The Cat, The Devil And Lee Fontana

27

Pausing on the porch of the mess hall, Lee stamped dust from his boots, startling a flock of chickens that flapped up squawking, kicking sand in his face. Beside the tool house the trucks stood idle, and the packing-shed doors were shut tight. Looking in through the wide screens, he could see that the mess hall was empty; but the smell of cooking breakfasts lingered. On Sunday mornings, the men fixed their own meals. Moving on inside the screened room and back between the long tables, he stepped into the kitchen and set about making his breakfast.

The big wire basket on the counter was full of rinsed dishes left to drain and several burners of the oversized commercial stove were still warm. The stove was familiar to Lee, from working in a number of prison kitchens. He found bowls of eggs in the refrigerator alongside rolls of chorizo, and there were packages of tortillas on the counter and a couple of loaves of bread. The big commercial coffeepot was warm but nearly empty and was of a kind he didn’t know. He found a saucepan instead, and made boiled coffee. He fired up the stove’s big gas grill, started the chorizo, and when it was brown he broke three eggs beside it. He dropped two slices of bread in the big commercial toaster, buttered them from a gallon crock, and carried his steaming plate and coffee mug to a table beside the long, east-facing screen, where the edge of the rising sun was just appearing over the sand hills and above the scraggly willows.

The cash from the traveler’s check scam was in his hip pocket. He’d left his new gun and the ammo hidden inside his mattress, had ripped the stitching just enough to slide them in. Not very original, but they wouldn’t be there long. His cabin didn’t offer a lot of options, not even a cupboard under the sink. But no one seemed to have been in there since he’d moved in, his few personal possessions, his clean clothes, Mae’s picture on the dresser, never seemed disturbed.

He had dreamed of Mae again last night. He didn’t dream of her often but when he did the scene was shockingly real. Again she had been in a strange place, lying half asleep on a flowered couch, a blanket tucked around her, and her face very pale. She woke and looked up at him, looked right at him. “Cowboy,” she said, reaching up to him, her thin little hands cold in his hands. She was telling him that he had to come and help her, when Lee woke.

It must have been around midnight, though in his dream it seemed to be morning. Outside his window the moon had already moved up out of sight above the cabin roof. He lay wakeful a long time staring into the dark, seeing Mae so vividly, hearing her voice so clearly—Mae’s voice, and yet not quite her voice. There was something different in the way she spoke, an accent of some kind. Dreams could be so deceiving; but something in her voice left him uncertain and puzzled. The child had to be Mae, but something was different not only in the way she spoke, but something in her searching look that wasn’t quite like Mae, something that teased and puzzled him so that when he slept again he worried restlessly. Even as he stirred and tossed in his dreams, part of him knew that Mae would be an old woman now, if she was still alive. Maybe he had dreamed of a time long past, when Mae needed him and he wasn’t there for her?

But he didn’t think so. This child belonged to the present, this child so like his small sister, this little girl was real and alive, now, today, this child reaching out to him, badly needing him.

Trying to settle his puzzled uncertainty, he told himself he’d let last night’s dreams run away with him, that he needed to calm himself, not indulge in crazy fancies. Forking up the last of his eggs, looking out through the screen to the bunkhouses, he watched half a dozen pickers lolling on the long, roofed porches, and he could hear the murmur of Spanish radio stations clashing together in a senseless tangle. In the yard, a ball game had started, loud and energetic, lots of shouting and swearing in Spanish. He watched four young pickers leave their bunkhouse all dressed up in clean shirts, clean jeans, and polished boots, laughing and joking. They piled into an old blue Packard and took off, heading for town. He hoped that wasn’t the last car to go. The next step in his plan depended on a ride into Blythe—but he could still see Tony polishing his car, and that was what he was counting on. Smearing jam on the last of his toast, he crammed it in his mouth, washed it down with the last swallow of coffee. He got up, picking up his plate, thinking about the day ahead.

He hadn’t had much time to get himself organized but so far the moves had been smooth. It was the dreams that unsettled him. When he dreamed of Mae, the devil’s urgings had backed off. But then, when he least expected it, the dark presence would return, pressing him to center his attention on the Delgado payroll, to set Jake up for a long prison term, and to move in on Lucita. He would wake from these encounters angry and fighting back.

