Rhino Ranch, Page 3

  He was at the site of the transgressions at dawn, equipped with two fine bois d’arc posts that, if firmly and accurately set, would last forever, if not longer. It took Duane only a short while to winch the old posts out of the ground. For small jobs such as this one he preferred to work alone, to avoid the chatter that most fencing operations produced. He took his time, enjoying his own ability and cheered by the lack of interference. Only three pickups full of roustabouts had come by, and one lone cowboy, Boyd Cotton, who was on horseback and clearly looking for something.

  “I hope there’s not a rhino on the loose,” Duane said. “I’m busy and would prefer not to be attacked.”

  “Oh no, all our rhinos are accounted for,” Boyd said. “But we’re missing our nilgais—eight in number. I hope some damn trigger-happy roughneck didn’t amuse himself by shooting a harmless antelope.”

  “I’ve never sampled nilgai,” Duane said. “I hear they’re pretty tasty.”

  “They have a calming effect on the rhinos,” Boyd told him. “That’s why we have ’em, and nobody better not shoot one. You going to the speech?”

  “What speech?”

  “The boss lady’s,” Boyd said. “She’s gonna explain why we need to save the rhino. I was going, but then the nilgai turned up missing.”

  “I’ve never quite understood ecology,” Duane said. “A speech by K.K. Slater might soar right over my head.”

  “Mine too,” Boyd said. He rode off and was back in fifteen minutes, driving the eight missing antelope.

  “Some meth dealer cut our fence,” he said—“probably one from out of state. The locals know enough to do their cooking on the side of the road where the rhinos ain’t.”

  He left to drive the nilgai home, and Duane went on with his work. In an hour or a little more the corner posts were set the way they should have been set to begin with. He wondered if his old friend Jenny Marlow was attending the rich lady’s speech. Jenny was mildly virtuous when it came to the environment. She took her recycling all the way to Wichita Falls—no facilities for recycling were yet available in Thalia.

  For much of his life Thalia had mostly depressed Duane, but lately he had developed a kind of tolerance for it. Maybe it was just that as the funeral bell came closer to tolling for him he felt a tendency to linger in what had been, or maybe still was, home.

  12

  MOST OF THE antelope of various kinds that Boyd Cotton found himself responsible for had never set foot in Africa, or Asia, or anywhere else other than Texas. They had been purchased at the numerous exotic game auctions that were held frequently in the Hill Country west of Austin. Dik-diks, sable antelope, nilgai and kudus were purchased and brought to the Rhino Ranch to help convince the rhinos that they were still, in a sense, at home.

  The liaison man between K.K. Slater’s ranching empire to the south, and Boyd and Bobby Lee in Thalia, was a genial Australian named Myles Vane. Myles operated out of Kingsville, Texas, and usually showed up in Thalia whenever K.K. did, and in fact just had.

  Boyd Cotton drove the nilgai in the direction that would take them to their normal pasturage; then he rode back to the compound beside the North Gate, meaning to unsaddle his horse. As he dismounted he noticed a tall woman dressed in khaki, wearing a small Stetson that showed a certain amount of grime. He realized then that he was looking at his boss.

  And, as it happened, his boss was also looking at him.

  “That cowboy can sit a horse,” K.K. observed, as Boyd trotted over their way.

  “That’s Boyd Cotton,” Myles said. “He was the top hand in these parts, in his day.”

  K.K. Slater gave her foreman a caustic look which took him pretty much off guard, though he had long since recognized that it was best to stay on guard when around K.K. Slater.

  “From what I can see it’s still his day,” she said, before walking over to shake hands with Boyd.

  “Howdy,” Boyd said. If he was surprised it didn’t show.

  “If you’ve got the time I’d like you to show me my property,” K.K. said.

  “Happy to,” Boyd said.

  A young Latino groom walked over leading a sorrel thoroughbred named Haley, whether after the comet or the historian Boyd didn’t know. This time it was Boyd who offered the caustic look.

  “Something wrong, cowboy?” K.K. asked.

