(no subject)
THE OUTLAND
Genre: AU
Rating: NC-17 (for entire story)
Feedback: Any and all is welcome
Disclaimer: These are Annie Proulx's brilliant original characters and her story, and I have treated it and them (and her) with as much respect as I can muster.
This story is for Canstandit, and this chapter maybe should be subtitled "Ranch Life".
THE OUTLAND, CHAPTER 8
Around the time Jack found himself on his backside in the straw, his good leg planted on a cow's nether end, hauling on a handle attached to a chain attached to a calf, he decided to rescind his proposal of a little cow and calf operation.
"Too late now," grunted Ennis, similarly employed, "so shut up and pull. And you, little mama, push!"
After another few minutes' sweaty effort, the calf fell out with a satisfying sploosh. "Hey there," said Ennis, "bull," and swung it in a quick half-circle by its back legs while Jack scrambled to his feet and carefully recorded "489, bull, pullers" in a stained notebook. Once the calf had decided breathing was the best option, Jack tagged it, Ennis injected it with Vitamin A and swabbed iodine on the umbilical cord, then they left mother and baby to get to know each other. The lights were already on in the shed. In the next jug a cow let out a low, unhappy bellow.
"What d'you reckon?" asked Jack, bone-weary and looking forward to supper. Ennis slipped a washed, greased arm into the cow, felt around, pursed his lips.
"She might be right, just takin her time. Check the drop afore it's too dark, then we'll see." He washed up yet again and the two of them headed out to the small corral where the first-time mothers were gathered. Jack's criterion for imminent birth was a pair of hooves sticking out; he couldn't figure how Ennis could eye a cow acting moody in a corner and know that she was ready while the one elsewhere acting equally strangely wasn't. They brought three in, and while they were cleaning out a couple of jugs and laying in fresh straw, hay and water, the worrisome cow obligingly dropped her calf without any trouble.
"That's it. Call John down."
For his own reasons, John Twist had claimed the night shift. Jack had his suspicions; he'd heard a sound like a footfall outside their trailer one night while Ennis slept, but nothing followed it. They both snored sometimes - Jack loved to lie awake and listen to his dear one snuffling away beside him - and he worried about the old man creeping around loose at night. On the other hand, when they had returned home it had given Jack great pleasure to see his father looking puzzled, and maybe even a bit relieved, when he spotted a lovebite the size of Texas peeping out from Jack's shirt collar. Suck on that, you bastard, Jack had thought.
Several times the old man had called Ennis at night on the new intercom to get over and help, sometimes justified, sometimes plainly not, but Ennis, fond of the smells and sounds of calving sheds, hadn't complained. Usually Jack got up and went with him, just for the pleasure of watching him work. It moved him to see the way his man could be gentle and hard, tender and strong in turn. Most of what Jack had known about birthing calves had disappeared long ago but under Ennis's careful tutelage he was picking up unlikely skills and losing, bit by bit, the sense of being an outsider in his own home.
And so the calving progressed. The small herd of heifers was soon delivered; they had been put to the bulls early in the piece. It hadn't been a big job as Mr Twist had allowed the herd size to slide down to a level he could cope with. Unbeknownst to him, Jack and Ennis had closely studied the previous years' records, such as they were, noting several dry cows who hadn't produced in a couple of years and the slow decline in numbers. Ennis had a suspicion there had been trichomoniasis around; the old man hadn't been paying attention. Meanwhile the second-time mamas and the old girls mostly fended for themselves, dropping calves in the fields, although every day their progress was checked on and the odd problem lady brought into the shed for special attention. Ennis fretted that the records weren't clear enough for him to identify the ones who'd had difficulties before, and if Mr Twist knew who they were, he kept the knowledge to himself. It was, Ennis felt, a bit like running an obstacle race blindfolded, where he was being set up for a fall. But he had no intention of letting the perverse old bugger best him. This year he would do the best he could, and keep the best records he could, and next year there would be a whole new group of girls that he himself had helped choose. It was a good feeling.
At supper one evening, Sybil handed Jack a letter, which he grimaced at, then shoved into his pocket. There was no need for Ennis to wonder who it was from; he'd seen one just like it several months back. All the way back to the trailer Jack tapped it again and again on his hand, then propped it up and stared at it while he worked his way through three quarters of a beer.
"Fercrissakes, will you just open the damn thing? Ain't goin a get any better if you wait."
Jack nodded, breathed deep, and ripped the envelope open. "Dear Jack..."
"Good enough start."
"Yeah. Okay, sending divorce papers, truck papers, Rob's trust fund, blah blah, lawyer forwarding, sign and return, money transfer - she's no fool, no signature, no money. Hah! Here's the stinger. Let me put you straight on one point. I have our son's financial future in mind here. Please ensure that you bequeath to him a viable business when the time comes. Got a surprise for you, sweetcheeks," - the last murmured under his breath. "I sincerely hope---what the fuck?"
