“Never said he wasn’t.” The attorney winked at Heather, and she
realized how much she had come to like him in such a short time. “Oh,
you’re tricky,” Toby told Paul. “Dad, he’s tricky”
“Not me,” Paul
said. “I only told you the truth, Scout. You tricked yourself.”
-“Paul is an attorney, son,” Jack said.
“You’ve always of to be careful of attorneys, or you’ll end up with no
ponies or cows.” Paul laughed. “Listen to your dad. He’s wise. Very
wise.”
Only an orange rind of sun remained in view, and in seconds, the
irregular blade of mountain peaks peeled it away. Shadows spread
toward one another. The somber twilight, all deep blues and funereal
purples, hinted at
“I could have ten ponies,” Toby said. “Wrong,”
Heather said. “Whatever business we decide to get into, it won’t be a
manure factory.”
“Well, I just mean, there’s room,” the boy said. “A dog, ten ponies,”
Jack said. “You’re turning into a real farm boy.
What’s next? Chickens?”
“A cow,” Toby said. “I been thinking what you said about cows, and you
talked me into it.”
“Wiseass,” Jack said, taking a playful swipe at the boy. Dodging
successfully, laughing, Toby said, “Like father, like son.
Mr. Youngblood, did you know my dad says cows can do any tricks dogs
can do–roll over and play dead and all that?”
“Well,” the attorney replied, leading them back through the stable
toward the door by which they’d entered, “I know a steer that can walk
on his hind feet.”
“Really?”
“More than that. He can do math as well as you or me.” The claim was
made with such calm conviction that the boy looked up wide-eyed at
Youngblood. “You mean, like you ask him a problem, he can pound out
the answer with his hoof?”
“He could do that, sure. Or just tell you the answer.”
“Huh?”
“This steer, he can talk.”
“No way,” Toby said, following Jack and Heather outside. “Sure. He
can talk, dance, drive a car, and he goes to church every Sunday,” Paul
said, switching off the stae unrelenting darkness of night in that
largely unplowed vastness. Looking directly upslope from the stable,
toward a knoll at the terminus of the western woods, Paul said, “No
point showing you the cemetery in this poor light. Not that much to
see even at noon.”
“Cemetery?” Jack said, frowning. “You’ve got a state-certified
private cemetery on your grounds,” the attorney said. “Twelve plots,
though only four have been used.” Staring toward the knoll, where she
could vaguely see part of what might have been a low stone wall and a
pair of gateposts in the plum-dark light, Heather said, “Who’s buried
there?”
“Stan Quartermass, Ed Fernandez, Margaret, and Tommy.”
“Tommy, my old partner, he’s buried up there?” Jack asked. “Private
cemetery,” Heather said. She told herself that the only reason she
shivered was because the air was growing colder by the minute. “That’s
a little macabre.”
“Not so strange around here,” Paul assured her. “A lot of these
ranches, the same family has been on the land for generations. It’s
not only their home, it’s their hometown, the only place they love.
Eagle’s Roost is JUST somewhere to shop. When it comes to being put to
eternal rest, they want to be part of the land they’ve given their
lives to.”
“Wow,” Toby said. “How cool can you get? We live in a graveyard.”
“Hardly that,” Paul said. “My grandfolks and my parents are buried
over to our place, and there’s really nothing creepy about it.
Comforting. Gives you a sense of hentage, continuity. Carolyn and I
figure to be put to rest there too, though I can’t say what our kids
want to do, now they’re off in medical school and law school making new
lives that don’t have anything to do with the ranch.”
“Darn it, we just missed Halloween,” Toby said, more to himself than to
them. He stared toward the cemetery, caught up in a personal fantasy
that no doubt involved the challenge of walking through a graveyard on
All Hallows’ Eve. They stood quietly for a moment.
The dusk was heavy, silent, still. Uphill, the cemetery seemed to cast