Mornings in Two Pan Page 3

  “Well, maybe you can educate me about the skull I found in the streambed.”

  Ox stared at his half-eaten burger a moment.

  “Did you hear me? I found a skull.”

  “What?” Ox squinted and waved him away like he was a fly pestering his thoughts. “Well…they all get dull.”

  “What gets dull?”

  Ox pushed back his chair, looked at his watch and stood. “Just sharpen it. You still know how to use a whetstone, don’t you?”

  “What?” Jiggs squinted. His voice notched up another decibel. “I didn’t say something was dull. I said skull.” He rapped his knuckles against his head, speaking louder, “Skull!”

  “Oh hell.” Ox waved his words away again. “The whole countryside is littered with empty heads and bones. Bury it and let it rest.”

  “Human?” Jiggs squinted. “You’re telling me that in the middle of the property we’ve owned for most of five generations, there’s a skull, and it doesn’t bother you?”

  “No. It don’t. And if you were any kind of rancher, you’d be more concerned about getting water to those cattle tonight.” Ox moved toward the door, carrying his hamburger.

  “I cut the fence,” Jiggs said as he stood up. “They can get to a feeder spring coming off the side of the hill. The herd is fine for now. Finish your supper. You don’t need to be tromping over rocky hillsides in the dark. I ran into a rattler there today.”

  “Snakes don’t bother me. I carry a pistol,” Ox stepped out the kitchen door into the mudroom.

  “Suit yourself. I’m turning it into Sol in the morning.”

  “No…” Ox stepped back through the door. His face hardened into the look of a man who liked to hamstring the feebled. “You’re not.”

  Jiggs widened his stance, bracing for the smack that was sure to follow. “I am.” He stared at Ox. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Damn it!” Ox’s fist came down on the counter. The hinged lid of the bread box fell open, banging the cabinet top. A box of dishwashing powder fell over, white granules spilling across the Formica, peppering onto the floor. “You call somebody, and the state will have that field taped off for months, plowing up the grass from here to Ontario. We won’t be able to use it all summer ’cause they’ll be lookin’ for historical junk. The road will be full of rubberneckers kicking up dirt, driving by to see what’s happening. Somebody will wander out from some historical society and need the fence cut in five places before they figure out what they want. All this because some pissant decided to die there and not fifty feet to the north on BLM land. Our cattle won’t be able to graze. They won’t make weight by market time. The fence will have to be fixed and grass replanted. And you know who’ll be left holdin’ the bill for all that useless snooping? Me!”

  “You don’t know—”

  “No, dammit.” Ox pointed his finger, inches from Jiggs’ face. “It’s you who don’t know.”

  Jiggs wore the smoldering stare of a man who’d stopped listening. His fists clenched at his sides.

  “Shi-it,” Ox rubbed his hand over his forehead. “All this over what’s probably the head of a coyote.”

  “I know the difference. I put my foot through somebody’s temple.”

  “Bub, there are times you wouldn’t know if you were steppin’ on your own head. You never were reasonable. Pax was the one I could talk to.” Ox turned and stomped through the doorway, his voice weighted with regret and exhaustion. “I’ll look at it in the morning. In the meantime, just shut up.”

  It’s Hard To Put A Foot In A Closed Mouth

  THE NEXT MORNING Jiggs peeked out the window and told the squawking crows he would cut down their tree someday. Ox’s faded-blue Chevy was gone. If his dad had left last night, Jiggs would’ve heard the engine turn over. He’d awakened at 1:45, as he did most nights, listening for the phone to ring. Sleep had eventually crept back over him as he waited for a call that would never come.

  It was more likely Ox had taken off around five when the sky had lightened to gray. For all Jiggs knew, his dad was already lying on Starvation Ridge with his leg busted or his head cracked open. He wasn’t as steady on his feet as he used to be—though he’d cuss anyone who mentioned it. A climb up the side of the ridge was necessary before seeing the sheriff. Once again, Ox had fouled up plans for the day. Jiggs let out a long breath.