"What?"
"I sincerely hope you and Ennis are able to make a go of it. What the fuck does she mean by that?" He glanced up and caught the quick creasing of Ennis's brow. "Course we're goin a make a go a the ranch. Yeah, course we are." Ennis's face relaxed. "Well, could be worse. Believe me, with Lureen it could be worse."
For much of March a deceptive calm lay over the fields of Lightning Flat. A patchwork quilt of dun-colored grass tufts and dappled patches of snow stretched unchanging in all directions; the old house stood stark against a milky-smoke sky, everything held in suspension in a spare, enclosed world. Then a mean stretch of arctic weather dumped feet of snow, the derelict bunkhouse collapsed under its weight, drifts piled against fences, walls, anything that stood still for too long, calves disappeared, and outdoor work turned into a feat of endurance day after day. One calf in ten didn't make it; Ennis knew there was little he could do but felt guilty anyway.
A freezing wind howled on a morning like any other, blowing Ennis into Jack as he clung to the truck, trying to hook off the bales. Chill faces pressed together, warm laughter gurgled up from within, despite the horizontal snow needles blasting into them.
"This what you wanted?" bawled Ennis into Jack's ear.
"You bet!"
The words were ripped from their mouths and flung over the fence in an instant. They let go of their support and were wind-driven to where a cow was lowing at a mass of white. A bit of digging revealed her calf, cold to the touch. Ennis removed a glove and slipped a finger into the calf's mouth, feeling the chill that reached deep into the little one's innards.
"Okay, baby, you're comin with us. Don't fret, mama, your girl will be back." Between them, they got the calf back to the truck and shoved it, too weak to protest, onto the bench seat. Ennis nursed it as Jack drove to the next field where another calf joined it and a carcass got thrown on the tray, next to the remaining hay.
"Be a few more found when this melts," Ennis remarked as they headed back to the calving shed. The carcass was dumped on the rubbish trailer, atop a growing pile of old straw from the jugs, a fetid mass of blood, shit, amniotic fluid and cow piss; the two babies shared a little hot box until returning body warmth and TLC made them too frisky.
And so the days ground on, feeding, breaking ice on water troughs, rescuing calves and cows from unlikely places and predicaments, delivering the living, disposing of the dead. On April Fools Day a warm chinook wind blew enough to melt snow in time for the next freeze to turn it half to ice, but gradually winter released its grip on the starved landscape. The two men shovelled shit and soggy mud from around the mangers, repaired the snow-damaged fences, and did the thousand and one other tasks at hand, and now and then their eyes met and their faces creased into smiles.
A line of cows and young calves stretched its way along the track, the dull thud of their hooves overlaid with their lowing, with men's whistling and an occasional sharp order, and with the barks of the border collies. Once in a while a calf would lose sight of its mother and blunder back through the herd, bellowing and frantic. It was Jack's job, riding the drag, to catch such wanderers and guide them back until they mothered up again. Ennis rode swing, keeping the middle from bunching up and losing momentum. John took the head; even he was not immune to the traditions of the Old West. It was hardly a Texas-to-Montana cattle drive, just a few dozen head being trailed to where they could graze on the first shoots of spring grass, yet for men whose blood sang the old songs it was a deeply satisfying activity.
Jack rode easy, revelling in his returning strength, rocking in the saddle, slipping back into old dreams, old memories. If he held his hand just so, he found he could block out his father's figure way up ahead and imagine that the cattle were a thousand ewes and their lambs, that the collies were blue heelers, that Ennis was in charge of pack mules, that the whole procession was flowing like a stream out above the treeline and across great flowery meadows, that the world was in the morning of its life, crystal pure and waiting to embrace them. Lost in his dream, he barely noticed that Ennis was falling back.
"What you doin there, bud?"
Jack sighed. "Just thinkin."
"Bout what?"
"Brokeback." The name had not passed between them since the dreadful day nearly a year back when Jack had screamed it like a curse at the man he loved. Even on the day with Rob up in the Big Horns, in sight of the very mountains which had contained their little Eden, when Jack had cried fit to burst but couldn't explain why, their mouths had been unable to form the word. "I want to go back one day, get it right."
Ennis glanced ahead where John's hat was disappearing over a crest. He leaned in and quickly kissed Jack's cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, one day, bud. For sure." Then he urged Angel back up the line.
Once the herd was secured, the three men rode on further to a field up near the north-east boundary, an awkward little acre or so on the far side of the creek that hadn't seen real use since Jack had left home. A bigger herd would need more hay, and this looked like a good spot to establish a new hayfield. John was skeptical.
"Easier to buy in hay if'n it's needed. Too much work gettin this good. Cost too much anyway."
"Bad economics," chipped in Jack, knowing as he did that his father would barely register his words. "Don't you worry yourself none. We'll pay for it outta our money. You won't lose a thing."
"Jack's right, John. And most a the cost'll be in labor. We can do it between us, Jack and me. Won't interfere with our other work, promise you that."
