The grass was especially green here because of the water, and cropped by the cattle that came to drink and stood swatting flies. The herd was elsewhere this morning, though, and the men had the area to themselves. Other than that, it was the same as the day he was shot. What did Higgs want? Graver didn’t have any answers, at least any he wanted to share, and he noticed that Higgs and Larabee had drawn up on either side of him as if to block an escape.
A meadowlark on one of the windmill struts puffed its chest and sang its courting song, then glared defiantly in case any other suitors showed. Graver thought of his wife’s passion for drawing the creatures in the world around her, how heartbroken and brave she had been when the two oldest children had taken her box of pastels and scrubbed them on the table until there was nothing left. There was no money to replace them. After that she had drawn with pencils until they wore out, too. He watched her hands toward the end, anxiously sketching with her fingernail in the packed dirt by the fireplace, staring into the fire. While the fever was on her, she drew on the mattress ticking and the dirt floor, until her nails wore down, and her fingertips bled from the scraping. Even after he bound her hands, the motion continued, sometimes scrawling the air between them, sometimes the front of her nightgown, or the bed again. He was glad to burn the bedding when it was all over, afraid he might recognize the portraits.
He shook himself. Why had he never asked her if it was worth it, what she gave up for him? He knew he didn’t want the answer, and was glad she never offered. The truth couldn’t be known until the end of a person’s life, and then what’s the use. He should never have taken her love, like a gift that was out of proportion for the occasion. But it was a young man’s mistake, one he’d never repeat. He wiped his face with his hand and wasn’t surprised to find it sweaty. Ever since he was shot, he felt chills and twisting cramps in his gut like his body fought to rid itself of the poison. His mind wandered, too, right when he needed to pay attention to things at hand, like it was trying to trick him.
“Can you think of anything else about that day?” Higgs asked Graver while Larabee smoked and watched. Graver shook his head. A breeze drove the windmill blades, producing a high, persistent squeal, and then quit and they slowed to a stop. “Larabee, you got any grease on you?” Higgs asked. “Might as well fix that son of a bitch while we’re here.”
The man sighed, finished his cigarette, and rubbed it out on the toe of his boot before climbing down and searching his saddlebag for an old tobacco tin.
“What’s that?” Higgs asked with a frown.
“Hair grease, hand healer, leather protector, waterproofer, bag balm, wound dressing. Want some?” Larabee grinned.
Higgs waved his hand. “Get going.” He shifted his eyes to Graver. “You get down and show us how it happened. Every inch of it.”
“Thing is, my knee’s been giving me fits lately, and climbing’s . . .” Larabee stood next to his horse and glanced at the windmill as if it were a Wyoming mountain peak. Higgs snorted and shook his head.
“I’ll do it,” Graver said.
“You up to a climb?” Higgs asked.
Graver maneuvered his horse to Larabee’s side, took the can of grease, and headed for the windmill on the far side of the tank. Anything was better than acting out the shooting again. Maybe they were going to finish him here, the thought had occurred to him several times throughout the ride.
“Can’t fault a man for wanting to work,” Larabee said as he stepped into the stirrup and settled back into the saddle.
“Hope that arm’s healed enough. Hate to have you haul him back on your horse, you walking the whole way,” Higgs said.
“Looks like he’s doing fine.” Larabee lifted his chin to the windmill, where Graver was straddling the crossarm and digging into the grease tin.
“You need to get back down there and start looking for clues,” Higgs said.
Graver slowly worked his way around the scaffolding of the windmill, pretending to examine the machine while he memorized the way the small hills folded into the larger ones that were actually sand dunes underneath a thin layer of soil and grass. To the east a series of shallow hills like steps cut into the front of a tall hill. The killer must have waited there, Graver thought, where the grass was cropped short by his horse. He tried to remember the voice from that morning. At the time, he’d thought it was a young man, but maybe it was a woman? Or perhaps the shooter had been lying in an uncomfortable position, say on his back, where the soapweed took over the hillside. Person’d have to be cautious of rattlers sleeping in the shade of those wide stiff leaves. And the prickly pear cactus, the yellow blooms peeking out of the spiny ears, he’d have been careful not to roll or kneel in those.
Graver’s fingers felt the gears, the drive shaft of the windmill, dry as a bone. He didn’t remember that noise, but it must’ve been there. He peered closely at the housing for the drive shaft and saw that a stray shot had pierced the metal, allowing the grease to clog and dry. He stuck his finger in the hole and felt the bullet. Have to come back and dig it out, see which gun it came from. Had they saved the bullets from J.B.’s shoulder or checked his guns to see if he’d fired back? He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Higgs was focused on Larabee. Graver circled the windmill struts one more time, examining the murder site from every angle. The puzzle wasn’t only J.B.’s shooting, it was the Indian girl’s death as well. Why was she there? Where was her body now? And why had the shooter left him alive? For days, he was haunted, thought the killer might change his mind and come back for him. Another reason to figure this out, to be ready when the shooter realized his mistake. Then Graver had another thought—what if he tried to draw the killer toward him instead? First rule he’d learned in his past life: trust no one. Second rule: have a fast horse nearby. Always. He glanced at the chestnut gelding as it restively stamped and tossed its head against the no-see-ums chewing bloody clots in its ears. Third rule: stay out of family problems. Well, he’d blown that one to hell, hadn’t he.
He tested the blades and was rewarded with a nearly noiseless spin. He threw the grease tin to the ground and began his one-armed descent, pausing halfway to rest. His shoulder throbbed wildly. Dizziness came through his head in a wave and ate up the day around him. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against one of the main wooden supports. Be lucky not to end up with a face full of splinters like his hand. He should have asked for gloves, but he was so used to doing without that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He wished to hell he were someplace else. Wished he’d kept going that morning, hadn’t been drawn into another man’s fight. But now it was his fight, and no matter how he felt about the Bennetts, he had to help set things right. A vivid image of his wife and children suddenly swept over him, and he closed his eyes against the sudden moisture. When he reopened them a cloud of dust was rising to the top of the hill. He quickly jumped down and ran to his horse.
“Damn those boys!” Higgs stood in the stirrups. Graver sent his horse up the small rise behind him to see more clearly as cows and calves spilled down the hill and crowded the water tank.
Higgs removed his hat, bounced it against his thigh to clear the dust from the brim, put it back on, and gave the front a final tug to guarantee it was tight. “Nothing to see here now those cattle come through. Let’s get back.”
“I need a job,” Graver said.