The Good Brother

21

Botree carried Abilene through the mud room and down the long hall, while Joe followed with Dallas. They placed the boys in bed and watched as they rolled toward the middle of the mattress, their heads bowed to each other. Abilene placed a hand on his brother’s arm.

“They’re good little boys,” Joe whispered.

“They fight some.”

“But they stick up for each other.”

“Like dogs in a pack.”

Botree left, but Joe stayed for a long time, thinking of the room he’d shared with his brother, its slant ceiling and cold corners. The attic had offered them a privacy denied the rest of the family. During summer the room was very hot. Dallas rolled over and his arm brushed Abilene, who stirred before sucking his finger.

In the living room, men and women from the picnic stood about, holding automatic rifles as casually as garden tools. Several had bolstered pistols on their hips. A few wore fatigues and combat boots, while others wore Bills hats. They reminded Joe of a Wednesday night prayer meeting except for the guns.

Coop huddled at the dining room table with three men. Beside a CB radio were stacks of money and gold coins.

“Is that to get Lucy out?” Joe said.

“Yes,” Botree said.

“With gold?”

“A lot of these people here, that’s all they’ll keep.”

“I guess they don’t believe in money.”

“That’s right.”

Joe wanted away from the group. They weren’t his family or his friends. He went to his room and sat on the bed, surrounded by clean white animal skulls. He wondered why people only banded together to fight, rather than to protect. The same was true of Kentucky. Nothing pulled a family closer than a threat to one of its members, right down to second or third cousins.

From a paper sack beneath his bed, he removed some cash and his gold coin. His Jeep was in the barn. He could walk out the back door and be halfway to Missoula before anyone noticed his absence. He remembered Ty’s talk of Alaska and wished his leg was strong enough to go.

He returned to the main part of the house. Coop was pouring coffee into several cups on a tray. A woman sat at the table, counting money. Joe set the pile of bills on the scarred table and used the gold coin to hold them in place. He leaned against the wall beside an ancient horse skull patched with moss.

“Thanks, Joe,” Owen said. He turned to the group. “So far Frank don’t know nothing. He’s out of CB range until he gets to his camp. Locking up Lucy might be a trick to draw him out.”

“Just what them bastards would try,” a man said. “Getting to him through a woman.”

“I wish to hell they’d pull me over,” another man said. “It’d be the last time they’d stop an innocent citizen.”

“They’re going after the weak,” said a man, “like a goddam wolf. Next they’ll try for our kids.”

The arrest had increased the Bills’ sense of their own importance. Joe felt the excitement spread through the room, a tension that reminded him of the Blizzard post office on the day government checks arrived. People were enjoying themselves more than they had at the picnic.

Owen raised his hand to hush the crowd.

“What we got to do,” he said, “is be more prepared for something like this. We’ll keep money on hand to get the next person out quicker, and you can bet there’ll be a next time. I want everybody to double-check your brake lights and turn signals. Don’t give them a reason to pull you over.”

“They’ll use any excuse,” a man said. “They’re rabid dogs with no leash.”

“Stay in radio contact with your neighbor,” Owen said. “If you go to town, or even down the road, tell somebody. Make sure the CB in your vehicle works. Now about weapons. Their law says you can carry in plain sight, so don’t conceal. Put your pistol on the dashboard or on your hip, not in gloveboxes and coat pockets. Keep the big weapons hid, especially your AR-15 and your Mini-14. We can get you back, but not your rifles.”

Owen looked at the crowd. “Any questions? Anything anybody wants to say?”

People glanced at each other and away, as if no one wanted to induce another to speak. A man stepped forward. His hair was short and his bottom lip was swelled by snuff. He looked older than Coop.

“They will take your guns,” he said slowly, “just like they took my ranch four years ago. They will come on your land and steal your property.”

“When New York City went broke,” another man said, “the banks let them slide, but not us.”

“It’s the Jews,” said a man. “They run the banks and they’re trying to run Congress.”

“They want to make the white man weak so the mud people can take over.”

“I’d like to say,” a man said, “the law crossed the double-yellow on this one. Owen’s right. We can’t give them no ways to get at us. They got the law, hut we got the Bill of Rights.”

People nodded to each other. Joe sensed a hardening in the atmosphere, as if a collective will had begun to congeal. He realized that they talked about the same issues over and over, like someone recently saved by the church. He was both, attracted and repulsed by the Bills, similar to the desire he’d felt for the drunken bartender.

Another man spoke.

“What happens if they don’t cut Lucy loose?”

“They will,” Owen said, “They’re trapped by their own laws that way. We raised bail. They’ll let her out.”

“What about Frank?” someone said.

“We’ll notify him as soon as Lucy’s safe.”

“Is there anything else needs doing tonight?” said a man.

“When Lucy gets home,” Owen said, “it might be nice if someone stayed with her.”

A woman stood and slipped on her coat.

