STRENGTH AND HONOR

By Norm Nason

 

     He chose a spot beneath a live oak, shady and cool, not so close as to encounter roots but one affording a view of the pasture at sunrise, with its wildflowers and corral and the sturdy barn with its red cupola rising like a church bell tower over the parched ranch land.

     He had buried men and horses before but never his own, and presently rested from the effort, breathing heavily with his arms crossed over the shovel handle, flies circling his head, and watched the clouds drift by and change shapes. He listened to the distant mooing of cattle and two crows tangling on the split-rail fence, and felt the warm sage breeze against his neck.

     It was well into afternoon when he finished digging. He sat on the edge of the hole in the ground, shirtless, sweaty, and poured a cup of ice coffee from his thermos.

      “I’m sorry, Dusty,” came a voice behind him.

      “Thank you, Emma,” he said, not turning to look at her. 

      She squatted beside the dead horse lying flat on the ground, legs tied with ropes to a pickup truck the color of rust. 

      “If there’s anything we can do,” Emma said.

      “No,” Dusty said. “I’ll be alright.”

      “Sarah was a good horse.”

      “Yes.”

      “A big help around here; a real sweetheart.”

      Head down, Dusty nodded.

      “If Cliff weren’t in Loredo he’d-a helped ya.”

      “I know that. I’m grateful for the time off.”

      “Of course. You take whatever you need.”

      Dusty said nothing. 

      “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.”

      “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

      He watched her walk down the grassy hill toward the ranch house, hips swaying in her jeans.

      Dusty used his truck to drag the horse into the hole, untied her legs, then hauled five bags of lime from the flatbed. He slit them open and covered the horse to a depth of two inches. He shoveled dirt on top of her until sunset.

      Before dawn, Dusty rose and lit a candle in the bunkhouse, sending shadows dancing on the log walls. He splashed cold water on his face from a chipped enamel basin, ran a comb through his hair and fingered his chin stubble. He needed a shave but couldn’t work up the necessary enthusiasm.

      Breakfast consisted of biscuits, salt pork and beans, and he ate them slowly, savoring each bite with gratitude. He wiped the dishes clean with a rag and set them aside on the countertop. 

      After dressing, Dusty fetched his frayed Stetson, adjusted his belt a notch and stepped sock-footed onto the creaky porch. Stretching, he felt sore and hollow, yet brightened by the cheer of songbirds, the rising copper sun and smell of cool, damp earth.

 

     The old pickup backfired in town near the livery stable, and Dusty winced with embarrassment over the unwelcome attention. Tank almost empty, he headed toward the Standard Oil service station.

      A young woman appeared from the office and approached his side of the truck. She wore a man’s plaid shirt and cowboy boots, held her shoulders back and chin high, and her honey hair tied back in a long pony-tail. Freckles glittered her nose and cheeks.

      “Morning, cowboy,” said the woman. “What’ll it be?”

      “Brenda,” Dusty said, tipping his hat and grinning at her. “Seems I’m a little short today; unexpected veterinary expenses. Do you accept any alternate forms of payment?”

      “You’re so full of shit,” Brenda said, uncapping his gas tank and inserting the pump nozzle. 

      “Last night I had a funny dream," Dusty said. "We were in a booth in a crowded coffee shop—very busy, like old times—and the waitress neglected our refills. You grew impatient and fetched the coffee pot from behind the counter yourself. On your way back you passed another couple and the man said ‘Now that’s what I call service!’ So you kindly refilled their cups before ours.”

      “Doesn’t sound like me.”

      “Like hell.”

      Dusty studied her body as she arched to clean his windshield, chest pressing against the glass in front of him. 

      “Not fair,” he said. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

      “You wish.”

      “Must find me irresistible.”

      “Shut up and let me do my job.”

      “I read an article at the barber the other day, saying there’re infinite realities all occurring at the same time.”

      “Pop the hood, deep thinker. I’m checking your oil.”

      “I’m serious. Today it’s sunny, but in another world it’s raining. I’ve got this old truck here now, but somewhere else it’s a Cadillac.”

      “I think I see where this is going. How’s your tire pressure?”

      “Makes you think about all sorts of possibilities.”

