Mornings in Two Pan Read online

“What the hell?” Sol scowled and rubbed his nape.

  “Dooley! C’mere.” Hop pointed at the boy then indicated a spot beside Sol.

  “I didn’t do nuthin’,” Dooley whined as he cut a wide arc around the snake.

  “Exactly. You’re not solvin’ the problem. You’re not workin’. You’re doin’ nothin’.” Hop knocked the branch from Sol’s hand, mumbling, “Good grief. You’re all like a buncha pups.” He looked at Jiggs. “Get my gun outta the truck.”

  Still rubbing his head, Jiggs jogged twenty yards to where the truck was parked. When he returned with the .22 rifle, Dooley was rubbing the back of his head and looking hangdog. Jiggs felt a surge of respect for their boss. Unlike his dad, Hop handed out justice for all.

  “Now tell me, you morons. Why can’t I wet down a tree without you three having a tea party with a snake?” Hop sighted down the barrel.

  “We were seeing if it could strike if we tired it out,” Sol said.

  Hop lowered the gun and looked at the sixteen-year-old. He waited a moment then asked softly, “Well, whadja learn?” Sol, the broad-shouldered quarterback of the junior varsity team, seemed to shrink to sixth-grade size. His shoulders jacked up and down in a quick shrug. Hop looked around. “Any of you Einsteins discover anything?”

  He gave a disbelieving headshake at their silence. “Boy howdy.” He jammed the gun into Jiggs’ hands as he walked away.

  The boys looked at each other. “You want me to shoot it, sir?” Jiggs knew he could hit it. Probably. Well…maybe not on the first try with everybody watching him.

  “No,” Hop said as he walked past him again, carrying one of the axes they’d been using to limb trees. He took two quick, long steps as he swung downward. The blade planted in the ground behind the reptile’s head. The tail gave a rattle. The body slowly twisted, its belly turning toward the sky. “What I want—is for you boys to learn to finish a job once you start it. Don’t piss around.” He yanked the axe from the ground, turned, and walked away.

  Jiggs stepped forward to get a closer look at the rattler in its death twist. Sol was pointing to his chest and mouthing, “Dibbs” on the rattles.

  “Good judgment comes from experience,” Hop called without looking back. “Unfortunately, experience usually comes from bad judgment. So leave the damn snake alone. You got work over here. Put the gun back in the truck, Jiggs.”

  The boys reluctantly returned to the pile of tree boles. Jiggs said, “Dad always keeps a gun handy when we’re out working.”

  “This isn’t the Wild West anymore, though Ox probably thinks so. Course…maybe you can’t blame him.”

  “What d’you mean?” Jiggs asked.

  Hop stared at him a moment then pulled his leather gloves from his belt. “You know, life is hard on an old fart like me. I have to do all the heavy work while my summer peahens cluck and dance around a snake. Now put the gun away and get back here.”

  Dooley watched Jiggs walk down the road. “What if there’s another one, Mr. Hopkins?”

  “You’ve got an axe, don’t you?” He flexed his bicep. “Put some muscle on your little chicken wing and swing it like I just showed you.”

  A slow rattle brought Jiggs back to the moment and his latest snake. He didn’t have an axe. He didn’t even have his shovel, which he’d used all morning for this very reason. He knew better than to put his fingers under a rock. He might find a snake hanging off his knuckles. If Ox heard about this, he’d bring it up every day. Probably have it published in the paper.

  It felt like he’d been sitting there an hour. The sunlight outlined the arrowhead shape of the reptile’s brown and black scales, making them appear like shiny rows of armor plating. The rattling had stopped. The S-shape behind the triangular head still hovered in the air. A red tongue flicked at him, tasting the scent of his adrenalin and sweat. It looked to be a four-footer. If it were true that it could only strike half of its body length, he should be safe.

  And even if he were bitten, he’d probably have time to drive himself to a hospital—if he were only bitten once. And if there wasn’t much venom. He’d learned a few things since he was sixteen, thanks to that outdoor guy on TV who went into the wild with nothing but a flat bicycle tire and a Snickers bar. Rattlers often didn’t inject venom on objects too big to eat. Jiggs straightened his spine and sat taller.