  Last night had been a bungled mess. He thought he knew what to expect after forty-five years of listening to Ox heap damnation on the government, environmental organizations, and anyone who came on his property unannounced and uninvited—which included door-knocking missionaries. Each March, between calving duties, they made a mad dash to their tax man. Jiggs was relieved they could never stay long. Ox loudly cursed every penny he owed in taxes, making Jiggs wish he could crawl under his chair in the accountant’s office and pretend they weren’t related. Thank the Lord the taxes were in and calving season was over. The topsoil between him and his dad had worn thin years ago. They’d become boulders scraping against each other, waiting for the earthquake that would split them loose.

  “Morning,” Nap said as he entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. “We outta milk?”

  “You drank the last of it, so you need to get a gallon.”

  “I left a little so I wouldn’t be last.”

  “Sheesh. A halfa teaspoon. Where’d you learn to get out of work like that? You want eggs?”

  Nap nodded. “I got ed-u-cated. Got me a college de-gree.” He thumped his chest. “I learned a little animal husbandry and a lot about finding loopholes in the system. Where’s Gramps?”

  “Probably checking the work I did yesterday. I found a—” He watched Nap bounce hot toast on his fingertips and pull a plate from the cabinet at the same time.

  “Whad’ja find?”

  Jiggs hesitated a moment before saying, “Nothing.”

  “I’m the mushroom around here.” Nap slapped an opened jar on the side a couple of times, making grape jelly glop onto his toast. “You keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit. Nobody tells me anything.”

  “Yesterday, I told Ox that you checked the Blank Map herd. Do it today. I don’t want him trying to round up those cows.”

  “He won’t find the chips in their ears. When are you going to tell him we’ve chipped them like city-folk’s dogs and all their information is on computer?” Nap asked.

  “Five years after he’s dead should be about right.” Jiggs sat down to eat. “Any time before that and he’ll accuse drones of spying on his cattle.”

  “No need for spies in Two Pan. We’ve got our own. Roscoe Zalman told me Ox drove him off the road yesterday.” Nap continued without noticing Jiggs shut his eyes and let out a long breath. “Gramps was puttering along their road, his head out the window, staring at the Zalman yearlings. He drove in the direction he was looking. Roscoe had to pull into the bar ditch and honk. Ox finally noticed and whipped around him. Miz Cleova says—”

  “Hey!” Jiggs barked, like a tap on a horn to get someone’s attention. “Just once, I’d like to start the morning without your grandfather ruining it.”

  The only noise that followed was the sound of forks clinking against plates. When Jiggs finished his eggs, he got up, squirted a dab of detergent onto his plate, and smeared it around with the sink brush. After a quick rinse, he laid it on a towel. “You do realize I hear those stories, too, don’t you? There’s a new dent in that old Chevy every other day.” He also gave the skillet a bachelor wash and set it back on the stove. “Nobody will get his truck keys away from him until he’s six feet under. He’ll probably hide them before he goes.”

  Jiggs moved aside as Nap brought his plate to the sink. “When Roscoe’s granddad started running over mailboxes, his family called the Oregon Highway Patrol. Officer Tripp came to their house and told the old man that destruction of mailboxes was a federal offense, and he owed some jail time. But Sheriff Meyer showed up and talked the sentence down. The old man had to turn over his keys and promise not
to drive anymore. ’Course, it was all staged so his granddad wouldn’t blame the family. Now every time the old codger sees Sheriff Meyer, he shoots him the finger. Right out in public. Shakes it at him.”

  Jiggs coughed a belly laugh. “I bet Sol’s flipping the bird back, under the dashboard. That’ll be me someday. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to, Son.”

  “I’m putting you on Curly Dogs. Let your horse drive you.”

  “I haven’t laughed in a long time. Thanks.” Jiggs grinned.

  “So what’re your plans today?”

  Jiggs’ smile faded. “I’ve gotta climb Starvation Ridge to look for Ox. He was pretty waspy last night—more than usual—when he heard the stream had dried up. He thinks someone’s mining up there. We had supper together.”

  “I’m real sorry I missed that.” A corner of Nap’s mouth twitched up.