John just grunted, pointed out that the creek was low, should find out why, and departed, leaving them in the field. Ennis spent some time studying the lay of the land, the state of the ground. They traced a path back up to the creek then followed it upstream to where a huge tumble of debris from the snowmelt had built up behind a smashed-down fence, good as any beaver dam. Next day they returned with the tractor and cleared the blockage, wader-clad Ennis up to his chest in freezing water, Jack chainsawing logs. They repaired the broken fence and began the task of picking rocks that would occupy all their spare time for the next few days. When that was done and the land cleared ready to take the plow, they left it be.
Later that month Jack was called down to Gillette, examined from head to toe and declared to be mended to the limits of medical science. Any residual afflictions he would either have to stand or fix himself. True to her word, Lureen forked out the cash, and Jack found himself the owner of a slightly used but much loved - and loved-in - trailer. From then on, nothing much was ever said about Jack's health, although Ennis was still inclined to hover a little, and Jack didn't always keep the groans inside when the broken shoulder or the crushed vertebrae or the busted leg or the rest of his lifetime of injuries played up in the cold weather. Ennis made sure there was always a less stressful job to be done of an afternoon, like repairing the old canvas dams and making new ones ready for the crop of hay, and if Jack nodded off over his work now and then, his father didn't need to know. The only time Jack pleaded weakness was on occasional nights when he flung himself spreadeagle on their bed, declared he was far too feeble and helpless to do anything, and requested that Ennis have his wicked way with him.
"Take this to your mama, darlin," said Ennis, handing the envelope of cash to his youngest. He watched her bounce across the road and up the porch steps, heard the sweet, high voices as she disappeared inside for a few seconds, and smiled broadly as she came running back to the truck.
"So, Daddy, can I drive? Got my licence now." She pulled it out of her big shoulderbag and proudly held it for him to see.
"You have? Look at that! That's great. But no, darlin. If it was my rig you could."
"Oh come on. Your boss won't mind."
"I said no, Francie."
"Spoilsport," Francie said without conviction, snuggling up to her beloved daddy. She kept up a steady stream of instructions - change up! you didn't indicate! Stop sign ahead! not so fast! - until he growled like a bear at her and they subsided into laughter. At Bill's store, Junior was waiting, after her Saturday morning shift. Her eyes widened as the cream and bronze crew cab pickup rolled to a halt, a far cry from the rusted-up vehicle she'd been expecting.
"Great wheels, Daddy! How'd you afford it?"
"It's not his. It belongs to his boss and he won't let me drive it, the meanie," Francie pouted.
"Aw Daddy! Francie's a good driver. Your boss wouldn't mind if---"
"No! Jack---" Damn! "I said no, girls, okay?"
"Yeah, okay, Daddy. We were just teasing you."
"I know, darlin." He smiled at them, his beautiful, gleaming girls, and for the first time in their lives he felt a pang of guilt about keeping secrets from them. A little of the desire which Jack had expressed, to say a name out loud, to tell them the reason for his happiness, had crept into his heart. But he could never do that, never, could never destroy the love his daughters had for him.
"So is Jack your boss?"
"Sort of. It's Jack's dad's ranch."
"Where is it? You didn't say."
"Uhh," he drew it out, finding the light traffic needed his full attention right at that moment, "uh, over beyond the Big Horns. Long way. Damn drivers these days. You better be careful, young Miss, you get out there by yourself."
"Are they nice to work for? Must be okay if they let you take the truck."
"Yeah, nice. Now, who's goin in to buy the ice creams?"
"You are!" the girls chorused. That's the way it had been since they were little; Daddy always fetched the ice creams.
They drove out to the banks of the Wind River, up near the Boysen Park Reservoir and spent a lazy afternoon in the late spring sun, surrounded by kids and dogs and parents, just like any other divorced, straight father and his daughters. A rough baseball game was happening along the river flats. Father and girls all gained a certain pleasure out of watching the college boys playing, but only two of them recognised the pleasure for what it was.
"So how's Troy?"
"Troy? She's not with him any longer. The new guy is Kurt and she's sooooo in love with him, Daddy!"
Junior blushed and swatted at her sister who was enjoying the embarassment caused. And so the afternoon drifted away, in gentle banter and chatter and the enjoyment of just being together.
"Is that your dad's truck?" asked Alma when her daughters returned.
"No, it belongs to his boss."
"Jack," chimed in Francie. "Daddy works for him and his father."
Alma asked nothing more but later that night as she lay in bed, sleep didn't come. She elbowed her husband. He grunted. "Bill. Bill, when Ennis came to see you last year, did he say where he was goin?"
"Nope, just gave me the cards and said he'd pay up when he could. I told you. Why?"
"I dunno. All this money, fancy new truck." Jack. "Somethin don't feel right. He could never even scrape together enough to pay the bills." Surely not that Jack? Common enough name. But still...
