Stallion Gate by Martin Cruz Smith Page A

were vented or exploded, spewed and sown into the soil and water. Which was why the personnel on the Hill underwent nose wipes, ass wipes and radioactive urine checks, but for the ignorant animals that wandered the sites, Army policy was “Kill it, burn it, bury it,” and the perfect instrument was Joe.
    A hide turned white? That was new. The other thing was that the steer was a cow, and through the greedy roar of the fire he could see that it was pregnant. Now he remembered why he was so upset with Augustino when they’d gone hunting. He hadn’t thought of it since then. Not shooting an animal that was carrying was an Indian stricture, a primitive taboo. Not against killing life, but against killing the
seed
of life. He started for the cow as if he could pull it out of the flames, then realized how stupid it was and staggered back. Jesus, what a butcher. The way the cow had turned its large marble eyes up to him. The sideways fountain of blood. As the pyre burned and crackled, he thought of the second heart within the cow.
    One moment, he was so close to the fire that his shirt was steaming; the next, he was in the tangled dark of the willows forcing his way to the road where he’d left the jeep rather than pass by the corrals and have anyone see him. As he stumbled out of the woods, headlights ambushed him.
    The lights swerved. A Buick fishtailed to a stop, its rear end in the mud of the shoulder of the road. Ray Stingo and then Oppy came running back to Joe, shouting at the same time: “You okay?” “What happened?”
    “Doing a little native liaison for you,” Joe told Oppy.
    “The blood—”
    “Why was the cow white?” Joe demanded.
    “White—”
    “The cow I killed because it was hot.”
    “Hair can react to low levels of radiation. So it’s cow blood.” Oppy stared at Joe. “You should see yourself.”
    “What are you doing here?” Joe asked Ray.
    “We went to the train station at Lamy. Early train from Chicago.”
    Oppy said, “I told Sergeant Stingo to swing by here on the way back so I could ask you to drive Dr. Pillsbury around the high-explosive sites today. And remember, you’re guarding a party tonight.”
    “Okay, but I want a weekend pass.”
    “Joe, we’re one month from the test.”
    “I need a pass.”
    “Why?”
    Joe spoke slowly, one word at a time. “To get the blood off. I don’t like killing cows.”
    “I’ll do what I can.” Oppy looked at the car. “You think you can help us get the car back on the road?”
    As the three men walked to the Buick, Joe saw that a rear window was rolled down. Of course—Ray and Oppy had gone to the train to meet a passenger. With the final rush to the test, all sorts of people were coming from Oak Ridge, New York, Chicago. In the dimness, he recognized her by her cool gray-eyed gaze. Fuchs’ partner from the Christmas dance. Joe hadn’t seen her since.
    “He’s all right, Anna,” Oppy said. “It’s not his blood.”
    “Whose is it?” she asked.
    Joe stopped by the fender. The rear right wheel had made its own well in the mud.
    “Get her out so I can move the car over.”
    “Dr. Weiss?” Ray opened the door for her.
    As she looked at Joe’s shirt she could have been scrutinizing the gore on a beast that walked on all fours. Joe noticed the white azalea in her blacker-than-black hair; it was Oppy’s favorite flower. He could just see him offering it to her as she stepped from the train.
    “A real giant would be able to lift me, too.”
    “Anna,” Oppy said, “be reasonable.”
    “Okay,” Joe said. “Stay.”
    “Joe, if the three of us—” Ray tried to say.
    Lift me? Joe gripped the chrome handle of the bumper, rocked the car and tested the suction of the ooze on the tire. He could lift an elephant and kick its ass down the road. Through the rear window her eyes glittered. On the third push the tire ripped free of the mud; inthe same motion, he walked the rear end of the Buick onto the road. When he let the car