Free Bull Head by John Vigna Page B

the truck. It didn’t feel right. Little leakssink great ships—that was Harold’s philosophy.
    â€œWhat do you say, Maurice?” Fred said. “Give that horse of yours a rest. Test it for a few weeks, see how it works for you.”
    Maurice took a deep breath of the cool air coming down off the mountain. He felt Harold’s eyes survey him and nodded to Fred. Harold shook his head.
    â€œDid you want me to deposit that cheque, or are you aiming to hold onto it for a rainy day?” Fred laughed.
    Maurice pulled the money from his overalls and handed it to Fred. He stood silently with Harold as they watched Fred’s truck recede on the dirt road in the distance, a trail of dust behind him.

    Maurice glanced toward the cabin. Harold wouldn’t be awake for another hour, when Maurice got the stove fired up. His heart pounded in his chest, echoed in his ears. He slid his finger-tip along the weathered paint on the truck’s hood. Shivers shot through his arms. He grew bolder and ran his palm along the cold metal, traced the words with his calloused fingers: H-A-R-V-E-S-T-E-R, in large letters; International , like handwriting. He steered his hand along the curve of the wheel well that was gently sloped toward the headlights, grazed the silver circles that surrounded them clockwise and then counterclockwise, and stroked the metal grill quickly across the slats, strumming a steel song before he climbed inside and closed the door. Fred had left the keys in the ignition, but Maurice didn’t touch them. He checked the rearview. Dissolved starlight. Beaver tail still. Pewter bowl sky. He took off his ball cap, licked his fingers, slicked back his hair, tucked a few strands behind his ears before he put his hatback on. A bit late to worry about appearances.
    Maurice held the steering wheel and leaned back. Beyond the dashboard, Bull Head Mountain soared. He squirmed himself comfortable and turned the radio dial, dropped his right hand to his thigh. That didn’t feel right, so he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and then dropped his left hand to his thigh. That didn’t feel right either. He turned the window lever, lowered the window, and propped his left arm up. A breeze blew in, filled the truck with a brisk flush of damp air. His horse snorted; the cabin door opened. Maurice rolled up the window, slipped out of the truck, snapped the door closed, and hurried to his horse.
    Harold stood in front of the cabin. “You’re awake awful early.”
    â€œCouldn’t sleep.” Maurice stroked his horse’s leg.
    â€œYou forgot to make a fire. Again.”
    Maurice looked up. Harold had a stare that could drop a grizzly.
    Harold nodded toward the truck. “She’s a goddamn eyesore.”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œYou guess so, do you?”
    Maurice felt Harold’s gaze burn into him. He looked down at his own boots and was confused to see that he was wearing one gumboot and one work boot.
    â€œFifty-percent chance of rain today, eh... boss?”
    Maurice flinched at the way Harold paused before he called him boss, the tone he used when he tried to get Maurice to talk.
    â€œDon’t you be getting crazy on me, old man.”
    â€œI’m sane as they come. We both know that.”
    â€œDo we?” Harold chuckled. “You’re so wound up, couldn’t pull a pin out of your ass with that tractor.”
    â€œMaybe you should talk less and get that generator fired up. I’m needing some coffee.”
    â€œDamn thing makes a racket. Costs too much to run. Maybe you should just fix us a fire so I can brew the coffee.”
    â€œI’ll get right on that, boss.” Maurice tipped his hat to his brother.

    The brothers saddled their horses and crossed the trampled grass where their stock had fed during the summer. They climbed a rocky hummock and descended to the tall grass of the winter range. There were several sections of