"Not your problem, sweetheart. Now go to sleep."
Next morning, after Francie and the boys had left for school, she tackled Junior running late for work. "You got a phone number for your dad?" The slight pause before her daughter answered told her everything.
"We just send him mail care of Signal Post Office, you know that, Mama."
"Thought he might a given you a number. What if you want a get hold of him real quick?" Junior's eyes looked floorwards. She chewed her lips. Just like her dad! "What if somethin bad happened and you wanted him to know in a hurry? Remember when your sister had that bad asthma attack?"
"That was years ago!"
"Still." Alma waited. She could wait all day if she had to.
"Daddy said it was just for us, Mama."
They both knew that in the end Junior would cave it and hand over the phone number, and so it was. Alma pinned it up on the kitchen pinboard, hidden behind a piece of artwork that her youngest son had done. She didn't use it for a long time; just having it was enough for the moment.
Jesus H., what a difference a year makes. Last May, fit to die, this May, seventh heaven. If L.D. could see me now he'd prob'ly think I was where I deserved to be, plowin a miserable little field with a useless little tractor that's older'n me, livin in a trailer and countin ever cent we got. Up at dawn, slave my guts out all day, stagger into bed at night, half the time too tired to do nothin but sleep. Well, I got news for you, you old prick, I ain't never been this happy my entire life, not even the glorious day you dropped dead.
Even my old man gotta admit I know about trimmin expenses and gettin good deals. Hell, talked down that bobcat driver what dug the channels for us. The old man, now, he'd a got the guy's back up with his whinin and complainin. Never did understand people like to be spoken nice to.
The beefy, red-faced driver had been a bit of a worry, Jack had to admit. There was something about him which had instantly turned Ennis edgy and grouchy. Ennis had shown him the two new irrigation channels he'd marked out with stones and the man had done a good job excavating them and then smoothing out the old creek ford, but Ennis had insisted Jack stay well away until it came time for money to change hands. These were minor worries, however, compared to the quiet delights of driving up and back, hour after hour, working the soil until it was ready to sow the alfalfa. The sun beat down, the old Ferguson chugged steadily on, Jack let his mind wander. It was all coming good, it really was. It was some sweet life.
"Reckon that'll take a crop now. Better get it in while the ground's still damp. Jesus, my shoulders ache!"
"C'mere," said Ennis, pulling Jack down to sit on the floor between his knees. "You gotta look after that shoulder." He started a firm massage, rhythmic and soothing, that had them both dreamy and relaxed after a few minutes.
"How's that, baby?" Ennis murmured, bending down to Jack's ear.
"Mmmmmm---what? What did you say?" Jack whispered back.
"I asked how you felt."
"You called me baby."
"No, I didn't."
"Swear to god, you did."
"Well, so what if I did," Ennis blushed.
"You just keep goin, darlin, won't hear no complaint from me."
Old Man Twist ran maybe half a dozen bulls, freeloaders for most of the year, whose moment in the spotlight came with the lengthening of the days. But before they got their chance to perform, there was one indignity awaiting them. Driven from their winter pasture, corraled in a holding pen, funneled down a chute and jammed in a head catch, each big boy was first vaccinated and then subjected to a dose of disinfectant to ward off the dreaded "trick". John sensibly chose to wield the needle and left the rest to his ranch hands.
Despite his short stature, Jack had never truly feared the prospect of perching atop two thousand pounds of enraged, heaving bull, with nothing but what skill he possessed, his luck on the day, plus a bunch of rodeo clowns to protect him from being trampled or gored to death. However, persuading a bull, even a little black baldie, to submit to having his privates washed out was another matter entirely. He manned the pump and left it to Ennis to manouever the business end of a hose between sheath and penis, a task he did with grim efficiency, his exhortations ranging from Good boy, you go and have fun now, to Hey, you fucker, you do that again you'll be dogmeat!
Once the bulls had been sent off for their first round of duty, amongst Ennis's heifers, attention turned to the next big occasion, branding. Somewhere in this sparsely populated region, they had to find someone to come and help out, someone whom John hadn't already off-sided with his sharp tongue. Jack had a solicitor's appointment later that week and figured his own silver tongue might persuade a local or two. And there was always Rob.
When he returned from Gillette he had good news. "Ran into an old school friend, Gerry. Insurance assessor or somethin these days. Said he'd be happy to give us a hand brandin. Use ta rope in the rodeo, pretty good roper, I recall. He's got a kid he'll bring up too. What with Rob, we should have enough hands."
"When's Rob comin?" said Ennis keen to see the boy again.
"Said he'd ring on the weekend, give his flight details. And I told him, this time he sleeps in the house."
Sunday morning the phone rang. And rang. The Twists Senior were at church. Jack shouted from the toilet, "Answer that, will ya? Won't bite. Likely be Rob."
