in the Busy Bee Café during rodeo weekend two years back. One of the big, lean heads stretched forward. I’m not sure if it was Butch or Sundance, but he licked the clear plastic against my hand. “All right, here we go.”
I pulled the door open, and they continued to sit there, looking at me like hundred-and-twenty-pound bookends.
“Okay. Good dogs, good boys.”
I reached a closed fist toward the one that had licked the Plexiglas and watched as the black-and-white muzzle moved forward for a sniff and then a lick. I rolled my hand over and let the wet tongue lap across my palm. His fanlike tail swept back and forth, and I thought so far so good, which caused me to make a mistake and reach for the other wolf mutt, who up to this point hadn’t made any movement or sound.
The rumble in his chest sounded like the internal combustion of a high-compression motor and just as urgent.
I looked at him. “Hey.”
He backed away just a little and pulled up one side of his muzzle to show me the business end of a canine tooth as he continued to growl.
“Hey.”
He backed away until his butt bumped against the far wall, which really wasn’t far enough. His lip dropped a little, but he stayed there watching me as I ran a hand over the head of the friendlier of the two in hope that if he saw the other dog respond well he might loosen up a bit. I turned my focus marginally to the dog I was petting. “Good dog . . . If historical reference is any good in judging personality, I’m betting you’re Butch.”
He looked up, and I was relatively assured. The other dog was no longer growling and dipped its head as I kept petting the friendlier one. “C’mon, Sundance . . . C’mon, Butch.”
I took the path from the office that led to Geo’s house and headed off at a slow walk past my truck. Butch kept pace at my left as we followed the frozen, hard- pack road—Sundance tagged along behind. I glanced at the truck and could see that my backup was watching and committing every movement to memory. We walked past the chain- link fence; the sign on the other side read STEWART JUNKYARD—NO TRESSPASSING, spelling notwithstanding.
The gate was held in place by a rubber bungee cord but still moved a couple of inches squealing in counterpoint with the wind that was picking up from the mountains. I stopped and held the metal-framed gate in one hand, thankful I was wearing gloves so that my flesh didn’t stick, and ushered the first dog through; the other one stood and looked at me. “C’mon.”
He waited a short moment and then followed, keeping his distance as I looked down the path at the gables of the big house.
Douglas Moomey had built the place in the late 1890s, but after the death of his brother in the Boer War, he was called back to England from a life of drunken remittance to a life of drunken privilege. The only thing he’d left behind were illegitimate children who spoke with a vague British accent and the house. A local cattle rancher bought it and the surrounding property, and it remained in his family until the late forties, at which point Shirley Vandermier, one of the local call girls, acquired it as a result of an heir chasing aces and eights.
There was supposedly an old tunnel that had run from the whorehouse to a livery almost an eighth of a mile away, which allowed the local ranchers and cowboys ingress and, more important, egress in times of emergency—such as when the sheriff might be looking for patrons of the establishment.
As I stood among the random, rusted automobile carcasses that were stacked around it, it was hard to imagine the place in its original glory. The gigantic house squatted on a native moss-rock foundation like the place had grown there. The night clouds raced over the roof like fleeting spirits, and the tendrils of a long dead cottonwood’s split trunk ran its bony fingers through the clouds. Only the insistent bite of the northwestern wind and subzero temperatures reminded me that
I pulled the door open, and they continued to sit there, looking at me like hundred-and-twenty-pound bookends.
“Okay. Good dogs, good boys.”
I reached a closed fist toward the one that had licked the Plexiglas and watched as the black-and-white muzzle moved forward for a sniff and then a lick. I rolled my hand over and let the wet tongue lap across my palm. His fanlike tail swept back and forth, and I thought so far so good, which caused me to make a mistake and reach for the other wolf mutt, who up to this point hadn’t made any movement or sound.
The rumble in his chest sounded like the internal combustion of a high-compression motor and just as urgent.
I looked at him. “Hey.”
He backed away just a little and pulled up one side of his muzzle to show me the business end of a canine tooth as he continued to growl.
“Hey.”
He backed away until his butt bumped against the far wall, which really wasn’t far enough. His lip dropped a little, but he stayed there watching me as I ran a hand over the head of the friendlier of the two in hope that if he saw the other dog respond well he might loosen up a bit. I turned my focus marginally to the dog I was petting. “Good dog . . . If historical reference is any good in judging personality, I’m betting you’re Butch.”
He looked up, and I was relatively assured. The other dog was no longer growling and dipped its head as I kept petting the friendlier one. “C’mon, Sundance . . . C’mon, Butch.”
I took the path from the office that led to Geo’s house and headed off at a slow walk past my truck. Butch kept pace at my left as we followed the frozen, hard- pack road—Sundance tagged along behind. I glanced at the truck and could see that my backup was watching and committing every movement to memory. We walked past the chain- link fence; the sign on the other side read STEWART JUNKYARD—NO TRESSPASSING, spelling notwithstanding.
The gate was held in place by a rubber bungee cord but still moved a couple of inches squealing in counterpoint with the wind that was picking up from the mountains. I stopped and held the metal-framed gate in one hand, thankful I was wearing gloves so that my flesh didn’t stick, and ushered the first dog through; the other one stood and looked at me. “C’mon.”
He waited a short moment and then followed, keeping his distance as I looked down the path at the gables of the big house.
Douglas Moomey had built the place in the late 1890s, but after the death of his brother in the Boer War, he was called back to England from a life of drunken remittance to a life of drunken privilege. The only thing he’d left behind were illegitimate children who spoke with a vague British accent and the house. A local cattle rancher bought it and the surrounding property, and it remained in his family until the late forties, at which point Shirley Vandermier, one of the local call girls, acquired it as a result of an heir chasing aces and eights.
There was supposedly an old tunnel that had run from the whorehouse to a livery almost an eighth of a mile away, which allowed the local ranchers and cowboys ingress and, more important, egress in times of emergency—such as when the sheriff might be looking for patrons of the establishment.
As I stood among the random, rusted automobile carcasses that were stacked around it, it was hard to imagine the place in its original glory. The gigantic house squatted on a native moss-rock foundation like the place had grown there. The night clouds raced over the roof like fleeting spirits, and the tendrils of a long dead cottonwood’s split trunk ran its bony fingers through the clouds. Only the insistent bite of the northwestern wind and subzero temperatures reminded me that
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