  Jiggs studied his son. He had no idea why he was lucky enough to have a kid who’d turned out the way he had. He’d been a healing balm, doing little kindnesses for him after Katie had died. He’d bring a bug or flower or rock he’d found that he would’ve shown his mother if she’d been around. Together, they kept her memory alive.

  “As usual,” he slapped Nap’s shoulder, “I said too much last night. I need to take a clue from my son’s playbook and shut up, listen, then do what I want anyway.”

  Nap looked at him like he was crazy. “Good luck with that. You’ve got the same temper as Gramps.”

  “No, I don’t. I used to, but that was before you were born. Now, I—”

  Nap’s head was bobbing as he pointed to his own face and his toothy, pasted-on smile. “This is what nodding, grunting, and not saying anything looks like.” He turned and left.

  *

  Ox’s pickup sat in the Starvation pasture to the west of the homestead. Jiggs parked next to it and followed the carved-out route of the streambed up the ridge. Rocks tipped beneath his feet as he hiked upward. He grabbed bushes to stay upright, climbing twenty yards. After a quick stop to catch his breath, he did it again, cursing himself for too many pies and donut holes.

  He looked back over their property. His dad had bought other ranches when the owners had given up or died, but Starvation Creek was their biggest piece of land. Over a thousand acres. From this height, two dark gashes striping the pasture could be seen—ravines where the earth’s crust had ripped as the ridge was being born.

  A rock skittered past, bouncing downslope. He turned, searching for his father, but saw only big horn sheep watching from the boulders far above him. Jiggs scrambled upward, following a faint game trail zig-zagging through the sparse brush covering the hillside.

  About a quarter mile up, next to the creek, he found an upended tree caving in the bank. The stream was now flowing into a strip of broken lava field. Most of the icy water trickled through the rocks and disappeared. Jiggs could hear it gurgle and plink as it rushed downhill—most likely in an ancient lava tube—underground. It was going to be a bear of a job to get water flowing back into the same creek. He looked around. There were no signs the big tree had been dynamited. No man was trying to “take their land” as Ox had insisted. It was only wind, time, and gravity—a rancher’s old foes.

  He took a different route back down the steep hillside. Each footstep made his knees ache with the impact. He scanned right and left, checking for snakes and half expecting to see Ox’s body where he’d tuckered out, fallen, and hit his head. When he stopped to rest and wipe away sweat, he could smell the sage and bitterbush rising on the warm air from below. The Woolsey land rolled into the distance. Acres of grass struggled to grow in the latest drought. Cattle dotted the pasture between rocky outcroppings. A few bleached tumbleweeds nested against the stones. Above, there was more sky than a man knew what to do with. Below, a trail of dust rolled behind Ox’s truck as it drove away.

  “Hey!” Jiggs shouted, waving his arms, though he knew it would do no good. He quickly hurried down the hillside, grunting with each footfall. The dust trail had settled by the time he’d reached his truck. Jiggs whacked the fender with his hand, staring down the two-track path at the closed and locked gate. He turned and hurried to the old homestead spot.

  The skull was gone. The flat stones had been stacked back into a row. A few new ones had been added. Footprints marked the sand. The sunlight made the same lacy patterns through the branches as it had the day before. A waxwing landed in the cottonwood and laughed a few notes. Time ticked by as usual. There was no evidence this place had ever been anything but a wide spot in a stream.

  Jiggs puffed his cheeks and let loose a long breath. With an ugggh, he squatted in the dirt, his hands draped over his knees. Bound to happen. As usual, he’d been an idiot. He should’ve taken the skull last night and turned it in without saying a word. While he’d been up on the ridge, sweating and looking for Ox, the old fart had been down here, stealing the skull and tidying up.

  Jiggs picked up a handful of pebbles, tossing the stones across missing water. They bounced and clattered downstream. Why would Ox do such a thing?

  His fingers discovered the thin rock before his brain did. As he winged it away, his brain finally kicked him, asking what a jagged rock was doing among water-smoothed pebbles.

  Clawing through the sand, he discovered a few more white fragments. He pushed aside a couple of flat stones. They hadn’t been there yesterday. He was sure of it—and he’d had plenty of time to study all the rocks. Digging beneath them, he found a nest of bone fragments. Thin, curved pieces. Their broken edges unstained. Apparently, Ox hadn’t stolen the skull after all. He’d stomped it to death.

