“What is it?” Morrison Long asked.
“There’s something wrong. There is something very much wrong.” Virgil Boyd typed furiously, then put his hands together in his lap as he studied the screen. “That boy.”
“What has he done?” Morrison Long asked.
“He’s evil.”
“He’s a boy, Virgil. What has he done?”
Virgil Boyd worked again on the computer. “I can’t undo it. He screwed up the routing. I can’t stop it.”
“He’s just a boy. I mean, look at all of this stuff. Remember your youth. You’d die to play with this set-up.”
“Play?” Virgil Boyd shook his head. “This is not a toy. It’s not a game.” He turned away from the screen. “He’s evil.”
A train went smoking by.
“Just what is going to happen?” Morrison Long asked.
“Two trains are going to collide and it’s too late to stop them.”
“Too late?”
“They’ve passed the last switching stations.”
Morrison Long sighed. “Just shut the power off.”
“For everything?”
“If you have to.”
“Are you crazy?” Virgil Boyd stood and looked at Detroit. “Do you understand the ramifications of such an action?”
“Come on, Virgil, why don’t you come upstairs and have a drink? Relax.”
Virgil Boyd did not reply. He was to the stairs and moving up them to the first floor. Morrison Long followed. The pace was quickened through the foyer, hall, and kitchen, the leader muttering to himself.
“I’m really getting scared, Virgil,” Morrison Long said at the back door. He leaned against the jamb.
Virgil Boyd turned back to him. “Of course you’re scared. You should be scared. A terrible thing is going to happen.” With that he was off again, trotting through the garden. The yard was lighted by several lamps shining upward at the bases of trees.
Morrison Long ran after him. “Virgil,” he called, “this is crazy,” He stepped over tracks in the walk. He nearly ran into the back of his friend, who had come to a stop. “Virgil!” He grabbed the man and shook him.
“It’s going to happen there,” Virgil Boyd said, pointing to a trestle which crossed the goldfish pond. Colored lights shone under the water. “We’re going to watch it happen, and there’s nothing we can do.”
A train’s whistle sounded.
“Let’s just pick up one of the trains,” Morrison Long said.
“I can’t interfere like that. And besides, which one do I pick up? What is the criteria for such a decision?”
The second train cried.
Morrison Long said nothing, just watched the bridge.
“There is only so much I can do,” Virgil Boyd said. “It’s hard enough just to make this shit. You know what I mean, don’t you, Morrison?”
Thirty-Seven Just to Take a Fall
The announcer called again for the rider. Last call. The gate was opened, and the bull in chute eight was turned out. Luke Ellis did not care. So he had dropped thirty-seven bucks of entry fee. His mind wasn’t on the ride. Better to throw away the money than use it to pay for a spill. He was about to climb into his truck when he spotted Austin Muñoz trotting toward him.
“They turned out your beast,” Muñoz said. He turned to lean his butt against the truck while he caught his breath and lit a cigarette. “So, what’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
Muñoz looked in the bed of the truck at Luke’s saddle. “Bailing out?”
Luke opened the door and sat on the seat, his feet on the ground. “I’m sick of this two-bit stuff.” He took out a smoke of his own to light. He stared at the backs of the people in the stands.
“Is it Cindy?” Muñoz asked.
“Cindy who?”
“Oh, shit.” Muñoz looked at the sky. “You know, when a gal dumps me I just go out and get drunk and then it’s all right.”
“Yeah, that’s why you’re in the position you’re in today. A broken-down, bankrupt, lonely cowboy.”
“With a bum leg,” Muñoz said.
“With a bum leg.”
“So, where’re you goin’?”
“Thought I’d go up to Oregon. Visit my sister. Did I tell you she’s got a new baby?”
“Yeah.” Muñoz dropped his butt on the ground and pressed it out with his boot. “What did Cindy say?”
“Nothin’. Just that she was going out with some stud in Red River. Some damn dude Texan, I guess.”
“What do you suppose those Texies do over there when there ain’t no snow?”
“Got me?” Luke said.