  His focus dropped to the skull. It lay on its side, the temple caved in where his heel had crushed it. Some museum expert would have something to say about that. He felt bad about putting his foot through someone’s head.

  It had to have been there a long time. There wasn’t any hair or cloth around it. No tribe would put a body in a streambed. Only white men did that. He’d heard the early settlers had hanged horse thieves from the cottonwoods, the tallest trees in the area, and then buried them in the sand—easy digging.

  Without moving his head, he glanced upward. These trees were too small for rope parties. Everybody in the area looked for cottonwoods. “Trees of life” they called them because they only grew near water. Leave it to the pioneers to decorate them with death. He came from a strange bunch of people. Maybe the skull was one of the early Woolseys.

  He moved slightly, trying to settle away from the rock poking him in the backside. The snake gave a slow tick-tick-tick, a metronome counting off the sluggish time.

  “Bound to happen,” he muttered. This was the limit. His morning had begun with an argument, now he was sitting in the dirt, talking to a snake like it was a party. And this time a skull had been invited to the shindig. Quietly, he told the snake, “As Hop Hopkins would say… ‘It’s time to finish what I started.’”

  The rattles clicked a little faster. Jiggs tensed his legs, took a deep breath, and heaved. Sand and pebbles flew forward. He moved backward. The snake lunged. The pink-white insides of its mouth bloomed and widened. Fangs struck the sole of his boot. Jiggs scrabbled on palms and heels. In the flying sand, he lost sight of the snake. For all he knew it could be snapping like a crocodile or racing up his pant leg.

  As soon as he felt the weeds under his hands, he pushed to his feet and ran twenty feet into the pasture. When he stopped, he stomped, doing a little jig, though he wasn’t sure why, then he patted his legs and inspected his body. There was a mark on the bottom of his boot, but no puncture holes.

  In fifteen minutes he returned to the dry pond with the shovel. The tree shadows had moved eastward as though time had finally shaken loose. The snake had slithered away, which was fine. Jiggs figured they’d both won the standoff. No need for killing.

  He left the skull where it lay. It seemed wrong—and creepy—to put it beside him on his pickup seat and give it a ride to his house. Tomorrow he’d tell Sol Meyers, who was now sheriff. And Sol would surely ask what his dad knew about the skull. After all, the land had been in their family for five generations.

  Jiggs silently groaned. Heaviness weighted his gut. It climbed his throat, tasting like ash. His shoulders tightened as he walked back to finish the rockjacks. He’d gotten past the snake, now he had to talk with his father about a skull. He’d almost rather deal with the snake again.

  Forgive Your Enemies

  THE FORD F-150 rattled down the long gravel driveway to the big one-story house with a front entryway that no one used.

  Katie Woolsey, Jiggs’ wife, used to keep a pot of flowers on the steps. Before that, Lisette Woolsey, Ox’s wife, had kept the cat’s bed next to the door. After both of them had passed, the wind did the courtesy of blowing away the flowers and the tattered mat, painful reminders of a livelier household. Now a family of spiders rented the eaves, displaying their weaving techniques from the thick craftsman-style support posts. Leaves and dirt met in the corners by the disused door. Anyone who was trying to get rid of gossip or zucchinis came through the side entrance of the mud room.

  Ox Woolsey stood thirty yards away in front of his small house, staring to the west. He’d built the little cottage fifty years ago for his dad, so that he, Lisette, a
nd their boys didn’t have to put up with the spineless drunk. Now it was his home. He’d moved from the big house when Jiggs had a family. He hadn’t complained. That was the way of getting damnable old.

  A truck door slammed. He turned as far as his stiff shoulders allowed. It wasn’t enough. Used to be, he could hear a vehicle coming a mile down the road. Either the damn cars were running quieter or the road had eaten most of its gravel. He’d have to get onto the county commissioners to part with a little money to grade and rock their road again.

  Putting a hand on the wood rail where they tied horses, he steadied himself as he took a half step back and twisted to see who’d driven in. He and Jiggs locked eyes for a moment. Neither acknowledged the other. Their silence carried unspoken words best left to the past. He turned away and removed his hand from the railing, irked that he’d been caught contemplating the sunset like an old man on a bench. The underbelly of the sky was ribbed with orange clouds. The honey-glow of evening crept in from the north and south.

