7th Sigma Page 5

  Unlike Ruth and Kimble, the Kenneys had lived in the town since before the Exodus. They were respected and well liked and stealing livestock was considerably more frowned on than just stealing food.

  “Of course, if I were you I’d rather the Rangers caught me. The council might decide to go all Western on you, horse thief.” It was an idle threat. Nobody had been hanged in Perro Frio, but it had happened elsewhere in the territory.

  Williams, thigh high in the water, turned to track Kimble. “Shut up, you little faggot!”

  Kimble began backing away from the pond’s edge. “You know what’s worse than a horse thief? A drunk and a horse thief!”

  Williams surged forward through the water, and then stumbled. Kimble had moved sideways to put the old tractor between him and the man and Williams’ toe caught it. Flailing his arms around for balance, Williams fell forward, sending a green tidal wave before him.

  Kimble turned and ran back toward the horses, intending to at least let them go, scare them away, so they’d find their way home. He fumbled with the reins, but Williams had not used a slipknot and the horses, jerking away from Kimble’s rush, had tightened the knots. Williams pounding feet grew closer and Kimble darted north, toward town, horses still tied.

  The knots will slow him down, Kimble thought, but Williams didn’t even pause at the horses. Kimble was struggling through the brush, slowed by the mesquite thorns, but Williams seemed to plow right through, closing fast. I’ll never make the road, Kimble thought, and cut left, toward the bluff top. He knew a spot with a ledge halfway down and a sloping face below where it was possible to descend the fifteen-foot drop into the bosque.

  He felt fingers claw at his back and he swerved hard, then sprinted the last bit to the cliff top, opening the gap between them. Panting, he turned, knees bent, facing Williams.

  If Kimble was panting, Williams was wheezing, his face beet red. Seeing Kimble stop, he slowed, managing a breathless, “Ha! Trapped yourself.” William stepped closer, wide-stanced, ready to cut Kimble off if he tried to dart right or left. He gestured. “I see that string around your neck.”

  Kimble’s top two buttons had come loose as he’d run through the brush and the end of the key was visible against his skin. He stood up straighter and tugged the string, so the key dangled. “This old thing?”

  Williams lunged, arm darting forward like a striking snake.

  Kimble stepped back off the edge of the bluff. As he dropped, he reached up and grabbed the sleeve of Williams’ outstretched arm from beneath.

  Kimble went down the cliff-face feet first, his toes scudding along the dirt and rock, his free hand dragging down the face, until he stopped hard, on the ledge. Williams arced overhead, a look of sudden shock and surprise on his face as he pitched forward. Kimble turned just in time to see him crash though the branches of a Russian olive tree, then slam into the ground below.

  He didn’t get up.

  Kimble came down the last sloping bit of the bluff with a tumbling cloud of dirt and rocks. He approached Williams cautiously. There was a huge knot on the man’s forehead and a bone was sticking out of his upper left arm. He was breathing, though, and the sluggish bleeding around the protruding bone didn’t seem arterial.

  A quarter of an hour later, Ruth came back, riding pillion behind Matt Kenney. With them rode Kenney’s sons and half the village council, all on horseback and packed for an extended chase.

  Kimble told them where the stolen horses were and led them around, the horse-friendly way, into the bosque where Williams lay.

  “Too bad he didn’t break his fool neck,” said Matt Kenney. “What happened, boy?”

  “He was chasing me. Wanted the key to the cottage. I knew there was a ledge there. He didn’t.”

  “Serves him right. If he’d just ridden on by, we might never have caught him. Those were my best two horses. They can really move. Let that be a lesson to you, boys,” he said to his own teenage sons. “Don’t be greedy.”

  They found the missing bread and the crock of beans among Williams’ belongings in the pack saddle panniers. While he was still unconscious, they extended his arm until the bone slipped back under the muscle and splinted it. He woke up before they finished rigging the horse litter and threw up all the tomatoes he’d eaten.

  “There’s justice,” said Ruth. Later, after they’d taken him away, she said, “Now tell me what really happened.”

  He did.

  “And was it wise to confront him while he was stealing the tomatoes?”