“One last thing,” Owen said, “The papers in Missoula and Spokane are going to get all over this, and we don’t need trouble with them. Talk to reporters if you want, but don’t go loco, and don’t let them get anywhere near Coop,”

A few men chuckled. The woman who had been counting money spoke to Owen in a low voice. He nodded and addressed the crowd.

“We got enough to bail Lucy out,” Owen said.

People cheered and clapped their hands.

“All right,” Owen said. “Time to go get her. We can’t have any trouble, so no hotheads are going. No weapons, either. One problem. The vehicle needs to be registered to someone with a driver’s license, or they’ll arrest you, too. Who’s got a government ID card for travel?”

He looked from person to person, his face impassive. A few shook their heads, and Joe sensed the group’s frustration. Owen was staring at him. Other people noticed, and turned to him. Botree looked at the floor. Joe felt the way he had at the Wolf the night he’d gone on his poker rush. The action was his and he stepped forward, as if pulled.

“I’ve got a license,” he said. “And my Jeep is legal.”

He and Owen shared a gaze. Joe regretted having spoken.

“Any objection?” Owen said to the group.

The men and women looked at one another to reassure themselves of the decision. Botree continued to avoid Joe’s eyes.

“All right,” Owen said. “We’re done here. Folks, you’re welcome to stay, but I know you got families to get home to. Botree, we need something to put this money in,”

People began moving to the door. Many looked at Joe as they left, but no one spoke. Coop joined him.

“Well, cowboy,” Coop said. “Good of you to pitch in.”

“You all helped me,” Joe said. He was upset with himself for having volunteered.

“Now you know what we’re all about,” Coop said.

“Not really.”

“Still got questions?”

“Just one, Coop.”

“Fire away.”

“How come you got a horse skull hanging in the dining room?”

“Ever eat horse?” Coop said.

“No.”

“I did. That skull’s to remind me to be thankful I never have to again.”

Coop went to the CB base unit and adjusted the controls. The house was nearly empty. Botree set a duffel bag on the table and began placing the money inside.

“It’s all or nothing,” he said.

“I used to be that way.”

“I didn’t,” Joe said. “It’s new to me.”

“You sure you want to do it?”

“No, but I’m going to anyhow.” He shrugged. “What else am I going to do? Leave? If somebody else shoots me, I might not make it.”

“You probably would,” she said. “Most men I’ve met try to act tougher than they are. With you, it’s different. You don’t know how tough you really are.”

“I never had to be, Botree. I always had somebody do that for me.”

“Who?”

Owen came in the house and Botree gave him the duffel bag. Joe followed him outside. Stars showed in patches of night. At the barn, Owen opened the door of a large feed room to reveal the Jeep. Joe climbed in and inhaled deeply, savoring the musty smell of its interior. He turned the key and nothing happened.

“Let me jump it,” Owen said. “I’ll be right back.”

Wind throbbed inside the barn, a sound like crumpling tin. Joe wondered if it was too late to change his mind. Headlights flashed as Owen drove Botree’s old pickup across the rutted land. He parked, fastened the cables, and after a minute the Jeep’s engine started. While it idled, Owen wired a CB radio under the dashboard.

The Jeep handled rough, as if the metal had stiffened from disuse. Owen kept the duffel bag between his boots.

“What’s Frank wanted on?” Joe said.

“There’s a bunch of little charges,” Owen said. “Refusal to register his car, obstructing justice, possession of illegal firearms. That sort of thing.”

“They ain’t worth hiding out over.”

“No, those are all local. The one that’s got him spooked is federal. Two days after the gun ban passed Congress, he sold four rifles to a man from Lolo. The rifles had bayonet mounts, and the man was an undercover agent for the ATF.”

“This whole thing’s over a bayonet mount?”

“You bet. The Feds tried to make a deal. Said they’d drop the charges if Frank gave them information on some other people.”

“What people?”

“There’s some extremists here, Joe. They don’t recognize the federal government in any shape whatsoever. They believe in the supremacy of local law. They elected their own sheriff and put up reward posters for state cops, lawyers, and judges, dead or alive. They tried them in absentia. They even printed their own money.”

“Did Frank give them up?”

“No. He skipped bail and went to the mountains.”

“What’s he do up there?”

“He writes letters to the government. A few newspapers printed some, but the Feds made them quit. Now he writes directly to the senators, congressmen, and President. He even sent letters to the governor of every state. He writes to the FBI and the CIA, and the ATF, too.”

“What’s in them?” Joe said. “The letters, I mean.”

“His ideas mostly. The economy, freedom, politics. How he’s building an army to protect us. His plans for the future. He’s brilliant, Joe.”

“I don’t know how brilliant it is to tell the government you’re building an army.”

“One gun at a time, he says.”

“That’ll just get him in trouble.”

“He’s already in trouble,” Owen said. “He says they’ll come after him sooner or later, and if speaking his mind makes it sooner, that’s fine with him.”

