In Plain Sight

“I haven’t sided with anyone,” Joe said. “Neither has Marybeth.” He still couldn’t believe that he’d threatened Monroe that way. “But if it was you, this is the end of it. Don’t come to my house again, or send any of your . . .” Joe thought about it for a second, then forged on. “. . . wranglers to my home. If you do, things are going to get real western, Hank.”

Hank started to answer, then didn’t. He looked away, then turned to Monroe and said, “Settle down.”

Monroe seemed as if he were about to explode. He clenched his fists and glared at Joe as if trying to figure out whether to strike with his left hand or his right. If he did either, Joe thought, there would be trouble, and he’d likely come out on the worst end of it.

Hank said, “You’ve had a few beers, I can tell. And I can see you’ve been listening to Robey Hersig over there, hearing how Arlen should get the ranch and I shouldn’t. So I’ll let this go for now, and pretend you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Which you don’t. But let me tell you something, Game Warden.”

Hank paused, letting the clock tick. Eventually, Monroe turned his head to hear what he had to say. Joe was rapt.

“The Thunderhead will be mine,” Hank said. “Nothing you, or your lovely wife, or anybody can do about that. So get used to it.”

Then Hank leaned forward on his stool, looking up at Joe under scarred eyebrows, and said, “My family was here a hundred years before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye. We own this place. We stuck. The rest of you come and go, like lint. Goddamned lint. So don’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong. This ain’t your fight.”

He swiveled on his stool, turned his back to Joe, and sipped at his glass of bourbon.

Joe felt Robey tugging at his sleeve, saying, “Let’s sit down.”

But Joe found himself staring at the back of Hank’s sweat-stained Stetson, and thought of his daughter looking at the animal pinned to his front door. He said, “It better not have been you, Hank. And by the way, we got a call on you. I’ll be out to see you soon.”

For the first time, Joe saw a slight flicker of fear in Hank’s face in the mirror.

THEY FINISHED THEIR beers, and Robey spent most of the time telling Joe not to react, not to get mad, but to cool down and let the process work. Joe only sort of listened. He was furious that Hank had gotten the best of him, and even angrier that he’d opened himself up to it. He knew better than to create a confrontation when he was unprepared. But something in Hank’s eyes and demeanor had told Joe that he knew more than he let on. So if for no other reason than knowing that, it had been worth it.

The night went on. Robey was drunk, and repeating himself about the curse of the third generation. Joe called Marybeth on his cell phone, woke her up, and said he’d be home soon. She was groggy, and not happy with him.

Hank left the Stockman without looking back, although Monroe paused at the door and filled it, glaring at Joe, letting cold air in, which normally would have resulted in shouts from the patrons. But because Monroe was with Hank Scarlett, no one said a word.

JOE LEFT WITH Robey, and they both marveled at the night itself, how two grown men with families had drunk the night away, how unusual it was for them. They blamed the Scarletts for creating a situation where they felt it necessary—even justified—to do so. Robey started in on a soliloquy about drinking in general, and how intrinsic it was to living in the mountain west, how important it was to understanding the culture and isolation, but Joe said good night and sent him home, wishing there were a cab he could call for his friend, but taxis didn’t exist in Saddlestring.