The Indian girl looked much the same, only she appeared to be a more recent kill. Her eyes still moist in the corners, a silvery tear streak visible on her cheek, a fly drinking from it.
Graver waved away the fly, rocked back on his heels, and lit another cigarette, smoking it to the brown nub, the glowing tip pinched between his filthy broken nails. He remembered the day in March when Bennett had brought a mule to his soddy, and dropped the lead rope at his feet.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Use him or eat him,” Bennett replied.
“No.” Graver had to swallow the spit rising in his throat at the thought of roast mule haunch. He could imagine his sick, starving children, sitting listlessly in the dirt, unable to muster enough energy to play.
Bennett put his spurs lightly to his horse and was trotting away before Graver could thank him. The mule brayed once, a long sucking roar that made Bennett’s horse twitch its ears and bunch up like it might decide to buck and run. He reached down and patted its neck.
It was too late, of course. The mule made them all so sick it finished off the youngest the first night, and his wife lasted long enough to see to the other two as they passed, one by one, starving, stomachs bloated with indigestible meat. He was the only one who fought off the cramps and runs, eating his way through the nausea to a newfound strength. Enough to burn the few goods they had in a little bonfire that served to smoke and dry the rest of the mule meat in long strips for the trip out of the hills. With every bite he tasted the clothing, bedding, even the rag-stuffed dolls his girls made, tasted the peculiar bitterness of the bone button nose, the sharp, scalding paint of the blue eyes and red mouths.
Graver shook his head and looked at the midday sun in the cloudless sky. He wanted nothing to do with that Indian girl and whatever she was to Bennett. He walked back to the horses, stood staring at them for a minute, considering the value of the saddle and bridle, the rifle still in its scabbard, and finally the sleek, high-bred horse that could carry a person quick as fire out of the hills. Then there was the picture of the wife, Dulcinea, he remembered now, and the sharp edges of the photograph scratching his chest.
He reached to untie the reins to Bennett’s horse, only to stop and start to bend when he saw something that looked like the red pipestone Sioux used.
The shot passed through his old horse’s nose and plowed into its chest with the sound of a fist punching a sofa, the noise echoing under the delayed boom of the gun as the animal simply dropped like a tree felled by an axe. Bennett’s horse screamed and tried to break away, but the knotted reins held, and Graver used its frantic motion to grab the rifle off the saddle and slither over the crest of the ragged hill.
He lay there panting, gorge rising to his mouth, before he remembered to check the load in the rifle and chamber a round. He’d be damned if he was going to get left in these hills by some coward ambusher. He looked for the shooter. Judging from the bullet that took the old horse, the shot came from the north, which meant the shooter was somewhere beyond the windmill and tank. Maybe he’d been lying in wait the whole time and Graver should have paid more attention to the shadows. He did a quick estimate of distance and figured it was twenty to twenty-five yards. He’d be ready if the man showed himself.
After a few minutes the gnats and flies found him, and he was brushing them out of his ears when the bullet took him, spun him half away. He almost blacked out, but gritted his teeth and used the wounded shoulder to brace the rifle on the hill, aimed, and fired at the spot where he figured the gunman was holed up, then ducked at the barrage of fire that followed. Bullets thudded into the ground around him, but nothing touched him. If he kept down he’d be fine, as long as he didn’t give in to the dizziness. He looked at his shoulder leaking blood through the thin cloth of his shirt. Damn it, that was the last shirt his wife had made him. Now this son of a bitch had ruined it.
He raised the rifle above his head and quickly squeezed the trigger. The bullet pinged off the windmill. This time the gunman only returned a couple of shots before the silence grew around them.
“I can wait you out,” Graver called.
“You ain’t got the bullets,” a young man’s voice replied.
“I’m saving the last one for you, my friend,” Graver said. There was another angry spray in rapid succession, but nothing hit home. Bennett’s big red horse had apparently grown used to the situation because he was busy eating grass now.
“Gimme the horse,” the young man shouted.
“This about a horse then?” Graver said.
“This ain’t none of your business.”
Graver focused on the low mound behind the windmill. “What kind of gun you got there?”
“Remington.” There was pride in the voice.
“Clean shot on him, but you were off on me.”
Graver heard him curse. The voice sounded younger than he’d originally thought. Was he going to be taken down by some damn kid? After all he’d gone through? God had to be a real bastard.
“Is he dead?”
“You and him got into it over the girl, then?”
This time neither the young man nor the gun replied. Graver had to remind himself to keep his eyes open, to watch for an ambush, to not get distracted. His head felt cloudy, like it was full of milkweed seed, and he was beginning to find the buzz of flies collecting on the dead horse tolerable. There must be a lot of happy cows out there this afternoon, not a fly in a hundred miles. They were all here feasting. He watched the small pool of blood from his shoulder blacken with their bodies. Next the beetles would show, and if he didn’t stay awake, he could end up eaten from the inside out. No, he knew that wasn’t right. He shook his head to clear the downy logic. And that gave him an idea.
“Hey, kid,” he called.
“Yeah.”
Graver was right.
“Made a mess, didn’t you?” There was another long silence, which a meadowlark took up with its calls.
“Maybe.” The answer finally came.
“Look, I don’t owe these folks nothing. Let’s you and me saddle up and ride on outta here. Go our separate ways. I’m headin’ south.” Graver quieted his breath in case the kid made a move that could be heard above the whining windmill.
“What about the horse?” The kid sounded sullen.