  It was a hell of a note when the only son he had left wouldn’t call out a hello. Even strangers riding by a forest camp shouted a “Hey there.” But Jiggs had too much of chip on his shoulder to respect old ways. He’d always been a jackrabbit. Coddled when Lisette was alive, he jumped from one project to another, doing a half-ass job on all of them. Pax had been the easy-going one, the one with enough sense to follow instructions.

  Ox consciously ignored Jiggs’ nearby busywork. He stared at the field, the black cattle, and this year’s new models romping near their mothers. An old black and white Holstein milk cow, ran after them, then stopped and began chasing her own tail. He heard Jiggs throw a hose at the base of the old lilac bush and turn on the faucet.

  “What’re you staring at, Dad?”

  Ox took no notice, feeling it was too late to gab now. Any civilized yahoo would’ve started with conversation when he got out of the truck. It didn’t matter. His son would repeat himself, a little louder, a little annoyed. Served him right.

  “Everything all right?” Jiggs stood next to him, squinting across rolling pasture land.

  The boy had grown taller than him. Ox straightened his spine. It made his hip hurt. He relaxed back into his eighty-four-year-old, slump-shouldered curve, wishing they could have a civil conversation without his heart popping flip-flops in his chest. It would all be easier if his son could grasp hold of what was most important.

  Jiggs’ little wife had been good at getting them to converse. Katie would bring up her family’s potato farming business in Idaho. She’d throw in facts about pottery making, turkey vultures, and interesting whatnots. He and Jiggs both knew what she was doing, but they played along and talked decently. When they didn’t, she’d say, “Don’t make me get the flyswatter, because you know I’ll do it.”

  The house hadn’t been the same since the cancer took her. He smoothed his hand over his white hair as though rubbing memories from his mind. It seemed they’d all gotten a little bit lonelier each of the fifteen years that had passed. Or maybe it was just him. The rest of them had gotten more hardheaded.

  “Do you see smoke? Do we need to check on something?” Jiggs asked louder, scanning the horizon.

  Ox let out a huffed breath. “Can’t I watch Harriet without being pecked to death?”

  “That old milkbag has dementia. I never know if she’s gonna butt me or lick me when I go out there.” Jiggs watched the black and white Holstein hop around like a bee was chasing her. “Why don’t you send her to the dog food factory?”

  “Because she’s earned the right to grow old, and I like having a quirky cow. No matter how dark things get, she makes me laugh, dammit.”

  Jiggs turned away. “Sorry.” He sprayed a few other plants then turned off the water. He threw the hose aside, then glanced at his father and began coiling it instead. “You got dinner plans?”

  “Bologna.”

  “I’m burning a hamburger. You want one?”

  Ox looked at him. “Nap won’t be here. He went to a movie in Joseph.” He could see Jiggs understood what he was saying. There’d be no one to take the sharp edges off their barbs. No one to referee.

  “You prefer hamburger or steak? Freezer’s full.” Jiggs used the side of his foot to shove the coiled hose next to the foundation then put his hands on his hips, meeting Ox’s gaze.

  “You know what I’d really like? A good ol’ pot roast.” He held up his hand before Jiggs could speak. “I know we don’t have time to thaw one, much less figure out how to barbecue it, but darned if I don’t miss your mother’s pot roast.” He shook his head, staring at the lilac bush. “Katie was a good little cook, too. She could turn out a…” his words faded. Both men watched the water drip off the green leaves where Jiggs had splashed it. “Lisette loved it when the lilacs bloomed.”

  “Yep.”

  Ox took a step away. He was standing too close. Jiggs moved too. Ox kept walking, both men departing without a word, heading to their houses. His door groaned about being opened. Across the gravel drive Jiggs shouted, “Hey!” Ox felt charitable. No need to pretend he hadn’t heard. He turned to see Jiggs leaning out the doorway of the big house.

  “Burgers will be ready in twenty minutes if you want one. We should have Nap figure out how to cook a roast.” His son grinned at him. “He’s one of those progressive college men who can learn it all from his phone.”

  Ox gave him a half-smile and a single wave of his hand. “Sounds like a project.” He closed the door, his smile reaching his eyes. Maybe he would have a decent conversation with the boy before one of them died.

