High Plains Tango (10 page)

Sometimes you luck out. Carlisle hadn’t thought about government programs. That was something foreign to him, but he didn’t let Birney catch any hint of his ignorance. If Carlisle had known there was income to be generated merely by letting the land sit idle, he might have offered more for it.

Carlisle’s old partner, Buddy Reems, once said, “Carlisle, I’ve decided to abandon carpentry, get out of this rat race, and go into farming.” He was talking serious, looking down at his beer in a San Francisco bar.

As usual, Carlisle bit. “Jeez, Buddy, that takes real money. Land, equipment, seed, all that stuff.”

“Nope.” Buddy grinned. “Given the largesse of the U.S. taxpayer in funding farm programs, all you need are land and a mailbox.”

He laughed, then reached over and slapped Carlisle gently on the face. “Carly, old boy, you’re a born straight man. We could put Abbott and Costello to shame.” Buddy Reems would’ve had lawyer Birney for breakfast, after first driving him insane, of course.

Birney the attorney spoke again. “I’ll have the papers ready by Wednesday next, if that’s all right. Meanwhile you can look over the abstract. I can assure you, however, everything’s in order, and the title’s clean as .  .  . as a baby’s neck. I’ll have to remember that phrase, it’s a good one.”

“You can have it. I think I stole it from E. B. White.”

“Who?”

“A writer.”

“Oh.”

Carlisle walked down the street toward where his truck was parked, feeling especially tough and smart. Cutting good deals was the modern equivalent of early man going out on a hunt and bringing home the goods. He’d heard that some men actually could get an erection just thinking about making deals, though he guessed they were generally sorry-ass specimens when it came to anything else.

Back to the motel room for a few hours with the abstract. It looked all right. Williston’s claim to the land flowed straight down the family tree from his grandfather, who had squatted down there under the 1860 Homestead Act and received clear title. Fifteen years ago, 130 of the original 160 acres had been sold. That sale was clean, as was everything else, and the attached survey seemed dead-on accurate.

He opened the door to Danny’s at ten minutes before eight after glancing up to see if the old man was at his post above Lester’s. He was, windowed like a Vermeer portrait in a brown and blemished frame. Carlisle waved to him, startling the old man, but after a moment he waved back, stiff but friendly.

Danny’s was empty. Gally was mopping, looking tired.

“Don’t panic, I’m not here for anything requiring chefs and waiters in tuxedos,” Carlisle announced as he came in.

“I’m not panicked,” Gally Deveraux replied. “I have no intention of doing any more cooking today. Wayfarers requesting food, including Mick Jagger and Jimmy Carter if they happen by, are being directed to Leroy’s and the pleasures of his menu. If you want coffee, I just unplugged the machine, but it’s still hot. You can have a free cup, since it doesn’t seem right to charge for something out of a piece of equipment that’s been shut down.”

“Fair enough.”

He sat at the counter while she poured two cups and leaned against the soft-drink cooler as she’d done the previous night. “Well, how’d it go? Are you a future resident and taxpayer of Yerkes County, or is California looking better and better all the time?”

“In answer to your first question, yes, I think so. I’m having the abstract brought up-to-date, and Clarence Darrow over in Livermore will have the papers ready in a couple of days. The answer to your second question is a firm No.”

She smiled then, holding out her hand. “In that case, my name is Gally Deveraux.”

He took her hand, a worker’s hand but a nice hand. “I’m Carlisle McMillan. The reason I’m here is to offer you a beer for your mapmaking and real estate brokering, unless you’re tied up or whatever.”

As soon as he said it, he was sorry. He hadn’t noticed her wedding ring before, wasn’t used to looking for wedding rings. Clumsy, putting both her and him in an awkward situation.

He tried to backtrack. “If .  .  . that’s if it’s okay. I really didn’t think about you being married .  .  . not that you shouldn’t be .  .  . and just now noticed your ring. I mean .  .  . I don’t mean anything, not trying to start anything .  .  . Aw, crap.”

Gally Deveraux laughed and put her hand over her mouth, trying to conceal her amusement, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t done that for a long time, laughed out loud.

