Hard Twisted (19 page)

Okay. Suppose I like that sorrel. Now what?

That's his blanket there. What's your wager?

Palmer leaned and reached into his own pocket. How about a paper dollar?

That's fine. Come on.

They walked together to where the men stood. Goulding spoke in Navajo and a discussion ensued among the others. Some shook their heads and drifted off, while others glanced at Palmer and at the girl who stood behind him and then huddled in further conference. At last one of the men bent to his bag and produced a silver ring with a band of inlaid turquoise. He showed it to Palmer and gestured with his head in Lottie's direction.

Palmer nodded. Yeah, sure. Why not.

The man, who wore looped silver earrings, crossed to the far blanket and tossed down the ring. Palmer bent and weighted his dollar among the coins and baubles on the blanket at his feet.

The horses approached the line together, their eyes rolling and their necks arched as they jigged and strained against the bit shanks, the jockeys talking to them and to each other and sawing on the horses' mouths. Goulding raised his hand again and counted again and set them off in another churning dust cloud.

These too were evenly matched. They streaked in tandem toward the distant stake, their polls bobbing like pistonheads, and as they neared the turn, the brown horse nosed in front and
cut sharply so that the sorrel was forced wide and showered in its rival's dust plume. The brown horse straightened and pinned its ears and flattened out on the home stretch, and it held a two-length lead until, halfway to the finish line, it suddenly broke stride.

A cry went up from the watching men as the sorrel thundered past while the rider of the brown horse slid lightly to the ground, running and checking his limping mount and lifting its injured foreleg.

An argument erupted among the bettors, and while some ran to tend the hobbling animal, the others joined together in a circle with lowered heads and lowered voices. Grave faces, listening and nodding. Then, as the horse was led on past, the men who were huddled parted and turned, and Goulding was summoned to join them in their deliberations.

Will he be okay? Lottie asked Palmer as she followed the horse's progress toward the corral.

Looks to me like maybe a tendon. I don't think they'll shoot him. Less maybe they bet on him.

When the huddle broke again, a smiling Goulding crossed to where they stood.

Good news for you. They asked me to rule, and I ruled your sorrel the winner.

Palmer looked past him to where the losers were still talking and shaking their heads. Shit, he said. Don't seem fair to reward a poor judgment on horseflesh.

Goulding shrugged. Fair is where the fat lady sits.

Palmer left them and crossed to the blankets where he retrieved first his bill and then the turquoise ring. He stepped to the Indian in the silver earrings and pressed them both into the
startled man's hand. The man tried to protest, but Palmer turned his back and walked to where Goulding and Lottie waited.

Goulding, hand to chin, said nothing. They stood together and watched as the next pair of horses was saddled and led to the waiting jockeys.

Don't worry, Palmer told him. I've always been lucky with chickens.

The Navajos were arrayed in groups of three and four wherever there was shade. Some were still eating, and some were napping, and one yet tended to the injured horse, wrapping its foreleg in a kind of poultice. Another pair loitered by the doorway of the trading post, while a quartet sat cross-legged around a jar in whose lid a slot had been cut. They dealt cards and played them on their blanket, depositing coins at long intervals into the jar slot.

Looks like some kind of rummy, Palmer observed from where they sat in the tree shade. Man could grow whiskers earnin a dollar at that rate.

Lottie sipped at her soda pop. Maybe these ones ain't the high rollers.

By God, you might be right. Maybe the big chief's on his way right now. Got himself a gold-plated Packard and big bag o' wampum.

They reclined in the shade and watched the game and watched the light shifting on the vermilion buttes that blazed beyond the players like ingots in the noontime sun. A hot breeze blew from the west, and it tousled the horses' manes and flipped one of the playing cards on the blanket. Lottie finished her pop and shifted and rested her head on Palmer's shoulder. He did not caress her, nor did he shrug her off.

Call me crazy, he said, but I think a man could hang his hat in these parts. Mike and Harry, they got a pretty sweet deal down here. And I think Harry's right about them sheep.