  “Thoroughbred horses make me edgy,” Boyd admitted. “You won’t find one in fifty you can trust—they’re bred too high.”

  K.K. gave a hearty laugh. “You’re not only a top hand, you’re a horse philosopher. And you’re right—they’re bred too high, and they’re scary. That’s why rich people ride them, if you follow me.”

  She mounted easily and they set off.

  “For rich people there’s no kick if it’s too safe, and that applies to marriages and oil deals and big game hunting and horses.”

  They let that subject rest and picked up the pace a little.

  “I’m mostly interested in seeing the water holes,” she said. “I suspect we’ll have to add a few, or else get some windmills.”

  As they were trotting along near the fence Boyd saw Duane go by in his little white pickup—he was headed in the direction of Thalia.

  K.K., who had never met Duane, didn’t notice, and immediately asked Boyd if he knew Duane Moore.

  “That was him in the white pickup that just went by,” Boyd said. “I know him just to wave to, mostly—we’re in different lines of work.”

  “He won’t sell me his house and he didn’t come to my speech,” she said; she sounded not so much angry as curious.

  “He was putting in two corner post holes this morning,” Boyd said. “Duane’s the sort that, if he plans something, he likes to carry it through.”

  “I have the same inclination,” K.K. said. “If you had to describe Mr. Moore in one word what would it be?”

  “Competent,” Boyd said. When he looked across at K.K. their eyes were on the same level—unusual in his case. K.K.’s eyes, inscrutable behind her sunglasses, were on a level with his. It didn’t necessarily mean anything but it was a surprise.

  13

  THE DOOR TO Jenny Marlow’s house had never been locked, or even latched—not in Duane’s experience, and he had been visiting the Marlows with some regularity for more than fifty years. Jenny’s one and only husband, and Duane’s banker and friend, Lester Marlow, had dropped dead at a flea market in Canton, Texas, about two years earlier.

  Lester Marlow was more or less crazy, and long had been, but he and Jenny had been part of Duane’s life for a long time—long enough that it seemed odd to arrive at the Marlow house and not see Lester wandering around the yard in his bathrobe, shooting at lined-up dominoes with his BB gun. Rarely did he manage to hit the lead domino, which would have caused the whole thing to topple, but he kept trying. In the last years of his life Lester was seldom without his BB gun, and, if he was without it, it was because he was about to head off to a swap meet like the one he died at.

  At least Lester kept trying, and so did his long-suffering wife, Jenny, too. Not only did she keep trying with Lester, but she tried with Bobby Lee too. When Bobby Lee’s mean Odessa wife shot him in the stomach it was Jenny Marlow who raced over and kept Bobby Lee alive until the none too snappy Thalia ambulance arrived.

  Why a woman as competent and appealing as Jenny Marlow put up with someone as incompetent as Lester was just one of the mysteries of life.

  When Duane knocked, Jenny came to the door wearing shorts, sandals and a faded T-shirt with “Party Till You Puke” stenciled on it.

  The T-shirt gave Duane a real shock, because it had once belonged to his wife, Karla, who had been killed in a head-on collision with a milk truck more than a decade ago.

  Jenny let him in and gave him a big hug. She noticed Duane’s reaction to the T-shirt, and grinned, showing impressive Duchess of Windsor molars.

  “Honey, how the hell did you get Karla’s T-shirt?” he asked—he wasn’t angry, just startled.

&
nbsp; “At that big garage sale your daughters held when you sold your house,” Jenny told him.

  “I wanted to have something to remember Karla by, and what better than a T-shirt with her motto on it?”

  Duane thought Jenny looked a little wan.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Not entirely,” Jenny admitted. “I somehow managed to pick up the Big C. I think I’m gonna beat it, but with the Big C you never know.”

  “The Big C where?”

  “Ovaries,” Jenny said. “But enough about me. What brings you here? You’ve started coming home more often than you used to.”

  “Well, my wife’s in Russia, or what used to be Russia, and I guess I’m just at loose ends,” he admitted.

  There was a silence, as the old friends contemplated one another. Then Jenny took Duane into the kitchen and poured him some iced tea.