“Well, that’s really decent of you. Drink your coffee while I finish mopping, and we’ll brave the wilds of Leroy’s in about ten minutes. Be forewarned, though, I’ll be on my guard all the way across Main Street.”

She laughed again, not at Carlisle, who was obviously squirming inside and entirely uncomfortable, but at the situation. He picked up on that and appreciated it, but he still felt the blood come to his face.

Beating on himself for his clumsiness, Carlisle glanced through remnants of the
High Plains Inquirer
lying on the counter. The logo said it was the newspaper he could count on, so he counted on it. It told him that somebody’s hitting streak ended at thirty, that a new movie premiered in London, and that wearing corrective teeth braces had actually become a fad in Richmond, Virginia. With those items in mind, he turned to the Opinion section and looked at the lead editorial.

Time to Get Going

Getting the state moving economically has proven to be a bigger challenge than Governor Jerry Gravatt anticipated. His diagnosis that we have been too dependent on agriculture and its related industries is right on target, but his solutions and those proposed by various business or legislative groups have so far not borne fruit. The chasing of smokestack industries puts us in competition with states that have paid more careful attention over the years to infrastructure requirements for industrial purposes, such as highways. Residents of this state have consistently voted against even slight increases in the state gasoline tax, which would have added greatly to road construction and improvement. And rumors of federal funding for a major new highway through the state have so far proven to be just that, rumors. Moreover, the aging of our population due to the exodus of our young people is steadily eroding the skilled labor force necessary as one component for convincing industry to locate here. Meanwhile, the state’s tax base continues to decline as incomes drop and even longtime state industries move elsewhere in search of cheaper labor, better transportation, and relief from the increases in various state taxes being levied to offset the decline in the tax base. It’s time for the governor, the legislature, and business groups to stop criticizing one another and start working together. The governor’s proposed high-tech corridor from Falls City to the capital is a good beginning. All citizens of the state should get behind this visionary proposal in spite of the high initial costs for the laser and biotechnology centers. It’s time to stop complaining, roll up our sleeves, and get going.

While Carlisle read the newspaper, Gally Deveraux mopped the chinked linoleum of a place called Danny’s and thought about her life. She had torn her existence down like an old car engine parted out and scattered on a greasy floor. At least once a week she did that, then tried to reassemble it in a way that made more sense. But it always came together in the same sputtering, rackety form: thirty-nine, lonely, running down, no options, a woman steadily becoming invisible to the eyes of men. Even a married woman didn’t like being invisible that way, especially to her husband.

She pulled on a denim jacket and began turning out the caf lights. “Any time you’re ready.”

Carlisle held the door for her as she switched off the neon sign on their way out.

“Thanks. I’m used to opening my own doors.” She smiled again, and they walked across the street toward Leroy’s.

The pool table was dark. So was Leroy’s face. Except for old Frank, the town greeter with his head flat on the bar, no one else was in Leroy’s tavern at eight-fifteen on a Tuesday night. Sales were not good and getting worse.

Leroy squinted at the longhair that had come in with Jack Deveraux’s wife, figuring maybe not say anything to Jack. Jack had a real bad temper, particularly when he’d been drinking, a state in which he existed more or less permanently.

A few months later, when he got to know Carlisle, Leroy would say, “Carlisle, I’ve developed the typical small-town retailer’s mentality, that being ‘Please, God, don’t do anything bad until I retire, then do whatever You want to the poor bastards who’re left.’ God’s not listening to me, however, for about a thousand reasons I can think of.”

Carlisle ordered two Buds, guessing that Leroy had not yet restocked Miller’s. He collected the beers and took them over to where Gally was sitting in a booth, the
LEROY’S
window sign doodling red marks on her face when it flashed. She sensed that and shifted over in the booth.

He raised his bottle a little. “Here’s to squatter’s rights, or whatever it’s called out here.”

She tapped her bottle against his, easylike. “To squatter’s rights, and let’s hope they can get to their feet after being in that position for so long.” She leaned back in the corner of the booth, tugging on her beer, looking out over the bar.