What about 'em?

What he said, about time and grass and water. In a couple years, that flock could be four thousand head. Once prices come back, the man that owns four thousand sheep is a rich man.

The players' heads turned toward the trading post, where Goulding had stepped again into sunshine. He sported a cowboy hat of battered straw, and he carried in one hand a hen inverted by its leg shanks. In the other, he carried a shovel.

Shit, said Palmer. I think I'm gettin the picture.

The sleepers were nudged awake, and the cards were collected and stowed. The men rose in unison and dusted their seats and drifted toward the corrals.

Goulding hefted the prostrate bird as he approached. You ever seen this in Texas?

You aim to bury that thing?

I'll show you. Come on.

They walked together onto the hot and dusty hardpan, and when they'd reached the morning's finish line, Goulding handed Palmer the hen, which flapped and settled again in helpless resignation. Goulding started to dig.

You see them stakeposts out there?

Palmer followed his nod and saw that the turnpost for the morning's races was but one of a dozen like stakes arrayed in a giant oval.

We bury the chicken up to its neck, see? Then all the riders wait in a big group over thereabouts. Each man gets a run at the bird. You pull it free, then you ride like hell, cuz they're gonna
be coming after you. The man that rounds the course and crosses the finish line with the chicken's head in his hand is the winner. Give her here.

They traded. Goulding cupped the bird with both hands, its wings firmly pinioned, and he lowered it into the hole. Move some dirt, cowboy.

Palmer carefully backfilled the hole, and together the two men pressed and smoothed and stamped the ground until only the chicken's head and neck were visible, rooting and twisting like some hatchling newly born.

They returned to where the Navajo men had formed into a circle. Goulding spoke to them in their language, and with a shuffling of feet a place was made for Palmer to stand among them. At the center of the circle lay an empty pop bottle, and when all were finally in place, Goulding stepped into the circle and bent and spoke again and spun.

The bottleneck when it stopped was pointed at one of the jockeys. The smiling boy stepped away and hurried to the corral.

They continued in like fashion, repositioning themselves around the circle after every spin, every departure less enthusiastic than the last. Palmer was the eighth thus chosen, after the man with the silver earrings, and as he walked from the circle to his horse, Goulding's voice called out behind him.

Cinch her tight, cowboy! Once the racing starts, it's no holds barred!

Mike appeared from the trading post in new dungarees and a white and ironed blouse that seemed oddly formal to the occasion. She carried a patterned blanket under her arm, and when she'd descended to where the riders were clustered, she laid it on the
ground and spoke a few words in Navajo. Goulding stood beside her and spoke again at length, and there followed a lively discussion among the men on horseback. Then, one by one, each rider removed some piece of jewelry and held it aloft and tossed it onto the blanket.

Goulding moved to stand alongside Palmer's stirrup.

You got five dollars?

Palmer frowned. He leaned and dug into his pocket. I suppose I should've asked before you got me this far.

Goulding chuckled. Winner gets the rug and everything on it. Them's big stakes in these parts.

He took the bill from Palmer and walked it to the blanket and set it down with great ceremony. Mike then bent and gathered up the corners and carried the rug and its weighty cache to the shade of the lean-to.

One by one the riders turned their horses, and when they'd regrouped at a distance, Goulding stood alone at the start line with the chicken's neck worming luridly between his boots. He called out a name, and the younger of the two jockeys removed his hat and flung it and rolled back from the others. He circled at a trot, then roweled his big pinto forward at a gallop.

I can't bear to watch this, Mike said to Lottie, and she turned and walked toward the trading post.

Four strides from his target, the boy gripped the saddle horn with his left hand and dropped his weight to the offside, his right hand cupped and trailing, and as he lunged at the twisting bird, the other riders pulled rein, their horses backing and squatting.

The boy missed. Whoops of derision went up from the mounted gallery, and the horses relaxed again. Then another rider removed his hat and flung it to the ground.

The pattern repeated. As each of the riders swooped and missed his grab, there was a chorus of jeers, followed by a reordering within the group as legs were hitched and cinches already tightened were tightened yet again.