Muñoz smiled “I drove through there on the fourth of July. Place was swarmin’ with those Texies. It took me damn near thirty minutes to drive through the shittin’ town. Hell, it’s only a couple hundred yards long.”
“What the hell was goin’ on?”
“All I could see was a bunch of Texas license plates were goin’ back and forth. That’s it. Except for the dudes sittin’ on them fold-out chairs watching the cars go by.”
Luke smiled.
“Seriously. Sitting on the edge of the road, watching cars go by. Enjoying it.”
“Jesus.” Luke shook his head. “People are weird.”
“Enjoying it,” Muñoz repeated.
“Yeah, well, nobody ever said Texans were smart.”
“Want to take a ride?”
“You mean, do I want to drive you someplace.”
“Questa.”
“That’ll take us through fuckin’ Red River. What’s in Questa?”
Muñoz spat and looked at the stands. “There ain’t nothing goin’ on here. Trust me, I’ll show you a good time.”
Luke listened to the announcer call for the team ropers. “Will there be women there?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Get in, Moonie, let’s make tracks.”
Muñoz climbed into the passenger side. Luke wheeled the pickup around in the dusty lot and onto the road. The afternoon sun heated up the cab, and Muñoz drifted off to sleep. Luke turned west at Eagle Nest Lake and started toward the pass which led through Red River and to Questa. Luke reached over and gave Muñoz a shake.
“Moonie. Moonie,” he said.
Muñoz came to.
“I hate that,” Luke said. “Everytime you get in a car you go to fuckin’ sleep. Stay awake and keep me company.”
“Feelin’ lonely?” Muñoz pulled out his cigarettes. “You want to sing songs or something?” He lit up and blew out a cloud.
“I just want you awake to enjoy the ride through beautiful downtown Dead River.”
“Thank you.”
There had been little traffic, but from the hills above the ski town Luke and Muñoz could see all the cars. Down the hill and they were in it. Snailing behind a baby blue Bronco bearing a Texas plate and full of blonde women.
“Man, this shit in Questa had better be good.” Luke scanned the busy sidewalks and cars.
Muñoz watched him. “See her anywhere?”
“Huh?”
“Cindy. You see her yet?”
“Shut up.” Luke leaned back against the seat and stared at the women in the car ahead. “I just don’t understand her.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Luke sighed when they were through Red River without sight of Cindy. He drove on through the pass, looking often down at the river, thinking what he ought to be doing was fishing. Muñoz had drifted off to sleep again by the time they reached the Moly mine and were nearing Questa. Luke woke him up again.
“Where to?” Luke asked.
“Turn right like you’re going up to Cambresto Lake.”
Luke made the turn. “So, you’re goin’ to let me in on what we’re goin’ to?”
“Turn left up here. Just about there.”
There were a number of trucks parked about in no one particular way. Men were walking into and congregating about the wide doors of an old barn. The house that went with it was long ago abandoned, a corpse of a building just lying on the hill above.
Luke turned off the engine and looked around. “Moonie, this has all the earmarks of a cockfight. I don’t need this.”
“It’s not a cockfight. Shows how much you know.” Muñoz got out of the truck and pushed the door shut.
Luke got out. “So, what’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
They walked toward the barn. As they passed a pickup, Luke caught in his eye the face of a dog. He stopped and gave her a rub behind the ears. He studied the hollow, intense eyes and began to feel unsettled.
“No, Moonie, I’m not goin’ in there. It’s a fuckin’ dogfight.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not goin.’”
“You ever been to one?”
Luke shook his head.
Muñoz grabbed him by the arm. “It’s something to see. Something to see that you’ve never seen.”
Luke let himself be dragged in. Men sat and stood around, some with dogs beside them in cages. All the dogs were silent, not a whimper, not a bark. The men barked, betting and ribbing and eager for the upcoming fight between a black pit bull and a brown-and-white one. The dogs stood in corners of a small corral, leaning toward the center, keeping their masters’ muscles tight against taut ropes. The men yelled in Spanish and English. The dogs just stared at each other, like it was their business, like boxers.