No one but Lee himself, the cat, and the dark incubus knew the inner battles of Lee’s sleepless nights, his dreams sometimes so conflicting that he began to think of himself as two people: his own natural self with the code he had known all his life, and the stranger whose hunger and viciousness didn’t really belong to him. He didn’t see Lucita much during the day. When he did, he knew she wouldn’t play his game. But his hunger for her could still turn fierce, wanting her for himself—and too often the devil would reappear, urging Lee on to pursue her.

Last night the cat had waked him from such an encounter, had spoken so angrily that Lee had had to listen. Crouched on the foot of the bed, Misto had awakened Lee hissing and growling, kneading his claws so hard in the blanket, catching Lee’s foot with a claw, that Lee rose up out of sleep staring at him, startled.

Why do you listen to him? the cat hissed. You have grown older now, Lee, and you are wiser. But in your resolve, and in your body, you are weaker, while the devil is still strong. He will always be strong. Now, in your declining age, do you plan to let him beat you? Is Satan strong enough, now, to beat you?

Now, leaving the table, still hearing the cat’s words and angry at his own weakness, Lee returned to the kitchen, rinsed his dish and cup and set them to drain, then he headed out toward the bunkhouses.

Beyond the softball game two young Mexicans were tinkering with the engine of a cut-down Ford, the car’s radio blaring its hot music. Near them Tony Valdez, stripped to the waist, was sloshing a last bucket of water over his two-door white Chevy coupe. The car was maybe fifteen years old, but looked in good shape. Lee went on over. “Nice car, Tony.”

Tony grinned. “Haven’t had it long.” He picked up a rag and began to wipe down the roof and hood.

Lee ducked to look inside. A Saint Christopher medal dangled from the rearview mirror, but the interior was clean and uncluttered. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into driving me into town?”

Tony gave the hood a final swipe. “Sure can.” He wiped the rest of the car quickly and efficiently, then turned away from Lee, wringing out the rag. “I’m leaving, pronto. Five minutes.” He grinned at Lee again. “She doesn’t like me to be late.” Turning, he headed for his bunkhouse.

Waiting for him, Lee stood watching two men playing with a thin, mangy black dog, shaking a stick for it to grab. The radios were still dueling, metallic music against what sounded like a Spanish church service. When Tony emerged from his bunkhouse he was as clean and polished as his white car, a fresh white shirt with cuffs turned up once, open at his chest to show the silver cross against his brown skin, a pair of freshly creased blue slacks that made Lee guess the men must have an ironing board in the bunkhouse. Tony walked gingerly through the dust, trying to save the polish on his black boots. Easing into the clean Chevy he held out each foot and wiped off the dust with a rag.

Getting into the clean car, Lee held out his boots and brushed them with his hand, hiding a smile. “You better be careful, Tony. She’ll have you before the altar.”

“That’s okay by me. Maybe Delgado would give us one of the cabins, that would sure beat living in the bunkhouse.” He backed the Chevy around real slow so not to raise any dust, pulled out of the yard heading for the road into Blythe. Not until they were on the harder dirt road did he give it the gas, the car coming to life like a spurred bronco. They were rolling through the crossroads burg called Ripley when Lee spotted a FOR SALE sign on a rusty truck parked beside the gas station. “I’ll get out here,” he said quietly. “Something I need to do—catch a ride later.”

Tony pulled over, glancing at Lee with curiosity. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Lee said, swinging out. Tony sat a moment looking around the bare little crossroads, then put the car in gear. “See you tomorrow, then,” he said, easing away, looking at the gas station and the old truck with interest. When his car had disappeared, Lee walked back up the dusty road to the filling station.

He circled the old pickup. There was a rusted hole in its bed, covered by a piece of plywood. The tires had little tread left. Years of use had worn the ridges on the running boards smooth and concave. Lee opened the driver’s door, studied the worn pedals and cracked leather seat. A few rusted tools, a hammer, a length of cotton rope, and a trenching tool were stuffed into the narrow space behind the seat. He got in, stepped on the clutch, moved the shift through the gears. They seemed all right. He stepped out, walked around the truck again. It had a spare tire, and it had a trailer hitch but no ball. As he turned toward the office a fat man in bib overalls came out through the screened door. “Like to hear it run?”

Lee nodded, and opened the hood. The man slid in, easing his belly under the steering wheel. He cranked the truck without any trouble. The straight six-cylinder engine idled smoothly, with a soft clatter. Lee reached in under the hood close to the carburetor and pushed the throttle forward. The racing engine sounded smooth, and when he released the rod it dropped back to a soft clattering idle. The man killed the engine and stepped out.

