West With Giraffes(15)

“Where the hell were you!” the Old Man yelled.

“Right here . . . ,” Earl sputtered. “You see me.”

“I smell you, too, you sumbitch. You been tippling!” Swinging the shotgun under an arm, the Old Man found Earl’s flask. I thought he might smack Earl with it. Instead he pitched it into the dark. “The only thing I abide less than a liar and a thief is a boozer.”

Earl got wobbly to his feet. “I ain’t drunk! I can hold my liquor. Stack of Bibles!”

“Sit back down,” the Old Man ordered.

Earl sat back down.

“If anything happens to the giraffes because of your tippling, I swear to God I’ll shoot you full of holes. Then I’ll let Mrs. Benchley have a crack at ya,” the Old Man said. “You hear me!”

Earl nodded, not moving a muscle except to look longingly after his lost flask.

Shotgun under an arm, the Old Man climbed up the rig’s side to coo his giraffe-speak until the giraffes calmed all the way down. Closing the top himself, he eased to the ground. “We might as well get going before any more native sons show up,” he said to Earl, who still hadn’t moved. “Water ’em while I get my pants on and use the phone to call the town cop. That is, if you think you can drive. If not, you better get that way fast or I’ll turn you over to the copper quicker’n you can say Jack Robinson, buddy boy.” With that, shotgun still in hand, he tromped back to the cabin.

At the mention of cops, Earl began muttering. He looked scared sober enough now. A shotgun in your face can do that. But he proved he was no such thing. Still grumbling, he got up and looked around for the water bucket. When he couldn’t find it, he opened Girl’s trapdoor, stuck his nose in, and . . .

WHOP

. . . there went Earl, landing spread-eagle on the ground, blood trickling out his snoot and into his ears.

The Old Man came running back, shotgun once again up, and then he saw Earl. Fuming, he stared down at his driver lying there looking mighty dead. He nudged him with his boot. Earl didn’t move. So the Old Man parked his gun against the rig, picked up Girl’s water bucket perched in its rightful place by the water jugs, filled it from a nearby water pump, and threw the contents on Earl.

And the goober came back to life.

Both hands over his mangled nose, Earl staggered to his feet to howl and stomp and cuss all at the same time. “That giraffe tried to kill me!” he bawled, blood seeping through his fingers. “It b-broke my nose!”

The Old Man glanced at the open trapdoor. “Well, what the hell was your nose doing in there? Jesus-Joseph-Mary, what kind of rummy idiot did I hire on?” he said, picking up the shotgun. “Get yourself cleaned up. We got to go.”

“But I’m seeing double—”

“No, you’re not.” The Old Man leveled his gaze. “You’ve got to drive this rig. You know full well I can’t, and we don’t have a minute to lose if we want a chance to get the female there alive. You heard the doc.”

“But that giraffe wants to kill me!” Earl howled.

“She’s not gonna kill you,” the Old Man groused. “She’d have cracked your skull like a nut if she really wanted to. You’ve seen what she does to me and I’m still standing.”

“No, I quit!” moaned Earl.

The Old Man whirled that shotgun up like a six-shooter. “We’re on the road, you sodden sumbitch. You’re not leaving us in the lurch. Now shut your trap.”

Earl shut his trap.

“Sit your worthless ass back down.”

Earl sat his worthless ass back down.

The Old Man lowered his gun. “I’ll get you coffee and some bandages. You’ll be fine or wish you were. You’re driving. We’ve got no choice.”

Then he stalked off toward the office.

Down by the road, a truck’s headlights came on. It was the dairy truck, readying to head out. As it roared to life, Earl’s head whipped around, and with one hand still over his bloody nose, he headed straight for it. Faster than you’d ever think a kicked, bloodied, half-drunk goober could move, he threw the passenger door wide and hopped in just as it was rolling onto the road headed back the way we came. It happened so fast, I don’t think I could have caught him even if I’d wanted to, which I surely did not.

From the office came the Old Man, hands full of coffee and bandages, shotgun parked under an arm. As he got closer, he stared at where Earl was supposed to be, not quite believing he wasn’t there. Hearing the dairy truck’s passenger door slam as it pulled onto the road, he must have put two and two together. Dropping the coffee and bandages, he ran toward the road, half aiming the shotgun at the disappearing truck.

I was sure the next thing I’d hear was another shotgun blast. The Old Man, though, stopped. And stared. Shotgun dangling. It was like the sight of his driver vanishing was registering in inches. When it hit home full, he spit and sputtered at the road as if anger alone could conjure Earl back in front of him again. He began to pace, dirt clods flying, shouting words to turn the black air blue—“sorry shit-faced sodden sumbitch” being the repeatable of the lot—until he marched back to the rig, sank down on the running board, dropped the shotgun in the dirt, and put his head in his hands.

He sat that way for a long time. Then, picking up the gun, he got to his feet, straightened his spine, and headed toward the cabin.