  *

  “I fixed the rockjacks on Starvation Ridge this morning.” Jiggs slid a thick burger dripping with juice onto the plate on the patio table.

  “You didn’t see to the cattle at Blank Map like I told you?” Ox asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s just great.” He gave the ketchup bottle four hard squeezes, blanketing the patty in red sauce.

  “Nap checked. Stop your worrying.”

  “I built this place by worryin’. You must think cattle grow on trees, because—”

  “No. Money grows on trees.” Jiggs sat down across from his dad and shook potato chips from the bag onto his plate. “The stork drops off the baby cows.”

  “Always with jokes.”

  “Yep.”

  In silence, the men built their burgers, piling slices of purple onion and cheese onto buns. Ox stuffed a Cheeto into the edge of his burger. Each time he took a bite, he wedged another cheesy-fried puff between bun and meat. Jiggs went to the fridge and returned, holding up two beers. Ox gave a nod. Jiggs slid an Oly in front of him.

  “Do you know any reason why the creek would stop running at Starvation Ridge?” The bottle hissed as Jiggs sat and twisted the cap.

  Ox stared, the burger halfway to his mouth. “The hell you say?”

  “It’s completely dried up. I walked up to that old homestead and—what’s the matter?”

  Ox had dropped his burger, making Cheetos bounce off his plate. “It went dry once before, back in the ’50s.”

  “Drought?”

  “Nope.” Ox slowly shook his head and picked up his burger again. “Cal Mosley, a weasely son of a bitch. I’m not kidding, he had a skinny, little body, no shoulders, and a pinched face. You’d swear he was sired by a rat. He had a bunged-up foot which kept him from hard work. He got the bright idea to pull what little gold there was out of the stream. ’Course, he was too lazy to work a rocker or sluices, so he tried to run it through channels so the flecks settled out on the turns. It looked like an acre of Chinese water puzzles.”

  “I thought those were irrigation ditches,” Jiggs said.

  “That’s what the little shit claimed. But he’d have to plant something to irrigate it, wouldn’t he? All he could grow was stupider. He cut the water off from me and another rancher downstream.”

  “How’d you get it back?”

  “This is what I’m talki
ng about. Somebody somewhere is always plotting to take what’s yours. You’ve gotta protect your family and property. How would you go about gettin’ it back?”

  “I’d talk to him.”

  “George Jugenmeir and I tried that. We went up there to see where the water had gone. The little weasel stumbled out of his hovel, shooting his .410. I don’t know if he shot over our heads on purpose or missed because he was drunk. He was a mean little bastard.”

  “You didn’t shoot back?” Jiggs said flatly. “I thought that’s why you carried a gun.”

  Ox squinted at his son the way a woman looked at a dog that had crapped at her front door. “I can’t tell if you’re bein’ funny or mouthy. Either way, you sound stupid. We sicced the sheriff, Topeka Butler, on Mosley. The county was payin’ him, not us, to take bird shot.”

  “So the sheriff was really the one who got the water flowing again, not you.”

  “No. Topeka hated Mosley because he caused a world of trouble, but Top was a lazy-ass sheriff. He liked to wear the badge, drive the cruiser, and that was about it. Whenever he was forced to arrest the little rat for being drunk and bein’ a public nuisance, Top would cuff him to the door handle and make him walk alongside the cruiser. If he put him in the back, Cal would puke in the patrol car for spite. Top visited the place several times. Mosley finally took off. Probably realized running moonshine paid better than the spitwad of gold in that creek. I ended up buying the land to keep it from happening again.”

  “But it’s dried up again. You’re saying someone’s mining? Higher up on the ridge?”

  Ox looked at his watch. “We’ll get the flashlights and go over after dinner.”

  “Eat your burger. We can’t see anything tonight. I’ll look in the morning.”

  “You couldn’t track a dog through wet cement. You don’t get it. It’s happening again. Somebody is divertin’ the stream.” He nailed Jiggs with a glare. “One day you’ll learn too late that nobody’s going to take care of things for you. People will take it from you. Forgive your enemies, but don’t forget their names. I don’t know why you insist on being the slowest brain on this ranch. And that’s saying something when you think how dimwitted cows are.”