Fire on the Mountain (16 page)

Grandfather pulled up his rocking chair and sat down, resting the shotgun across his legs. We watched the police nail their little signs to the hayshed, the bunkhouse, Peralta’s house, the stables and even to the tree trunks. Grandfather made no interference.

But when the officer and one of the men, tin placard in hand, came toward us on the porch, the old man stood up, broke open the shotgun, slipped in two fat twelve-gauge cartridges, and closed the breech. The firm clash of the action rang out beautifully through the morning stillness.

The officer and his man stopped, about twenty feet away.

“Sorry, sir,” the officer began, after a second of hesitation, “but my orders—”

“Forget your orders!” Grandfather said, softly but clearly. “The first man that touches a hand to my house is going to get a charge of buckshot in the face. And the second charge is for you, Lieutenant.” He held the
shotgun loosely in his hands, allowing the muzzle to point toward the side and down.

The Air Force continued to pause. Both men, the officer and the sergeant at his side, were sweating richly under their plastic helmets. Sweat darkened the armpits and sides of their khaki shirts.

The officer took another step forward. Grandfather raised the muzzle of the shotgun a few inches, still not pointing it directly at the enemy.

“Mr. Vogelin,” the lieutenant said, clearing his throat loudly, “you better think about what you’re doing. You’re just making a lot more trouble for yourself.”

“Let’s not talk,” Grandfather said. “Please go away before I kill somebody.”

The sergeant, big and burly and angry, the sweat glistening on his face, grew impatient. “To hell with all this,” he growled, “no old crackpot is gonna stop me.” And he stepped toward the house.

Grandfather raised the muzzle of the shotgun and aimed it at the sergeant’s face. “Stop.”

The sergeant stopped, considering those two black holes that yawned before him.

We waited for a moment.

“Let’s go,” the lieutenant said, breaking the silence. In the background I noticed the other police watching us. “We’ll be back,” the lieutenant said to the old man. “Come on, Harry,” he said, pulling at the sergeant’s sleeve. The sergeant was still glaring at Grandfather across the twin barrels of the shotgun. “I said come on.”

“I’m gonna kill this old crank,” the sergeant said.

“No you’re not. Not today. Let’s go.” And the lieutenant turned and walked back toward his jeep.

The sergeant spat on the ground, staring Grandfather in the eye, then reluctantly showed his back and retreated to his jeep. Together the two jeeps were driven off through the shade, past the shed and corral and up the slope of the
barranca
into the heat and mirages of the plain.

While Grandfather waited on the porch with the
shotgun, in case the enemy should decide to come back, I took a claw hammer out of the pickup truck and one by one removed all the little red, white and blue signs. All of them.

After that we celebrated our small victory with rum and water and ice. The old man even allowed me a few swallows.

All morning we waited for the next attack. It failed to come. After a dinner of eggs and chili, potatoes and beans and iced coffee, I went for a ride on Blue while the old man sat on his rocking chair on the porch, shotgun across his knees and a look of sad resolution on his face.

That expression frightened me. I was glad to leave for an hour and wished very much that Lee would come.

The gelding and I walked along the Salado under the shelter of the trees. The sun roared directly overhead, baking the desert in a savage white glare. All was still except for a number of locusts that screamed continuously from invisible sources in the brush. It was really much too hot for riding, for work or war, for any form of physical effort. All living things were shaded up for the afternoon.

Blue and I did the same. I unbridled him and sat down against a cottonwood. There was no saddle to take off since I was in the habit of riding bareback when staying near the ranch-house. The horse, free, wandered a few paces away, snuffling at the sunburnt weeds along the bank. He soon stopped, deep in the deep green shade of the quiet trees, closed his eyes and went to sleep, his head drooping, his skin making involuntary twitches under the bites of flies.

The Salado was completely dry. Not a trickle flowed on the surface of the riverbed; whatever water remained had gone underground several weeks before.
From where I sat, looking across the wash toward the ranch-house, I could see a few of the waterholes which the cattle had dug in the sand, when we still had cattle. These holes were now lined with cakes and shards of baked mud, each fragment curled at the edges and brittle as chinaware.

