Later he wakes in a daze, a spot of drool on his crossed arms. He rubs his eyes and sees that the storm has passed. Weak and brain- befogged, he does a U- turn in the empty road and heads back toward town, crosses the Arkansas River and the railroad depots. A neon sign the shape of a buffalo, upon which rides a cowgirl holding the loop of a lariat. The Buffalo Head.
He pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine. The car ticks like the sound of his brain defusing. He stares at a horse tied to a stanchion near the office. A faint snow begins to fall. Ward rubs his eyes and blinks. A horse? He wonders if the fever is affecting his vision. The snow looks pink.
In the motel office Ward stands at the check- in counter, blowing his nose. His head is clogged, each beat of his pulse causing a throb of ache in his temples. To his left is a platter of glazed doughnuts, a coffee machine with an urn full of black liquid. He takes a seat on the ugly brown sofa near a wall- mounted, taxidermied buffalo head. The lobby paintings are all cowboys herding steers across a river or coyotes against a full moon. The lamp- shade stand is made of deer antlers. Ward sits and stares at the painting of cowboys and steers as if stunned by a slaughterhouse air gun. His face is pale and he can smell himself, feel the waxy sweat upon his fevered forehead.
After some time he awakens in the chair, his bladder full and hot with pain.
Are you okay?
It's the clerk. She's behind the check- in counter now, leaning forward to see him. A bleached blond chewing gum. Hey, mister. You okay? she asks again.
He finds himself staring at the garish electric sign of the motel. A cowgirl with loopy neon lariat, riding a stylized buffalo. The yellow- and- blue light streaks like glowing tattoos upon the deep blue skin of dusk. No, he says. Not really.
H i r a m p a g e opens his pawnshop with a premonition of something wonderful about to drop into his lap. Not one month ago he saw a red- haired preacher's daughter sitting in a pew of the Lamb of the Forsaken temple and knew she would become his third wife. He has a way with these things and it isn't to be argued with.
Hiram is forty- eight but looks older, discount- store distinguished. He's a tall, broad- shouldered man with a wide, shrewd face, a high forehead and white hair. Handsome enough to use his looks for his own gain. Although raised in a Mormon family, he enjoys a drink now and then, but who doesn't? The chastised pride themselves on overcoming vices, but it takes a man to manage them for his own enjoyment.
The secret to success is constancy of purpose, he often says, a quote from no less than Benjamin Disraeli, a British prime minister from the nineteenth century. The man was an accomplished as a British statesman despite being a Jew. Hiram attends an FLDS church every Sunday and professes to believe in the mirage of the one true prophet. A foolish idea if there ever was one.
His pawnshop lurks on Northern Avenue, at the edge of Mexican town, a good place for poor folk desperate to sell something for much less than it's worth. The shop itself is an ex– convenience store, its wide glass windows girded by burglar bars. In place of the Slushy machine stands a firearms display.
This morning the sunlight slants through the steel bars covering the windows as into a prison cell. In the distance a train howls. Hiram starts the day with a nip of bourbon and its mist still warms his throat when a man- child in plaid western shirt and faded jeans stumbles in, struggling against the wind, face masked by a bandanna. Standing just inside the shop like a shy bank robber, he pulls down the bandanna and puts an asthma inhaler to his mouth. After a moment of wheezing he removes his cap and shakes it clean.
Hiram watches the dust settle onto his recently swept tile floor. I appreciate that, friend, he says. I was just telling myself how my clean floor needed some dirt.
Hiram has a Gregory Peck voice, rich and deep. A voice you hear on wildlife documentaries.
You the owner?
Hiram raises his chin. I might be. Long as you're not about to point a six- shooter at me and proclaim this a stickup.
I'm not sticking up anyone.
The newcomer puts his Colorado Rockies baseball cap back in place and tries to stand up straight, but it's as if his body is slightly crooked. He opens his mouth to speak and pauses. The fluorescent lights fill the white cap with a glow, giving him the aura of a farm- team Jesus, eyelashes long and girlish.
Hiram pushes a bottle of hand sanitizer toward the rockabilly. Do the honors, would you?
The man takes the sanitizer in a submissive way, rubbing his hands and then reaching out for a Kleenex to dry them.
What I hear is that you and me are family.
Hiram purses his lips. How so?
My name's Jack Brown and I'm your wife's second cousin. Honey Davis. Davis is her stepfather's name. Her real father was a Hostetter, and my mother is Dorothy Hostetter, his cousin. So Honey's my second cousin. Or third, I don't know. You just ask her. She'll tell you.
I'm sure she'd sing like a bird, says Hiram. But for the moment, let's say you're telling the Lord's truth. What can I do you for?
You've got a reputation, you know that? People always talking about what a shrewd customer that Mr. Hiram Page is. I even hear you got two wives.
Hiram blinks and again purses his lips almost imperceptibly. Both are sweet and pretty. And they smile when I walk up.
Jack Brown grins. You got me there.
Did you come in just to get acquainted? asks Page.
Brown steps forward, speaks in a hush. Thing is, he says, I need to borrow some money. I got to buy a pickup.
You do.
I know what you're thinking. Just 'cause he's my wife's second
cousin he thinks he can saunter in here like the king of England and get some money for nothing. But that's not it at all.
It's not the half of it, I'd wager.
How much you give me to borrow off a carat- and- a- half diamond wedding ring? You know, as collateral.
Carat plus? That's a big diamond.
You're telling me. I'd say it's worth twenty grand.
Hiram raises his eyebrows. These days you can buy a house in Little Pueblo for less.
I got no use for a house.
Hiram sighs. A pock- faced teenager scuffles in the door. He smells like weed and looks like trouble. His oil- black hair hangs in his eyes and between the bangs his gaze slides by Hiram and Brown like they're museum pieces and he's on a high school field trip.
Hiram paces down the counter, away from Jack Brown and toward the kid. What can I do you for? Let me guess. You're looking for something? A birth certificate?
The kid is chewing gum and pauses in midchew. He shakes his head. He wears sneakers with the laces untied and spiderweb tattoo sleeves decorate his arms.
Is the drum set in the window for sale?
You bet it is, says Hiram. And if you can play a drum solo, I'll drop the price 40 percent. Hiram looks at Jack Brown and winks.
The teenager smiles. I'll try.
You interested in that diamond ring or not? asks Brown.
Let me see what you have.
I don't have it here with me.
And you want to know what it's worth?
Ballpark figure, yeah. I mean, what I could borrow for it.
I can't estimate a value on a mythical ring, says Page. King Solomon had three hundred wives, but he still knew you have to bite gold.
I can get that ring. This afternoon, most likely.
The teenager gives the drums a steady roll and drowns out Jack Brown's voice.