The Cat, The Devil And Lee Fontana

29

On Lee’s last night at Delgado Ranch he didn’t stay in his cabin, he slept under the stars beneath the willows, near to the gray, his head on the saddle, the saddle blanket over him. He dreamed not of the robbery as he usually would, sorting out, in sleep, the last details; he dreamed of Lucita. He’d had dinner with her and Jake, a painful evening, only Lee knowing this was the last time they’d ever be together, the last time he’d be even this close to Lucita.

She had made chiles rellenos for dinner, she knew they were his favorite, and that, too, bothered him. Almost as if she knew he would be gone in the morning, though of course she couldn’t know. Sitting at the table in their cozy dining room, feeling guilty in his longing for her, and feeling ashamed that he was running out on Jake after Jake had gone to the trouble to get him the job, he told himself that at least he hadn’t turned on Jake—though even now, at this late hour, he felt a pang of greed for the fat Delgado payroll. All evening his conflicting emotions kept him on edge, his remorse, his painful, bittersweet farewell that only Lee himself was aware of—only Lee, and the big yellow tomcat.

The cat had made himself clearly visible tonight, had strolled in through the kitchen door before even Lee arrived. He lay stretched out now in the living room on the big leather couch, looking through to the dining room watching their last, sad gathering. He felt nearly as heavy with angst as Lee, at leaving the Ellsons’. He had come to like and respect Jake, and each day he was drawn more and more to gentle and beautiful Lucita, Lucita who baby-talked him and who stroked his neck and under his chin just the way he liked. As many lives as Misto had known over the centuries, and as many painful partings, tonight he seemed filled with the deepest pain of all, at leaving this gentle lady.

But leave her Misto did, looking regretfully back, following Lee not long after dinner. The last cup of coffee was finished, the bowls of flan had been scraped clean. Lee thanked Lucita for dinner, a casual hug, a casual good-night and he was through the door, down the steps, and out into the night before he might fumble something that should be left unsaid, before he tangled himself in his own emotions, his own embarrassed dismay at leaving them.

Returning to his cabin he finished packing his saddlebags, made sure he had the roll of heavy tape handy in his pocket where he could reach it. He turned off his cabin lights as if he’d gone to bed, lay in the dark for nearly an hour, occasionally stepping to the window to look across at the bunkhouses and at the ranch house, watching until all the windows were dark. Still he didn’t leave the cabin until Jake and Lucita’s lights had been out for some time.

Carrying his saddlebags, silently he shut the door behind him and moved down the steps. Even the chickens slept, none woke to fuss at him as he crossed the ranch yard. Beneath the pale wash of stars he walked the two miles to the clearing and settled in for his last night at Delgado ranch, smiling as the gray nickered to him and then pawed at his hay, snorting softly.

Since he’d brought the gray here to the clearing, he had checked on him every day, had fed and watered him morning and night and brushed him down, all in the dark before breakfast or long after supper, walking across the black desert and among the willows and tamarisks that skirted the south field. He was surprised that Jake or one of the pickers hadn’t come down this way, hadn’t seen the truck and trailer here by the river and come to investigate. He was sure that hadn’t happened, or Jake would have said something. And in the evenings when Jake and Lucita rode, they headed north away from the river, avoiding the seclusion where hobos or migrants sometimes liked to camp. Lee had been wary about strangers, but there was no sign anyone had been around disturbing his hidden retreat.

Now, bedded down beneath the cool night sky he lay thinking about Lucita, her brief glances at him sometimes, a quick look that had held a suppressed longing that both knew wouldn’t go any further. Once when she was feeding her chickens and had knelt to examine a layer’s hurt leg, cuddling the fluffy red hen close to calm her as she fingered the small wound, she had looked up at him, the spark clearly there for a moment; but then abruptly she put the hen down, rose, and turned away.

It had been a stupid dream to think she’d ever leave Jake for him. And now, the minute the robbery was known and Lee had vanished, though Jake might understand his drive and his need, Lee would have lost Lucita’s respect forever, would have lost her as a friend as well as the lover she would never have been.