  “They were our tomatoes, Sensei.”

  “Because a vehicle should stop at a crosswalk does not mean you should step out in front of a speeding truck. Be more careful in the future. Let him eat tomatoes … while you take his horses.”

  “Sensei!”

  She gave him bread with honey. “Just be more careful.”

  “Yes, Sensei.”

  5

  Kimble and the Not-Dog

  The monsoon season began well, the first two weeks of July, with a series of afternoon thunderstorms, but thereafter the clouds threatened but dropped their water on other watersheds. By the middle of August, the Puerco was down to a trickle, though many of the river’s beaver dams still held good water. The grass and brush, green during the two weeks’ rain, were now brown and dry again.

  Concerned about fire, Ruth and Kimble cleared brush in a hundred-foot safety zone around the house and dojo. When filling the rooftop water barrel, Kimble hauled extra water for the grass on the live roof, to keep it from drying out.

  The Village Council began inspecting chimneys, ordering the installation of ceramic spark grates on some, the removal of close trees in other places. They scheduled a time to tour Ruth’s place.

  Kimble exhibited a teen’s outrage. “What business is it of theirs what happens on your land?”

  “What direction is the wind blowing?”

  It was a hot dry wind from the south, perhaps fifteen miles per hour.

  The village was north of their place.

  Kimble’s righteous anger shriveled. “Oh.”

  When the council inspected Ruth’s horno they said, “Nice that it’s so close to the spring. You’ve got green stuff close around, but no baking on windy days, okay?”

  Ruth had grown up in southern California and knew wildfires all her life. “Certainly. We only bake once a week as it is, but no—no baking on windy days.”

  The water level in people’s wells began dropping. Ranchers who normally watered their livestock from catchment ponds began taking their livestock to the beaver ponds on the river. Ruth’s closest neighbors began dropping by, with her permission, to get drinking water from the spring.

  “My well’s gone all silty,” said Rooster Vigil, the sheep rancher across the road. “It’s doing for my garden, but you have to let it settle to drink. Far quicker to come over here.”

  Rooster was walking his sheep down to the Puerco once a day, to water them at the clay-lined catchment where the spring runoff ran down the bluff. He’d floated the notion of having them water above, at the dojo pond, to avoid the roundabout route, but Ruth had pointed to her garden and said, “Sorry. I’m having enough trouble keeping deer and rabbits out.”

  “Sheep manure is good for growing.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about sheep poop. Make that ‘Hell, no.’”

  Rooster had laughed and left with his five-gallon jug of water.

  After that it became a weekly chore for Kimble to collect sheep manure down by the catchment to add to their compost piles. “And it’s low in phosphorous,” Ruth told him.

  “It still stinks.”

  Tempers rose as water levels in the beaver ponds fell. As livestock weakened, coyote predation increased on lambs and calves. Some ranchers became obsessed with finding coyote dens. Other ranchers just gathered their animals tightly at night and kept watch.

  One morning, while Rooster Vigil was filling his water jug at the spring, he yawned widely, his jaw cracking.<
br />
  Ruth, harvesting ripe tomatoes and snap peas frowned at him. “You all right, Rooster?” There were dark circles under the rancher’s eyes.

  Rooster shrugged. “Trey Cruz lost some lambs last night.” The Cruz place was south of Rooster’s. “I haven’t, but I’ve been sitting up most nights.”

  “Ah.”

  Rooster looked Kimble over. “How old are you, boy?”

  Kimble was working the zucchini patch, checking the stems for squash beetles. They were bad this summer. He looked up at Ruth, but when she didn’t say anything, he said, “Thirteen.”

  “Huh. Small for your age. But then again, you did all right with Sandy Williams. How’d you like a job?”

  “What sort of job?”

  “Nighthawk. I fell asleep while on watch last night and I was lucky I didn’t lose any. Ewes crying woke me up and I heard the bastards scramble off when I came up shouting. It’d just be a couple of weeks. The missus and me are building a coyote fence around the big pen. But we’re not making any progress staying up all night.”

  “Margo all right?” Ruth asked.