I sometimes wondered what would happen if the deep well by the house went dry. From that one well came all the water we had at this time of year—for household use, for the horses, for keeping the pasture grass alive. The well out west at the base of the hills would usually produce water, but that was four miles away. There were also a couple of unreliable waterholes farther up the Salado. The only completely dependable source was the spring high in the hills where I’d seen the mountain lion. According to Grandfather that spring had never been known to fail. I supposed that if the drouth got worse we would have to retreat to our mountain cabin.

I looked for rain but the sky was an unflawed blue from horizon to horizon, the beautiful clear blue that promised only heat and thirst and death.

Across the sand, tamarisk and willows, the ranch-house and outbuildings lay on the bench of ground above the river, partially shielded from the direct blast of the sun by the fat old cottonwoods, whose acid-green leaves contrasted strangely with the dun-colored earth, the tawny brush, the iron-red bluffs behind the ranch.

I could see the verandah of the house, where I knew Grandfather was waiting, but the shade in which he sat was so black, so profound, that I could not make out the old man himself, until he stirred, shifting his limbs—then I saw the glint of gun metal. And after that a wisp of smoke, faint and aery as a spirit, floated out of the darkness and I knew he had puffed on his cigar.

In the crystal silence I heard, above the whine of the locusts, the scratching noise of Grandfather’s rocking chair on the wooden boards of the porch.

I dozed off but opened my eyes a moment later when I heard the far-off drone of an engine. Looking up, I saw a plume of dust rising beyond the edge of the mesa, which meant that a car was nearing the ranch.

Joyfully I thought of Lee, jumped up and started to run across the riverbed, dragging the bridle reins on the sand. Halfway across I saw the car round the ledge at the top of the rise; it was not Lee’s car but a gray-government sedan. My heart seemed to drop a few inches. I stopped running.

I waded through the sand and the palpable heat, pushed through the willow and tamarisk thickets on the far side, and walked up over the burnt-over ground to the ranch-house, where Grandfather watched and waited for the uninvited guest.

The car came close and stopped in the shade. One man got out, the only man in the car. It was DeSalius again, smartly dressed in a tan summer suit and a narrow-brimmed hat; under his arm he carried the briefcase.

I reached the house first and took my stand beside the old man, waiting for our visitor.

Spangles of hot light flowed over his hat and shoulders as DeSalius walked toward us under the trees. He had to pass through an area open to the sun and instantly his whole figure paled and seemed to shrink. He entered shade again, coming close, and this made him look plausibly dangerous. But he was smiling his usual pleasant smile, affable as an undertaker, and though he could not help but see the shotgun on Grandfather’s lap he came without hesitation right up to the steps of the porch. He paused there, took off his hat and wiped his damp bald head with a handkerchief.

“Mr. Vogelin,” he said. “Good afternoon, sir.” When the old man made no response to his salute DeSalius looked at me, his bright little blue eyes curiously intent. “What’s this I hear about you wrecking a train in El Paso?”

“I didn’t wreck any train—sir,” I said sullenly.

Colonel DeSalius, mind and eyes wandering, shifted to my grandfather, obviously waiting for an invitation to sit down. But the old man was slow to extend the usual courtesies. To cover his embarrassment, if he was embarrassed, if it was possible for DeSalius to be embarrassed by anything, the visitor spoke again to me. “I read about it in the papers, Billy. All about the boy who pulled the emergency stop and almost wrecked the Southern Pacific’s crack train. Wasn’t that you?”

I didn’t trouble myself to answer.

“What do you want, DeSalius?” Grandfather said.

The colonel smiled, glancing at the chair beside the old man’s rocker. “May I sit down?”

“Sit down.”

DeSalius took the chair and rearranged it so that he could look at both the old man and the desert to the west. He fanned his red face with the trim straw hat and stared in silence, in unDeSalius-like silence, out into the furnace of the afternoon toward the wash, the trees, the bleached desert, toward Thieves’ Mountain floating like a purple ship in the distance,

This was the season of the mirage: if you watched the mountains steadily for more than a few minutes you’d likely see them shift in location and alter in shape, great peaks sliding off their bases and riding on waves of light and heat.

Grandfather puffed on his cigar. DeSalius lit a cigarette. The awful heat made even speech seem difficult.

“Billy,” the old man said, “would you fetch us a pitcher of ice water?”

