The Bones of Paradise Read Free Page A

and snakes that lived in their soddy, the children setting snares for songbirds and rabbits weak with drought. Several times Bennett or one of his cowboys had driven a dry old cow to his doorstep, dropped it with a single shot, and ridden off in the night. Despite the tales of hostile ranchers Graver heard in town, he knew that J. B. Bennett wasn’t trying to drive them out. He seemed to understand how hopeless it was. The hills didn’t take to the plow. When Graver broke the ground, the wind took the thin layer of soil and left sand that crumbled around the seed. He saw that right away, but by then he didn’t have a choice. Three little ones and a wife who looked at him with the heart torn out of her eyes. He had to keep going, if for no other reason than the hope that the work would kill him and it would all be over.
    But he waited too long, waited until after the children began to die, picked off by disease, then his wife, leaving only the stubborn man, a bitter expression locked in his eyes as he hefted the small bindle of blankets and clothes tied to his battered rifle across his thin shoulders and walked away from his dream. Riding the old horse unfit to plow or work cattle, Graver planned to go as far out of the hills as the animal could travel. When it collapsed, he’d continue on foot until he reached railroad tracks where he could jump a train going east or west. It didn’t matter.
    His eyes were too dry to weep anymore. There was a point past which you couldn’t, like a repeated blow to the head, you got dulled to other kinds of pain. His hand trembled as he took out the makings for a cigarette, the gray-pink tip of his tongue so dry the paper stuck for a moment. He had to pry it off carefully to keep the Indian tobacco from spilling. He rested the horse beside the road, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl into the air and vanish. At least it took the edge from the gnawing hunger in his belly. He couldn’t remember when he last ate. It didn’t matter.
    When he felt the old horse’s sides swell like a bellows, he feared it was about to die. Instead it gave out a high broken whinny, ending in a long, deep cough that jostled the saddle side to side. He grabbed the saddle horn. The reply came from over the low hill to his right and was followed by another whinny, this time more worried. His horse managed a couple of short, choppy sounds before it turned and started to pick its way toward the young chestnut that now stood at the top of the rise, reins trailing.
    â€œThat’s not right.” He nudged the old horse with his heels.
    â€œHello?” he called and immediately felt foolish.
    As soon as he saw Bennett’s body, he stepped down and tied the trailing reins of the rancher’s horse to his old horse. Then he stood still and waited for any movement or sound. Nothing but the cursed scraping of the rough, homemade windmill. He narrowed his eyes to examine the shadows, looking for any deeper shade that would indicate a man crouched there. A bird taking flight from the hay field whipped his head around, but he could see nothing that had disturbed it. When he was satisfied he was alone, he moved close enough to see the body of a young Indian woman in the hole, and Bennett’s figure curled like a boy asleep in his bed beside her with the bloody hole in his chest. He knelt, wet his fingertip, and held it in front of Bennett’s nose, then his mouth, feeling no coolness at all. He tried to pick up the man’s hand to feel for a pulse, but the body was rigid. Flies crawled in the thick black bloody spill on his shirt. A photograph with a dot of fresh blood on the corner peeked fromhis pocket. Graver pulled it out and wiped the blood on his pants. It was a picture of a handsome young woman who wore a smile as if she were about to burst out laughing. He’d seen her in Babylon a few months ago. Bennett’s wife. She hadn’t been so happy then, he