  Rooster grinned. “She’s fine. I’m not letting her lift anything. She’s just spinning the cord and lashing the uprights.”

  “When’s she due?”

  “Six weeks. But if I don’t finish this fence, between the coyotes and the baby I’ll never get a good night’s rest.”

  “What’s the pay?” Ruth asked.

  Rooster gestured at the zucchini. “You got the squash bugs bad, yeah?”

  Kimble shrugged. “Yeah. They’re going to town on the cucumbers and the zukes.”

  Rooster spread his hands. “Chickens would take care of that. Eat up a bunch of your weeds, too. And there’d be eggs. I’ve got two dozen new chicks running around.”

  Kimble looked at Ruth.

  “We’d have to build a coop. And someone would have to clean it.”

  Kimble laughed. “Someone. All right.”

  * * *

  HE started that night, at sunset, after Rooster guided the sheep into the large pen, a circular, split-rail fenced enclosure, about one hundred feet across, with plastic mesh on the bottom to keep the lambs in. It was a quarter mile away from Rooster’s adobe house.

  “The sheep dung can get rank,” commented Rooster. He handed a six-foot spear to Kimble, an oak shaft topped with a double-edged fiberglass spearhead. “Just in case, but this is your real defense.” He led Kimble over the fence beside the gate where a hollow log lay across two split chunks of wood. “Thump it,” he said, demonstrating with a broken ax handle leaning against the fence. When he brought it down hard, the resounding boom was impressive. “That should scare ’em off. I’m not gonna get out of bed for an occasional tap but if you need help—” He beat a fast-paced staccato tattoo on the log. “I’ll come running but … you ever hear the story of the boy who cried wolf?”

  Kimble laughed. “I’ll do my best to make sure you can sleep.”

  That first night was the hardest. Nothing happened and his body was expecting sleep. He did jyo exercises with the spear and walked in circles around the inside and outside of the fence.

  It got cold after midnight and since the air was still, he kept a small fire going in Rooster’s clay chimenea. He used it to warm up, but he didn’t sit down near it. The very thought was enough to make his head nod and his eyelids droop.

  Rooster came out at dawn. “Any excitement?”

  “Fighting sleep. That was hard.”

  “Get some rest during the day and it’ll be easier.”

  The next night, Sensei sent some of her green tea with him and he brewed a cup every couple of hours. When the caffeine stopped working, his full bladder kicked in. Also, about two in the morning, the sheep awoke, bleated, and milled about.

  He walked noisily around the fence, spear at the ready, but whatever was out there didn’t show itself. He had no trouble keeping awake until Rooster came out at dawn.

  That night, when he returned, Rooster said, “There were tracks, maybe six animals.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “No. Coyotes tend to breeding pairs, not packs. Maybe a family group with half-grown cubs, but these were all large animals. I’m thinking dogs. Feral dogs.”

  “What about wolves? Don’t they move in packs?”

  The Mexican gray wolf and the timber wolf were increasing since the coming of the bugs.

  “Just keep your eyes open.”

  Nothing disturbed the sheep that night or for the rest of the week. Each day, when Kimble showed up, the tightly spaced uprights of the coyote fence grew around the perimeter of the holding pen. As each section was completed, the Vigils transplanted prickly pear to the base of the fence, to discourage tunneling.

  Kimble’s patrol became smaller as he concentrated on the sections of fence that were still just horizontal rails.

  One night, as he crouched before the chimenea feeding small chunks of wood to the fire, he heard a panicked bleating from the far end of the enclosure, squarely in the middle of the new coyote fence. Almost immediately he heard the sound of splintering wood followed by growling.

  His eyes were still dazzled by the flames of the fire but the moon was quarter full and high. The entire flock surged toward him, pressed up against the fence. He heard a sheep scream.

  He dashed to the hollow log and beat it hard, perhaps thirty taps in ten seconds, then pushed through the sheep toward the growling, holding the spear low, point out in front.