Twice during the previous week he had had supper with them, not a fancy meal like tonight, but more casual, tacos and beer one night, the other evening a bowl of green chili. Both times he had excused himself early, soon turned his cabin light off and waited for a while, then headed for the clearing, to quietly ride the gelding through the willows along the river, taking peace in the silent dark and in the companionship of the gray.

Lee’s parole officer had shown up this morning, and that had put him off, had left him edgy. But it was good luck, too. This monthly visit meant Raygor wouldn’t be around again for a while, it meant that he might not know, for some time, that Lee was gone. Jake would be obligated to tell him, to call the San Bernardino office, but Lee didn’t think he would. He thought, when Raygor contacted Jake, he’d make up some excuse. Jake would know, by then, that Lee was on the run, and would buy him what time he could. Rolling over, looking up at the stars one last time, Lee felt the cat slip in under the blanket beside him and immediately he felt easier, stroking the tomcat, smiling at his rocking purr. Maybe Lee thought, his PO wouldn’t approve of what he was about to undertake, but the ghost cat, purring and snuggling close, seemed fine with the plan.

The gelding woke Lee, pawing for breakfast. Lee gave him a quart of oats but they wouldn’t have time to fool around with hay, it was starting to get light. He stood in the coolness of the new day stretching, scratching, then walked to the river to relieve himself. He packed the truck, tucked a flake of hay into the manger of the trailer, led the gray in and tied him, and closed and fastened the tailgate.

He opened the cylinder of the heavy revolver, checked that it was fuly loaded. He had slept with it under the saddle blanket that was his pillow. Closing the cylinder, he slid the gun into its worn holster and laid it on the truck seat. He opened a can of beans from his pack, ate that with a plastic spoon wishing he had something hot, thinking about sausage and pancakes from the mess hall. He could smell the good, warm scents of breakfast drifting down to him, where the men would be crowding in, swilling coffee and filling their bellies.

Stashing the empty can in a paper bag in the truck cab, he made one last walk around the clearing. He picked up the fold of baling wire from the bale of hay, and scuffed away the chaff where the gelding had been feeding. Returning to the truck, he dropped the wire in the paper bag, stuffed the gloves he had bought into his back pocket, and slid behind the wheel.

He cranked the engine, listened to its soft clatter, and moved on out through the hanging branches onto the dirt track. Easing along, he had one more moment of unease over what he had begun. Was this the smart thing to do? Well, hell, he didn’t know about smart, but he was on his way, he’d started something that had felt right at the time, and he meant to finish it. In the slowly lightening morning he pushed the intruding shadows out of his mind; driving along the narrow dirt path, at the main road to Blythe he shifted from low to second, felt the trailer balk and then come on as he turned north.

Once he had gained the outskirts of Blythe he pulled into a truck stop, filled the pickup with gas, checked the oil and filled the ten-gallon barrel with water. In the little twenty-four-hour café he ordered two ham-and-cheese sandwiches to go. At the cash register there was a cardboard display of pocket watches, shoved in under the glass counter between boxes of candy and gum. He bought a watch, set it by the restaurant clock, wound it and tucked it into the watch pocket of his jeans. He’d have a long wait, he didn’t want to hit the post office too early, but he needed to be back at the remote airstrip no later than seven. He had all day to wait, but then at the last he’d have to hustle. It was a long pull from the post office up where he’d be headed. He hoped to hell he didn’t have a flat, on either the truck or the trailer. All these tires had seen better days. He’d have to unload the gray to change a tire, and that would slow him down more than he liked.

He traveled north out of Blythe on the same road he and Ellson had taken. The old truck rolled right along, though he didn’t push it, he let it go over thirty only on the gentle downgrades. He rode with both windows cranked down and the wind wings open. It was still cool but it wouldn’t be for long. Twice he slowed the truck thinking of turning back and chucking the whole plan. Then, angry at himself, he pushed on again faster. It wasn’t like him to have second thoughts so late in the game, that made him impatient with himself; and when he remembered suddenly that he’d forgotten to fill the radiator, that turned him hot with anger.