Joe slowed for a turn, feeling the transmission strain in the lower gear. Wind carried smoke down the valley to block the moon. The last person he’d retrieved from jail had been Boyd when he’d been charged with public urination for using bushes at night. A Rocksalt lawyer had told him it would get thrown out of court but Boyd was found guilty and fined two hundred dollars. The judge had told him to stay in the hills where he belonged.

“I got to tell you something,” Joe said. “I don’t understand this whole mud people business. Or the Jews and banks stuff, either, I don’t much care for it.”

Joe sped along a straight stretch. Owen shifted toward him and took a deep breath.

“Let me put it this way,” Owen said. “If a black man has pride, it’s good. And if an Indian has pride, it’s good. But let a white man have pride, and he’s bad. Now why’s that?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. White man’s got to stick up for himself,”

“Against who?”

“Everybody. Nobody’s watching out for us. A white can be the best man for a job, but another man gets it because of his skin color. That’s racism, Joe, pure and simple.”

“Maybe so,” Joe said, “but you can’t fight prejudice with more prejudice.”

“The races are supposed to stay separate. That’s what the Tower of Babel is about. You know that story, right?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “The old-time people built a big tower and God didn’t like it. So he made them speak different languages.”

“You know your Bible,” Owen said. “And those languages are the races. God wanted them to stay apart.”

“That’s not what the Bible says.”

“Then let’s look at it another way. Who gets all the government services in this country? The cities. And you know who lives there? Mud people.”

“Folks where I’m from get a lot of government help,” Joe said. “And we’re white.”

“What kind of help?”

“Doctors, welfare, and food stamps mostly.”

“Where the hell is that, a Rez?”

“No, down south. And sort of east.”

The sky was black, specked with stars. The air had cooled. Autumn would soon start here, while Kentucky was still boiling with misty heat.

“Let me ask you something,” Owen said. “Why are you with me right now?”

“Partly for Botree,” Joe said. “Plus nobody else could help that lady get out of jail. She’s the same age as my mom.”

“All right,” Owen said. “You got your reasons and I respect them. Maybe you’ll come around to the rest of it.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Trucks roared past the Jeep. The glow of Missoula rose in the sky ahead. Joe parked in the jail lot and Owen left the jeep, holding the duffel bag. The CB emitted a steady hum, and Joe wished he had a regular radio that worked. The Bills reminded him of Kentuckians who remained loyal to the Confederacy, flying the Stars and Bars and swearing that the South would rise again. They forgot that Kentucky was never truly part of Dixie, and that secession had brought terrible destruction.

Owen came across the lot with a woman holding his arm and a policeman behind them. Owen helped her in the back. The cop circled the Jeep and wrote the license number on a small pad. He shined his flashlight in Joe’s eyes and asked for his license and registration. He seemed disappointed that Joe was legal.

“Ma’am,” Joe said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Lucy said. “The son of a bitches never laid a hand on me.”

Joe glanced at Owen. “Any trouble?”

“None,” Owen said. “They didn’t want the gold at first, but they had no choice. Did you know you can use a credit card for bail?”

“No.”

“I couldn’t believe it. Makes it easier for rich folks to get out of jail.”

“It’s always easier for them,” Lucy said from, the back. “Surely you know that by now, Owie.”

“Ma’am,” Joe said, “would you like me to stop for anything?”

“Just take me home, please. And stop calling me ma’am. Going to jail made me feel young.”

Joe drove to her house in Lolo, where a woman waited on the porch. Lucy invited them in for a sip of brandy. They declined.

“Tough, ain’t she,” Joe said, as they drove away.

“Women here have to be,” Owen said. “Montana sent the first woman to Congress. Botree told me that.”

“She’s as tough as they come.”

“So was our mother. Nobody else could stand up to Coop but her. When she died, the whole place just generally went to hell. Then the bank tried to foreclose, and Coop barely beat that.”

“Botree said he had to sell, some land.”

“A lot of families did. Used to be, you could work something out with the bank but now the land’s too valuable. People are pouring in. I’ve been all over the West and it’s changing fast. A lot of little towns are ruined for good. Santa Fe and Aspen are the worst.”

“Where they coming from?”

“All over. The eastern cities and California, mainly. There’s not enough water and food for all these people. Hell, Montana can barely keep cattle alive.”

Joe dropped Owen at the bunkhouse and headed north toward town. He wasn’t ready for the ranch yet. He hadn’t driven alone in months, and didn’t realize how much he missed it. He wondered how many miles until Alaska.

Missoula was quiet. He passed the Wolf and a few taverns. Now that Joe was here, there was nowhere he wanted to go. He felt the same way about town that Boyd had.

He changed channels on the CB until he found the truckers’ band. The occasional scraps of conversation lent him comfort as he drove to the ranch. If he’d surrendered after shooting Rodale, he’d be in prison now, but receive letters and visitors. Most importantly, he’d have a date for release. Instead, he had a landscape that beguiled him with its light and space, a community that wasn’t his, and a woman in whom he could not confide. The promise of Alaska struck him as a last resort, like poison that a terminal patient keeps handy.