“It’s been a good old truck for me. I was just able to buy a newer model.”

“Are there any tools, in case of a flat?”

Grunting, the fat man lifted the seat cushion to show Lee a tire iron, a heavy lug wrench, and a screw jack.

“How much?”

He dropped the seat, stuck his thumbs under the straps of his overalls. “Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I’ll give you two hundred cash.”

“Two and a quarter and it’s yours.”

Lee pulled the money from his back pocket, counted it out. The owner reached into his bib pocket for the pink slip, signed the back of it, and handed it over. “Fill out the rest and mail it to Sacramento, you’ll get a new one in your name.”

Lee dropped the pink slip in his shirt pocket. “Know anyone who has a horse trailer for sale?”

“Not personally. I did see an ad in this morning’s paper. Let me get it.” He turned, heading for the office. Lee stepped into the truck, eased it around close to the screened door. The fat man returned, handed the folded paper through the truck window. “Keep the paper, I’ve read it. River Road Ranch is about five miles south out of Blythe, next road to your right, you’ll see the sign.”

Lee found River Road with no trouble. About a quarter mile down, through dry desert, he turned up a long drive to an adobe ranch house. It was low and sprawling, but not too large. Pole construction supported the wide overhang of the roof, sheltering the long porch against the desert sun. A man sat on a rocker in its deep shade, his boot heels propped on a wooden box. Lee parked, watched him come down the steps: a thin man with sparse hair, his Levi’s and boots well worn. His walk was that of a horseman, a little stiff, a little bowlegged. From the truck, Lee said, “I saw your ad on the trailer.”

“Kendall, Rod Kendall. I still have it, pull around the side of the barn,” he said, stepping onto the running board.

“John Demons,” Lee said, not wanting his name remembered. Easing the truck around to the back of the barn, he pulled up beside a narrow, one-horse trailer, a homemade job of wood and angle iron with a sheet-metal roof. The tires looked good, though, and it had a ball hitch hanging from the tongue. “How much?”

“It’s yours for seventy-five dollars.”

Lee was going to dicker, but then he saw several horses move into view from behind some tamarisk trees in the fenced pasture. “You wouldn’t have a horse to put in it? Nothing special, just a good saddle horse.”

The man grinned. “You ever know a rancher that doesn’t have a horse or two to sell? Could let you have either one of those mares. The black’s seven, the buckskin about nine.”

This meant to Lee they were both fifteen or better. He was about to dicker for the black mare when a gray gelding followed the mares, ducking his head, edging them aside from the water trough. He moved well, and looked in good shape, a dark, steel gray. “What about the gelding?”

Kendall paused a moment, looking Lee over. As if maybe he cared more about the gelding, didn’t want him used badly; but he must have decided Lee looked like an honest horseman. Leaving the truck he stepped to the barn door, shouted into the dim alleyway. “Harry! Harry, bring the gray in, will you?”

Lee watched a young boy, maybe twelve or so, halter the gelding, lead him across the field and out through the gate. No lameness, no quirks to his walk. Stepping out of the truck, Lee rubbed the gray’s ears, slid his hand down his legs and lifted his feet. He seemed sound, and he was shod, his feet and shoes in good shape. Opening the gray’s mouth, he looked at his teeth. The gelding was about twelve. Well, that was all right, they wouldn’t be together for long.

He dickered for a saddle and saddlebags, a bridle with a heavy spade bit, a halter, four bales of hay, and a sack of oats. He got that, the horse and trailer for two hundred dollars. He pulled out of Kendall’s ranch with a balance of two hundred and forty dollars left in his pocket, and he hadn’t touched his savings account, which would alert Raygor.

Conscious of the weight of the trailer on the old truck, he took his time driving back into Blythe. The gray pulled well, he didn’t fuss. In Blythe there wasn’t much traffic. Lee moved along in second gear until he recognized the side street he wanted. He parked along the curb near the post office.

The main section of the post office was closed on Sunday, but the lobby that housed the P.O. boxes was open. He filled out the title transfer section on the truck’s pink slip, using the name James Dawson and the Furnace Creek Road address. Lee would never receive the pink slip, but it wasn’t likely he’d need it. As he sealed the envelope he looked with some interest at the wanted posters hanging above the narrow counter. The newness of one caught his eye, and the word “Blythe.”