  “That little bride of yours travels a lot,” Jenny observed. “But it’s good to have you, even if it’s aberrational behavior on your part. I guess by now you’ve heard about the Rhino Ranch.”

  “The rhinos are welcome, as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “Maybe a few big scary critters is just what this place needs.”

  “I meant to go to K.K. Slater’s speech but I had chemo yesterday and that’ll keep you from doing your civic duty,” Jenny said.

  Duane didn’t answer. He knew ovarian cancer was a serious matter and he thought how desolate Thalia would be without Jenny’s fighting spirit.

  “I’m real glad you took Bobby Lee fishing,” Jenny said. “Catching that prize bass was the high point of his life.

  “I suppose that’s a sad comment, but it was a fine fish,” Jenny said.

  “A fine fish for sure,” Duane echoed.

  14

  DUANE STEPPED INTO the Dairy Queen to get a cheeseburger and immediately spotted his two daughters, Julie and Nellie—they were having salads, though both of them knew perfectly well what grim materials went into salads in Thalia.

  Duane had not been surprised to see the girls, since Nellie’s Lexus was parked outside. Both daughters jumped up and hugged him. Nellie, as usual, sported a lot of eye makeup, while Julie contented herself with several jangly bracelets.

  “What brings you girls to this sunny abode?” he asked. Both at the time were living the life of rich divorcees in North Dallas.

  “We came to support K.K. Slater, of course,” Julie said. “We’re both on the board of Rhino Enterprises, you know—I’m sure K.K. would just be thrilled if you’d come on too. She said herself there’s no one she’d rather have.”

  “Me?” he said. “I can’t quite see myself as a boardroom type.”

  He liked seeing his daughters and didn’t want to pick a fight with them. Both seemed a little overdressed, but that had been the case for a long time. Neither of them looked very happy, board or no board.

  “It’s just that people around here respect you so, Daddy,” Julie said. “You’re probably the most respected man in this whole part of the country.”

  “Besides that, you know how people are, around here,” Nellie added. “They’re just real biased against outsiders. Unless you were born and raised here, they just don’t trust you. K.K.’s from somewhere else—they may think they like the notion of the Rhino Ranch but the minute you get down to brass tacks there’ll be a lot of opposition.”

  Duane couldn’t argue with that assessment. People from Thalia were severely biased against people not from Thalia. People setting up a business who weren’t really from the town were at a fatal disadvantage. Bobby Lee himself, if he needed a new wrench, would cheerfully drive the twenty miles to Wichita Falls and buy one from Target rather than patronize the new but perfectly adequate hardware store in Thalia. Of course in Wichita Falls he dealt with perfect strangers but at least they weren’t trying to invade his hometown proper.

  Duane himself hated the boring drive to Wichita Falls, a city that now nurtured no fewer than three Wal-Mart Supercenters; he bought as much locally as he could.

  “You’re right, honey,” he said to Nellie. “People here are just real biased against newcomers. But K.K. Slater is not just someone who wants to open a convenience store. She’s a billionairess, something the town has never had to deal with before—neither have I, for that matter.”

  “Please be on her board,” Julie asked. “If your name’s attached most people will be a little more cooperative.”

  “Maybe—I can’t recall being that popular,” he said. “Besides, I live in Arizona, which is a fair toot away. I do like the notion of saving the black rhinos, though.”

  “You always have to argue,” Julie said, in a tone that reminded him of her mother, Karla.

  “It’s just that I’m older,” Duane said gently. “I’m cautious about allowing people to expect too much of me. Besides, I don’t get home that often.”

  “No, but you’re home now and Willy is coming to see you,” Julie said. “He misses his grandpa.”

  “I’d love to see Willy, when’s he coming?” he asked. “Did he come with you girls?”

  There was a silence.

  “Actually, Willy prefers to hitchhike,” Nellie told him.

  Julie, whose son Willy was, seemed so embarrassed by this information that she couldn’t bring herself to provide it.

  “Willy’s hitchhiking from North Dallas?” Duane said, astonished.

