One Step Over the Border (7 page)

“Laramie, I’m tryin’ harder this summer to understand than I ever have. I know one thing: this is my last season of searchin’.
I got to give it my best shot. That’s the only way I’ll be able to walk away from it.”

“If last night’s any indication, we won’t live another week. Sometimes it’s like walking the floor with an addict. I try to
keep you upright and moving until this ‘drug’ works out of your system.”

“I sorta figure that last night was progress.”

“Progress?” Laramie waved his boot like a pointer stick. “You don’t have a clue whether she lives in the U.S. or Mexico, or
whether it’s in Texas, New Mexico, or Colorado. She could have moved to Cody, Wyoming, by now. Think of that for irony.”

“We checked out Cody ten years ago.”

“You’ve got to narrow it down some, Hap. It’s like looking for some particular penguin in Antarctica. We’re going to find
Juanitas all over, but how can we tell the right one? So far the only site we’ve crossed off the list was that rundown cantina
in Matamoros.”

Hap studied the tanned creases around Laramie’s eyes. He kept thinking of the old rodeo phrase, “It ain’t the years, boys…
it’s the miles.” His voice lowered. “I eliminated some others last night. I was layin’ there in my aches and pains tryin’
to think it all through and it dawned on me. My Juanita is the kind of gal to make somethin’ of herself. We were lookin’ in
the wrong place last night.”

Laramie shook his boot out. Something dropped to the sand, dug a quick hole, and buried itself. “What was that?”

“A beetle, I guess. Now, listen up. This is huge. I decided there will be no more searchin’ out cantinas, saloons or casinos.
I’m just sure my Juanita’s teachin’ at a school, nursin’ at a hospital, or runnin’ the soup kitchen at the gospel mission.
We need to be lookin’ on the good side of town. That’s the kind of woman she is.”

Treeless brown prairie grass stretched north of them. Laramie gazed at the horizon as if expecting a fox to jump up. “The
Rio Grande’s eighteen hundred miles long. That’s not what I’d call narrow.”

Hap stood up slowly, unlocking his back as if it were a pair of vise grips. “We ought to go search a hospital. Maybe they’d
rent us a cheap room for the night. That would do us the most good.”

Laramie wiggled his toes, then shoved his foot into his boot. “Hap, I promised you I’d ride the river with you. And you know
I keep every promise. But that doesn’t mean I comprehend all of this.”

Hap scratched his unshaven chin. “Look, if it’s any consolation, I don’t understand me either. Sometimes this drive feels
like a disease. But I aim to get cured. And the antidote is somewhere between here and the headwaters of the Rio Grande near
Creede, Colorado. I guarantee, partner, this is the last summer you and me have to put up with this.”

Laramie filled both tin cups with steaming coffee. “You know why I put up with this? One reason: I know for fact, you’d do
the same thing for me.”

“If you had an idiot obsession? That’s tough to imagine.”

“Well, it’s not tough for me to imagine. I got some fears all scrambled up inside. They don’t drive me toward something, but
away from lots of things. Maybe it’s a good thing to always be focused on your quest. It keeps me from looking over my shoulder.
But right now, a cash-paying job would be a helpful thing. Our funds shriveled up with your transmission repair and new water
pump.”

“If we get to the Midway Café in McAllen at 8:00
A.M
., E. A. Greene promised us some work.”

Laramie took a slow, deep breath and exhaled into the steamy cup. “Does this mean we’re finally bidding a fond farewell to
Brownsville?”

Hap felt the blue tin cup warm the calluses on his fingers. “Not until we finish our coffee.”

Like a jet trail hugging the ground, dust plumed from E. A. Greene’s red Dodge dually and long gooseneck stock trailer. Laramie
and Hap cut through the silt fog like an F-14 through wispy clouds as they followed him to the entrance of the Hidalgo County
Land and Cattle, Ranch 21.

Laramie rolled down the window when they pulled over the cattle guard and through the large open gate. A dozen outbuildings
littered the ten-acre site with no apparent order. All had dulled, flaking white paint. Hard-packed, reddish dirt separated
the buildings. The windblown terrain looked broom swept.

“We’ve entered indoor rodeos in a smaller arena than that old barn,” Laramie said.

Hap parked the truck and horse trailer next to an empty stock tank and broken windmill. Three rail corrals crosschecked the
pasture. Stacks of bone-dry tumbleweeds lined the east side of the fence. “Lots of holdin’ corrals, that’s for sure. But no
water. Ain’t that strange?”

“The big house is a little run down, but the bunkhouse seems okay. Usually it’s the other way around. I don’t see a soul,
though. It’s got an air of being deserted. Reminds me of that job we took in Dubois.”

“The one that went belly-up while we were out on gather and no one bothered to come tell us? Yeah, I’m getting an uneasy feeling
about this job.”

Hap climbed out of the truck and stretched his arms. “E.A. said the crew headed out with the herd two weeks ago. We took too
much time gettin’ here. That busted transmission almost cost us a job. Nice of him to put us on anyway. I bet it would have
felt different if we had been here with the crew.”

“I’ve never worked a ranch that didn’t smell like manure.” Laramie unfolded his long legs, locking them into place like a
card table. “I don’t think this place has housed anyone since the war.”

“Which war?”

“World War II.” Laramie peered into the horse trailer. “We might want to get paid in advance for this job.”

Hap felt his neck stiffen. “We don’t get paid until we do the work. We ain’t changin’ that code now, partner.”

“So this guy, E. A. Greene, was a friend of your daddy, right?”

“I don’t think he knew Daddy. He’s a pal of my uncle Mike, my mom’s only brother. You heard him. The pay’s good for some day
work. Two weeks and we can go back to searchin’ for my Juanita.”