But when Ennis picked it up, cleared his throat and said "Hello?", there was no reply, just a quiet click as the caller hung up.
tbc
Genre: AU
Rating: NC-17 (for entire story)
Feedback: Any and all is welcome
Disclaimer: These are Annie Proulx's brilliant original characters and her story, and I have treated it and them (and her) with as much respect as I can muster.
This story is for Canstandit, and this chapter maybe should be subtitled "Ranch Life".
THE OUTLAND, CHAPTER 8
Around the time Jack found himself on his backside in the straw, his good leg planted on a cow's nether end, hauling on a handle attached to a chain attached to a calf, he decided to rescind his proposal of a little cow and calf operation.
"Too late now," grunted Ennis, similarly employed, "so shut up and pull. And you, little mama, push!"
After another few minutes' sweaty effort, the calf fell out with a satisfying sploosh. "Hey there," said Ennis, "bull," and swung it in a quick half-circle by its back legs while Jack scrambled to his feet and carefully recorded "489, bull, pullers" in a stained notebook. Once the calf had decided breathing was the best option, Jack tagged it, Ennis injected it with Vitamin A and swabbed iodine on the umbilical cord, then they left mother and baby to get to know each other. The lights were already on in the shed. In the next jug a cow let out a low, unhappy bellow.
"What d'you reckon?" asked Jack, bone-weary and looking forward to supper. Ennis slipped a washed, greased arm into the cow, felt around, pursed his lips.
"She might be right, just takin her time. Check the drop afore it's too dark, then we'll see." He washed up yet again and the two of them headed out to the small corral where the first-time mothers were gathered. Jack's criterion for imminent birth was a pair of hooves sticking out; he couldn't figure how Ennis could eye a cow acting moody in a corner and know that she was ready while the one elsewhere acting equally strangely wasn't. They brought three in, and while they were cleaning out a couple of jugs and laying in fresh straw, hay and water, the worrisome cow obligingly dropped her calf without any trouble.
"That's it. Call John down."
For his own reasons, John Twist had claimed the night shift. Jack had his suspicions; he'd heard a sound like a footfall outside their trailer one night while Ennis slept, but nothing followed it. They both snored sometimes - Jack loved to lie awake and listen to his dear one snuffling away beside him - and he worried about the old man creeping around loose at night. On the other hand, when they had returned home it had given Jack great pleasure to see his father looking puzzled, and maybe even a bit relieved, when he spotted a lovebite the size of Texas peeping out from Jack's shirt collar. Suck on that, you bastard, Jack had thought.
Several times the old man had called Ennis at night on the new intercom to get over and help, sometimes justified, sometimes plainly not, but Ennis, fond of the smells and sounds of calving sheds, hadn't complained. Usually Jack got up and went with him, just for the pleasure of watching him work. It moved him to see the way his man could be gentle and hard, tender and strong in turn. Most of what Jack had known about birthing calves had disappeared long ago but under Ennis's careful tutelage he was picking up unlikely skills and losing, bit by bit, the sense of being an outsider in his own home.
And so the calving progressed. The small herd of heifers was soon delivered; they had been put to the bulls early in the piece. It hadn't been a big job as Mr Twist had allowed the herd size to slide down to a level he could cope with. Unbeknownst to him, Jack and Ennis had closely studied the previous years' records, such as they were, noting several dry cows who hadn't produced in a couple of years and the slow decline in numbers. Ennis had a suspicion there had been trichomoniasis around; the old man hadn't been paying attention. Meanwhile the second-time mamas and the old girls mostly fended for themselves, dropping calves in the fields, although every day their progress was checked on and the odd problem lady brought into the shed for special attention. Ennis fretted that the records weren't clear enough for him to identify the ones who'd had difficulties before, and if Mr Twist knew who they were, he kept the knowledge to himself. It was, Ennis felt, a bit like running an obstacle race blindfolded, where he was being set up for a fall. But he had no intention of letting the perverse old bugger best him. This year he would do the best he could, and keep the best records he could, and next year there would be a whole new group of girls that he himself had helped choose. It was a good feeling.
At supper one evening, Sybil handed Jack a letter, which he grimaced at, then shoved into his pocket. There was no need for Ennis to wonder who it was from; he'd seen one just like it several months back. All the way back to the trailer Jack tapped it again and again on his hand, then propped it up and stared at it while he worked his way through three quarters of a beer.
"Fercrissakes, will you just open the damn thing? Ain't goin a get any better if you wait."
Jack nodded, breathed deep, and ripped the envelope open. "Dear Jack..."
"Good enough start."
"Yeah. Okay, sending divorce papers, truck papers, Rob's trust fund, blah blah, lawyer forwarding, sign and return, money transfer - she's no fool, no signature, no money. Hah! Here's the stinger. Let me put you straight on one point. I have our son's financial future in mind here. Please ensure that you bequeath to him a viable business when the time comes. Got a surprise for you, sweetcheeks," - the last murmured under his breath. "I sincerely hope---what the fuck?"
"What?"