      Brenda dropped the air hose, opened the passenger door and slid onto the bench seat beside Dusty. For a moment she said nothing, then she said: “Why do you keep at it?”

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “What a crock. I told you, I waited. I waited and it was hell, okay? Thinking you'd been killed. What was I supposed to do?  Jesus, we’re not in high school anymore.”

      Dusty closed his eyes and drew in the lilac scent of her skin.

      “You’re not even listening.”

      “I am. Really, I am.”

      Brenda looked at him sadly, reached out and squeezed his hand. 

      Dusty glanced down at the ring on her finger, then back at her face. “I’m not sure what your husband would think about that.”

      She withdrew her hand. “Just like you to ruin the moment.”

      “Yep, that’s me.”

      “Listen,” Brenda said. “They’re calling for a match down in Eldorado this afternoon. Seventy five dollars to the winner.”

      “Yeah? Short notice.”

      “Someone must’ve dropped out.”

      Well now,” Dusty said. “Just think of the possibilities.”

      Brenda sat still, looking out the windshield at the sycamore trees and line of small shops with their makeshift awnings and signs and flags, and the cold gray street and telephone poles receding ever smaller toward Schoolhouse Road. Finally she said: “I do think of them, more than you’ll ever know.”

      “I know it,” Dusty said.

      She swung a leg up to face him and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. He looked at her intensely.

      “Endless possibilities,” Brenda said, more to herself. The gas pump clicked off and all was silent.

      “Cowboy,” she said, meeting his eyes. “This one’s on the house.”

 

     Dusty drove past acres of tall ripe silage corn, cob-silk glowing bright as cobwebs in the morning sun. A rickety farmhouse and gambrel-roofed prairie barn came into view, surrounded by pecking Leghorn hens and a watchful rooster. A lily pond rimmed with cattails hosted several mallards and their ducklings, while a whisker away a yellow and blue open-cockpit biplane fitted with crop-dusting pipes and tanks idled in the short grass. 

      Dusty ground his truck into gear and made his way down the gravel driveway toward a skinny, bow-legged character inspecting the plane’s tail-flaps with careful scrutiny.

      “Howdy, friend!” Dusty shouted above the plane’s engine. “Any chance I might bum a ride to Eldorado?”

      The pilot was about to put the stranger off, tell him he had no time to entertain such foolishness. But the war was over now and he was weary of fighting, and when he spotted the ink on Dusty’s arm—Strength and Honor—he changed his mind.

      Dusty noticed the pilot’s face softening and marveled at how one drunken night at a tattoo parlor in Liège had opened this unlikely door.

      “Sure, buddy,” the pilot shouted, donning his helmet and goggles. “First we fly the fields, then I’ll oblige you.” He pointed to the seat in front. “Get a wiggle on. Mind the prop.”

      The roar of the radial engine was deafening and thrilling as they high-tailed it down the bumpy dirt path toward the foothills, soon released as from a sling shot into the calm azure sky.

      The biplane vaulted and banked, and Dusty nearly lost his gravy. But then they leveled out low over the corn rows, expelling the hiss and cloud of chemical spray. This process was repeated at intervals until the task was done. 

      The biplane rose to 1,500 feet and cruised for the good part of an hour. The graceful green landscape changed to open plains and barren, rolling hills, and Dusty couldn’t help but feel pride for the power and grace of the little aircraft, as if it were his kin. He patted its fuselage with brazen affection.

      “See there?” shouted the pilot, barely audible over the engine and wind while pointing to a patchwork quilt of rooftops surrounded by farmland. “Up ahead—that’s Eldorado!”

      He circled the little town several times, studying the web of roads, paths, gullies and fields ripe with golden wheat. “Were barking at a knot!” he shouted above the noise. “No place to put her down!”

      “Tell you what,” hollered Dusty. “Take this buggy low and slow over the field…and I’ll jump!”

      The pilot couldn’t believe his ears. “Crazy son of a bitch—you'll die!”

      “I’ve done worse!”

      “Well shit for breakfast! I'll circle back, throttle down and fly low enough to count the gophers. When I say the word, you leap!”

      Dusty hit the ground hard, tucked and rolled like dice on a craps table and carved a rut through thirty feet of wheat before stopping. Black ravens scattered in all directions, never knowing what hit them.