  There were several dogs, at least five or six. Two of them were tearing at the screaming ewe. The others were barking and rushing the milling sheep. One other large dog was standing in the shadow of the fence, barely seen, but a hole, created by the splintering of four of the upright saplings, allowed moonlight to spill through the fence. Over the smell of sheep dung Kimble smelled wet dog and ozone, like after a lightning storm.

  Kimble lunged, thrusting the spear like a jyo at the dog tearing at the ewe. The spear tip went in right behind its shoulder, twisting, hitting the lungs and heart. It dropped with a startled grunt.

  Kimble pulled and thrust again, but the other dog jumped sideways. The spear tip scored across the dog’s shoulder and it yelped and scrambled for the hole through the fence. The other dogs fled as well, though they ran around the flock toward the old rail fencing. Only the large dark dog, back by the fence, paused as the wounded dog wiggled through, then turned to follow, completely filling the hole torn in the fence.

  Kimble skipped forward, thrusting again. There was a dull clanking sound as the tip struck and then moonlight flooded through the hole in the fence again. When he looked at the composite spearhead, he saw that it had snapped in half. He found the broken piece on the ground, sand-encrusted and bloody.

  “I think you imagined hitting it. You probably got the fence,” suggested Rooster, when he arrived a few moments later.

  Kimble shrugged. He’d seen and felt the spear strike the animal’s right flank solidly. Too solidly, apparently. However, he didn’t argue.

  Rooster was happy Kimble had killed the one dog and driven off the others. The screaming ewe had to be put down, but it could’ve been much worse. He was less happy about the broken section of new coyote fence. “How the hell did they break that?” he wondered, fingering the splintered ends. “Go home and get some rest but be back here midmorning. I’m getting together a few of the boys and we’re gonna track that pack down. No point in building fence if they can do that.”

  * * *

  WHEN Kimble recounted the night’s events to Ruth, she said, “Well, glad you’re all right. Get some sleep. I’ll get you up in time.” When she woke him, she was wearing her hat and walking boots, and when it was time for him to go, she handed him a jyo, took one herself, and walked along.

  “I don’t know, Rooster,” said Barney Spinoza. “Not sure this is a trip for a woman, ’specially one who needs a stick to walk.”

  Shocked, Kimble turned to look at Ruth’s reaction, but her eye
s only crinkled.

  Barney was new to the area and hadn’t been around when Sandy Williams had his encounter with Ruth in the marketplace. Rooster just patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Barney. It’ll be all right.”

  Rooster had gotten Rosemary Werito’s husband, Frank, to come, not just because he also ran sheep, but because he was a good tracker.

  “You got one, all right,” Frank said, as they headed out. “Lots of blood spoor.” He’d brought a traditional bow. Rooster had a crossbow slung over his back and was carrying the same spear Kimble had used the night before, with a newly replaced spearhead. Barney carried a plastic rifle with a quiver of preloaded disposable cardboard barrels. Everyone brought water bottles.

  The blood was the best indicator. It had been dry for so long the ground was sandy dust or baked hard. You could make out some vague tracks and sometimes claw scratches on baked dirt. It wasn’t until the pack tracked through mud in the riverbed that they got anything clear.

  “Yeah. Dogs. Seven, I’m thinking,” said Werito, studying the tracks near the water.

  “Well, we knew that,” said Rooster. “There’s a dead one back at my place.”

  “Didn’t know if it was only dogs. They’re headed downstream.” He gestured south along the bosque. Barney and Rooster moved out, Ruth following. Kimble was standing by Frank, looking at the tracks, too. Frank pointed out the salient features. “Big dog. Medium dog. Fat dog.”

  “Fat dog? Why not another big dog?”

  “Look here, where you can see how close its legs are together? Half the length of the others, but it’s sinking into the same soil about as deep.” He pointed at another set of footsteps. “That dog is big and heavy. See how far apart back and front paws are? See how deep the tracks—” Frank tilted his head to one side. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the same track.”

  “Same dog, you mean?”

  Werito licked his lips. “Well, I’m not that sure it is a dog.”

  “A wolf?”

  “Uh, no.” He stood up abruptly. He’d been carrying his bow unstrung but now he took a moment to string it. “Let’s catch up,” he said and started out briskly.