Muñoz pulled Luke to the corral. Luke was saying to himself that he didn’t want to see this, but he couldn’t pull himself away. What he wanted to do was run out and call the state police, but that would have only gotten him killed. Sick as it made him, as embarrassed as he felt because of it, in some way he wanted to see.
Then they let the dogs go. There was no stalking, no circling. The black dog ripped into the shoulder of the other, drew blood and bit again, moving sideways against the grip the brown-and-white had on his upper foreleg. The men shouted, more money changing hands. The masters yelled commands. Luke observed the different styles of fighting, the way the black dog sought to lessen the effect of the bite on his leg by moving into it. Then he heard the leg snap. The black dog yelped and for a second let off chewing at the wide hole he’d made in the brown-and-white. He let off for a second, and that was it. A charge turned him over, and the brown-and-white tore into his chest. The master of the black turned away in disgust. Luke was running out before he could see the heart of the animal exposed. He vomited outside between a pickup and a Pinto wagon.
He raised up to find the eyes of the dog he had petted earlier, still tied and standing in the bed of the truck. He went to the animal, and before he knew what he was doing, he had her untied. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck, put her in the cab.
“Hey”, somebody yelled, then ran into the barn.
Luke sped away, back to the road and through Questa, where he turned south and headed for Taos.
Luke wanted to kick himself. The owner of this dog would get the word somebody had taken off with his pooch, and the chase would be on. These people took this dog business seriously. He looked at the brindle pit bull, reached over and scratched it behind the ear. He could take the dog to the state police and tell them about the fighting, but his truck had been seen, so he would still be in trouble. The dog stared ahead through the windshield, not smart-looking, not stupid-looking, just there.
He stopped at a Texaco mini-market gas station. The dog sat quietly while he pumped five dollars of regular into the tank. He made kissing sounds and talked to the dog while he screwed on the cap. While he was inside paying the cashier he watched an over-sized Buick with Oklahoma plates pull up alongside the pumps just beyond the truck. The pit bull was out before the car had stopped good and the driver could open his door. There was a small collie in the car, and the pit bull wanted it. There was a little girl in the back with the collie and she was screaming, she was so frightened.
Luke ran out. The man held at bay behind the wheel glared at him. Luke found that he himself was afraid to reach for the dog’s collar to pull him away. The pit bull was not barking, but growling in a low rumble and leaping at the window, his jaws snapping, sounding like a big book being slammed shut.
The man looked at Luke. He realized now that the dog was with him. “Do something,” the man mouthed the words behind the rolled-up window.
Luke took the rope from the bed of the truck. He formed a loop and dropped it over the dog’s head. He gave a strong yank and jerked the dog off her feet. He climbed into his truck from the passenger side and slid over, pulling the dog in behind him. He held fast to the rope while he started the car. He took off, the passenger-side door swinging shut as he curved out onto the highway.
The Okie was out of his car and yelling at him. “What kind of idiot has a dog like that!”
Luke threw the rope at the dog’s face. “Christ,” he said. “I drag you away from a slaughter and—” He stopped. He’d taken the dog, he guessed, because he had failed to see anything vicious in her face. Now, he didn’t know what to think. “Bad dog!” he said. If the dog heard him, she wasn’t impressed. Luke began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. What was he going to do with this dog? He couldn’t take it back to Questa: he’d return it and they’d beat the shit out of him. He couldn’t let it go in Taos: the damn thing would kill every dog in sight. And what if the asshole whose dog it was called the cops and reported it stolen, description of truck and thief included? No, the guy was dogfighting. He wouldn’t call the police. Would he?
Luke cursed the dog. Then he decided that this was all Cindy’s fault. He pulled into the parking lot behind the plaza and considered that. If Cindy hadn’t told him about the geek from Texas, then he wouldn’t have blown off his ride and ended up with Muñoz at a dogfight. So, here he was, thirty-seven dollars down the drain, a savage dog beside him and some crazy dogfighting banditos hot on his tail. All the fault of a woman. Cindy. She should have this dog.
He started the truck. Dusk was corning on. It would be late when he reached Red River. Especially since he had to go around the other way, through Angel Fire and back through Eagle Nest to avoid Questa and the boys.