      He gathered himself, stood unsteadily, and surveyed his torso, head and limbs: a cracked lip and bump on his head; minor cuts but no broken bones; torn trousers at his knees, wrists, and elbows—otherwise fine as fettle.

     High above, the pilot tipped the wings of his biplane in a cheerful parting salute. Dusty smiled broadly and waved his arms over his head, then began the trek toward town.

 

      “Don’t squat with your spurs on,” said the hefty ring proprietor, belly showing between his buttons. He squinted at Dusty over the round rims of his reading glasses, puffed on his pipe.

      “You go put me down,” said Dusty. “I’ll show up and I’ll beat him.”

      Dusty’s opponent, he was told, was a nasty-tempered local boxer of some notoriety named Randy “The Grinder” Collingford, who had a distinct reputation for leaving the faces of his rivals pulpy and unrecognizable, even to their dogs and mothers.

      “Alright, young fella,” said the bushy-browed proprietor. “We ain’t got no one else tonight so it’s your fight to lose.”

      “Seventy five if I win,” said Dusty.

      “That’s right,” chuckled the proprietor. “Good luck with that. Fight starts at 7:00. Be here at 6:30.”

      Dusty checked his watch: he had an hour to kill. “Where can a man get a drink and pee around here?”

     

     The bartender set a beer on the counter and Dusty gulped it down with a well-earned sense of urgency, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

      “Another?” asked the bartender.

      “Not tonight. I’m good.”

      “You’re drunk,” said a woman’s voice from the dark recesses of the bar. 

      “I ain't drunk,” came a man’s slurred reply.

      “Let’s just go home and talk,” the woman said.

      “You wanna talk? That's all you do. Never listen anyway.”

      Dusty turned his head like an owl and spotted a bald-headed, husky fellow slouching on a stool, his back to him, butt-crack casually displayed. A fragile, pale-skinned young woman with the nose of a mouse stood before the man, facing Dusty, holding her purse with one arm while the man gripped the other. She struggled listlessly, but mostly tolerated his hold on her.

      “Please,” she said, wearily, “you’re hurting me.”

      “Shut the fuck up,” said the bald-headed man.

      Dusty and the bartender exchanged glances.

      “Please let go. I want to leave.”

      The bald-headed man squeezed her arm harder, shook her firmly. “You'll leave when I say, bitch.” he said.

      Then the woman looked up and past him, eyes widening.

      The bald-headed man felt a firm tap on his shoulder, rose and turned just as an immense blow slammed his jaw, hurling him backward over the barstool. He lay upon the floor in a crumpled heap.

      The pale young woman stood aghast and amazed. “He’s...he's out cold!” she said. 

      “You’re welcome,” said Dusty.

     

     The ringside crowd was raucous and partisan, but Dusty didn’t take offense; the money was the same. Still, as he peeked through the curtain he couldn’t help but pity the disheveled old landowners filling the ring with smoke from their Te-Amo cigars, the farmers and ranchers looking for a diversion from their labors, the town merchants, politicians, salesmen, women and children who came to witness one man slugging it out with another. Concession workers catered to them all, hawking popcorn and peanuts, hot dogs, candy, and soda pop. It was a racket, alright.

      Dusty returned to his change room, where an elderly Mexican cornerman with missing front teeth fitted and laced his gloves, and waited for the call to ringside. 

      “How long you been fighting?” asked the cornerman.

      “All my life,” said Dusty.

      “How old are you, hijo?”

      “Twenty-six, old man.”

      “Heck, you just a kid. Want some advice?”

      “Get off this train? Save my money? Find a girl and settle down?”

      “Okay, smart guy, you know everything.”

      Dusty placed a hand on the old cornerman’s shoulder and smiled. “I’ll take that to heart,” he said.

     

     Boos for the underdog accompanied Dusty into the arena, but he expected this and paid no mind. His opponent, caped and hooded, entered the ring to thunderous foot-stomping, cheers and whistles. Then the cape dropped, and Dusty was damned if he didn’t recognize the bruised and broken face of the bald man from the bar, clearly still suffering from the blow to his jaw. One look at his rival and his eyes widened with panic. 

      It took Dusty three rounds of chasing to catch “The Grinder.” But he finally did.