  Jiggs sat back in the sand. How did something so simple get so messed up? He should’ve been able to notify the authorities, get the skull off his land, and get on with life. But now…

  He winged another pebble downstream. Either Ox was getting crazy in his old age, or the skull must carry more risk than he could imagine.

  “Wealth Is Like Dung, Useful Only When Spread”

  —Chinese Proverb

  JIGGS WENT HOME, but Ox wasn’t there. Too many questions needed answers before telling the sheriff about the skull. They may have been childhood friends and rivals, but Sol took his sheriff duties seriously. Jiggs wanted to know what he was getting into before a truckload of museum curators or a van of forensic investigators pulled up at his house.

  If his dad wouldn’t talk, maybe Old Man Tower knew some history. As a boy, Jiggs had been told to stay clear of the crustiest, oldest geezer in the county. Near-blind and mostly nutty, the old galoot didn’t know who he was talking to most of the time. He seemed to remember what happened years ago better than who he’d seen in the mirror that morning. He was long past the age of liking people, but tolerated them because they brought food or put plastic over his windows when the Boy Scouts needed a fall service project.

  Located at the south end of Two Pan’s Main Street, his shop was a museum of mechanics. Actually it was a junkyard, but he’d never turned in any scrap metal during either war. If a person was brave and brawny, he could hack through blackberry brambles and climb over mining jigs and timber cranes to find ore buckets filled with pickaxes—the handles rotted away. They were so rusty, like most things in the junkyard, they’d leave an orangey trail of metal flakes on any hand that touched them. The whole place was a lost tool shed, waiting for a distant generation to unearth the contents and wonder what they’d been used for.

  Jiggs clanged the blackened brass bell, engraved U.S.S. Cyclone, hanging next to the entry. No one answered. He wrestled with the gate, which only opened a couple of feet before it stuck in the dirt. He shouldered past it and was circling a Tucker sedan when a voice rasped, “Get the hell out. I’m not open.”

  “Hey, Mr. Tower. It’s Jiggs Woolsey. You remember me?”

  “No!”

  “How about my dad, Ox Woolsey?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m wondering if you have a bill hook for New Holland baler?” I
t was all Jiggs could come up with. He’d thought about stopping by before now and looking for one, but stories of a long afternoon with Old Man Tower had convinced him he had better things to do.

  “Damn homesteaders,” the codger mumbled and shuffled along a dirt path, squeezing through carts, horse-drawn wagons, and metal riprap. He kept up a steady hum of cursing, stopping suddenly next to a wooden box nailed to a tree. It used to house little brown forest bats, but now he pulled a machete out of it and jammed it into Jiggs hands. “Here. Make yerself useful. Don’t make off with it. I know who you are.”

  “You do?” Jiggs followed him between stacks of car wheels.

  “No, dammit.” His voice soured. “Filled up on names. Don’t give a damn. You’re just another parts-pirate, wantin’ somethin’. Here.” He pointed to a mountain of blackberry vines. “Start hackin’.”

  “You’re sure?” Jiggs wore a skeptical frown as he looked at the dense bramble.

  The old man closed his eyes and waggled his head as he turned to shuffle away.

  “All right. Hold on.” Jiggs slashed and chopped, wishing he’d brought leather gloves. After fifteen minutes, the blade clanged against the faded-red metal of a New Holland baler. Jiggs stood back, wiping his arm across his forehead. “How did you remember where it was?”

  “I live here. Where’s yer tools? How you gonna get it out?”

  Jiggs shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting…” He raised his voice. “I’ll be back. I’ll borrow some tools from Bazz Hinton.” The old man stared at him, his mouth slightly open. “The mayor?” Jiggs shouted. “Tools.”

  “That peckerhead.” Old Man Tower shuffled off, mumbling, “I got spanners.” Jiggs spent the wait-time cutting his way to the knotter box until he heard the mumble, “Nutcrackers and butt plugs,” behind him. The old man shoved a wooden box of abused tools and a can of solvent at him, demanding, “Machete!”