"I sincerely hope you and Ennis are able to make a go of it. What the fuck does she mean by that?" He glanced up and caught the quick creasing of Ennis's brow. "Course we're goin a make a go a the ranch. Yeah, course we are." Ennis's face relaxed. "Well, could be worse. Believe me, with Lureen it could be worse."
For much of March a deceptive calm lay over the fields of Lightning Flat. A patchwork quilt of dun-colored grass tufts and dappled patches of snow stretched unchanging in all directions; the old house stood stark against a milky-smoke sky, everything held in suspension in a spare, enclosed world. Then a mean stretch of arctic weather dumped feet of snow, the derelict bunkhouse collapsed under its weight, drifts piled against fences, walls, anything that stood still for too long, calves disappeared, and outdoor work turned into a feat of endurance day after day. One calf in ten didn't make it; Ennis knew there was little he could do but felt guilty anyway.
A freezing wind howled on a morning like any other, blowing Ennis into Jack as he clung to the truck, trying to hook off the bales. Chill faces pressed together, warm laughter gurgled up from within, despite the horizontal snow needles blasting into them.
"This what you wanted?" bawled Ennis into Jack's ear.
"You bet!"
The words were ripped from their mouths and flung over the fence in an instant. They let go of their support and were wind-driven to where a cow was lowing at a mass of white. A bit of digging revealed her calf, cold to the touch. Ennis removed a glove and slipped a finger into the calf's mouth, feeling the chill that reached deep into the little one's innards.
"Okay, baby, you're comin with us. Don't fret, mama, your girl will be back." Between them, they got the calf back to the truck and shoved it, too weak to protest, onto the bench seat. Ennis nursed it as Jack drove to the next field where another calf joined it and a carcass got thrown on the tray, next to the remaining hay.
"Be a few more found when this melts," Ennis remarked as they headed back to the calving shed. The carcass was dumped on the rubbish trailer, atop a growing pile of old straw from the jugs, a fetid mass of blood, shit, amniotic fluid and cow piss; the two babies shared a little hot box until returning body warmth and TLC made them too frisky.
And so the days ground on, feeding, breaking ice on water troughs, rescuing calves and cows from unlikely places and predicaments, delivering the living, disposing of the dead. On April Fools Day a warm chinook wind blew enough to melt snow in time for the next freeze to turn it half to ice, but gradually winter released its grip on the starved landscape. The two men shovelled shit and soggy mud from around the mangers, repaired the snow-damaged fences, and did the thousand and one other tasks at hand, and now and then their eyes met and their faces creased into smiles.
A line of cows and young calves stretched its way along the track, the dull thud of their hooves overlaid with their lowing, with men's whistling and an occasional sharp order, and with the barks of the border collies. Once in a while a calf would lose sight of its mother and blunder back through the herd, bellowing and frantic. It was Jack's job, riding the drag, to catch such wanderers and guide them back until they mothered up again. Ennis rode swing, keeping the middle from bunching up and losing momentum. John took the head; even he was not immune to the traditions of the Old West. It was hardly a Texas-to-Montana cattle drive, just a few dozen head being trailed to where they could graze on the first shoots of spring grass, yet for men whose blood sang the old songs it was a deeply satisfying activity.
Jack rode easy, revelling in his returning strength, rocking in the saddle, slipping back into old dreams, old memories. If he held his hand just so, he found he could block out his father's figure way up ahead and imagine that the cattle were a thousand ewes and their lambs, that the collies were blue heelers, that Ennis was in charge of pack mules, that the whole procession was flowing like a stream out above the treeline and across great flowery meadows, that the world was in the morning of its life, crystal pure and waiting to embrace them. Lost in his dream, he barely noticed that Ennis was falling back.
"What you doin there, bud?"
Jack sighed. "Just thinkin."
"Bout what?"
"Brokeback." The name had not passed between them since the dreadful day nearly a year back when Jack had screamed it like a curse at the man he loved. Even on the day with Rob up in the Big Horns, in sight of the very mountains which had contained their little Eden, when Jack had cried fit to burst but couldn't explain why, their mouths had been unable to form the word. "I want to go back one day, get it right."
Ennis glanced ahead where John's hat was disappearing over a crest. He leaned in and quickly kissed Jack's cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, one day, bud. For sure." Then he urged Angel back up the line.
Once the herd was secured, the three men rode on further to a field up near the north-east boundary, an awkward little acre or so on the far side of the creek that hadn't seen real use since Jack had left home. A bigger herd would need more hay, and this looked like a good spot to establish a new hayfield. John was skeptical.
"Easier to buy in hay if'n it's needed. Too much work gettin this good. Cost too much anyway."
"Bad economics," chipped in Jack, knowing as he did that his father would barely register his words. "Don't you worry yourself none. We'll pay for it outta our money. You won't lose a thing."
"Jack's right, John. And most a the cost'll be in labor. We can do it between us, Jack and me. Won't interfere with our other work, promise you that."
