curls.
He’s dead. Soon she’ll love me again.
“Get your slicker and help me gather up some yearlings,” said the hired man. Lucien borrowed a pair of spurs from a hook behind the door, and got a yellow slicker and a sweater. He got a pint of sour-mash and a hopeless little sketch pad. He got sunglasses and peanut butter. He didn’t bring Sadie because he didn’t want her hunting unless he was going to shoot, and he didn’t want to get her kicked by a cow.
The hired man’s name was W. T. Austinberry. He knew his job. The two rode for a few miles without speaking. Lucien happily remembered the ranch work of his school years. Though the sky was blue, Lucien kept expecting a storm because he could hear raindrops knocking upon the crown of his hat. Lucien mentioned the rain to W. T. Austinberry, who looked at Lucien like he’d been locoed. They rode on, and Lucien listened to the kind of heavy drops that portend a cloudburst, the sun beating down all the while. It wasn’t until he removed his straw hat that he realized he had inadvertently trapped a few grasshoppers inside.
The two men ascended to the flat top of the first bench. They could look down from here and see the broad plan of the ranch with clarity, as well as the ascent of the agrarian valley floor to the imperial rock of the Crazies. The whole thing was forged together by glacial buttresses and wedges of forested soil that climbed until stone or altitude discouraged the vegetation. In springtime the high wooded passes exhaled huge clouds of pollen like smoke from hidden fires, which in a sense they were. These sights seemed to draw Lucien’s life together.
W. T. Austinberry dogtrotted along with one elbow held out from his body like the old-timers one saw when Lucien was a boy. He had jinglebobs on his spurs, which tinkled merrily as he went. How Lucien loved this vaguely ersatz air of the old days! Or better yet, that the frontier lingered in these draws where Indian spirits were as smoky and redolent as the pollen exhalations of the forest!
They rode on and crossed a creek where W. T. Austinberry said that he had poured Clorox to kill a couple of hundred pounds of trout for his freezer.
“What was Emily’s husband like?” Lucien asked nervously.
“He was a doctor.”
“I know he was a doctor. I mean, what kind of a fellow was he?”
“Is it any of your business?” asked W. T. Austinberry.
They rode a little bit farther.
“I guess I take it to be my business, or I wouldn’t have asked.” W. T. Austinberry stopped and stared at him like an owl. Lucien rode past him up the trail. “The husband, W.T., what was the husband like?” Lucien heard him click back into formation and come along.
“He had it coming,” said W. T. Austinberry. He cut around in front of Lucien and pulled down a passing twig to pick his teeth with.
“Would a jury understand that?”
“Not necessarily.”
The first bunch of yearlings jumped off the trail into a ravine and crashed through the underbrush like game animals. Lucien rode in pursuit, setting a suicidal course for W. T. Austinberry, who was obliged to follow Lucien through clouds of offended magpies, snapping branches and descending leaves until they turned the cattle against a wren-filled cliff and started their small herd on its proper course. Buck was a good horse who leapt off the rowel. He pinned his ears at laggard cattle and stole in for a nip. Lucien was excited to feel the horse’s knowledge.
They were in a damp woods supplied by springs that stained the rocks and nurtured ferns, then brush, then trees. They found some cattle in there. The cattle stood with their legs sheathed in mud from the spring and watched their approach with the little gather they already had. The cows had mouths full of long grass but did not chew. W.T. and Lucien whooped them out onto hard ground and added them to the herd, and kept on moving. Lucien felt the distance of Emily’s house, the height of the mountains, her endangerment from insult among the townies, and the strong autumn light that fell upon them and upon their horses.
The last bunch advanced out atop a thousand-yard avalanche of slide rock, innumerable pieces of shale that looked like they had just paused in violent flow, though their next move might have been a hundred years away. These cattle seemed to challenge them to come their way.
“Maybe we ought to look further on,” said W. T. Austinberry. “We only need six more to make a pot.” Lucien suspected W.T. had run out of guts; so he rode Buck out, floundering in pursuit onto the dangerous slide, and he soon turned the cattle back into the band. In a way, he was auditioning for Emily.
Buck was tired as they made their way down. He hung his head and they descended into thermals that held red-tailed hawks like kites on rigid strings. He flung his big forefeet in lazy quarter circles and skidded slightly with his rear as they made their way through the changing air, and Lucien viewed the uniform backs of the flowing cattle with satisfaction. The old cows led the way like oxen on immigrant wagons. W. T. Austinberry dashed about returning the herd quitters, but they were on easy ground now and he must have known Lucien suspected him for a fool.
Emily came in with armloads of groceries, buoyant as a bride. Lucien had manure sprayed up to his shins from driving yearlings the last quarter mile down an alleyway alongside the pens. To him, unpacking the bags, the bright cans and bottles seemed in the old kitchen to be savage and modern and kind of exciting. The housewife on the laundry-soap box would have been taken for a prostitute at the time the kitchen was built. In Emily’s cheer at these fresh supplies, she appeared dauntless; her indictment seemed to apply to someone neither of them knew.
“And now if you would—” she motioned him to the table, fanning contracts from a broad envelope onto its surface. She had already signed them and there was a dotted line just for Lucien. He scanned through and got the drift: Lucien owned the ranch if she jumped bail.
“For some reason,” said Lucien, “I don’t like the feeling this is giving me.”
“The feeling this is giving you isn’t the point at all. You had to borrow that money.”
“Tell me what the point is, Emily.”
“A fair arrangement between adults.”
“I don’t want a fair arrangement between adults,” said Lucien. “I want a heartfelt gesture.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop without letting the nails hit.
“You won’t get one from me,” she said. “You’ll get an arrangement.”
“Where do I sign?” Lucien said with a flagging spirit. He was losing his self-sufficiency by leaps and bounds. Once in college when Lucien’s roommate had kept a picture of his sweetheart on the drawer, Lucien had proudly displayed a framed photograph of his own hand. But now he had an uncomfortable sense that he was circling downwind of his best instincts. He sort of didn’t like that. Lucien’s nicest side was ruining his life. He signed the papers, and the distance from him to his wife and son was suddenly greater. It seemed he was never quite under control unless he was angry.
“There,” she said, “I feel much better.” She had her off-center smile, and the distant cast of her eyes which was not romantic or faraway but otherwise occupied. The smile brightened and the eyes focused on Lucien with a sexual glaze.
“You’re still carrying that old torch for me, aren’t you?” she asked with some pride.