1:05 A.M.
Owens had grown up on a ranch, not unlike myself, and had done a lot of cattle feeding in the winter; knew what it was like for the animals out in the weather, the wet and cold. He’d felt sympathy for all those animals and just wished he could call them all in and break up a little corn for them to eat.
1:06 A.M.
Thirty minutes later he had written the music and four verses. I could still see the little 45 turning on my mother’s suitcase of a record player on hot afternoons in August. I was in high school and thought the tune one of the corniest things I’d ever heard, referring to it as goat-yodeling music. My mother knew I hated the song, and so she played it constantly. She might have been the reason that I was considered by some as a bit of a wiseguy.
1:07 A.M.
I found my lips moving along with the lyrics. I’m not a very good singer-as a matter of documentation, I’m horrible, but I can be loud. My father used to call it my field voice and forbade me to use it in the house. As I started singing, Dog turned and looked at me with an ear cocked. In the short time we’d known each other, he’d never heard me sing. Encouraged by his attention, I sang louder.
Then I sang even louder.
I’m pretty sure I was shaking the walls when Dog joined in. “Oooooooo, ooooooooo, doooooooo dee dee- ooooooooooo, doooooo, doooo doo-doo-doo-dee… For hours he’d ride on the range far and wide / When the night winds blow up a storm. / His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather, / when he sings his cattle call… Oooooooo, ooooooooo, doooooooo dee dee-Ooooooooooo, doooooo, doooo doo-doo-doo-dee…”
I gave out with one more chorus of yodeling, and Dog howled with me when I noticed that they had turned the radio off next door. There was a certain amount of conversation, and I could hear a number of expletives as somebody thrashed around the adjoining room. He was cursing and threatening as a woman laughed. Then she laughed again.
Five seconds later, the somebody was hammering my door. Dog barked, and I rested the Bible on the nightstand, got up, and slipped on my jeans and boots.
I ignored the. 45 Colt in my duffel and opened the door.
“You some kind’a fuckin’ comedian?”
As I’d suspected, it was Cliff Cly. I guess he had decided to take his party to a room. He was still wearing the same droopy potato-chip straw hat, sunglasses, and the two-day beard but had stripped down to a sleeveless T- shirt that read PRO BULL RIDING TOUR. He was holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and leaning a shoulder on my doorjamb for support. Dog growled from behind me, and I turned my head to shush him, then turned back to the ranch hand. “Excuse me?”
He leaned in a little closer and, with the strength of the alcohol fumes, I was sure I didn’t have any hair left in my nose. “I said, you some kind’a comedian?”
I studied his face, the wobbling intent of his eyes, the elongated nose. “I don’t take myself all that seriously, if that’s what you mean.”
He cocked his head and tried to focus his eyes on mine, and I could see just how profoundly drunk he was. “You…” He belched. “You take me seriously?”
“Right now? Not so much.” He stood there for a moment more, then pushed off from the doorway. He staggered a second and started to raise the bottle, but the movement was so slow and clumsy, I didn’t even bother to raise a hand in defense. Instead, I watched as he lost his balance.
“Oh, shit-”
I reached out and tried to grab him, but I was too slow and he sprawled backward and landed on his back with a liquid thump, the bottle of whiskey skittering down the slight gravel incline toward my rental car.
I took a step forward and crouched down on the walkway as Dog trotted out and joined me in looking down at the semi-unconscious Cliff Cly. I glanced back at Dog. “I know this is twice in one night, but people don’t usually act like this.” Dog looked at me, unsure if I was telling the truth or just defending the species. I gathered Cliff, sitting him up and leaning him against my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
His hat fell off, his head leaned against me with sunglasses askew, and he belched again. “I’m kind of fucked up in general, so it’s hard to gauge.”
I had to smile. “Well, let’s try and get you into your room.”
He was heavy, and I could tell that the majority of his weight was muscle, but I was able to put one of his arms around my neck and lift him to a partially standing posture by grabbing his belt, which was made out of some kind of chrome timing chain. The door to his room was still open, and the lights were on, so I moved us in that direction. Dog sniffed at him but then moved away. He definitely didn’t smell good.
When I got to the doorway, I recognized the Rubenesque tattooed woman from the bar. She was seated on the bed in a bra and panties, and she looked to be about four months pregnant, a fact that had been hidden by clothes earlier. Her mouth, which was outlined with very dark lipstick, made a perfect O.
“Can you help me with him?”
She looked past me with black penciled eyes. “Where’s the Jack?”
I carried Cly toward the bed and sprawled him there, face first at her feet. “I’m just guessing, but I think he’s had enough.”
She got off the bed and walked past me toward the door; there was a peacock on her back with feathers that exploded in greens and blues toward her neck. “Yeah, but I haven’t even got started.”
I rolled Cliff over and figured he could sleep it off where he lay when I heard a yip come from the young woman. I turned and saw that Dog, standing in the open doorway, had frozen her. I walked over, shooed Dog with my leg, and led her through the door. He looked hurt, and considered us like a disgruntled Grendel.
“Where’s the bottle?”
Before I could catch myself, I glanced toward the car and down the slight incline.
She looked up at me, her blond hair shifting to the left. I think the dark roots were a fashion statement. “You’re the guy from the bar.”
I reached for my hat but then remembered it was sitting on the table in my room. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You look real familiar-”
I couldn’t place the face, and it was unlikely I’d forget the tattoos, so it was possible that I hadn’t ever arrested her. “Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”
She smirked in an attempt at a smile. “It’s a good face.”
“Thanks, it’s a little tired right now, so I’m going to take it to bed.”
She walked down the incline, tiptoeing on the gravel with bare feet, stooped and picked up the bottle, and crow-hopped back to the wooden walkway; she held the whiskey and her stomach with her left hand. The other she stuck out-it had a locomotive amid floral designs and a jack-o-lantern, which trailed up her arm in blues, purples, yellows, and reds. “Name is Rose.”
By any other name. I stood there for a second, then extended my hand into hers. Her grip was strong.
“Did you hit him?”
“No, he passed out.”
“There wasn’t any fight part?”
“No, the passed-out part came before the fight part could get started.”
She shook her head. “That’s Cliff all over. These rodeo cowboys all think that eight seconds is a good ride.” She raised her other hand, which had a lacelike design inked on the fingers that became snakes that intertwined as they climbed. “Most people wouldn’t stand up to him like that.”
“Seems like you were rooting for a fight just a couple of hours ago.”
She smiled fully this time. “Boring night in the big town. I was just looking for a little excitement.” She glanced into the room she shared with Cliff and then looked back to me. “He’s only been around for a couple of weeks, but I can tell you, he’s crazy.”
I nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
“You strike me as one of those guys who doesn’t forget much.”
I watched as she brought the bottle up and noticed there was a good two inches left. I thought about a young woman I knew, an Indian princess, who had been born with fetal alcohol syndrome. “How ’bout you not do