Well, hell, he guessed the gray wouldn’t begrudge a quart or two from his water barrel. Lee told himself to settle down, he tried to bring back the old steady calm with which he always worked. His plan was to wait in or behind the old barn beyond the Jamesfarm cutoff, leave the gelding and the trailer there, go on into town in the truck late in the day, as evening settled in. Hit the back door of the post office late, when the ranch foremen started showing up for their money. He’d have a long wait, all through the middle of the day, and then a fast hustle. Thinking about the moves, and the last-minute timing, he began to sweat.

Maybe he shouldn’t wait all day at the cutoff and risk being seen, maybe he should move on up into the dry hills and lay up there. Return to the cutoff in late afternoon, leave the gray and the trailer there. Hit the post office, return to the cutoff until it started to get dark, leave the truck and trailer with Dawson’s ID and then, as he’d planned, head for the mountains on horseback. That was where the timing grew critical. If he took too long or was delayed, he’d miss the last, crucial move. Thinking about that, his gut began to twitch. He had to get up into the mountains, bury the money, and be back down at the airstrip in time to meet Mark.

Well, hell, he could do that. Mark had said eight-thirty. That gave him two to three hours. That was the plan, the rest, the getaway itself, was a piece of cake. There might be a few weak spots, but there was risk in everything. He pulled off his straw hat, flipped it onto the dashboard, and headed past the cutoff up into the hills.

Hidden among the sand hills, he had a little nap and so did the gelding, sleeping on his feet. At three o’clock Lee loaded the gelding up again and headed back down for the Jamesfarm cutoff. He was halfway there when the truck dropped, jerking the steering wheel, and he felt the dead thump of the tire on the sand road. Swearing, he let the truck bump to a stop, set the brake, and stepped out.

At least it was on the truck, not the trailer. Front tire, and he thought maybe he could change it without unloading the gray. He kicked the bastard tire hard, kicked it again, and knew he had to cool down. There was plenty of time, he’d planned it to give himself time.

He looked up and down the empty road. Not a car in sight, the desert so quiet he heard a lizard scramble off a rock into some cactus. But he reached into the cab for the revolver and laid it on the floorboards. Then he lifted the seat cushion, pulled out the jack, the tire iron, and lug wrench, and dropped them beside the flat tire. Before he got to work, he blocked the truck and trailer wheels with rocks. By the time he got the wheel changed he was sweating, and breathing hard, was so tired that it seemed a huge effort even to tighten the lug nuts. He couldn’t get his lungs full of air, and there was a heaviness on his chest so he had to rest several times before he finished tightening the last lug. The emphysema hadn’t been this bad in a long time, he knew it was the stress. He struggled to get the blown tire and wheel up into the pickup, wondering why the hell he was keeping them. Too tired to lift the seat cushion, he threw the jack and lug wrench on the seat. He removed the rocks from under the wheels, beat the dust and sand off his pants, and crawled into the driver’s seat, sank behind the steering wheel feeling weak and old, swearing with anger at his weakness.

Cranking the engine, he eased on slowly so as not to jerk the trailer. He rolled on, cursing old age, until he saw the Jamesfarm sign, saw the old barn among the scrawny tamarisk trees. He pulled in among them, backed the gray out under the low, salty-smelling branches. He tied the gelding to a tree, then checked out the barn.

It leaned a bit to the right, and half the roof shingles were missing, but when he shook the supporting timbers, nothing wobbled, the barn stood steady. There were four fenced stalls inside, four tie stalls, and an open space for a truck or tractor. He unloaded the gray then, backed the trailer in there, out of sight of the road. Before he unhitched it, he opened both truck doors to keep the cab cool, and unloaded the water barrel.

He led the gelding into one of the larger stalls, fed him, tied his water bucket to the rail. After filling that, he filled the truck’s radiator, then washed the grime and sweat off his face and hands. He had moved the saddle from the pickup bed into the trailer, had turned back to get the bridle, which had fallen to the ground, when the gelding jerked his head up, and Lee tensed.

