the short gearshift into reverse and stood on the gas again. The Cadillac rocked backward, and both bumpers curled down to the asphalt. Then it was back into drive and the car surged forward, lifting the bumpers up once again.
The metal held for a brief moment, long enough to get the front tires spinning and the car floating back and forth across the road. Then the bumper of the burnt-orange Cadillac gave way with a high, twanging sound and a couple of sparks.
Slim’s Cadillac shot forward as if fired from a slow-burning cannon. I could see Slim wrench the wheel to the left, saw the front tires turn as well, but they couldn’t find purchase on the rain-slick asphalt at that speed and the Cadillac shot through the muddy parking lot and plunged into the cornfield, where the engine promptly died.
Nobody said anything for a minute.
Then, from the cornfield, I heard a faint “Sonofabitch!”
And just when Fat Ernst opened his mouth, one of the wives started to scream. But she wasn’t looking across the highway at the cornfield. She was staring down into the ditch. Several of the men and their wives rushed forward to see what was wrong. I walked across the bridge and stood a ways behind Fat Ernst.
Right on the other side of the intersection, by the short bridge where Road DD crossed over the irrigation ditch, the ditch split intwo. One branch, the main one, kept going straight, due south toward the freeway. The other branch forked off to the left, following the road to Slim’s and Earl’s ranches in the northeastern end of the valley. A large wooden gate used to regulate the flow of water was sunk into the concrete where the two ditches met. Normally, the gate would have been down, cutting off water to the smaller ditch, but today it was open, and the dark water rolled and boiled at the junction where the smashed hearse lay.
It looked like parts of Earl were swirling around in the water.
Somebody led the wives away from the edge of the bridge as more parts of Earl’s corpse slowly emerged. I caught sight of the toe of a black cowboy boot, an empty arm of a blue suit with a clenched, swollen fist sticking out of one end, and some just plain unidentifiable meat. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered and swallowed. Stray strands of white hair floated up, and I quickly looked away before the rest of the head followed.
“Damn. That ain’t gonna be easy, finding all of him to put back in a box,” I heard Fat Ernst murmur to Heck. Fat Ernst froze suddenly, eyes wide. “Jesus, you don’t think … They weren’t gonna bury him with his belt buckle, were they?”
I’d heard about Earl’s belt buckle a few times in the bar. I guess he’d won CAA Cowboy of the Year a few years ago, and as a prize they’d given him a giant silver and gold belt buckle. The gold had been sculpted into a relief showing a cowboy and his horse crossing a mountain meadow at night. Dozens of small diamonds had been set into the silver sky, representing stars. Way I heard it, the buckle wasn’t cheap, not by a long shot.
Heck nodded. “That’s what they said, man.”
“Jesus,” Fat Ernst repeated. Both men touched their own large belt buckles, but I didn’t know if it was just to reassure themselves that their own buckles were still there, or if it was out of sympathy, like Catholics making the sign of the cross. Fat Ernst grunted. “I’ll bet Slim ain’t too happy about not getting his hands on that buckle.”
“What the hell is that?” Heck asked.
I saw something roll over in the water. It looked kind of long, cylindrical, and gray, like a small hose or something. But the water kept surging around, and it was gone before I got a good look at it.
“I reckon part of the lower intestine,” Fat Ernst said knowingly. “I heard he’d been down on the bottom for something like two weeks. So Hutson couldn’t embalm Earl. Read that they can’t do it to bodies that have been in salt water too long.”
Pieces of the corpse were
The metal held for a brief moment, long enough to get the front tires spinning and the car floating back and forth across the road. Then the bumper of the burnt-orange Cadillac gave way with a high, twanging sound and a couple of sparks.
Slim’s Cadillac shot forward as if fired from a slow-burning cannon. I could see Slim wrench the wheel to the left, saw the front tires turn as well, but they couldn’t find purchase on the rain-slick asphalt at that speed and the Cadillac shot through the muddy parking lot and plunged into the cornfield, where the engine promptly died.
Nobody said anything for a minute.
Then, from the cornfield, I heard a faint “Sonofabitch!”
And just when Fat Ernst opened his mouth, one of the wives started to scream. But she wasn’t looking across the highway at the cornfield. She was staring down into the ditch. Several of the men and their wives rushed forward to see what was wrong. I walked across the bridge and stood a ways behind Fat Ernst.
Right on the other side of the intersection, by the short bridge where Road DD crossed over the irrigation ditch, the ditch split intwo. One branch, the main one, kept going straight, due south toward the freeway. The other branch forked off to the left, following the road to Slim’s and Earl’s ranches in the northeastern end of the valley. A large wooden gate used to regulate the flow of water was sunk into the concrete where the two ditches met. Normally, the gate would have been down, cutting off water to the smaller ditch, but today it was open, and the dark water rolled and boiled at the junction where the smashed hearse lay.
It looked like parts of Earl were swirling around in the water.
Somebody led the wives away from the edge of the bridge as more parts of Earl’s corpse slowly emerged. I caught sight of the toe of a black cowboy boot, an empty arm of a blue suit with a clenched, swollen fist sticking out of one end, and some just plain unidentifiable meat. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered and swallowed. Stray strands of white hair floated up, and I quickly looked away before the rest of the head followed.
“Damn. That ain’t gonna be easy, finding all of him to put back in a box,” I heard Fat Ernst murmur to Heck. Fat Ernst froze suddenly, eyes wide. “Jesus, you don’t think … They weren’t gonna bury him with his belt buckle, were they?”
I’d heard about Earl’s belt buckle a few times in the bar. I guess he’d won CAA Cowboy of the Year a few years ago, and as a prize they’d given him a giant silver and gold belt buckle. The gold had been sculpted into a relief showing a cowboy and his horse crossing a mountain meadow at night. Dozens of small diamonds had been set into the silver sky, representing stars. Way I heard it, the buckle wasn’t cheap, not by a long shot.
Heck nodded. “That’s what they said, man.”
“Jesus,” Fat Ernst repeated. Both men touched their own large belt buckles, but I didn’t know if it was just to reassure themselves that their own buckles were still there, or if it was out of sympathy, like Catholics making the sign of the cross. Fat Ernst grunted. “I’ll bet Slim ain’t too happy about not getting his hands on that buckle.”
“What the hell is that?” Heck asked.
I saw something roll over in the water. It looked kind of long, cylindrical, and gray, like a small hose or something. But the water kept surging around, and it was gone before I got a good look at it.
“I reckon part of the lower intestine,” Fat Ernst said knowingly. “I heard he’d been down on the bottom for something like two weeks. So Hutson couldn’t embalm Earl. Read that they can’t do it to bodies that have been in salt water too long.”
Pieces of the corpse were
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