Vultures - Novel Excerpt

Alright, here it is.

Excerpt from

Vultures


Chapter 2

The firelight danced between our faces. The eastern sky was darkening, but the west still glowed orange above the hill. Sequoia’s hair glowed around her cheeks and the shadows that played on her face hid the lines that had deepened around her mouth and eyes. Jasper and Ash and Benjamin rode sticks, circling the fire, galloping and shooting. Dusty was separating rolling papers, trying to pull them apart without ripping them. The glue had gotten damp and they clung together in a useless lump. James sat on a log with an atlas on his knees, leaning forward and picking the seeds out of a big bud of marijuana, tearing it to shreds. I could almost taste the oil on his fingers.
The dogs started barking, letting us know someone was on the way in. Cobey didn’t get up; she let the other dogs do the moving, but she growled deep in her throat and watched as the headlights cut down the hill, lighting up the big juniper tree that marked the turn at the bottom.
Well, that didn’t take long. Usually it took the Sheriff two days to get out here. Caleb, the old fart, must’ve gone in personally and raised a helluva a stink. But it wasn’t a cop car, or truck, or anything that looked close. If it had been any darker we wouldn’t have been able to see the boxy outline of the Scout. And there’s only one International Scout around here. I looked over at James to make sure he knew that it was Caleb coming to repay this morning’s visit, but he was already moving into the house.
Instead of turning our way down into the wash the Scout pulled forward, illuminating the logs that sat on peeling racks.
We waited.
The headlights went out, and though the dogs continued to bark, they were giving the vehicle a wide berth, staying back a good ten feet instead of approaching the driver’s door with wagging tails as they usually did.
Benjamin came to stand by me, all three boys in a rare moment of stillness. Jasper and Ash sat on either side of Sequoia. Dusty was still breathing on the papers, slowly pulling them apart, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his eyes moving back and forth between the Scout, the kids, and James who had planted himself at this end of the footbridge that crossed the narrow wash between this tiny house and the log home that we hoped to finish and move into before the end of the year.
When the Scout’s door finally opened it creaked, the dry creak of old in a dry country. He didn’t close the door, but walked around the open door and towards the bridge where James stood. His hands hung at his sides, maybe an unexaggerated attempt to show that he carried nothing. James glanced over his shoulder at me, leaned the shotgun against the bridge support post, and strode across.
“Evenin’,” James’s voice made us all jump a bit, commanding attention.
“Evenin’,” Caleb’s voice, raspy, belonged in this arid, dusty land. I hoped he had come, calm and rational, to let us know that he didn’t appreciate his dog being shot. But I knew Caleb wasn’t always so rational; his acid tongue had proved it on several occasions. We didn’t have much to do with any of the neighbors, at least not if we could help it. The few people who lived up this way generally stayed to themselves, so our isolation didn’t seem unusual. However, we’d had a couple of run-ins with Caleb back before the well was drilled. We hauled water up from the stock tank down at the bottom of the mountain; lots of other folks got water there, too, including Caleb, where a windmill pumps up an unceasing flow. It’s BLM land, Bureau of Land Management, so it’s government owned and leased out to ranchers. Still and all, it’s public land and no one, as far as I know, had ever said a thing about taking water from there. When the stock tank was full it ran over onto the ground, so filling up a couple hundred gallons every once in a while didn’t seem like a bad thing. Except if you ran into Caleb. He was doing the same thing, filling up on water, but he seemed to think he was the only one entitled and didn’t hesitate in letting you know that he knew the rancher and he’d gotten permission and what the hell did you think you were doing? And, even apart from his nasty attitude about the water and his occasional assertions that his dog was harmless, I thought the guy was a creep; one of those weird guys who just give you the shivering-willies. I’d made a point to avoid him after the first couple of encounters and as far as I knew James hadn’t run into him anytime lately.
