In Open Spaces (24 page)

We followed the tracks until they led to a fence that the antelope had crawled through. We had to take a detour of about a hundred yards to get to a gate.

“Frank, we ain’t never gonna catch up to these bastards,” Art said.

“Art, you got something better to do this morning? We might as well give it a shot.”

“Yeah, well, I guess. But I’m thinkin’ it’s too late.”

“Art, shut up.” I swung a leg off my horse to open the gate. “Just shut up and follow me. We have all day. And if we don’t catch these two, maybe we’ll find a few others.”

Art set his jaw, his lower lip pinched up against the upper, sticking out a little. He nudged his horse through the gate, spitting into the snow once he was on the other side. I closed the gate and mounted my horse.

“You know, Frank…” Art looked thoughtful. He paused for quite a while. “You only talked to me like that one other time that I remember.” He fixed an eye on me as we started back toward the tracks. “It was the day I helped you pull your cow out of the bog.”

“Art, you pulled a gun on me!”

“Well, now, if I’m remembering right, there was some trespassing goin’ on that day….”

I groaned and waved him off.

“You thought I wasn’t goin’ to remember that part,” he said.

“Oh, I remember. There was some trespassing going on, all right. And not only were you the one who was trespassing,” I said, half mad and half amused, “but that was your goddam cow.”

“Oh, no, you’re just not rememberin’ things too clear today, are you?”

I held my breath and decided not to continue the discussion, figuring that by the time we were through arguing, I’d be ready to leave Art out there to starve.

“Art, the last thing I want to do is challenge your fine memory. Of course you’re right.”

“Damn right.”

After a silent half hour, we came up over a rise, and I spotted the antelope three-quarters of a mile away. I pulled up and put my arm out to stop Art,
who was riding behind me. There was nothing but white, empty space between us and them, so we had to come up with a strategy.

A line of brush ran along the east side of the meadow. We agreed I would sneak along behind the brush while Art approached from the other direction. We figured he’d scare them toward me if they didn’t see him too soon.

The sun shone nearly straight overhead, and the warm sweat felt good inside my clothes. Tromping through the brush, my horse’s hooves unleashed the aroma of scrubwood and wild plum. I breathed deep. I kept a close eye on Art, trying to stay ahead of him in case the antelope jumped too quickly. I cradled my gun in my right elbow, the weight of its oily barrel heavy on my forearm. About halfway down, still well out of range, I heard a shot.

“Damn,” I muttered. I was behind a thick bush and had to move forward before I saw Art, at full gallop, aiming at the bounding figures, again yards out of his range. He shot, then pulled his horse up. Art’s head jerked forward and back, and I could imagine what he was saying. Or maybe I couldn’t.

I resisted the urge to ask “What the hell has gotten into you today?” until I heard Art’s explanation. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’d been hunting since he could lift a gun, long before I was born, and was actually known as one of the better hunters in our parts.

“Those sons of bitches saw me and took off ’fore I knew what…” His eyes, desperate and wide, darted around me, over and under me, anywhere but at me, and it was then I realized how much Art’s rabid desire to get one of the animals might be affecting his judgment. He looked frantic, hungry for something deeper, more crucial to life than food. He had the look of a man who had to get one of these antelope to prove something, to make things right somehow, to give him a reason to keep on. It scared the living daylights out of me.

“All right, Art. Let’s just take it easy. I think we’re okay. They’re headed up toward that grove of cottonwoods near Hay Creek. If they
go in there, it will give us a good chance of sneaking up on them and flushing them out.” I slipped my rifle back into its scabbard. “Let’s rest for a second or two.”

Art nodded, his head bobbing unevenly. “Sons a bitches took off ’fore I even woulda figured they could see me,” he said.

It was possible the antelope really did see him and take off, but the more he talked, the more I was convinced that he’d shot at them first. I decided if we caught up to them again, I’d better make damn sure I shot before Art did. He was in no condition to hit anything.

The tracks led exactly where I thought they would, into a grove of cottonwoods, an ideal spot. The cluster of trees was small and narrow, and it ended forty yards past where the tracks led into it, leaving us plenty of space to move around to the other side.

“All right, Art. I’m going to circle around the end there. Give me about ten minutes to get to the other side and go on in. Try and flush them from the north, so they’re running past me, not away from me.”

“I know, I know, Frank. I been flushin’ since before you knew your name.”

“Okay, Art. Just wanted to make sure.”

Art had his hand on the stock of his rifle, although it was still in its scabbard. He held that thing like he was afraid it would run out on him, and I had a bad feeling I wouldn’t get a shot off all day.

So I rode quickly, hoping to get out there before he did something boneheaded. I made it to the other side, heard nothing, and found a perfect spot to wait, behind a lone bush that was tall enough to hide me and my horse, but not tall enough to block my aim.

I didn’t have to wait long. After a minute, I heard a rustling, then a whoop from Art, and both antelope bolted out into the open, less than fifty yards away. They were headed perfectly, running directly in front of me, from my right to my left. I shouldered my rifle, aimed at the lead, set my sights on his neck, and fired. The pop was echoed by another one, and I saw Art riding wild from the trees, rifle to his shoulder.

The antelope fell, its rear end tumbling forward, over its bowed, grounded neck, straight into the air, then twisting around the legs, following in parallel flight, until the whole torso flopped onto its side and slid forward, pushing the snow in front of it. The other animal darted to its right, angling back into the trees.

Art galloped toward the fallen antelope, whooping and hollering, his rifle above his head like a spear. I trotted toward him.

“I got him, Frank. I got the son of a bitch.” He swung down off his horse and ran toward the animal, limping a little and laughing.

