the black market to the illegals and migrants living in the boxcars down at the freight yards.
Crowfoot squints at the storm clouds massed before them. Looks like we're about to be in the shit, Señor Fly.
Jesus Christ. I don't need another day off, says Mosca. I need some work is what I need. By hook or crook.
George is thinking he needs a better pair of boots. And a better job. He used to think this grunt work was a step up from hauling trash since part of the job was shooting things. Years ago maybe George would have enjoyed the pure sport of it— the aiming, the hitting of the target— but now when he's called out to exterminate another murder of crows sighted near town, he feels the spider- on- your- neck creep of guilt. And today's detail is just pathetic, sent to the west side of town to track and kill a flock of cowbirds massing on feedlot scraps. A job like this would make Crazy Horse turn over in his grave.
Interested in a little extra cash? asks Mosca. I got something going on the side. Bet I could get you on, easy.
You're full of bets today, aren't you?
Mosca grins. I'm a betting fool, that's for sure. I tell you about this, you promise not to breathe a word? It's somewhat wide of the law, if you catch my drift.
Do I look like a snitch?
Mosca explains that he's part of a crew of cattle providers. With the price of beef higher than ever, a man can make good money liberating a few head of cattle at night, taking them to a slaughterhouse out of state. Black- market beef.
You have to know your way around a steer, says Mosca. I'm guessing you probably do. Plus it helps to have some muscle. It's all quick and fast and these dudes I work with, they don't fuck around.
You're cattle rustling?
You could call it that. I like to think of it as a Robin Hood kind of deal. Taking from the rich and selling to the poor.
That's supposed to be giving to the poor.
We can't be that old- fashioned, can we?
I don't like the sound of it.
I didn't either at first. But once you get used to money, it makes you feel like the king of Denver.
They near the western edge of town. The wind picks up and grit blasts the windshield. Crowfoot flips on the wipers. The rubber blades squeak and shudder on the cold glass, clearing two arches. Mosca says they're screwed. No way in hell they're going to do any bird killing in this duster. They watch as the dust storm rears up in front of them. It comes on like a cloud of bricks.
Crowfoot and Mosca sit in the cab and wait it out. The sand sifts across the windshield in a hypnotizing swift drizzle. It's as if time is moving faster than it should. Mosca says sometimes it seems that the end is near and this is nothing but hourglass sand running out.
They watch as the dust storm swallows a billboard advertising topless dancers in the Wiggle Room.
After a half hour the storm slackens. The wind dies and the dust sifts down on the back side of the wind gusts. Traffic begins to crawl. Mosca and Crowfoot drive on, straining to see the taillights of the vehicles ahead.
Crowfoot asks for more dope about this cattle- rustling gig.
. . .
R u b y h u r r i e s a c r o s s the prairie, the roiling bulge of the dust storm looming like the debris cloud of a demolished building. She coughs and squints, the grit in her eyes and mouth. A gulch opens before her. She stumbles at the edge and into the shadows she falls.
She trips and slides down the steep ravine walls. Cactus rakes her face, neck, and arms. She hits the bottom of the gulch hard, landing in a jumble of stones and grass. When she comes to a stop, she winces and rocks in pain. Her left arm burns and aches. She clutches it to her side. She feels for wounds, finds a swelling on her head. Her hand is wet. She holds it before her eyes. She can see nothing but a finger and palm shadow in the brick- red haze.
The dust storm swirls above the gulch like a bloody tornado. She huddles in the hollow of a boulder, finds a windbreak behind it. She curls on the grassy floor of the dry- wash streambed, feeling the stab of cactus spines embedded in her cheeks and arm. She can feel the sand trickling into the gap of her collar and down her back. After a time she rubs crusty tears from her eyes and can see again. She pulls off the gauze mask and sits up, coughing and wheezing. All about her dust covers the grass and stones. She struggles to her feet, cradling her arm close to her side. Her elbow is swollen and shot with hot pain.
Not far away a coyote stands motionless. She stares numb and confused in its direction for several moments before she notices it, still as the landscape, the gray of its fur contrasting with the dust- covered boulders and stones.
She stares at it and takes a step forward. The coyote drops its head and backs away, keeping its eyes on her, until after a few feet it turns away and trots down the middle of the gulch floor.
She follows the coyote's prints in the dust. The gulch is a dozen feet deep, with sides of steep, corrugated dirt. At its lip are hard- packed overhangs, pocked with the mud cones of Cliff Swallow nests.
She comes upon two illegals in white cowboy hats, carrying bolsas, their faces covered by bandannas. Only their eyes and black hair are visible in the wedge of skin above their noses and below their foreheads.
Ruby pulls her gauze mask over her nose to hide her face. She stands coughing as they near. Her heart beats so hard she feels faint.
The illegals look like sand people. One of them has a bandage on his hand, brown blotches on the gauze, the stain of blood seep. They nod at her and pause.
She nods back and takes to coughing again.
One of the illegals removes his hat and holds it in both hands. Está enferma? he asks.
Sí. Mi boca está lleno de arena.
Lo siento. Puedo ayudar?
No, gracias. Estoy bien.
The man nods. Bueno. He looks behind him, in the direction she's headed. The one who has not spoken, who has the bandage soaked with blood and coated with dust on his hand, removes his hat and slaps it against his leg, brushing free a plume. A rifle hangs from his shoulder.
Ruby moves away. Vaya con dios, she says.
Dondé está su casa? asks the one with the rifle.
She keeps walking. She listens for their movements. She tenses to run even as she yet steps carefully through the sand and cactus. Her heart in her throat, she struggles to suppress her cough and to breathe, to be able to hear any sound of movement behind her.
Ruby moves toward town slowly. She feels snowflakes in her eyelashes like the smallest of blessings. A glorious hush falls upon the world. With the dust storm behind her and the snow squall upon her, she has no sense of east or west, past or present.
She thinks of the warmth and comfort she could find if she reaches the vet's office where her mother works, if she reaches someone to take her fever, to hold her up. To keep her from falling. To keep her safe. To return her to her baby girl, to squire them both away from Lord God and all his righteous rants and ravings.
She's faint and weak and begins to doubt her eyes. The falling snow looks red, soft crystals floating down like bloodstained feathers. She knows she's close to town but suddenly a quartet of horses appears galloping, snorting and shaking their heads.
One is a palomino, a pale golden blur in the blizzard of red snowflakes. The others are chestnut and roan, shaggy manes and arched tails. Their eyes are bright and wild as they gallop past. One of the roans, a stallion, slows and whinnies, tossing his head up and down.
Ruby remains still, frightened by the power and excitement of the horses. They canter around her for a moment, this quiet girl eerily