Except for this morning when he’d gone over and shot his dog.
“What can I do for you?” James crossed the bridge and stepped between two log racks. He stood on the driveway amid the litter of the long thin pine bark shavings. He stood within several feet of the man.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be coming over here. Maybe I’m just stirring up trouble,” I could barely hear him from where I sat, but I shifted around, keeping Benjamin behind me, willing the boys to keep still, “but, I couldn’t just sit at home anymore stewing in this mess.”
“Well, Caleb, I’m…,” James started.
“No, you let me finish,” his voice was much easier to hear now, but the tremble of anger in it didn’t sound good. “I’ve had that dog for eight years, and I never had no problems,” I could hear him suck in his breath, “EIGHT YEARS!” I heard the pine bark crunching under his feet. Caleb continued, “It wasn’t until all you folks started moving in here that I’ve had any problems,” his finger pointed at James, stabbing with each syllable.
“Caleb, that dog bit the neigh…” James tried again.
“That dog has been with me for close to ten years and you had the nerve to come shoot MY DOG at MY HOUSE!” The anger had broken through. If he’d come here to have a rational discussion, or just to have his say in a reasonable way, that nice thought had come to an end. “HOW DARE YOU SHOOT MY DOG!” He’d walked up to James and I couldn’t see for sure, but it looked as if he was actually poking James in the chest. I looked at Sequoia. She was already on her feet, hands on her boys. I stood and corralled everyone in the direction of the house.
“I’m sorry you feel…” James tried again. I looked back when I got to the door. James hadn’t backed down any, even if his chest was getting prodded. Dusty was on his feet and moving down and away from the bridge. He would walk through the arroyo and come up the drive behind Caleb. I pulled the door to, leaving Sequoia in the shed with the kids. I went back to the bridge where James had leaned the shotgun against a post. I hoped nothing or nobody else would have to get shot today.
“You know I ain’t got a phone,” Caleb said. He had his voice under control again. I have to say that I think that scared me more than anything: leaping back and forth between ration and rage is never a good sign. I’ve worked with some real wing-nuts and the mood pendulum is generally a sure sign that it’s best to clear out of the way.
Caleb continued, “What? Did you think I was gonna let you get away with it?” His voice quavered again. I’d checked the safety on the 12-gauge and was willing the bridge not to creak as I moved across it.
About the time I hit the dirt on their side of the bridge, Caleb turned abruptly and crunched his way back to the Scout. I caught sight of Dusty sitting on the edge of a log on the other side of the driveway. Either Caleb didn’t see him or he chose not to react. James didn’t move, but at least now he knew I was there. I was sure he saw Dusty, too.
Caleb stopped at the nose of the Scout and turned, “I couldn’t call the law and you know damn well how long it takes them bastards to get out here, even if you’re dying,” Again he turned away, still talking, and moved along the passenger’s side. He squeezed up close to the vehicle to avoid getting caught in the cholla cactus.
“So, intead a calling, I just went right in. Drove all the way into Silver City,” he continued. His voice came from behind the Scout now. The spare tire swung out with a screech, and we could hear the rattling of the latch as he fumbled around, “Right to the courthouse.” The tailgate screamed open. Dusty hopped off the log. I felt James tensing. I swung the barrel of the gun into his hand, he grabbed it, checking the safety, moved forward a couple of steps.
“And ya’ know what?” Caleb continued. I had a sudden crazy urge to answer him, No, what? But I swallowed it and I thought I heard him grunt, “They didn’t give A FUCK!” Now I know I heard grunting, and his breathing, already labored, sounded harsh. He moved back up the driver’s side. I saw Dusty step backwards. In the darkness Caleb’s footsteps sounded heavy. I could see that he was carrying something, but I couldn’t make it out. And then I realized it was the dog. He was hauling that fifty pound pit bull. Our dogs had backed away, but now they perked back up, moving up and around Caleb’s feet. He kicked at Burr, nearly losing his balance. “THEY DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO SEE MY DOG!” His voice warbled around his heavy breath. Though now, when he hollered, it sounded more like he was holding back a sob rather than insanity. But I suppose madness comes in many forms.