John just grunted, pointed out that the creek was low, should find out why, and departed, leaving them in the field. Ennis spent some time studying the lay of the land, the state of the ground. They traced a path back up to the creek then followed it upstream to where a huge tumble of debris from the snowmelt had built up behind a smashed-down fence, good as any beaver dam. Next day they returned with the tractor and cleared the blockage, wader-clad Ennis up to his chest in freezing water, Jack chainsawing logs. They repaired the broken fence and began the task of picking rocks that would occupy all their spare time for the next few days. When that was done and the land cleared ready to take the plow, they left it be.
Later that month Jack was called down to Gillette, examined from head to toe and declared to be mended to the limits of medical science. Any residual afflictions he would either have to stand or fix himself. True to her word, Lureen forked out the cash, and Jack found himself the owner of a slightly used but much loved - and loved-in - trailer. From then on, nothing much was ever said about Jack's health, although Ennis was still inclined to hover a little, and Jack didn't always keep the groans inside when the broken shoulder or the crushed vertebrae or the busted leg or the rest of his lifetime of injuries played up in the cold weather. Ennis made sure there was always a less stressful job to be done of an afternoon, like repairing the old canvas dams and making new ones ready for the crop of hay, and if Jack nodded off over his work now and then, his father didn't need to know. The only time Jack pleaded weakness was on occasional nights when he flung himself spreadeagle on their bed, declared he was far too feeble and helpless to do anything, and requested that Ennis have his wicked way with him.
"Take this to your mama, darlin," said Ennis, handing the envelope of cash to his youngest. He watched her bounce across the road and up the porch steps, heard the sweet, high voices as she disappeared inside for a few seconds, and smiled broadly as she came running back to the truck.
"So, Daddy, can I drive? Got my licence now." She pulled it out of her big shoulderbag and proudly held it for him to see.
"You have? Look at that! That's great. But no, darlin. If it was my rig you could."
"Oh come on. Your boss won't mind."
"I said no, Francie."
"Spoilsport," Francie said without conviction, snuggling up to her beloved daddy. She kept up a steady stream of instructions - change up! you didn't indicate! Stop sign ahead! not so fast! - until he growled like a bear at her and they subsided into laughter. At Bill's store, Junior was waiting, after her Saturday morning shift. Her eyes widened as the cream and bronze crew cab pickup rolled to a halt, a far cry from the rusted-up vehicle she'd been expecting.
"Great wheels, Daddy! How'd you afford it?"
"It's not his. It belongs to his boss and he won't let me drive it, the meanie," Francie pouted.
"Aw Daddy! Francie's a good driver. Your boss wouldn't mind if---"
"No! Jack---" Damn! "I said no, girls, okay?"
"Yeah, okay, Daddy. We were just teasing you."
"I know, darlin." He smiled at them, his beautiful, gleaming girls, and for the first time in their lives he felt a pang of guilt about keeping secrets from them. A little of the desire which Jack had expressed, to say a name out loud, to tell them the reason for his happiness, had crept into his heart. But he could never do that, never, could never destroy the love his daughters had for him.
"So is Jack your boss?"
"Sort of. It's Jack's dad's ranch."
"Where is it? You didn't say."
"Uhh," he drew it out, finding the light traffic needed his full attention right at that moment, "uh, over beyond the Big Horns. Long way. Damn drivers these days. You better be careful, young Miss, you get out there by yourself."
"Are they nice to work for? Must be okay if they let you take the truck."
"Yeah, nice. Now, who's goin in to buy the ice creams?"
"You are!" the girls chorused. That's the way it had been since they were little; Daddy always fetched the ice creams.
They drove out to the banks of the Wind River, up near the Boysen Park Reservoir and spent a lazy afternoon in the late spring sun, surrounded by kids and dogs and parents, just like any other divorced, straight father and his daughters. A rough baseball game was happening along the river flats. Father and girls all gained a certain pleasure out of watching the college boys playing, but only two of them recognised the pleasure for what it was.
"So how's Troy?"
"Troy? She's not with him any longer. The new guy is Kurt and she's sooooo in love with him, Daddy!"
Junior blushed and swatted at her sister who was enjoying the embarassment caused. And so the afternoon drifted away, in gentle banter and chatter and the enjoyment of just being together.
"Is that your dad's truck?" asked Alma when her daughters returned.
"No, it belongs to his boss."
"Jack," chimed in Francie. "Daddy works for him and his father."
Alma asked nothing more but later that night as she lay in bed, sleep didn't come. She elbowed her husband. He grunted. "Bill. Bill, when Ennis came to see you last year, did he say where he was goin?"
"Nope, just gave me the cards and said he'd pay up when he could. I told you. Why?"
"I dunno. All this money, fancy new truck." Jack. "Somethin don't feel right. He could never even scrape together enough to pay the bills." Surely not that Jack? Common enough name. But still...
