Free The Water Museum by Luis Alberto Urrea Page B

your spirit free, man. You ought to say a prayer for her.”
    Hubbard was silent.
    “You owe her,” Horses said.
    He was looking south. He might have seen a windshield sparkle down there. You never knew. Deliverance seemed at hand.
    He was dismayed to see the sparkle veer left and cut across the plain, trailing a vague dust cloud.
    “Mind if I borrow your rifle?” Hubbard blurted.
    Horses blinked at him.
    “Your rifle. Can I use it? Just for a minute.” Hubbard was riding back up the slope.
    “What for?”
    “I’m going to put my war pony out of its misery.”
    “You can’t shoot a car. It’s a felony or something.”
    “I already stole the damned thing.”
    This was getting interesting again. Horses had seen a lot of things, but he’d never seen a guy kill a car with a rifle.
    “You know how to work a rifle?” he said.
    “Sure. I got a marksmanship merit badge in the Scouts.”
    “He got a merit badge,” Horses muttered.
    He retrieved the rifle, loaded a few rounds from a box under the seat. Worked the lever.
    He handed the rifle to Hubbard. “One thing,” he said. “You even begin to aim that thirty-thirty at me, and I’m going to run you over.”
    He trotted to his rig, jumped in, locked the doors, and fired her up.
    Hubbard sauntered to the Volvo and tried to control the weapon. It wobbled and drifted. He braced the rifle against his shoulder and popped off a round. A headlight exploded. The car barely rocked. He turned to Horses and grinned. Gave a big thumbs-up.
    Crack!
    Hole in the windshield.
    Horses tooted the horn.
    Crack!
    *  *  *
    A rusted-out Datsun pickup with wire bundles and tools piled in the bed rolled up and sat there as Hubbard bushwhacked the Volvo.
    The driver got out and tapped on Don’s window.
    “Yep?”
    “Sir? What’s the deal with this here?”
    “Guy’s killin’ his wife’s car.”
    “Dang.”
    “Yep.”
    “What she do, step out?”
    “Ran, sounds like.”
    The driver called back to his bud, “Butch! Guy’s killin’ his wife’s car.”
    “Sweet!” hollered Butch.
    Crack!
    The kid spit some chaw and said, “There goes the mirror.”
    “Yep.”
    Butch joined the party.
    “How you figure in this?” he asked.
    “I am an observer of life’s many pleasures,” Horses said.
    “Shee-it.”
    “Sir?” the first waddy said. “You think I could get in a shot?”
    Butch laughed.
    “Sure,” said Horses. “Why not.” He fished out a few more rounds from his box. “Knock yourself out.” The kid went over to Hubbard and shook his hand. Horses and Butch watched the rifle change hands. Hubbard slapped the kid on the shoulder.
    “This’ll be good,” said Butch.
    “Some days,” Horses said, “it pays to get up.”
    “Ain’t that the truth.”
    The kid worked the lever like the Rifleman and blasted the crap out of the car, shredding its tires and puncturing its flanks. Hubbard clapped and hopped around.
    “Doin’ the bunny hop,” noted Butch.
    The kid came back to Horses and handed him the rifle.
    “Thank you, sir. ’Preciate it.”
    “Hey,” said Horses. “You boys want to give this guy a ride?”
    “Hell no,” they said and hopped back in the Datsun and banged away.
    When Horses looked back at Hubbard, he was passed out on the road, smiling at the sky.
    *  *  *
    Horses hung his rifle back on the rack. He slipped a Redbone CD into the player. He didn’t like all that Carlos Nakai stuff—all them twiddly flutes. He liked guitars. He found Zep II and slotted it in next to Redbone. Going to be some Page and Plant kicking in before he hit the state line. Hubbard was flat on his back in the road like a fried egg. Horses rolled on down the lonesome highway.
    He pulled over and said “Shit” and got out. He collected Hubbard, hefted him in a fireman’s carry. His back hurt like hell. He piled Hubbard into the backseat. Dug a screwdriver out of his toolbox. Went back to the assassinated Volvo and unscrewed the license plates. He pulled the