Five
"Calm down, Joe." Angus Minton was angled back in his
red leather recliner. He loved this chair. His wife, Sarah Jo,
loathed it.
When he spotted Junior standing in the doorway of his
den, he waved him inside. Covering the mouthpiece of the
cordless phone he whispered to his son, "Joe Wallace is in
a tizzy."
"Now, Joe, you're jumping to conclusions and getting
upset over nothing," he said into the mouthpiece. "She's
just doing what she thinks is her job. After all, her mama
was murdered. Now that she's got a law degree and a highfalutin
job as a prosecutor, she's on a crusade. You know
how these young career women are."
He listened for a moment. No longer cajoling, he repeated,
"Goddammit, Joe, calm down, you hear? Just keep your
mouth shut, and all this will blow over. Leave Celina's daughter
to me, to us," he said, winking at Junior.
"In a few weeks she'll go back to Austin with her tail
tucked between her pretty, long legs and tell her boss she
struck out. We'll get our racing license, the track will be
(unit on schedule, you'll retire with a perfect record, and this
time next year we'll be sitting over drinks, laughing about
this."
After saying good-bye, he tossed the portable phone onto
the end table. "Jesus, he's a pessimist. To hear him tell it,
Celina's daughter put his scrawny neck through a noose and
pulled it tight. Fetch me a beer, will ya?"
"Pasty's in the hall waiting to see you."
That piece of news did nothing to improve Angus's sour
mood. "Shit. I guess now's as good a time as any. Go get
him."
"Don't be too hard on him. He's shivering in his boots."
"For what he did, he ought to be," Angus grumbled.
Junior returned a few seconds later. Pasty Hickam shuffled
along behind him, head bowed in contrition, battered cowboy
hat in hand. He had come by his nickname by imbibing a
whole bottle of Elmer's glue on a dare. His real name had
been long forgotten. The deed must have occurred at some
point in elementary school, because Pasty had forsaken education
before reaching the ninth grade.
He'd ridden the rodeo circuit for several years, but never
successfully. What purses he won were small, and quickly
expended on drink, gambling, and women. His job at the
Minton ranch had been his first venture into gainful employment,
and it had endured for almost thirty years, a surprise
to everybody. Angus tolerated Pasty's occasional binges. This
time, however, he'd gone too far.
Angus let him stand and sweat for several interminable
moments before he barked, "Well?"
"Ang . . . Angus," the old ranch hand stuttered, "I know
what you're gonna say. I ... fucked up sumthin' royal, but
I swear to God I didn't mean to. You know how it's said
that all cats look gray in the dark? Well, damned if it ain't
true of horses, too. 'Specially if you've got a pint of Four
Roses sloshing around in yore gut." He smiled, revealing
that what few teeth he had remaining were black with decay.
Angus wasn't amused. "You're wrong, Pasty. That isn't
what I was going to say. What I was going to say is that
you're fired."
Junior shot up out of the leather love seat. "Dad!" Angus
shot him a hard look that quelled any further interference.
Pasty's face turned pale. "You cain't mean that, Angus.
I've been here nigh on thirty years."
"You'll get fair severance pay--a damned sight more than
you deserve."
"But . . . but--"
"You put a colt into a paddock with ten high-strung fillies.
What if he'd mounted one of them? That one from Argentina
was in there. Any idea what that horse is worth, Pasty--over
half a million. If she'd been injured or come in foal by that
randy colt. . ." Angus blew out a gust of air. "Jesus, I can't
even bear to think about the mess that would've put us in.
If one of the other hands hadn't caught your mistake, I could
have been out millions, and the reputation of this ranch would
have been shot to hell."
Pasty swallowed with difficulty. "Give me one more
chance, Angus. I swear--"
"I've heard this speech before. Clear your stuff out of the
bunkhouse and drop by the office at the end of the week. I'll
have the bookkeeper draft you a check."
"Angus--"
"Good-bye and good luck, Pasty."
The old cowboy glanced plaintively at Junior, but knew
before looking that there would be no help coming from that
quarter. Junior kept his eyes lowered. Eventually Pasty left
the room, tracking mud with each step.
When they heard the front door close, Junior got up and
headed for the refrigerator built into the paneling. "I didn't
know you were going to fire him," he said resentfully.
"No reason you should."
He carried a beer to his father and twisted off the cap of
another for himself. "Was it necessary? Couldn't you have
yelled at him some, taken away some of his responsibilities,