"Not your problem, sweetheart. Now go to sleep."
Next morning, after Francie and the boys had left for school, she tackled Junior running late for work. "You got a phone number for your dad?" The slight pause before her daughter answered told her everything.
"We just send him mail care of Signal Post Office, you know that, Mama."
"Thought he might a given you a number. What if you want a get hold of him real quick?" Junior's eyes looked floorwards. She chewed her lips. Just like her dad! "What if somethin bad happened and you wanted him to know in a hurry? Remember when your sister had that bad asthma attack?"
"That was years ago!"
"Still." Alma waited. She could wait all day if she had to.
"Daddy said it was just for us, Mama."
They both knew that in the end Junior would cave it and hand over the phone number, and so it was. Alma pinned it up on the kitchen pinboard, hidden behind a piece of artwork that her youngest son had done. She didn't use it for a long time; just having it was enough for the moment.
Jesus H., what a difference a year makes. Last May, fit to die, this May, seventh heaven. If L.D. could see me now he'd prob'ly think I was where I deserved to be, plowin a miserable little field with a useless little tractor that's older'n me, livin in a trailer and countin ever cent we got. Up at dawn, slave my guts out all day, stagger into bed at night, half the time too tired to do nothin but sleep. Well, I got news for you, you old prick, I ain't never been this happy my entire life, not even the glorious day you dropped dead.
Even my old man gotta admit I know about trimmin expenses and gettin good deals. Hell, talked down that bobcat driver what dug the channels for us. The old man, now, he'd a got the guy's back up with his whinin and complainin. Never did understand people like to be spoken nice to.
The beefy, red-faced driver had been a bit of a worry, Jack had to admit. There was something about him which had instantly turned Ennis edgy and grouchy. Ennis had shown him the two new irrigation channels he'd marked out with stones and the man had done a good job excavating them and then smoothing out the old creek ford, but Ennis had insisted Jack stay well away until it came time for money to change hands. These were minor worries, however, compared to the quiet delights of driving up and back, hour after hour, working the soil until it was ready to sow the alfalfa. The sun beat down, the old Ferguson chugged steadily on, Jack let his mind wander. It was all coming good, it really was. It was some sweet life.
"Reckon that'll take a crop now. Better get it in while the ground's still damp. Jesus, my shoulders ache!"
"C'mere," said Ennis, pulling Jack down to sit on the floor between his knees. "You gotta look after that shoulder." He started a firm massage, rhythmic and soothing, that had them both dreamy and relaxed after a few minutes.
"How's that, baby?" Ennis murmured, bending down to Jack's ear.
"Mmmmmm---what? What did you say?" Jack whispered back.
"I asked how you felt."
"You called me baby."
"No, I didn't."
"Swear to god, you did."
"Well, so what if I did," Ennis blushed.
"You just keep goin, darlin, won't hear no complaint from me."
Old Man Twist ran maybe half a dozen bulls, freeloaders for most of the year, whose moment in the spotlight came with the lengthening of the days. But before they got their chance to perform, there was one indignity awaiting them. Driven from their winter pasture, corraled in a holding pen, funneled down a chute and jammed in a head catch, each big boy was first vaccinated and then subjected to a dose of disinfectant to ward off the dreaded "trick". John sensibly chose to wield the needle and left the rest to his ranch hands.
Despite his short stature, Jack had never truly feared the prospect of perching atop two thousand pounds of enraged, heaving bull, with nothing but what skill he possessed, his luck on the day, plus a bunch of rodeo clowns to protect him from being trampled or gored to death. However, persuading a bull, even a little black baldie, to submit to having his privates washed out was another matter entirely. He manned the pump and left it to Ennis to manouever the business end of a hose between sheath and penis, a task he did with grim efficiency, his exhortations ranging from Good boy, you go and have fun now, to Hey, you fucker, you do that again you'll be dogmeat!
Once the bulls had been sent off for their first round of duty, amongst Ennis's heifers, attention turned to the next big occasion, branding. Somewhere in this sparsely populated region, they had to find someone to come and help out, someone whom John hadn't already off-sided with his sharp tongue. Jack had a solicitor's appointment later that week and figured his own silver tongue might persuade a local or two. And there was always Rob.
When he returned from Gillette he had good news. "Ran into an old school friend, Gerry. Insurance assessor or somethin these days. Said he'd be happy to give us a hand brandin. Use ta rope in the rodeo, pretty good roper, I recall. He's got a kid he'll bring up too. What with Rob, we should have enough hands."
"When's Rob comin?" said Ennis keen to see the boy again.
"Said he'd ring on the weekend, give his flight details. And I told him, this time he sleeps in the house."
Sunday morning the phone rang. And rang. The Twists Senior were at church. Jack shouted from the toilet, "Answer that, will ya? Won't bite. Likely be Rob."
But when Ennis picked it up, cleared his throat and said "Hello?", there was no reply, just a quiet click as the caller hung up.
tbc