West With Giraffes(47)

That sudden, the giraffes had nothing between them and us but air. They went full tilt into a tizzy, rearing up, rocking the rig, readying to kick anyone near. And I was the one near. I locked eyes with them. Those trusting brown globes were so full of fear and confusion I felt my insides ripping apart. It was as if I were glimpsing their big giraffe souls, and they, God help me, were glimpsing the sorry state of mine, because they started clawing their fragile legs up the sides, away from me. The giraffes had seen me for the lion I was. Any second, they’d do what they do to lions. They’d kick me dead as I deserved, tumbling down the panel to do it.

If I didn’t do something and do it quick, we were all done.

Scrambling up and throwing all my weight under the downed panel, I somehow shoved it upright, jumped back on the fender, and thrust the heavy thing over my head, clamping as fast as I could until the top and sides were fixed back tight.

Tumbling to the ground, I stared at their windows, praying for the giraffes to appear. Instead I heard the beginning moan of the sound I’d hoped never to hear again—the giraffe-terror caterwaul from the night of the yahoos. Climbing halfway up the side ladder, I began cooing the Old Man’s giraffe-speak the best I could through the slats, fearing—knowing—they’d never trust me again. To my shock, though, as I kept on cooing, their moans began to soften. I upped my cooing. Within seconds, the giraffes had quieted all the way down, and then, forgiving me all my treachery, they moved toward me.

It was too much. For an instant, I was seeing my mare’s trusting brown-apple eyes in theirs, reliving the sure crime that sent me running toward Cuz, and I wanted to yell at the giraffes, Don’t you forgive me—don’t you dare! Instead I dropped to the ground and bent over to keep from passing out, knowing I’d dodged a bullet of my own firing.

“Get ahold of yourself, lad,” I heard Bowles say. “They’re just animals.” Upon hearing my pa’s words spewing from his mouth, the only thing that kept me from punching his porky face was the pair of eyes I still felt watching us from the fog. “You’ve got to remind them who’s boss, that’s all,” he kept on. “Now, let’s try once more.”

I straightened my sorry ass and forced my eyes off his golden-coined fist. “I’m not who you need to ask for any more looking.”

He considered me for a moment, the lantern glow now making him look like Lucifer himself. “Ah, and who might that be?”

“Mr. Jones,” I mumbled.

“And where is this Mr. Jones?”

“Don’t want to wake him.”

“Well, then.” He flashed his toothy coyote grin. “The twenty-dollar gold piece is still yours, and there’s lots more of those where that came from. We are living in a time of opportunity, young man. It pays to take what you want, remember that. The job offer stands. Percival Bowles is a good friend to have.” He looked back at the rig. “Such a pity, isn’t it? These animals are so hard to get yet die so quick, and they never breed before they die. But, oh my, there’s money to be made while they last. Here you go.”

I’d quit listening after “the gold piece is still yours,” not realizing until much later what he’d said and what it all surely meant. Because, right then, he opened his fist. There was my double eagle. I snatched it up, looked quick at both sides, and shoved it in my pocket before he could change his mind.

“I’ll return to speak to your Mr. Jones in the morning.” He tipped his silly hat and then disappeared into the fog, which was spooky enough on its own without a yellow-suited, top-hatted, black-booted man being swallowed up into it.

Easing down on the running board, I pulled out the piece of gold to gaze at it in the lantern light. I must’ve stared mighty hard and mighty long, because I was still gazing at it when the Old Man appeared from the fog to relieve me, and I stuffed it back deep in my pocket.

“Everything all right?” the Old Man said.

Nodding, I hustled past him to the rented trailer, flopped down on the trailer’s cot, and stared into the dark. Until daylight, I spent the hours waiting for the night to end, fingering my new gold piece and thinking only of my Memphis ticket to ride.

By dawn, though, I must have dozed off, because I thought I heard the giraffe-terror wail again, far away, like in a dream.

I sat up to listen, but what I heard sounded like . . . Red.

“WOODY! WOODYYYYYYYY!”

In nothing more than my skivvies and boots, I threw open the trailer door to gaze through the remains of the fog hanging in the trees, and what I saw chilled me to my marrow.

A cornfield.

“WOODY!”

Thirty yards away, Red was standing by the rig. The entire side looked open to the ground facing the field, and she was gaping up. Into the traveling crates.

Sprinting across the gravel and pine cones, I looked where she was looking, and what I saw all but dropped me to my knees. Boy was still in the road Pullman, barely, leaning so far into the open that gravity would soon be making the next move.

But Girl was gone.

From behind me, I heard the giraffe-terror caterwaul again—this time loud and long. Jerking full around, I could see a ruckus on the far side of the field, cornstalks flattening every which way. There was Girl, her long neck stretching above the dried cornstalks. Two men were moving toward her, one pulling at a lasso around her neck, one twirling another . . . and she was kicking . . . kicking at the lions.