It Came From Del Rio: Part One of the Bunnyhead Chronicles by Stephen Graham Jones
Authors: Stephen Graham Jones
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the tangled branches of that poisoned bush.
At the third hour, I finally found the fenceline I knew was there. Beside it, the ruts worn into the pasture by the rancher’s trucks. Cowboys still rode the fences, yeah, but they had air conditioning now, and pictures of their girlfriends tucked in front of the speedometer.
I wasn’t there to flag one of them down, though. If there were no cattle in this pasture, then there was no reason to ease through at watering time and count heads, or check for holes in the barbed wire.
What I was there for was the smooth, packed dirt of the outside rut. And because, who knows why, on nearly every fence line I’d ever seen, if you walked it long enough, you’d find a boot upended on a post. Usually not near a gate or anything, like where you’d hang a coyote or rattlesnake, but just out in the middle of nowhere.
If I was lucky, that boot would be a size twelve. And then there would be another.
The world owed me that, at least.
Every right footprint I left was smudged with blood. Come night, a coyote would be licking it and looking ahead, its ears tuned to my breathing. And my buzzard situation hadn’t improved any, either.
I pushed on, cussing Refugio at first but then cussing Lem as well, for having that idea about that bank in Ft. Stockton in the first place.
It was supposed to be a pushover. That had been his word. One job, then retire. Who wouldn’t have said maybe, and then, over the course of a week, why not? I had a wife to provide for, a daughter to raise.
Never mind that Lem had been one of Tanya’s friends in the first place. The only one not in jail yet.
Thinking of Ft. Stockton got Laurie in my head again, though, alone in Mexico. So I tried not to think at all.
By six, I was breathing hard, not walking with any grace whatsoever. Shambling, shuffling, stumbling sometimes. The routine I’d come up with was, every thirty-third post to stop, lean against it, and count the canisters. Because I wasn’t going to hobble all the way to Uvalde just to get shot for shorting the cargo.
And, much as I hated Refugio, at least now I could blame the case and the number nine canister on him. I might even be a hero for not giving up, like any sane person would have.
Except, then, if they did like me, they might want to use me again.
If that happened, I’d nod like I had for Refugio, that yeah, this was the start of something good. But then I’d fade deeper into Mexico, with Laurie. Change both our names, our hair. Never speak English again.
It was part of the deal I was making — what I was offering to trade for if I could just make it all the way to Uvalde, on time.
By dusk, the last time I could see my backtrail, I was leaving two bloody footprints, and still hadn’t even made up the ground Refugio had driven me back over. Around midnight, the coyotes padded in.
I pictured them trotting alongside, their black lips curved into hungry grins, their eyes half-lidded, because they had all night here. What it made me think of was the guy, trapped by Indians or whatever, who, when they told him they were going to stretch his skin over a canoe frame, took up a fork and stabbed himself all over.
It carried me for a few more miles. For that I thanked the coyotes.
Dawn found me holding onto the top of a fencepost with both hands.
If you’re alone out in the middle of nothing, the sun coming up can have an almost powdery quality. Like the light sifting down across everything, it’s gritty. Like if you opened your mouth it would sift between your teeth, and crunch. Like snow, though, it can drift over you as well. Make it easy to lie down.
I had a schedule to keep, though.
For the last few miles, I hadn’t even been able to afford the luxury of crossing to each fencepost, to check for the boot I knew was going to be there. Instead I told myself it would be too small, that I didn’t have anything to cut the toe off with.
At some point I’d lost the bloody right rag
At the third hour, I finally found the fenceline I knew was there. Beside it, the ruts worn into the pasture by the rancher’s trucks. Cowboys still rode the fences, yeah, but they had air conditioning now, and pictures of their girlfriends tucked in front of the speedometer.
I wasn’t there to flag one of them down, though. If there were no cattle in this pasture, then there was no reason to ease through at watering time and count heads, or check for holes in the barbed wire.
What I was there for was the smooth, packed dirt of the outside rut. And because, who knows why, on nearly every fence line I’d ever seen, if you walked it long enough, you’d find a boot upended on a post. Usually not near a gate or anything, like where you’d hang a coyote or rattlesnake, but just out in the middle of nowhere.
If I was lucky, that boot would be a size twelve. And then there would be another.
The world owed me that, at least.
Every right footprint I left was smudged with blood. Come night, a coyote would be licking it and looking ahead, its ears tuned to my breathing. And my buzzard situation hadn’t improved any, either.
I pushed on, cussing Refugio at first but then cussing Lem as well, for having that idea about that bank in Ft. Stockton in the first place.
It was supposed to be a pushover. That had been his word. One job, then retire. Who wouldn’t have said maybe, and then, over the course of a week, why not? I had a wife to provide for, a daughter to raise.
Never mind that Lem had been one of Tanya’s friends in the first place. The only one not in jail yet.
Thinking of Ft. Stockton got Laurie in my head again, though, alone in Mexico. So I tried not to think at all.
By six, I was breathing hard, not walking with any grace whatsoever. Shambling, shuffling, stumbling sometimes. The routine I’d come up with was, every thirty-third post to stop, lean against it, and count the canisters. Because I wasn’t going to hobble all the way to Uvalde just to get shot for shorting the cargo.
And, much as I hated Refugio, at least now I could blame the case and the number nine canister on him. I might even be a hero for not giving up, like any sane person would have.
Except, then, if they did like me, they might want to use me again.
If that happened, I’d nod like I had for Refugio, that yeah, this was the start of something good. But then I’d fade deeper into Mexico, with Laurie. Change both our names, our hair. Never speak English again.
It was part of the deal I was making — what I was offering to trade for if I could just make it all the way to Uvalde, on time.
By dusk, the last time I could see my backtrail, I was leaving two bloody footprints, and still hadn’t even made up the ground Refugio had driven me back over. Around midnight, the coyotes padded in.
I pictured them trotting alongside, their black lips curved into hungry grins, their eyes half-lidded, because they had all night here. What it made me think of was the guy, trapped by Indians or whatever, who, when they told him they were going to stretch his skin over a canoe frame, took up a fork and stabbed himself all over.
It carried me for a few more miles. For that I thanked the coyotes.
Dawn found me holding onto the top of a fencepost with both hands.
If you’re alone out in the middle of nothing, the sun coming up can have an almost powdery quality. Like the light sifting down across everything, it’s gritty. Like if you opened your mouth it would sift between your teeth, and crunch. Like snow, though, it can drift over you as well. Make it easy to lie down.
I had a schedule to keep, though.
For the last few miles, I hadn’t even been able to afford the luxury of crossing to each fencepost, to check for the boot I knew was going to be there. Instead I told myself it would be too small, that I didn’t have anything to cut the toe off with.
At some point I’d lost the bloody right rag
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