The mule went motionless, watched warily out of the corner of her eye as Graver reached out and rubbed her withers, working his fingers up her neck, pausing at the poll behind the ears to lift the leather halter so it wasn’t cutting into her head, then sliding his fingers down her jaw, scratching his way under her chin and up her nose. She blew hard and sighed, and her left hip relaxed. Graver fashioned a quick rope halter that passed behind her ears and looped over her nose, rubbing and talking to her the whole time. Then standing by her head, facing her hind end, holding the halter under her chin, he flicked the rope end toward her haunch. She lurched, kicked out, and finally took a step forward, which he rewarded by rubbing her neck and head before asking for another step. This time she swung her hind end, fought to free her head, and bucked before she came forward. The command-praise ritual was then repeated for a good half hour, until the mule complied and trudged forward whenever asked. The two boys watched until they grew bored and went to the bunkhouse for their bedrolls. By the time they returned, Graver had the pack frame secured and was attempting to lift the spool of barbed wire onto the mule’s back with his one good arm.
Even from their distance, Higgs and Larabee could see the oily sheen on his pale face.
“You two take that wire and get that mule loaded,” Higgs yelled. Hayward opened his mouth to talk back, but Cullen elbowed him and together they lifted the wire spool and tied it on while Graver held the lead rope.
“Ungrateful little bastards didn’t even thank him,” Larabee said.
“Saddle J.B.’s horse. Graver’ll do fine,” Higgs said.
Larabee raised a brow. With a slight shrug, he lifted the reins and loped across the ranch yard to the dry lot where the red horse had stood since they brought back J.B.’s body two weeks ago.
As soon as the boys mounted and rode out, Molly Mule trotting behind them, her rolled eye showing white and head held out stiffly in front of her, Higgs walked to where Graver leaned against the side of the barn, head back, eyes closed.
“Ready for a ride?” Higgs asked.
“I reckon,” Graver answered without opening his eyes. “Got a hat I can borrow? Heat’s already eating into my skull pretty good.”
“Did all right with that mule.”
Graver shrugged.
“Thought we’d go out there again, where you and J.B. ran into that trouble.”
Graver folded his arms and opened his eyes enough to see the foreman. “Why’s that?”
“Something might come to you.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.” Graver’s voice was soft but firm.
“Black hat on the hook right inside the kitchen door. We’ll meet you at the house with a horse.”
As soon as Graver started walking, Higgs noticed that he wore flat-heeled farmer’s brogans. “Ask Vera, Mrs. Higgs, to fetch you a pair of boots, too.” No use in having a man dragged to death or worse if a horse shied and his foot went through the stirrup when he fell off.
CHAPTER NINE
Before he rapped on the door, Graver could hear the old man yelling and the sweet-voiced woman laughing. They’d been going at it since the day Drum Bennett was deposited on the overstuffed parlor sofa. Sometimes Vera’s sweet tone took on a knife’s edge and she’d cut the old man off at the knees; this was usually followed by a few hours of blessed quiet, during which Graver would be able to sleep.
“What does he want?” Drum yelled.
“Hush,” Vera hissed. Pushing the strand of damp hair off her forehead, she gave Graver a quick smile and tilted her head. Her eyes had a touch of green like the water in the hay meadows. Sometimes, when she was angry, a dark cast appeared like the morning sky before rain. She was a handsome woman with light tortoiseshell skin that shone in the new summer light. When he told her about the hat and boots, she hesitated, and then reached for a hat, quickly brushing the brim and crown and holding it up to glance inside. Before he put it on, Graver saw J.B.’s initials stamped in the leather sweatband, and paused. The hat fit perfectly.
As soon as she left to find him boots, Drum Bennett started in.
“You may have the rest of these farmers fooled, but I know you. I know what you did. Don’t think I’m not gonna do something about you soon as I’m on my feet again. Now take off my son’s hat!” The old man’s face had lost color, as well as some of its tautness, beginning to sag into wrinkles that made his threats seem more bluster than warning. Graver removed the hat and held it in both hands.
“Sir, I’m sorry you lost your son. It’s a hard row to hoe. But I did not kill him, and I intend to find out who did. Same man shot me, a thing I cannot tolerate.”
The old man stared at him, as surprised at the length of the speech as anything he’d said.
“I just knew you’d grow to liking one another.” Vera bustled in clutching a pair of high black boots with long mule tabs. Almost new, they had a waxy shine and barely scuffed soles.
“Ma’am, I can’t take those.” Graver started to back out the door.
“I don’t have time to go looking again, Mr. Graver. I’m in the middle of making doughnuts, so you’ll oblige me to take these boots and let me get back to my cooking.” She held the boots out with one hand and rested the other on her hip.
“Take the damn boots,” the old man growled. “Man’s dead.”
Graver shook his head and took the boots. They fit just about as perfect as they could without being made for his feet. When he stood and stamped, driving his heel home, he straightened his back and shoulders, despite the twinge from the healing wound, and felt something new settle in his mind.
The chestnut kicked out behind as soon as it was asked to lope, and tried to put its head down to buck, but Graver was ready for it and sat light in the saddle, not giving the horse its head until it settled down to work. He felt the deep satisfaction that came from riding a good horse again, one with powerful hindquarters that reached under the body and a good sloping shoulder that grabbed at the distance. J.B. hadn’t spoilt the horse’s mouth either. The animal responded to the lightest touch on the reins, and Graver was careful to sit back when he asked for a walk or a halt, the response was so immediate. He smiled in appreciation. For all he’d sacrificed to become a husband and father and farmer, this was probably the only thing he truly missed, but he rarely allowed himself to dwell on the series of choices and mistakes that had brought him to this desolate land.
The recent loss of his family overpowered any kind of regret and seemed petty compared to the lives he had seen finished. In the end, his wife hadn’t asked anything of him, no terrible return to her hometown for burial, no message to her unforgiving family. How quickly we are taken, he remembered musing, and was then brought back by the wails of his small children as they passed. His wife had simply slipped under the dark waters of her death without a sound. They never had a chance. Their lives fluttered away like milkweed seed on the wind. He couldn’t catch and hold a single one. Now, as then and the whole time afterward when he was digging their graves and burying them in the sand, and laying the rusty iron bed frame over them so the animals couldn’t dig them up, he hadn’t allowed the luxury of tears, of self-pity as it were, because he was alive, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Graver couldn’t help feeling that no matter what he did, he kept traveling the same circular road as they topped the hill and looked down at the windmill and water tank. The red horse snorted, tossed its head and reached its nose around to stare at his boot. Wrong man, it seemed to say. Graver felt an unnatural apprehension in his gut, as if he was about to hear gunshots echo in the still morning air and feel the bullet rip into his body again.