The garden of hats grew to half a dozen before a rider, the second of the young jockeys, grabbed enough neck for the hen's back to hump. The bird was squawking now, one wing partly exposed, her throat and hackles twisting and flailing wildly.

When the brave with the silver earrings whooped and flung his hat, the others began jostling in earnest. The rider circled and gathered speed and came at a jerking gallop. As he swung low and lunged at the easy target, the bird exploded from the ground in a welter of dirt and feathers, and the waiting riders burst forth like a swollen levee breached.

The lead brave's horse was a line-back mustang, short and compact, and he rode it low over the pommel with his shoulders rolling and his topknot bouncing wildly. The flapping bird he held aloft like a bagful of money. His lead, which was eight to ten lengths at the outset, narrowed with every stakepost as the others, kicking and whooping, closed the distance behind him.

The first to reach him, midway down the backstretch, were the two young jockeys. They flanked and crimped the fading mustang, and as arms flailed and hooves clacked, a plume of red blood burst from among them, spattering Palmer where he leaned, dusty and blinded, a length behind the leaders.

Palmer reined to the outside as a cry went up and the horse that was before him stumbled, horse and rider pitching forward into the piston-churn of hooves and hocks. From this new vantage Palmer could see the outside jockey holding firm to the
leader's wrist, with the chicken, or what was left of the chicken, flapping raw and bloody over the outside jockey's pommel.

The horses leaned through the final turn and thundered for home. Palmer kicked and cursed and gained on the outside as Henry's ears flattened and the trailing horses one by one began to fall away.

Slowly, gradually, Palmer inched the bay horse forward, until he was nearly abreast of the trio. Then, with a hundred yards to go, he made his move.

Swapping the reins to his outside hand, he leaned and clapped the fist that gripped the flaccid birdneck, then he used his thumb to pry the fingertips away, one by one, until the prize was in his grasp.

He jerked it free as the horses crossed the finish line, and he held it aloft as he stood in the stirrups, dirty and bloody and grinning crazily, loosing a warbling parody of an Indian war cry.

The huddle was again in session by the time Palmer had cooled his horse and pulled his saddle and returned still grinning from the corral. Only this time it was Goulding who appeared vexed, glancing over at Palmer as he argued with the others.

We got a problem?

Palmer spoke to Goulding's back, and to the wall of baleful stares that encircled the taller man.

Goulding sighed without turning. Seems like Mr. Cly here thinks he crossed the line with the bird still in hand.

Palmer looked to the man in the silver earrings. His arms folded and his jaw set, obsidian eyes glinting under his dirty hat brim.

That a fact.

What's more, it seems the others agree with Mr. Cly. I'd have to say they're downright settled on the subject.

I thought you was the referee. What do you say?

Goulding turned to face him. I'd say you want them trinkets, you'll have to shoot your way out of this valley.

Hell, there's a good fifty dollars of loot in that blanket.

Goulding nodded. And then some.

The Indians stood shoulder to shoulder, joined as in arms to repulse some threat to their sovereignty.

Palmer leaned and spat. Fuck it, he said as he turned. They want it that bad, they can have it.

He marched toward the corral and took down his saddle and carried it to the tent, where Lottie stood watching in the doorway.

What're you lookin at? he snapped, and she nodded over his shoulder.

Look behind you.

The man in the silver earrings stood apart from the others, and when Palmer turned to face him, the Indian walked forward and reached into his pocket and proffered the bill that Palmer had wagered.

That's mighty white of you, Chief, Palmer said as he reached for the bill. But the Indian snatched it away and turned to where the others watched, and all of them burst out laughing.

Goulding stared into the fire. I don't know what to say.

Palmer plucked a brand from the fire and lit his smoke. Don't worry. It ain't the first time I been poorly used, and I'm guessin it won't be the last.

Still.

Palmer shook out the flame and leaned back and looked off down the valley, where the shapes of the giant monuments appeared only as darkness torn from the surrounding starlight.