  “He’s grown up now, what can I do?” Julie said. “Hitchhiking happens to be his preferred mode of transportation now.”

  “He’ll be welcome if he gets here,” Duane said, just as he spotted Boyd Cotton’s old pickup pull in and park. Boyd got out, and so did a woman Duane knew must be K.K. Slater. What brought her to his attention was that she was as tall as Boyd, and Boyd wasn’t short.

  “Hey, it’s K.K.—Daddy will get to meet her at least,” Nellie said.

  “Is that old Boyd Cotton she’s with? I thought he died,” Julie said.

  “No, don’t you remember—he works for Rhino Enterprises,” Nellie said. “Please be nice when you meet her, Daddy,” Julie pleaded.

  Duane wished he had chosen another place to eat, but, except for two convenience stores, there was no other place. And the offers at the two convenience stores were very limited.

  “Don’t you worry, honey,” he said. “I’ll be as nice as pie.”

  15

  DUANE STOOD UP to shake hands with K.K. Slater, a courtesy that pleased his daughters no end. Not every diner at the Dairy Queen bothered to stand up when a lady approached.

  Boyd Cotton, just as polite, took off his hat and helped K.K. into her seat.

  “Hello, girls,” K.K. said to Julie and Nellie. “And hello to you, Mr. Moore. I was afraid for a minute that you’d be set on eluding me.”

  “No, but I’m sorry I missed your speech,” he said.

  K.K. still wore her glasses.

  “Didn’t you marry into the Camerons?” she asked.

  “Yep,” Duane said.

  “I’ve heard your wife is really good at what she does.”

  “She gets a healthy paycheck, which is about all I know about it,” Duane said.

  K.K. took off her sunglasses in order to study the menu, a task that didn’t take her long.

  “They might be out of caviar,” Boyd Cotton mentioned, straight-faced.

  “Personally I never flinch from a good chicken-fried steak,” K.K. said. “It’s the staple cuisine of my people—or was until recently. I do insist that it be drenched in cream gravy.”

  “’Spect they can manage the gravy,” Boyd added.

  “Don’t you think Boyd and I make a nice couple?” she asked, to the surprise of everyone. “We’re exactly the same height and both of us devote much of our time to horses. People will be thinking we’re an item, if we’re not careful.”

  Boyd Cotton took that in stride. He seemed perfectly at ease with K.K. Slater, a well-educated, sophisticated woman, though he himself had quit school in the fifth grade.


  “We’ve been pestering Daddy with all our might to come be on your board,” Julie said, in a tentative tone.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand for boardrooms,” Duane said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you in one of my boardrooms,” K.K. said, shocking Julie and Nellie. “Your extensive knowledge of Proust—somebody told me you are a devotee—wouldn’t help us there. All I want from you is a little help with the locals, if they should get rowdy.”

  “I’ll try, but the fact is the locals pay very little attention to me,” Duane said. “I live in Arizona now, which makes me nearly as much an outlander as you are yourself, where the locals are concerned.”

  “I know—deserters and exiles are rarely welcomed back,” K.K. said.

  Just then a tall youth, with long but well-combed black hair, wearing a Pearl Jam jacket, walked in—it was Willy, the hitchhiking grandson.

  “Gosh, what took you so long, Willy?” Duane asked, giving him a big hug.

  “It’s hard getting a ride out of Vashti, Texas, that’s what,” Willy said. He shook hands with Boyd Cotton but gave his mother, his aunt, and K.K. Slater the merest nods. Willy possessed a presence all his own, and he’d had it as long as Duane could remember.

  “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk,” he said to Duane. “We need to catch up, you and I.”

  “Yep, we do,” Duane said, rising. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Slater. Good luck with the rhinos and the locals.”

  K.K. Slater said nothing, as Willy and his grandfather went out the door.

  16

  IF YOU’VE SEEN one rich lady—especially one Texas rich lady—you’ve seen them all,” Willy said. They were at Duane’s house and Willy was chowing down on a bowl of Cheerios, not very substantial fare for one who had hitched from Dallas, but more or less all there was in Duane’s meager larder.