Leroy fed the jukebox. The first two songs were standard issue—trucks and adultery, eighteen wheels and crawlin’ home late at night with lipstick on your collar. The next tune featured some guy with a pretty decent tenor and solid steel guitar work behind him: “Hangin’ on the door frame, repeatin’ my own name, as if I might forget who I am.”

Things picked up a little when the duck-man came in. Carlisle had no idea who the duck-man was, but he would see him occasionally in the years ahead and was mildly fascinated by his behavior. The duck-man sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and drank it quietly, keeping to himself. Nothing unusual there. What was strange was this: Inside the big overcoat he wore winter and summer was a live mallard. Every so often he would peel back his coat lapel and the duck would stick out its green head. The duck-man would tip up the bottle, and the duck would take a hit of Grain Belt, then disappear back inside the coat.

Carlisle looked at the duck-man, then over at Gally. She shrugged and grinned, taking a hit of her own beer.

He wanted to ask her about the woman with the auburn hair, but he didn’t. He’d learned a long time ago that asking a woman about another woman, with any hint of interest attached, not only came off as a little tacky, but generally elicited bad information.

Instead he said, “Tell me more about the ghosts out at Wolf Butte.”

Gally looked at the ceiling for a moment, then at Carlisle, noticing how warm his eyes seemed. A little sad, maybe, but warm and good. Maybe the kind of man who wouldn’t see women as trophies.

“Well, I think I mentioned the college professor who fell off a cliff right near there. That was some time ago. There was a lot of hoopla in those days about the Indian mounds out in that direction, and all kinds of scientific types were rolling in and out of Salamander for a few months. Men and women both, all nice folks. Dressed in hardworking clothes, real polite when they came into Danny’s to eat. Cleaned their boots on the curb before they came in, which Thelma appreciated, still mentions it occasionally when she’s chewing out some cowboy tracking ungodly stuff into the caf. Quite a crowd, they were, laughed a lot and seemed to have a good time.

“Rumor had it that the Indians were getting pretty upset about what was happening out there on what they consider sacred land that should be theirs under the old treaties. Wasn’t long after that the professor got killed, and the project was abandoned. Nobody seemed to know why.

“A year or two before the professor died, a survey crew was camped at the foot of Wolf Butte. Four of them all staying in a big tent. In the middle of the night, a chunk of rock peeled off the butte and fell smack right onto their tent. Squashed the lot of them, though one guy lived for about a week before dying. It’s a mercy he died, shape he was in. Everybody said they should have known better than to set up camp that close to the rock face. Another crew came in and finished the job, that’s what people said. Never heard anything about what they were surveying for.”

Carlisle said nothing and waited for her to continue.

“It gets stranger and stranger. Some of the old-timers claim there was a series of such incidents out there when this area was first settled. All sorts of peculiar goings-on back then, according to what I’ve heard—fires on top of Wolf Butte at night, sound of drums, a huge bird circling the butte, a hairy creature called Big Man stalking around the countryside, all kinds of stuff. Some people say the stories go back much further. The Indians themselves say the stories are ancient. Something about a priestess called Syawla. The old-timers believe there’s always someone or something out there watching for intruders. Legend has it that he is called the Keeper and is the son of Syawla. Keeper of what, I’m not sure. Keeps watch over the sacred ground, I guess. That’s about all I know. Kind of gives me the shivers when I drive by that area on my way into town.”

Carlisle sat quietly, thinking for a moment. “That is pretty strange. Makes me even more interested in the Williston place. Who owns the land around Wolf Butte?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Axel Looker’s ground is right north of there. On the west side, I think some of it’s government land leased to ranchers for grazing, some of it’s owned by a corporation, so people say. The company has one of those nondescript names that’s hard to remember. Aura Corporation, something like that.”

“Aur .  .  . what? How do you spell it?”

“Like it sounds: A-u-r-a. I have no idea what it stands for. I asked Jack, my husband, once, and he didn’t know.”

Carlisle fingered his beer bottle, rocking it slowly from side to side. “You can see Wolf Butte rising in the distance from the Williston place. Maybe I’ll get some binoculars and see what I can see out there. Want to plunder the moment and have another beer?”

“Sure, let’s plunder.” Gally smiled, finished her beer, and handed the bottle to Carlisle.