long, accompanied starlit walks on empty Western Hemisphere beaches, barefoot and with the pantlegs of a well-cut tropical suit rolled higher than the warm breaking waves. He married the companion and had a wonderful little boy.
He was sure Emily had had some fine times too. Lucien was now years older than that man she left him for.
Lucien attempted over the next few days to have a serious conversation about the cattle with Brer Austinberry. He was not interested. This place, he reminded Lucien, was a strict grass outfit and, as such, subject to the worst statistics then current in the cow business. There was a three-year immediate history across the state of Montana of beef prices dropping twenty cents per pound between turnout and shipping in the fall, which meant every cowman went backward until about halfway through the summer or maybe longer, depending upon the nature of his loan. This did not hold Austinberry’s attention; he continued to jingle back and forth across the kitchen in his big roweled spurs. Lucien said, Let’s haul everything to town this fall, accept that we had little that would grade better than utility cattle; then start anew with first-calf heifers in the spring. That meant buying some hay right away.
“We don’t want to buy hay,” said Austinberry. “We don’t want to spend any money.”
“What are we going to feed in the spring?”
“I don’t care what we feed in the spring.”
“Don’t you plan to be here?”
· · ·
After lunch he went up the dry creek bed that wound straight up to the Crazies like a holy road. There was an old wagon track that made parallel grooves in rock. In a hairpin turn he found a moldering pile of empty .45-.70 cartridges, an old firefight in a quiet hollow. Because of his hearty lunch Lucien was suffering what the nutritionists call the alkali tide, and in his lassitude he dreamed of water galloping down the rocky walls of the dry bed and taking him to the ocean, where no decisions would be required and where he could have his little boy back.
Lucien and the lawyer hovered around the glow of the lamp, a medieval gimmick in a lonesome theme restaurant, and a terrific minor anomaly for a Montana cow town. The lawyer, Wick Tompkins, was a heavy man who, you could see, had risen from another station in life. In trying to express the solitude of his existence, he asked Lucien if there was anything sadder than returning home to an empty answering machine. He had a quick-moving face that tapered cleanly from temples to chin; but his hands were those of an honest laborer and fell upon the table with an earnest thud to underscore each phrase. Lucien rather liked him, but Tompkins was determined to maintain an adversary air. It was he who had designed the ranch-forfeit document for Emily.
“She’s going to go to the penitentiary,” he said. Thud. “To make a long story short.” This time the hands fell from a greater height.
“And you’re her lawyer,” said Lucien, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m her lawyer.” The hands lay conspicuously still.
“Oh boy.”
“Hey, look at it this way: she killed him deader than a mackerel. But this is the land of Japanese horseshoes, Taiwanese cowboy shirts and Korean bits. Who knows what a jury will say?”
“There must have been a reason she killed him.”
“There was a good reason. He beat her. But he hadn’t done it in a long time. Therefore it was premeditated murder.
She
describes it as premeditated murder. A jury with a room-temperature IQ will see it as
premeditated murder
. It’s perfectly inescapable. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m going to explain how he slammed her hands in the car door to keep her from playing the piano. And about the time that sinks in, here comes Mr. Prosecutor with a photograph of the mortal remains featuring a face that’s all powder burns except where the bullet actually goes in, which is a hole.”
“Well, then,” Lucien asked, “what good are you?”
“I am
He was sure Emily had had some fine times too. Lucien was now years older than that man she left him for.
Lucien attempted over the next few days to have a serious conversation about the cattle with Brer Austinberry. He was not interested. This place, he reminded Lucien, was a strict grass outfit and, as such, subject to the worst statistics then current in the cow business. There was a three-year immediate history across the state of Montana of beef prices dropping twenty cents per pound between turnout and shipping in the fall, which meant every cowman went backward until about halfway through the summer or maybe longer, depending upon the nature of his loan. This did not hold Austinberry’s attention; he continued to jingle back and forth across the kitchen in his big roweled spurs. Lucien said, Let’s haul everything to town this fall, accept that we had little that would grade better than utility cattle; then start anew with first-calf heifers in the spring. That meant buying some hay right away.
“We don’t want to buy hay,” said Austinberry. “We don’t want to spend any money.”
“What are we going to feed in the spring?”
“I don’t care what we feed in the spring.”
“Don’t you plan to be here?”
· · ·
After lunch he went up the dry creek bed that wound straight up to the Crazies like a holy road. There was an old wagon track that made parallel grooves in rock. In a hairpin turn he found a moldering pile of empty .45-.70 cartridges, an old firefight in a quiet hollow. Because of his hearty lunch Lucien was suffering what the nutritionists call the alkali tide, and in his lassitude he dreamed of water galloping down the rocky walls of the dry bed and taking him to the ocean, where no decisions would be required and where he could have his little boy back.
Lucien and the lawyer hovered around the glow of the lamp, a medieval gimmick in a lonesome theme restaurant, and a terrific minor anomaly for a Montana cow town. The lawyer, Wick Tompkins, was a heavy man who, you could see, had risen from another station in life. In trying to express the solitude of his existence, he asked Lucien if there was anything sadder than returning home to an empty answering machine. He had a quick-moving face that tapered cleanly from temples to chin; but his hands were those of an honest laborer and fell upon the table with an earnest thud to underscore each phrase. Lucien rather liked him, but Tompkins was determined to maintain an adversary air. It was he who had designed the ranch-forfeit document for Emily.
“She’s going to go to the penitentiary,” he said. Thud. “To make a long story short.” This time the hands fell from a greater height.
“And you’re her lawyer,” said Lucien, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m her lawyer.” The hands lay conspicuously still.
“Oh boy.”
“Hey, look at it this way: she killed him deader than a mackerel. But this is the land of Japanese horseshoes, Taiwanese cowboy shirts and Korean bits. Who knows what a jury will say?”
“There must have been a reason she killed him.”
“There was a good reason. He beat her. But he hadn’t done it in a long time. Therefore it was premeditated murder.
She
describes it as premeditated murder. A jury with a room-temperature IQ will see it as
premeditated murder
. It’s perfectly inescapable. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m going to explain how he slammed her hands in the car door to keep her from playing the piano. And about the time that sinks in, here comes Mr. Prosecutor with a photograph of the mortal remains featuring a face that’s all powder burns except where the bullet actually goes in, which is a hole.”
“Well, then,” Lucien asked, “what good are you?”
“I am
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