Loose Cannon

Paz had to call Margarita again about the kids, but she also wanted to talk to her husband. He was in what he called his prowling phase, late summer days spent alone, quartering the ranch looking for trouble: strays, bad fence, late calves, windmill trouble, anything better seen to in warmth and sun rather than rain and snow. His pickup and horse trailer were still out, but he often returned for a while in the middle of the day to change horses and get out of the worst of the heat. The only reason they broke even with the cattle was good hay range and his Army retirement—her paycheck from the clinic bounced more often than not—but they did okay. This land was his life, born and bred and come home to now after another life elsewhere. Generally he stuck to it, making surprisingly few demands on her beyond sex and food. Sometimes, she thought he found her work at the clinic, her energy, her activism, entertaining, like another man might find television or computer games. But there was always the wry smile, as if his experience had been in another dimension, somehow more real than hers. Paz pulled her car into the row of farm equipment and vehicles that delineated hard-packed earth driveway from hard-packed earth yard. Well, this ought to get his attention. She might even be able to con him into making the drive to Denver for her. Relieved at the thought, she smiled at her guest: “This is it. Not fancy. But clean and dry.” She got out and headed across the yard to the house. Matt’s cow dog didn’t come out to greet her. The puppies must have come. She’d have to check the barn, but she had to see to her guest first. The old adobe was the front part of the house. A little porch faced east, sheltering the door and providing scaffolding for a climbing rose. The porch was deeply shadowed at this time of day and even the shadow was scrambled by the tangle of the rose bush. Paz was halfway across the yard before she saw the figure standing there. “Matt?” Even when she saw the rifle, she wasn’t concerned. Her husband routinely carried a rifle on his rounds, and there were other guns in the house. But somehow, she couldn’t take her eyes off the barrel as it swung across the man’s body toward her like a tunnel with an oncoming train. She said, “What kind of stupid—?” The report of the rifle was huge, like a blow. A fraction of a second passed before she understood that the blow was real, to herself, a choking jolt that threw her backwards. The other reports came more dimly, with a confused sensation that must be pain and more jolts from the front and another from behind as she hit the ground. The last thing she saw was the blue of the afternoon sky. The last thing she knew was the sound of the gun, again and again and again.