“Luke Zigler. Age 33. Five feet, ten inches, 190 pounds. Swarthy complexion, muscular build. Under life sentence for armed robbery and murder. Escaped Terminal Island Federal Penitentiary, March 20, 1947. Zigler’s hometown: Twentynine Palms, California. May attempt to contact friends there. Subject should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Persons having any information are requested to contact the nearest office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or local law enforcement.”

Blythe wasn’t far from Twentynine Palms or from Palm Springs, the man could be anywhere in the area. Zigler’s eyes, vacant under bushy brows, stared coldly at Lee from the grainy black-and-white photograph. Lee had seen enough of his kind, in prison and out. But still, that look disturbed him. Haunted, half-crazy bastards, stick you in a minute for no reason.

He gave the poster a last look, dropped his envelope in the mail slot, and left the lobby. But all the way back to the ranch, among other thoughts he kept getting flashes of Zigler’s ugly face, and flashes of those he had known who were like Zigler, men he wouldn’t want to meet again. Driving and preoccupied, he was unaware of the ghost cat riding with him and that the yellow tom was as unsettled by Zigler as Lee had been, that the cat might be even more riveted than Lee by the evil in Zigler’s cold stare.

Lee drove onto the Delgado land by a narrow back road, keeping the tamarisk trees between him and the ranch yard, moving slowly to keep the dust down, turning at last onto a narrow trail he’d spotted days before, a track barely wide enough for the truck and trailer. The times he’d walked down here, he’d found no tire marks in the fine dust and no hoof prints as if Jake and Lucita might have ridden down this way. Usually they headed north, up between the planted fields. This trail led to the river, where mosquitoes could be bothersome.

Pulling in deep among the willows and tamarisk trees, he knew the truck and trailer were out of sight, tree limbs brushing the top of both, the strip of woods dim and sheltered until, farther in along the narrow track, he broke out into an open area of hard-packed earth some twenty feet across, the woods dense around it. He killed the engine and got out.

An overgrown footpath led down to the broad, turgid water of the Colorado. A circle of dead ashes shone dark in the clearing, tall weeds growing through the campfire of some forgotten hobo or migrant worker. Dropping the tailgate, he squeezed through to the gray’s head, and backed him out.

He tied the gelding to the side of the trailer, brushed off his back, and settled the faded saddle blanket in place. The gray swiveled an ear when he swung the saddle up, and filled his belly with air. Lee bridled him, led him out a few steps then tightened the cinch again. The gray looked around at him knowingly. Swinging into the saddle, Lee walked him around the clearing then moved him out toward the river at a jog. He cantered him, stopped him short, backed him, spun him a couple of times, let him jog out slow, and he felt himself grinning. He rode for maybe half an hour up along the river. It had been a long time since he’d felt a good horse under him. “You’ll do,” he told the gray. “I guess we both will.”

In the falling evening, as he unsaddled the gray and rubbed him down, his thoughts turned sharply back to the South Dakota prairie when he and Mae were kids, to the long summer days when, hurrying through his chores, they still had daylight to slip away while Ma and the girls were getting supper and his dad was maybe in town or busy with the cattle in a far field. He could see Mae’s smile so clearly, her dark eyes, her dimples deep as she stepped up onto her small cowhorse.

Why had he dreamed of Mae last night? And why had that other little girl, in town that day, stared up at him shocked, bringing Mae so alive for a moment? Why was his little sister, from half a century gone, suddenly so clear and real in his thoughts? Riding up along the river, he’d felt for a moment almost as if she rode behind him, her small arms around his waist, her head resting against his back as she used to do; the feeling had been so strong that near dark when he returned to the clearing he felt he ought to help Mae down off the gray before he stepped down, himself.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he tied the gelding to the trailer again, and then secured two five-gallon buckets to the side, one filled with water from the river, the other with a quart of oats. He heaved the hay from the pickup into the trailer, broke open one bale, pulled off two flakes of good oat hay, and dropped them on the ground where the gelding could reach them. He shut the tailgate so the gelding couldn’t get in at the rest. Leaving the quiet saddle horse with the truck and trailer, leaving him to sleep standing, he set out through the falling night on the two-mile hike back to his cabin, keeping his mind, now, on the job ahead.