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Show aia ZEPHYR/FEBRUARY-MARCH 2008 what he called winter grocery money. I knew he'd snap the watch shut and put it away an excerpt from without a word, unless he was asked. Lester and I more or less took turns at that. I asked. ‘LESTER & ME By Martin Murie One bit of luck came my way that summer, a pair of well-made hay hooks with sharp tips and long gentle taper, just right for slipping into tight-crimped alfalfa bales. It’s little things like that can make a difference around two o’clock in the afternoon when bales put on weight and the sun stands still. This particular Tuesday, the day the truck got away, was one of those times, only more so, the sun coming up like fury and right off the bat Lester making a wrong move. We had the truck about half loaded when Lester lifted down one of the canvas water bags and took in a big swallow, spit it out, yelled, “Pisswater.” He shook the bag in front of Enos. “Damn,” Enos said, “slipped my mind.” He was supposed to have filled the bags with fresh water when he gassed up the truck down at ranch headquarters. “Not much mind left to slip, you ask me,” Lester said. “Didn?t ask,” Enos said. He put his hooks into a bale, pulled it tight to his belly, walked it to the flatbed. “World’s not perfect,” he said. “You might learn that.” He went for another bale and Lester looked at me. I grinned back at him. He tipped the water bag. Stale, warm water left over from Monday poured out. Enos said, “Nine twenty five”. He got in the cab. I climbed on top the load. Lester started climbing, but the truck started up and Lester stepped back to the ground and staggered, caught his balance, but then I saw him decide to go all the way down. He did, and yelled, “Fey old man what the hell you think you're doing?” He kept on yelling and cussing. Enos stopped the truck, stepped out, looking worried. “Lester, you all right?” Lester made a big show of getting up and hobbling, grabbing at his knee, and he threw in some more cussing. I think Enos saw through all that. I know I did. It was Lester messing about with work time again, putting his stamp on the day. Oh sure, there was some bad feeling mixed in. I had some of that too. One of the things that really bugged me about old Enos was the way he got through each day without the work ever beating him down to the limit. He’d sweat away under his black Stetson, and I’m sure his spit was as sticky as mine and he'd have to stop and pick itchy foxtail seed out of his shirt and take off the hat once in a while and mop his face, but the old guy always ended up at quittin’ time looking about the same as in the morning. That could be aggravating for a couple of guys just out of high school. Well, the fun was over. Enos right away got over his scare that Lester had been hurt. Once in a while he’d give out a bit of commentary, Enos said, “Better go to the creek.” It’s little things like that can make a difference around two o'clock in the afternoon when bales put on weight and the sun stands still. nothing like real stories, just ordinary stuff about the way things were, downhill since “By god, I will,” Lester said. He took off. Enos nodded at the other bag, the one that hung on the right-hand rearview mirror bracket. I grabbed it and caught up with Lester and we had us a little stroll to Badger creek. At the plank bridge I cut down through high timothy and red clover and flopped on the bank and took in some of that crystal clear water, right off the top. My drinking made bottom grains of sand and fool’s gold move in little swirls. I saw a caddis fly larva pull its stone case across a dark rock. I leaned out and put my head under water and opened my eyes and saw minnows flickering, keeping the war. I never asked which war. their heads upstream in fast current. I sat back and let water run down my face. Lester hadn’t drunk yet. He’d taken the tin cup that hung on a willow branch next to the bridge and set his bag on some water cress. He kneeled down and made two sweeps with the cup, one upstream, one downstream, using the heel of the cup to clear the sur- face. There was no need of that, Badger creek being as clean as a high mountain spring. Lester dipped the cup, brought it up full. He was making a little sound, like a sleepy cat. He took another cupful and poured it on his head and sat there perfectly still, his eyes partly shut. Then he uncapped the bag and filled the cup and spilled a silvery arc of water into the bag. It gurgled, deep inside the canvas. We filled both bags that way, cup by cup. Myself, I would have dunked the bags to fill them quick and then sat there for a minute, no more than that, all the time wondering if I could steal another minute from the day. That wasn’t Lester’s way. He was taking time from the day, but not exactly stealing it. He’d done that before, more than once, like when he came up with a new way of stacking bales on the truck bed. After some messing around, which was restful, we ended up with four extra bales in the load. Enos thought that was good, but not worth the trouble. We went back to the regular way. We hauled the bags to the truck. Grasshoppers were rasping away in stubble and uncut hay under the buck fences. They never let up. I wondered how they could stand it, all summer long, their whole life out there in dry heat with only a thunderstorm once in a while to bring them a bit of wetness. Enos had the load topped off. I handed him a water bag and he took a long swig. He pulled out his watch, a silver-backed turnip with a lid over the face. He flicked the lid open. His fingers were like old roots. Enos must have been somewhere in his sixties, at least. He was a hard-scrabble rancher with a few acres, a few Herefords and a BLM grazing lease. He’d finished his own haying and had hired out to Harker for a little extra, “To all you GRAND JCT, COLORADO 970.257.1557 ; 4 flicked the lid. Lester called out, “Well, old man, what's it say?” "The world is grown so bad, that wrens male Gre i h P ie where eagies Monty & Jerry perch”. - a visit with (across from the new Wal-Mart) made sure both of us were back on top the load, started the truck and we went on as be- poor devils in the desert with only the state owned stores to slake your thirst..... @ : ee 2646 RIMROCK AVE SUITE 100 The way he got back in the cab showed he’d had about enough of Lester’s guff. He waited, fore, the day already smouldery hot. Somehow noon always came around just when we'd finished stacking a load in the hay shed. Enos with his turnip managed that. We'd get out our lunch pails and pick bales for seats. Enos would pour coffee out of his thermos and settle back to stare at the mountains. Once in a while he'd give out a bit of commentary, nothing like real stories, just ordinary stuff about the way things were, downhill since the war. I never asked which war. I can’t recall Lester or me ever asking him much of anything, such as where he’d come from or where his family had scattered to or how many cows he ran on his place and how they'd wintered. Nothing personal like that. We'd ask the time of day, that was about it. At one o'clock sharp we were back in the fields to take the first tough bite out of the afternoon. We made three or four round trips, cleaned up Harker’s next-to-biggest hayfield. Vern and Preacher and Maury were working the fields north of the butte. Enos drove us into a long, narrow field next to the swamp, a place where Badger creek slows and spreads. Swamp hay there, grass with some sedges. Usually we traded off on the driving, keeping the old International in lowest gear. Quite often whoever was at the wheel would step out of the cab to bring in a bale or two and the truck would trundle along by itself at about the right speed and well behaved, its shadow crinkling across the stubble. The mountains beyond the butte were all shimmery in heat haze. Enos pulled out his watch, Wine & i dare not Crossroads Spirits t ea teed blues away!” I ICH toon Wt ; |