My pride almost got the best of me. I knew I was the one who hit the antelope, especially when I got there and saw the wound in the side of its neck, six inches above my aim. Art’s bullet would have had to make a ninety-degree turn to hit him from where he shot. But he wouldn’t have heard a word of it, and I was going to give the meat to him anyway. So I swallowed my tongue, nearly choking on the damn thing.

The antelope’s side rose and fell, but just for a few seconds. His round, black eyes were wild, then sleepy, then dead, and he twitched, his legs jerking a few last spasms. Then he was still, stiff.

Watching death affects people differently, of course. Bob had never gotten used to it. When he was a boy, around twelve, he held a sheep’s head while Dad slit its throat. Bob lost his breakfast and was never able to do anything like that again. Jack was the opposite, driving the blade of a knife into an animal’s neck without a thought—not cruel, as if he was enjoying it, like some people I’ve known. But nearly heartless. I could butcher without thinking about it too much, but when the knife hit the hide, it always chilled my heart for a second or two.

I found death sad, but so peaceful that the sadness seemed secondary, almost insignificant. Since the night I’d watched Katie come to the end of that agonizing struggle with her body, I’d figured death could sometimes be a good way to end things.

The antelope was a buck, an older one. He was gaunt, his hide hugging his ribs, and he wouldn’t have lived much longer. His meat would be tough, and sour, but Art rejoiced in the kill as if he’d never have to worry about food again.

“Let’s go after the other one,” he shouted. “We got to get one for you.”

I shook my head. “No, Art. Don’t worry about it. We have to haul this thing back to your place, then I have to get home. I don’t want to work my horse any harder. We probably won’t even find it.”

I could see the relief in his eyes, but I appreciated the fact that he’d thought of me. After all, he had what he wanted.

We gutted the antelope and hefted the corpse up over the haunches of Art’s horse, tying its front legs to the back ones. Then we started for his place.

It had warmed up enough that the surface snow was softening. It no longer had the slick sheen of ice, but looked rough, with shades of gray.

“You don’t have to go with me, Frank. Really.”

“I don’t mind keeping you company, Art. Besides, I’m worried you might get lost.” I winked.

“Smart aleck.”

We rode silent the rest of the way. One of the nice things about winters during the Depression was that the snow covered the awful, bare ground, giving you a chance to forget how bad it looked. And the winter was free of the Depression haze of dust that kept us from seeing as far as we were accustomed. I liked to gaze out across the whiteness and picture the miles of waist-high grass that was once common and expected in Carter County. I’d close my eyes and imagine it that way again. But when the snow melted away, I knew that the gray, bald earth would resume its annoying habit of killing that fantasy.

I hadn’t been to Art’s for almost a year. One side of the barn had collapsed, and once we were inside it, I noticed he’d propped beams between the ground and the roof to keep the building from falling in on itself. We hung the antelope from the rafters, which made me nervous, then went into the house for a cup of coffee.

Art’s brother Sam sat in a corner of their shanty, his torso unbalanced and incomplete with the empty shirtsleeve pinned to its shoulder.

It’s a sad fact of life on the land that a large measure of a man’s worth lies in his body, so that a mutilation like Sam’s has the immediate effect of making him less valuable, less of a person than before. There is no way around it, and the results, except in cases of an unusually strong spirit, are predictable. If they don’t move to town, they become exiles, usually hermits, because nobody knows what to say to them.

Sam had always been a loner anyway. He said hello, but that was all he said while I was there. A bottle sat on the table next to him, on the armless side. He didn’t touch it that I noticed, and it seemed to be coated with dust. As though he’d quit drinking once he couldn’t pour with that hand. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, or preparing to do anything, or to have just completed anything. He looked to be in a state of suspension, between life and death, and much closer to the latter.

Art and I sat and drank weak coffee, had a cigarette, which I supplied, and played cribbage with cards that were almost white from wear. We didn’t talk, but if I had said what was on my mind, I would have asked Art why he hadn’t covered the broken window on the east wall, or why there were mice, both dead and alive, all over the floor. And once I saw the reason for that, I might have asked why he hadn’t thrown out the dead cat under the wood stove. The place was freezing, but it stunk anyway, and I couldn’t believe anyone could ignore and live with such a smell.

I kept my stay as short as was polite, thanked Art for the coffee, shook Sam’s left hand, and took off, taking the dead cat with me.

“Oh, thanks, Frank. I kept on meanin’ to get rid of that thing.”

Riding back, I tried to focus on the fact that it felt good to help a friend. And I looked forward to seeing Muriel, who was supposed to be arriving in the next few days for a visit.

But as I approached the house, I had a sense that something was off somehow. For one thing, there was a strange vehicle parked out front. Not that this was unusual during that period. We often had strangers stop by, often families with their belongings loaded onto an old Model A truck, making their escape from failed homesteads. But this car was brand-new, a big black Ford sedan. And any time someone with means came by anybody’s place in those days, it generally meant bad news. Foreclosure, or repossession. Something bad. So I didn’t even bother to unsaddle my horse. I rode over to the car to check it out. It had Montana plates, but I didn’t recognize anything else about it. I tied Ahab to the fence and entered the big house with a slight feeling of anxious irritation.

I entered the front door, and heard lots of activity toward the back of the house, in the kitchen. But there was a man sitting alone in the living room. He stood when I came in. He was tall, wearing a very nice black suit, his hair slick and flat against his head, with a knife-straight white part down one side. This guy was no drifter.

“You must be Blake,” he said.

I’m afraid my assumptions about this man and what he might be there for brought out the mistrust in me.

“Yeah,” I said, and I was just about to say, “Who the hell are you?” when he spoke again.