Though Greene stood in at five-eight, he loomed tall from the back bumper of his pickup. A polished bear claw clasped his
braided leather string tie. The collar of his flower print western shirt was unbuttoned and dirty. “Here’s the plan, boys.
I’ve got a bunch of kids and rookies up there with the herd trying to play cowboy and move them to the summer range. It’s
for sure and certain that they’re goin’ to lose some along the way. That’s why I’m payin’ you top wages. I want you to bring
up the rear and round up the ones they missed or left behind. Seasoned hands like you two shouldn’t have any trouble. There
are corrals and loading ramps every eight to ten miles. Pen them there and make sure there’s water in the stock tank. I’ll
be back with this rig, then trailer the strays up with the main herd. I’m guessin’ you’ll have fifty head or more before you
reach the Sargosa Valley range.” He stopped to swat two flies that buzzed at his neck. “If I had experienced hands like you
to begin with, I wouldn’t need this follow-up.”

“When do we get paid?” Laramie pressed.

“Normally at the end of the two weeks, but I can pay you a week at a time, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’s what we want,” Laramie added.

“You said you’d provide the chuck?” Hap asked.

“That’s right.” E.A. dug in his pocket, pulled out a short, brass key, and handed it to Hap. “Each corral has a chuck box.
I’m loadin’ ’em up as I head west. You just help yourself to what you need and leave it locked for the next crew.”

Laramie gazed across the empty brown prairie. A hamburger wrapper scurried like a windblown rabbit until it impaled on a squatty
prickly pear cactus. “They all shorthorns?”

“It’s a mixed lot, boys.”

Hap drew his worn brown boot across the hard dirt. “All branded Bar-HC?”

“I haven’t had time to brand them new ones I brought up from Mexico. Most of them have a running H with some curlicues on
each side. You know how them Mexican brands are.”

“Draw us out a picture of your brands, then sign and date the paper,” Laramie said.

“You reckon he needs to do all that?” Hap challenged.

“Yeah, I do.”

Greene scribbled something on the back of an oily brown sack, then shoved it at Laramie. He was back in the truck and had
roared off before Hap got his chaps fastened.

One foot on the bumper, Laramie buckled up his spurs. “You know, that’s as little instruction as we ever got. How well do
you know this guy?”

“My uncle Mike was with him in Vietnam. I don’t need any more credentials than that.” Hap licked his lips and could taste
the alkali dirt. “Besides, roundin’ up fifty head don’t sound all that tough.”

“Do you know anything about Mexican brands?”

“I ain’t never cowboyed south of Colorado until now. You know that.” Hap snapped his chap strap behind his knee. When the
wind gusted, he screwed his hat down.

“That’s why I insisted on this.” Laramie tucked the folded brand sheet into his pocket as he led Tully away from the trailer.

“Kind of desolate out here, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I expected us to ride out among the bluebonnets on some historic Texas ranch.”

“This isn’t much different than searching for strays south of Wamsutter, Wyoming.” Hap buttoned up his black leather vest.
“I reckon cattle is cattle.”

Bedrolls tied to the cantles and cinches pulled tight, Laramie and Hap swung up in their saddles with a smoothness learned
from years of practice—plus a wince or two, a result of the night before.

South Texas now sweltered July hot. Sweat dribbled down their bandanna-wrapped necks. Squatty prickly pear cactus marked the
parched prairie. Lumps of brown grass looked like mountaintops poking through the dust clouds. Wild islands of tangled brush
thick enough to inspire Uncle Remus to spin a story filled the landscape. It hadn’t rained for seventeen days.

The duo found the tramped dirt trail of E. A. Greene’s eight hundred head. Without assigning tasks, Laramie skirted the northern
edge of the herd’s track. Hap rode the southern boundary. Both cowboys studied the windswept tracks, trying to spot where
a cow or calf had strayed away from the others. They rode in sixty-foot circles, hoping to cut across a track or sign of herd
defection.

Hap stood in the stirrups, stretched his legs, then plopped back down on the hot, slick leather saddle seat. He always had
a hard time explaining to the carbound how good a saddle felt. The guy who worked at Boeing collapsed in his La-Z-Boy recliner
every night, but Hap relaxed best in his saddle. He figured it was the rhythm of horse and cowboy… the sway… the fresh air…
not counting the lousy food, the icy November rains, and the stink of burning cowhide. He knew it meant nursing a calf all
night in the bathtub and then watching the wolves devour it six weeks later. But he had chosen this life, and he knew he wouldn’t
trade it for something so confining as a fast food franchise. He also realized it had been a long time since he had any other
choice.

They wound their way through the brush-choked barranca, a narrow, steep gulch no more than thirty-feet wide and a half-mile
long. Hap emerged with a brindle yearling who trotted ahead of him, bleating about the rude intrusion.

“I’ve got rounded small cloven tracks within bigger ones that veer off toward the brushy oasis. I’ll check it out,” Laramie
hollered. Soon the wet pair, cow and calf, scooted ahead of him.

With a dry breeze at their backs, Laramie and Hap plodded the horses at a slow enough pace not to tire the cattle, following
the contour as it mimicked the river. Only the screech of a red-tailed hawk circling the prairie with mouse-filled talons
broke the silence. The steady clomp of Luke’s hooves provided the percussion for the hawk’s shrill violin. The sun hung halfway
to noon when they pushed the little gather into the shade of a live oak tree.

“You should get yourself a sombrero,” Hap teased. “It will get hot this afternoon. This ain’t Wyomin’.”

Ignoring the suggestion as he had for ten years of working cattle together, Laramie wiped his forehead with his bandanna.
He pulled out the brand list and studied it. “Do you think we’re doing this right?”