“So I thought I’d bring him to you, so you can see what you’ve done,” he said, as he stood in the middle of the driveway. There was no longer doubt that he was crying; he sobbed uncontrollably.
If I wasn’t so scared, I would’ve felt sorry for the guy.
At least until he let go.
The dead dog THUMPED when he hit the ground.
Then the dogs were sniffing and crawling around its body. Caleb kicked at them once, half-heartedly. He turned, shoulders slumped, weeping audibly. He went back to the Scout and slammed the door.
“I hope you rot in hell,” he said. I almost didn’t understand that last bit, it was so quiet. The Scout’s engine turned over and over and over before it caught. The dogs, both alive and dead, emerged stark in the brightness of the headlights. Caleb backed the Scout into the juniper and turned to lumber up the hill.
* * * * * * *
“Holy shit, man,” Dusty said, and walked over to the pile of dogs. He helped James shoo off our four – no, five: Cobey was up and walking.
“NO,” James said. Cobey limped back across the bridge, but the other four walked off a few paces and waited.
“Holy shit, man,” Dusty repeated. The three of us circled the dead dog. Sequoia came and joined the circle. A few minutes later the boys were out and yapping on their stick horses, running and shooting at the dogs.
“I’m not burying the damn thing,” James said.
“Me neither,” I agreed. The ground here is parched and hardened. It takes me all day just to dig a respectable hole big enough to set a small tree. Not that I did much of that anymore. I’d gone through several experimentations of adding various types of soils and fertilizers to these holes, but each time I lost the tree. I tried apples twice and pears a few times before giving up. Sequoia hadn’t given up on the herbs and the grapes, though. It seemed like she could get just about anything to grow out of this rough and rocky land. It’s a good thing; without her green thumb we’d have no wine to drink, or vegetables to eat, and she’d have no medicinal potions to cook up.
“I say we drag it up on the hill so we can watch the vultures have at it,” Dusty suggested.
We’d known that this dog was a problem. It was a problem before it even bit the neighbor. Feeding it to the vultures was exactly what we’d wanted to do ever since it started skulking around. I knew for sure that if it hadn’t been for Cobey putting herself between that pit bull and our children, that something much worse would have happened. However, shooting it when it came over here was one thing. Shooting it on the neighbor’s land – the dog’s home – was something else. But I was more relieved than shocked.
“He wouldn’t move. Just stood right there by that damn troublemaking dog like he didn’t know what I was there for,” James said when he came back from shooting the dog this morning. He said that when he pulled up, Caleb shuffled out to the road with his hands in his pockets. The dog was already home; he followed his owner and sat beside him in the dust.
James continued, “So I took aim and I said, real slow and clear: ‘PLEASE STEP AWAY FROM THE DOG.’” I imagined that the color fell out of Caleb’s face in speechless disbelief. “I said it real clear. Not just once. Twice. And I wasn’t waiting any more for that damn dog to get up and take off. I had a perfect shot and I took it. BOOM!”
I both admired and wondered at James’ idea of justice: immediate and gratifying. It was better to deal with the effects of decisive action than to wait on that dog to attack a child; the dog was a more immediate danger. I agreed with him, but in my mind, things weren’t that simple. I was relieved that the dog was dead, but I was already thinking forward to the consequences; there would be consequences.
“Don’t drag it,” I said, “it’ll make a mess.” I stepped closer to James. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until after I’d dug through his vest pocket and pulled out a pack of tailor-mades; the flame wobbled as I lit up. I noticed that the bright cherry-tip of Dusty’s cigarette was none too steady, either.
I smoked my cigarette and then, unwilling to leave, I smoked another.
While everyone else was getting ready for bed, I got ready for work.

Night shift does funny things to a person.