Wounded by Percival Everett Read Free Book Online Page B

water, filling troughs with good water. When I came back to the mule’s paddock, he was still in the same pathetic position. I dropped a couple flakes in the mule’s feeder and left for the house.
    The mule was planted in that spot until near noon, when, while no one was looking, he must have squirmed his way out. He’d walked to the house and stood there staring at the back door.
    I’d been watching what piece of him I could see from the kitchen window off and on. “Gus, you’re not going to believe this,” I said.
    Gus looked out the window. “I wouldn’t ride that thing if you paid me in American dollars. He’s spooky.”
    I went outside, walked to the animal, stood briefly in front of him, then walked on past him to the barn. The mule heeled like a dog.

FOUR
    DUNCAN CAMP’S giant horse was slowly coming around. He tried to walk over me a couple times on the lead rope, but a well-placed pointy stick had put an end to that nonsense. I’d tied the horse’s head high at the kickboard and irritated him with bags of cans, rustling plastic and even a gas-powered weed cutter. He showed wide-eyed panic at the introduction of anything new, but then began to settle down. He couldn’t get away and he wasn’t being eaten by anything. That morning, after fifteen minutes of stretching out my own muscles, trying to work out the tension of anticipation and ward off injury, I saddled Felony and climbed onto his back in the round pen. I could feel he was wired, but he rode like a dream, cantering clockwise and anti-clockwise equally well, pulling for quick, if not sliding, stops, backs. He even did a side pass on a moderately gentle cue. So, I opened the gate, took a deep breath, and rode out into the yard, then into the big field. The big horse felt good, a little too tense to be smooth, but he responded quickly. Before an elk could pop out from behind a bush or a helicopter appear out of nowhere, I took Felony back to the barn and let the short ride remain a good one. I brushed him out for a long time, talking to him, and he pushed at me with his nose. I could feel him relaxing. I didn’t give him a treat, only scratched his belly. I don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world than having a big, scared animal relax around you. I untied him and walked him back to his stall.
    As I walked out of the barn, I tossed a look at the mule. He was munching happily in his new indoor quarters.
    That afternoon, after a few long hours in the pasture getting the rest of my hay, I saddled Felony for a longer ride. I left Zoe in the house with Gus. I didn’t need her giving him a start by darting off after a rabbit or chipmunk. I rode west out onto the BLM land adjacent to my place, just east of the Red Desert. It was dramatic land, dry, remote, wild. It was why I loved the West. I had no affection necessarily for the history of the people and certainly none for the mythic West, the West that never existed. It was the land for me. And maybe what the land did to some who lived on it.
    I rode along in the shadow of a butte, protecting myself from the intense afternoon sun. Ahead I saw something odd. On the red soil, the black was out of place, so I approached slowly for a closer look. Right over it, I still wasn’t sure what I was seeing. But as I dismounted it came together for me. The ears and the shape of the face were easy to see once seen. The coyote had been burnt. I touched the charred remains and put my fingers to my nose. I thought I could smell gasoline. Whether I smelled it or not, I knew what had happened. Someone had poured fuel down into the animal’s den and tossed in a match. It was something sheepherders did occasionally; they hated coyotes.
    I looked around and found tire tracks about twenty yards away. They were the tracks of a dually pickup; that much was clear. The impression of the rear tires was nearly as deep as the front, so the bed must have been loaded. A heavy load, I guessed. I followed the tracks