The gelding snorted, looking back toward the big door, and Lee heard a faint noise, a dry snap. He spun around, grabbing the bridle as a blurred image flickered across the truck window. A man filled his vision, a crazed look in his eyes, a knife flashing in his hand. As he charged, Lee swung the bridle. The heavy bit hit him hard in the throat. He staggered but came at Lee again. Lee stumbled backward into the open truck, grabbed the lug wrench, and swung it at the man’s face.

The heavy wrench connected hard, the man fell, twisting away. Lee backed against the truck, looking around to see if there was another one. The gelding was rearing and snorting, white eyed, blowing like a stallion. Lee reached for the gun on the seat, watching the shadows around him. The man lay on the ground unmoving. What had he wanted? The truck? The horse? Or was he just some nutcase, out to hurt anyone who looked weaker? Lee remained still, watchful and tense until the gelding began to settle. When the horse had calmed and turned away, when Lee was sure there was no one else, he rolled the man over with his boot, holding his gun on him.

The body was limp. The face was a pulp of blood from the blow of the lug wrench. There was a bloody hole where his nose had been, as if the bones had been driven deep. Lee felt his breath coming hard. He palmed his revolver, glancing at the gray to see if anything else alerted him, but the good, sensible gelding had put his head down again and started to eat.

Lee eased himself down on the running board, sucking air. Where the hell had the guy come from? Had he been in the barn all the time? Sleeping, camping out in the old barn? Lee thought he’d looked around good. He had seen no sign of anything to alarm him, nothing in there that he’d noticed but some old gunny sacks, twists of bailing wire, a rusty bucket.

Rising from the running board, Lee studied what he could see of the dead man’s face, what was left of it. Dark eyes beneath the blood, bushy brows soaked with blood. Despite the gray’s quiet assurance, Lee still wasn’t certain the man had been alone. Nervously he circled the barn and then eased away into the trees beyond, looking back watching the barn, and watching behind him; the light was beginning to soften, but so far, by his watch, his timing was okay. Some twenty yards into the trees he found a small clearing and a makeshift camp. One dirty blanket, a backpack with some canned goods, an empty cook pot. A single metal plate lay beside a miniature fire, near an unopened can of beans, a can opener, and a spoon. As he turned back toward the barn, he could see again the man’s dark eyes under the bushy, bloodied brows. He stood over the body, looking more carefully. Despite the gaping wound he could see how close the eyes were together, the face long and thin. Zigler. Luke Zigler, peering out from the wanted poster hanging in the Blythe post office.

Zigler, serving life for murder and armed robbery, escaped from Terminal Island some two hundred miles to the north but born and raised in Twentynine Palms. If that was Zigler’s home, maybe he’d been waiting here for someone he knew, maybe had camped here to join up with a partner, and that made Lee nervous. He sure didn’t want to leave the gray here for some badass to find. But what other choice did he have? He sure couldn’t leave Zigler, either, for someone to discover.

Double-timing back to the truck, he studied his watch, thought a minute, then dragged the body around the truck. He searched Zigler’s pockets but found no identification, false or otherwise. A few dollars, chump change. Lifting Zigler by the shoulders, breathing hard, he managed with a lot of grunting and straining to heave him up into the passenger seat. He rolled up the window halfway, closed the door, and pulled Zigler snugly against the doorframe. He slipped his own straw Stetson from the dashboard, jammed it on Zigler, settled it down over his battered face.

Before getting in the truck he ground Zigler’s blood into the dirt, scuffed it in good. He rubbed the gray behind the ears, talked to him a minute, gave him another flake of hay, and left him happily munching his early supper. If the gray grew alarmed, if some no-good approached and tried messing with him—or if Lee himself didn’t return—Lee figured the gray would jump the four-foot rail easy enough, would take off out of the barn running free.

Inside the truck he rolled up Zigler’s window, and settled the hat a little better. He pulled out with Zigler’s body riding easy beside him. Driving, he lifted the revolver out of its holster and pushed it into his belt at the small of his back. He made sure the bandana around his neck was knotted loosely, as he wanted it. The sun was disappearing in the west and, as he moved out from the stand of salty trees, a cooler breeze eased in from the desert.