Bone Dry

Rodney began to whimper softly.

Honeybee cavorted around the woman with glee.

The woman turned to Rodney and said, “Well, look at that. I think I’ve already got the hang of it.”

“You’re about the most stupidest hillbilly I ever met, you know that, Billy Don?” The men were back in Red’s truck, driving over to Emmett Slaton’s house. Red felt certain they’d both get fired this time. They had wasted a great deal of time chopping cedar on the wrong ranch, and now they had to come clean with their boss.

Over on the passenger’s side, Billy Don was pouting. “It wasn’t my fault, Red. All I done was foller the map, and it was wrong.”

“The map, huh?”

“You saw it.”

“But you’re the one who drew the freakin’ map!”

“Oh yeah.”

“I have to tell ya, I’m impressed, though. I didn’t even know you could operate a pencil without an owner’s manual.”

Billy Don gave Red a harsh glare-kind of a cross-eyed grimace that appeared when he was particularly angry-and Red knew he was walking on thin ice. Billy Don was a three-hundred-pound brute, and Red decided he’d better ease up.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do about keeping our jobs. Just leave the talkin’ to me.”

As Red turned into the gate at Emmett Slaton’s ranch, a late-model Lincoln coming the other way barreled through beside him, blasting its horn. Red caught a glimpse of the driver as it passed by. “Hell’s bells, what’s wrong with that guy?” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “You know, that looked like that Eye-talian who tried to hire us last week.”

“Wonder if his offer is still good?” Billy Don whimpered.

Red hissed: “You can go to work for a wop if you want, Billy Don, but not me. Besides, somethin’ didn’t feel right.”

The man had called Red on the phone, offering an employment deal that included complicated incentives and escalating per-acre commissions. You could make a coupla g’s a week if you work hard enough, the man had said. Red wasn’t sure what a “g” was, but he had pulled a few fast ones in his time and he thought it sounded like a scam. He said thanks but no thanks, he was sticking with Slaton.

Red parked the truck and the Doberman bounded off the porch, howling at the visitors.

“Hey there, Patton,” Red said, and the dog wagged its docked tail. “Look what we got here.” Red pulled a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and Patton gently took it from his hand. “You’re just a big ol’ pansy, ain’t ya? Where’s your daddy at?”

As if he understood, the dog ran to the front door and barked.

Emmett Slaton opened the door and ushered the men into his den. “What brings you out here this time of day, boys? You done with the Leaning X already?”

Red held his hat in his hand and told the full story, waiting for Slaton to get angry, tell them they were both idiots. But Slaton didn’t get mad, and actually seemed distracted, as if he were hardly listening.

When Red was finished, Slaton simply nodded. Then he pulled a large handgun out of a drawer and laid it on his desk. “Either of you ever shot a forty-five? I want to sight this in, but my eyes ain’t quite what they used to be.”

Red was startled. “What about the Leaning X, sir? Ain’t you gonna fire us?”

“Aw, hell, son, I would never fire you for that. Besides, you wasted your time, not mine. Now help me sight this gun in.”

Red stared down at the weapon. “Somethin’ got you worried, Mr. Slaton?”

The rancher shrugged. “Aw, not really, son. But a man can’t be too careful these days.”

Sunday evening, a cold front moved southward into Blanco County, bringing half an inch of much-needed rain, harsh winds, and a twenty-degree drop in temperature. John Marlin was glad to see it. The first week of deer season was always his busiest, and the nasty weather would help put a damper on poaching activities around the county.

He received only one call that evening. Just after sundown, a hunter on a day lease had struck an axis deer with his truck. The landowner was furious, claiming the hunter owed him two thousand dollars for the imported exotic buck. The hunter didn’t see it that way, and wanted the landowner to pay for the damages to his Chevy. Marlin knew the law, and sided with neither of them.

Over the phone, he told them the hunter wasn’t liable for the cost of the deer and the landowner wasn’t liable for the damages to the truck. They each had to take their own lumps. That seemed to satisfy them both, and Marlin hung up, grateful he didn’t have to brave the weather for something so petty.

CHAPTER SIX

The rain was long gone by Monday morning, but things were still slow-no calls from the sheriff’s dispatcher- so Marlin met Phil Colby for breakfast at a small cafe attached to the bowling alley in Blanco. He was also expecting to see Rodney Bauer, who had called Marlin’s home number early that morning. Bauer wouldn’t specify why he wanted to see Marlin, but said it had something to do with an odd incident that happened while he was quail- hunting yesterday.

The diner was quiet, with only a dozen or so customers, all die-hard regulars willing to brave the weather for a hot breakfast. Marlin and Colby were in a booth, drinking coffee, waiting for the waitress to bring their orders.

“You watchin’ the Cowboys this afternoon?” Colby asked.

“Probably catch it on the radio,” Marlin replied.

“Lookin’ like a pretty bad year.”

Marlin nodded.

“Their runnin’ game has gone to hell,” Colby said, “and their defense is a sieve.”

Marlin heard the jingle of the bell hanging on the front door of the diner and glanced over, but it wasn’t Rodney Bauer.

“Have I told you about my new two-seventy?” Colby asked. “That sucker can hit the same hole twice at a hundred yards. Can’t wait to get out hunting next week.”

“Yeah, you mentioned it,” Marlin said. He knew Colby was trying to draw him into conversation, to help him quit dwelling on other, less pleasant topics. Like the fact that Becky was gone, probably for good.

Unfortunately, in a small town, gossip travels faster than a spooked mare, and Marlin knew the locals were wondering whether he and Becky were still seeing each other. Marlin had no idea why people were so interested in other people’s social lives. They were always asking vague, not-so-innocent questions, giving him sympathetic looks, trying to draw information out of him. What have you been doing lately? Haven’t seen you in town much… where you been? You still living by yourself out there in the sticks? Like the other day, when Susannah Branson had asked him if he had lost weight. What Marlin had heard, between the lines, was: Haven’t you been eating? What’s bothering you? That’s why he had given her the smart-ass “tapeworm” answer. Because Marlin didn’t want to talk about it.

Colby went quiet and focused on the basketball game playing on the TV mounted above the bar.

After a few minutes of silence, the bell jingled again and Rodney Bauer walked in. He spotted Marlin and Colby and strolled casually to their table. “Hey, John-hey, Phil. Y’all mind if I join you?”

“I thought that was the plan,” Marlin said, and Rodney sat down.

Rodney signaled the waitress for coffee, then leaned in close over the table. He whispered, “Something really strange happened to me yesterday, John, and I’m pretty pissed off about it.” In a quiet voice, Rodney led Marlin through the events of the day before.

“She jammed the muzzle of your gun into the mud?” Marlin repeated. Next to him, Colby let out a small laugh.