“Yes sir.”

I rose from my roost against the wall and moved into the dark interior, The contrast between outside and inside was so great that for a minute I had to feel my way to the kitchen before my eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness.

As I filled a pitcher with water and broke ice cubes from a tray I heard DeSalius begin to speak, discoursing in his rich resonant voice on the weather: the heat,
the drouth, the prospects for rain. But I did not hear my grandfather make any reply. How could he? What can the weather mean to a rancher who’s been robbed of his vocation? I returned to the porch with ice water and glasses.

“Thank you, Billy.”

The ice clinked cheerily in the glasses. We drank. Outside, in the glare, only the locusts seemed to be alive. Something about the terrible heat seemed to drive them into a frenzy of joy—or was it agony? Nothing else moved. Across the wash I could see the outline of old Blue standing with lowered head under the cottonwoods, asleep.

DeSalius sighed comfortably as he lowered his glass and drew on his cigarette. All of us were looking out toward the desert. “You like this country, eh Mr. Vogelin?”

Grandfather stirred. “Like it?”

“Yes. I mean, you like living here.”

“This is my home. I was born here. I’m going to die here.”

“Yes, I see. That’s what I mean.” DeSalius paused. There was a tone of wonder in his voice when he went on:

“Don’t you ever miss the sight of green grass, Mr. Vogelin? Of running water?—I mean clear steady running water, not these flash floods of liquid mud you have out here. Don’t you ever want to live where you’re in sight of the homes of other men? Of towns and cities? Of human activity, civilization, great enterprises under way in which whole nations participate?”

“Yes,” the old man said, after a moment’s reflection, “yes, I miss seeing those things. But not much.”

DeSalius smiled. “You’re a cynic, Mr. Vogelin.” He smoked his cigarette, staring toward Los Ladrones—the mountain of thieves. “You know, I can understand your affection for this desert country. I can’t share it but I can understand it, even sympathize with it. This country is—almost sublime. Space and grandeur, a
spacious grandeur that’s overwhelming. And yet—it isn’t quite human, is it? By that I mean it’s not really meant for human beings to live in. This is a land for gods, perhaps. Not for men.”

“The Apaches liked it,” Grandfather said.

“The Apaches? Oh yes, the Apaches. A stone-age people.”

“They drive pickup trucks and watch television and drink beer out of tin cans.”

“Ah yes,” DeSalius said, “quite true. Quite remarkable. Adaptable people. Quite remarkable.” He paused. “Mr. Vogelin,” he began abruptly, with a brisk transformation of his manner and tone, “we are going to let you stay here.”

And for the first time he stopped gazing at the desert and turned his head to watch my grandfather’s reaction.

The old man did not reveal any gratitude. “Nobody is going to
let
me stay here,” he said, staring back at DeSalius with steady eyes and level gaze.

“Well, I mean we’re not going to try to evict you, put it that way, if you prefer. Now understand that I’m talking about the ranch-house only. This does not apply to the land, only to the house and the outbuildings. We’re going to allow—we’re going to concede your right to retain possession of this house and access to it for the remainder of your natural life. Technically and legally, the house will remain government property, but we are ready to sign an agreement granting you all the rights of ownership except those of sale or transfer. As a matter of fact we’ve already drawn up the papers.”

DeSalius unzipped his handsome cowhide briefcase. “I’ve got them right in here.” He poked his fingers among sheaves of documents—tools of the paper civilization. “There is one condition we must attach to this agreement,” He pulled out the paper, complete with carbons and copies, and looked it over, apparently waiting for Grandfather to ask what the attached condition might be.

But the old man did not ask. Shotgun on his lap, cigar in his teeth, he stared out through his spectacles at the mountains, seeming already to have lost interest in the proposition. Or maybe he was uttering a silent prayer of thankfulness—I don’t know.

“The further condition,” DeSalius continued, after waiting in vain for Grandfather to ask about it, “is that you agree to leave these premises during test periods, that is, on those days when rocket firings will take place.” He stopped, watching the old man slyly out of the corners of his eyes. Still no reaction. “I realize this may be an inconvenience but I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a small price to pay in return for the privilege—for the right of living in your house at all other times. You’ll want to go to town occasionally anyway.”